congratulations rather than accusations.'
'What do you say was spent on all those improvements?'
He decided to answer. 'One hundred ninety-three thousand francs.'
The bishop laughed. 'Abbe, that would not have bought the furniture, statues, and stained glass. To my calculation you have spent more than seven hundred thousand francs.'
'I am not familiar with accounting practices, so I cannot say what the costs were. All I know is that the people of Rennes love their church.'
'Officials state that you receive one hundred to one hundred fifty postal orders a day. They come from Belgium, Italy, the Rhineland, Switzerland, and all over France. They range from five to forty francs each. You frequent the bank in Couiza, where they are converted to cash. How do you explain that?'
'All my correspondence is handled by my housekeeper. She both opens and answers any inquiries. That question should be directed to her.'
'You are the one who appears at the bank.'
He kept to his story. 'You should ask her.'
'Unfortunately, she is not subject to my authority.'
He shrugged.
'Abbe, you are trafficking in masses. It is clear, at least to me, that those envelopes coming to your parish are not notes from well-wishers. But there is something else even more disturbing.'
He stood silent.
'I performed a calculation. Unless you are being paid exorbitant sums per mass-and last I knew, the standard rate among offenders was fifty centimes-you would have to say mass twenty-four hours a day for some three hundred years to accumulate the wealth you have spent. No, Abbe, the trafficking in masses is a front, one you concocted, to mask the true source of your good fortune.'
This man was far smarter than he appeared to be.
'Any response?'
'No, Monseigneur.'
'Then you are hereby relieved of your duties at Rennes and you will report immediately to the parish in Coustouge. In addition, you are suspended, with no right to say the mass or administer the sacraments in church, until further notice.'
'And how long is this suspension to last?' he calmly asked.
'Until the Ecclesiastical Court can hear your appeal, which I am sure you will forthwith file.'
'Sauniere did appeal,' Stephanie said, 'all the way to the Vatican, but he died in 1917 before being vindicated. What he did, though, was resign from the Church and never left Rennes. He just started saying mass in the Villa Bethanie. The locals loved him, so they boycotted the new abbe. Remember, all the land around the church, including the villa, belonged to Sauniere's mistress-he was clever there-so the Church couldn't do a thing about it.'
Malone wanted to know, 'So how did he pay for all those improvements?'
She smiled. 'That's a question many have tried to answer, including my husband.'
They navigated another of the winding alleyways, bordered by more melancholy houses, the stones the color of dead wood stripped of bark.
'Ernst lived up ahead,' she said.
They approached an olden building warmed by pastel roses climbing a wrought-iron pergola. Up three stone stairs stood a recessed door. Malone climbed, peered in through glass in the door, and saw no evidence of neglect. 'The place looks good.'
'Ernst was obsessive.'
He tested the knob. Locked.
'I'd like to get in there,' she said from the street.
He glanced around. Twenty feet to their left, the lane ended at the outer wall. Beyond loomed a blue sky dotted with billowy clouds. No one was in sight. He turned back and, with his elbow, popped the glass pane. He then reached inside and released the lock.
Stephanie stepped up behind him.
'After you,' he said.
NINETEEN
2:00 PM
THE SENESCHAL SWUNG THE IRON GRILLE INWARD AND LED THE cortege of mourners through the ancient archway. The entrance into the subterranean Hall of Fathers was located within the abbey walls, at the end of a long passageway where one of the oldest buildings butted rock. Fifteen hundred years ago monks first occupied the caverns beyond, living in the sullen recesses. As more and more penitents arrived, buildings were erected. Abbeys tended to either dramatically grow or dwindle, and this one had erupted with a burst of construction that had lasted centuries, continued by the Knights Templar, who quietly took ownership in the late thirteenth century. The Order's mother house-maison chevetaine, as Rule labeled it-had first been located in Jerusalem, then Acre, then Cyprus, finally ending here after the Purge. Eventually, the complex was surrounded with battlement walls and towers and the abbey grew to become one of Europe's largest, set high among the Pyrenees, secluded by both geography and Rule. Its name came from the nearby river, the falls, and an abundance of groundwater. Abbey des Fontaines: abbey of the fountains.
He made his way down narrow steps chipped from rock. The soles of his canvas sandals were slippery on the moist stone. Where oil torches once provided light, electric sconces now lit the way. Behind him came the thirty- four brothers who'd decided to join him. At the bottom of the stairs, he padded forward until the tunnel opened into a vaulted room. A stone pillar rose from the center, like the trunk of an aging tree.
The brothers slowly gathered around the oak coffin, which had already been brought inside and laid on a stone plinth. Through clouds of incense came melancholy chants.
The seneschal stepped forward and the chanting stopped. 'We have come to honor him. Let us pray,' he said in French.
They did, then a hymn was sung.
'Our master led us well. You, who are loyal to his memory, take heart. He would have been proud.'
A few moments of silence passed.
'What lies ahead?' one of the brothers quietly asked.
Caucusing was not proper in the Hall of Fathers, but with apprehension looming he allowed a bending of Rule.
'Uncertainty,' he declared. 'Brother de Roquefort is ready to take charge. Those of you who are selected for the conclave will have to work hard to stop him.'
'He will be our downfall,' another brother muttered.
'I agree,' the seneschal said. 'He believes that we can somehow avenge seven-hundred-year-old sins. Even if we could, why? We survived.'
'His followers have been pressing hard. Those who oppose him will be punished.'
The seneschal knew that this was why so few had come to the hall. 'Our ancestors faced many enemies. In the Holy Land they stood before the Saracens and died with honor. Here, they endured torture from the Inquisition. Our master, de Molay, was burned at the stake. Our job is to stay faithful.' Weak words, he knew, but they had to be said.
'De Roquefort wants to war with our enemies. One of his followers told me that he even intends to take back
