They both stared at him. ‘You know something you haven’t told us?’
He shook his head. ‘I know so little. Your mother would not talk about it once she came to Paris. The curse of the house goes back a long way. Yet it can be broken. She was so sure of that.’ He put his hands on Joss’s shoulders. ‘You are like the daughter I never had. Ma fille. I like that. I want to help you. If you wish, perhaps you should go as she did to the Sacré Coeur. Buy a crucifix. Have the blessing of a priest. Believe. Believe that God and Our Lady will protect you. They protected her. She said it was the prayers of Rome which reached out across the years as the prayers of her English church could not. She wanted Our Lady’s blessing on Katrine.’
‘Codswallop!’ Luke’s muttered imprecation was clearly heard by both of them. Paul frowned at him. ‘You are not a believer. Nor am I. But for those who believe, the prayers work. Perhaps Katrine believes.’
‘Katherine has been dead for five hundred years,’ Joss said sharply.
‘Your mother told me that she was a sorcière; a witch. She cannot rest without prayers.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Luke rammed his hands into his pockets.
‘Is it not worth a try? Especially if one day you have children. Then perhaps you will understand why it is important – why they have to be protected.’
‘We have children!’ Joss interrupted. ‘We have two little boys.’
Paul stared at her. ‘Mon Dieu – forgive me. I had not realised.’ He sat down abruptly. ‘That is why you are here, of course. Where are they?’
‘In England. With their grandparents.’
‘Not at Belheddon?’
‘No.’
‘That is good.’ He sighed. ‘Forgive me. I am tired. Tomorrow we will go out together. I will borrow a car. I will show you Laura’s grave. Take her things. Go through them carefully. There are more at the house that you should have.’
The interior of the cathedral of the Sacré Coeur was very dark. Luke looked through the door and gave a shudder. ‘Not my scene, Joss. You go on in. I’ll wait here.’ He sat down on the steps, staring out across the panoramic view of Paris that was laid out in front of him. She glanced down at him and shrugged then she stepped inside the huge domed church. The shop was packed with devotional aids – pictures, crosses and crucifixes, rosaries, statues. They lined the walls, crowded the counter, hung from the ceiling. Staring round she wished she had asked Paul what kind of cross her mother had bought. It was silly. Silly to come here; superstitious, as he had said. And yet something in his words had struck a chord. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it needed the trappings and the blessings of the Church of Rome to reach out to England’s pre-Reformation past.
She chose a small silver crucifix and the least kitsch most graceful little carved statue of the Virgin and carefully counted out her francs. Then she went in search of a priest. His blessing was perfunctory and in French, not Latin which bothered her. She wanted to call him back, but already he had turned to others and so clutching her purchases she wandered deeper into the church. For two francs she bought a candle and lit it from its neighbour, then she knelt before the blazing ranks of flame and gazed up at the statue of the Virgin and Child, strangely certain that this was the same spot where her mother had prayed.
At Belheddon, in the ice cold darkness of the locked church, a new spray of white rose buds lay on the stone step before the memorial plaque to Katherine de Vere.
34
‘Edgar?’ David pushed open the door into the passage.
‘Edgar?’
He could hear someone laughing. It sounded like a woman. ‘Edgar? Where are you?’ He stood in the doorway looking round the great hall. The cross and candles on the table had been knocked over. A pool of blue wax had spread across the dark oak and spilled onto the stone floor. ‘Edgar?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Edgar, where are you? Are you all right?’ He stepped into the room, his mouth dry with fear and stared round. ‘Edgar?’ His voice rose. The room was very silent – too silent. It was as if someone was listening to him. He took a huge gulp of breath, feeling his shoulders rise and holding them there, somewhere around his ears. ‘Edgar!’ This time it wasn’t so loud. Slowly he turned on his heel, staring into the dark corners of the room, looking at the chairs, the chests, his eyes going almost involuntarily to the dark shadows behind the curtains where someone – anyone – could hide.
There was no one there. He stepped closer to the hearth and his eye was caught suddenly by something lying amongst the ash. He stooped and picked it up. It was one of the small silver-lidded pots from Edgar’s briefcase.
Spinning round he strode towards the stairs and stood at the bottom looking up. ‘Edgar? Are you there?’
He put his hand on the newel post, clutching it tightly. ‘Edgar!’
The silence was unnerving. He glanced round, searching for a light switch. The well of the staircase was dark and he could see nothing beyond the bend where it turned out of sight. ‘Edgar?’ Taking a deep breath he put his foot on the bottom step.
The sound of laughter came from behind him this time. He spun round and ran back into the great hall. ‘Who’s there? Who is it? Edgar, where are you? Answer me, for God’s sake!’
It was a melodious laugh, attractive, husky, the laugh of a woman who once had known herself to be beautiful. He swallowed, clenching his fists inside his pockets as he stared round, fighting his panic. ‘What have you done with him?’ he shouted suddenly. ‘What have you done with him, you bitch?’
Silence. Intense; pregnant; listening.