'They shall each be given an opportunity to join us. If not, deal with them. Let's make sure, though, that most join us. Which should not pose a problem. Few like to be part of a losing cause.'
'The consistory starts at six PM.'
At least the seneschal was discharging his duty, calling the brothers into session before nightfall. The consistory was the one variable in the equation-a procedure specially designed to prevent manipulation-but one he'd long studied and anticipated.
'Be ready,' he said. 'The seneschal will use speed to generate confusion. That's how his master managed election.'
'He will not take defeat lightly.'
'Nor would I expect him to. Which is why I have a surprise waiting for him.'
EIGHTEEN
1:30 PM
MALONE AND STEPHANIE MADE THEIR WAY ACROSS THE CROWDED hamlet. Another bus churned up the central rue, easing its way toward the car park. Halfway down the street Stephanie entered a restaurant and spoke with the proprietor. Malone eyed some delicious-looking fish the diners were enjoying, but realized food would have to wait.
He was angry that Stephanie had lied to him. Either she didn't appreciate or didn't understand the gravity of the situation. Determined men, willing to die and kill, were after something. He'd seen their likes many times, and the more information he possessed the better the chances of success. Hard enough dealing with the enemy, but worrying about an ally simply compounded the situation.
Leaving the restaurant, Stephanie said, 'Ernst Scoville was hit by a car last week while he took his daily walk outside the walls. He was well liked. He'd lived here a long time.'
'Any leads on the car?'
'No witnesses. Nothing to go on.'
'Did you actually know Scoville?'
She nodded. 'But he didn't care for me. He and I spoke rarely. He took Lars's side in our debate.'
'Then why did you call him?'
'He was the only one I could think of to ask about Lars's journal. He was civil, considering we hadn't spoken in years. He wanted to see the journal. So I planned on making amends while I was here.'
He wondered about her. Bad blood with her husband, her son, and friends of her husband. The source of her guilt was clear, but what she planned to do about it remained cloudy.
She motioned for them to walk. 'I want to check Ernst's house. He owned quite a library. I'd like to see if his books are still there.'
'He have a wife?'
She shook her head. 'A loner. Would have made a great hermit.'
They headed down one of the side alleys between more rows of buildings that all seemed built for patrons long dead.
'Do you really believe there's a treasure hidden around here somewhere?' he asked.
'Hard to say, Cotton. Lars used to say that ninety percent of Sauniere's story is fiction. I'd chastise him for wasting his time on something so foolish. But he always countered with the ten percent of truth. That's what captivated him and, to a large degree, Mark. Strange things apparently happened here a hundred years ago.'
'You referring to Sauniere again?'
She nodded.
'Help me understand.'
'I actually need help with that, too. But I can tell you more of what I know about Berenger Sauniere.'
'I cannot leave a parish where my interests keep me,' Sauniere told the bishop as he stood before the older man in the episcopal palace at Carcassonne, twenty miles north of Rennes-le-Chateau.
He'd avoided the meeting for months with statements from his doctor that he was unable to travel because of illness. But the bishop was persistent, and the last request for an audience had been delivered by a constable who'd been instructed to personally accompany him back.
'Your existence is far grander than mine,' the bishop said. 'I wish to have a statement as to the origin of your monetary resources, which seem so sudden and important.'
'Alas, Monseigneur, you ask of me the only thing I am not able to reveal. Deep sinners to whom, with the aid of God, I have shown the way of penitence have given these considerable amounts to me. I do not wish to betray the secrets of the confessional by giving you their names.'
The bishop seemed to consider his argument. It was a good one, and just might work.
'Then let us talk of your lifestyle. That is not protected by the secrets of the confessional.'
He feigned innocence. 'My lifestyle is quite modest.'
'That is not what I am told.'
'Your information must be faulty.'
'Let us see.' The bishop parted the cover of a thick book that lay before him. 'I had an inventory performed, which was quite interesting.'
Sauniere did not like the sound of that. His relationship with the former bishop had been loose and cordial, and he'd enjoyed great freedom. This new bishop was another matter.
'In 1891 you started renovations on the parish church. At that time you replaced the windows, built a porch, installed a new altar and pulpit, and repaired the roof. Cost, approximately twenty-two hundred francs. The following year the exterior walls were tended to and the interior floor replaced. Then came a new confessional, seven hundred francs, statuary and stations of the cross, all hewn in Toulouse by Giscard, thirty-two hundred francs. In 1898 a collecting trunk was added, four hundred francs. Then in 1900 a bas-relief of St. Mary Magdalen, quite elaborate I'm told, was placed before the altar.'
Sauniere simply listened. Clearly, the bishop was privy to parish records. The former treasurer had resigned a few years ago, stating that he'd found his duties contrary to his beliefs. Someone had obviously tracked him down.
'I came here in 1902,' the bishop said. 'For the past eight years I have tried-in vain, I might add-to have you appear before me to answer my concerns. But during that time, you managed to build the Villa Bethanie adjacent to the church. It is, I am told, of bourgeois construction, a pastiche of styles, all from cut stone. There are stained- glass windows, a dining salon, sitting room, and bedrooms for guests. Quite a few guests, I hear. It is where you entertain.'
The comment was surely designed to elicit a response, but he said nothing.
'Then there is the Tour Magdala, your folly of a library that overlooks the valley. Some of the finest woodwork around, it is reported. This is in addition to your stamp and postcard collections, which are enormous, and even some exotic animals. All costing many thousands of francs.' The bishop closed the book. 'Your parish income is no more than two hundred fifty francs per year. How was it possible to amass all this?'
'As I have said, Monseigneur, I have been the recipient of many private donations from souls who want to see my parish prosper.'
'You have been trafficking in masses,' the bishop declared. 'Selling the sacraments. Your crime is simony.'
He'd been warned this was the charge to be leveled. 'Why do you reproach me? My parish, when I first arrived, was in a lamentable state. It is, after all, the duty of my superiors to ensure for Rennes-le-Chateau a church worthy of the faithful and a decent dwelling for the pastor. But for a quarter century I have worked and rebuilt and beautified the church without asking a centime from the diocese. It seems to me that I deserve your
