“I don’t know. It depends on what he wants.”
“Well, we’re not going to wait to find out. Is what you’ve got there enough if I sign it now?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. Confessions are usually best if they come with the people who make them.”
“Well, you can’t have everything, Inspector,” said Mary with a half smile. “This should make the difference, though, if those men in Whitehall need further persuading.”
Mary opened her bag and took out a rectangular black velvet case. Inside, spaces had been hollowed out for two revolvers. One was empty, but there was a little silver snub-nosed gun in the other. Trave recognized it immediately. It was an exact match for the one that he’d seized from Cade’s study on the night of the murder.
“I got them as a pair,” she said. “They’re an exact match. I can’t see them arguing with that. You can look if you want. It’s not loaded.”
But Trave didn’t take up the invitation. Not while the Frenchman still had him in his sights.
“Good. Now give me what you’ve written so I can see if you’ve got it all right before I sign it,” said Mary, picking up the papers. “Paul’ll make us some more coffee and then we can go.”
“We?” repeated Trave, surprised.
“Yes. You too. I’m not leaving you here to put out a general alert as soon as we’ve gone round the corner. What do you take me for?”
Mary went over to Paul and took the gun out of his hand. It seemed as if she whispered something as well, but Trave couldn’t he sure. It was too quick, and he was tired, dog tired. He needed the coffee if he was going to stay awake. She read the pages methodically, one by one, looking up at frequent intervals to check that Trave hadn’t got up from the chair Paul had moved him to in the far corner of the room, and then signed the statement at the end in the name of Mary Martin, formerly Marie Rocard. Trave witnessed her signature underneath.
“Why did Cade kill your parents?” he asked, finishing the coffee that Paul had put in front of him. “Stephen said it was about a book.”
“Yes. My father wouldn’t sell it to Cade and so he stole it. Then he killed everyone to cover his tracks.”
“It must have been some book. People don’t commit murder for nothing.”
“You’re probably right, but it was stolen when I was too young to know anything about such things. And I’ve never seen it since. Books don’t concern us, Inspector. That’s not why I’m here.”
Trave had other questions he wanted to ask. Questions about Sasha and Marjean Church, but for some reason he couldn’t find the words. His head was swirling, and he felt strange inside. It was like he was in a rudderless boat going up on the highest waves and down into the deepest troughs. It was more than fatigue. He knew that for a fact as he rolled in and out of consciousness, losing his unsuccessful fight with the drug that Paul had stirred into his coffee minutes before. Mary was still in the room when he fell down onto the floor, but he didn’t know if it was she or Paul who carried him over to the sofa and laid him out under a blanket.
“It’s all right. You’ll just sleep for a while,” she said. “And then when you wake up, you can go to London and save Stephen from the gallows. You’ll be a national hero. And I, I’ll be gone.”
She was by the door now, but her voice came floating through the air toward him one last time.
“Good-bye, Inspector,” she said. “Tell Stephen I’m sorry.”
He didn’t hear the door close.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sasha woke up, blinking in the sunlight of a new Paris morning. Outside, the varied noises and smells of a fruit and vegetable market in the street below rose up toward her through the half-open window of her room, and for a moment she was still unaware of the significance of the day. But then her eye fell on the crumpled piece of paper lying spread out on the bedside table, and she immediately resumed the train of thought that had occupied almost every waking minute of her time since she’d driven away from the inn at Marjean three days earlier.
“If you want to see the cross, bring the codex to the church on Tuesday at three o’clock. Tell no one.” The note was handwritten, and there was no date or signature. She’d picked it up off the floor inside the door of her room when she had returned to the inn for the codex with Trave hot on her heels, and she still had no idea who had left it there. Each day since her arrival in the capital, she had walked up and down the long tree-lined avenues of the Bois de Boulogne, oblivious to her surroundings while she debated whether or not to keep the appointment. But deep down she had always known she would go. The desire for the cross had become a physical longing, gnawing at her insides. The lust for it consumed her.
She was frightened of going alone, but she possessed neither the capacity for trust nor the money to go out and recruit an assistant, even if she had known where to find one. The Frenchman she had enticed out of the cafe on the road to Rouen had turned out a useless coward. He’d have left her to Trave if she hadn’t got to his truck in time. No, she was better off on her own. But that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t go prepared. The day before she had found a man in Montmartre who was willing to sell her a gun. There was nowhere to fire it, but she had practised the mechanism again and again before going to bed, and now she felt confident that she could use the revolver to good effect if she had to. It gave her a sense of security, knowing that it was in the shoulder bag by the bed, wrapped up in her clothes with the codex.
She kept the book with her at all times now after what had happened before, but it really didn’t interest her much anymore. It was a means to an end. Nothing more. The cross was somewhere in Marjean Church. Sasha was sure of it. She could think of nothing else.
She dressed carefully, settling her hair down over the upright collar of her padded jacket so that the livid burn mark on her neck was almost invisible, and then went downstairs to eat a late breakfast. An hour later she had paid her bill and was on the road north. She hummed a tune to herself as she came out into the open fields of the Norman countryside and then realised with a start that it was The Marseillaise. She was filled with a sudden rush of optimism and pressed her foot down on the accelerator, taking the Citroen speeding down the road, like an arrow between the winter hedgerows.
This time she had no difficulty finding the gateway, but the sudden descent into semidarkness as the car passed under the overhanging trees filled her with a sense of foreboding, and it was a relief to get back out into the light. She parked beside the ruined chateau and immediately began walking up the path to the church. She was early and there was no one in sight, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t being watched. The church made her feel that way. It dominated the surrounding landscape with a brooding presence, and Sasha was not the first to be unnerved by it. The gun in her pocket felt more reassuring with every step she took.
There was a new silver-coloured padlock on the door, but for some reason it was already open and there was nothing to keep her from walking inside. She stopped at the beginning of the nave to get her bearings and then froze to the spot when an apparently disembodied voice spoke to her from only a few feet away.
“You’re standing just where my father died,” said the voice. “There used to be a bloodstain on the stone, but it’s gone now.”
For a moment Sasha could not see who was speaking, but then a figure she recognised stepped out from behind a grey stone pillar in the south transept and began walking across the nave toward her. It was Mary Martin, but a different Mary from the one Sasha remembered. She was dressed in a leather flying jacket and a pair of blue jeans, and the slightly masculine effect of her clothing was accentuated by the easy authority with which she moved. She made Sasha feel like an intruder.
It had to be Mary who had sent the note. And Mary was Rocard’s daughter. Somehow she must have survived the massacre of her family at the end of the war.
“You killed Cade,” said Sasha, blurting out the accusation a second after the idea had entered her head. “It wasn’t Stephen at all. It was you.”
“That’s right. It was me,” said Mary, acknowledging her guilt with an easy smile. She was standing close beside Sasha now and looked her straight in the eye until Sasha dropped her gaze. The experience was disconcerting. Sasha felt as if Mary was looking inside her, and she backed away toward the door, resisting the temptation to take the gun out of her pocket.
“I’m glad you killed him,” she said. “You saved me the trouble of doing it myself.”
“Why do you say that?” It was Mary’s turn to look surprised.
“Because of what he did to my father. Cade took everything from him: his work, his family, his position in
