The Alchemist

Rudolf placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘I’m sure you will learn it in time,’ he said with a smile. ‘But meanwhile, why don’t you tell me more about this amazing knowledge of yours? Perhaps we should continue our discussion at my apartment.’

Ben laid the Journal down. Who was this ‘Alexandrian’? What had Daquin told him? Who was the ‘man of vision’ Rudolf had promised to introduce him to?

It was probably some other weirdo like Gaston Clement, he thought. He flicked through the next few pages and found that the whole last section of the book had been severely damaged by rot. It was hard to tell how many pages were missing. He strained to read the last entry in the Journal, which he could only just make out. It had been written just before Fulcanelli’s mysterious disappearance.

23^rd December, 1926

All is lost. My beloved wife Christina is murdered. Daquin’s betrayal has placed our precious know ledge in the hands of the Alexandrian. May God forgive me for having allowed this to happen. I fear for much more than my own life. The evil that these men may do is unimaginable.

My plans are underway. I will be departing from Paris immediately with Yvette, my dear daughter who is all I have left now, and I leave everything in the hands of my faithful Jacques Clement. I have warned Jacques that he too must take all precautions. For my part, I shall not return.

So that was it. Somehow, Daquin’s betrayal of Fulcanelli’s trust had led to disaster. It all seemed to centre on this mysterious Rudolf, the ‘Alexandrian.’ Had he murdered Fulcanelli’s wife? More to the point, where had the alchemist gone afterwards? He’d been in such a hurry to get out of Paris that he’d even left his Journal behind.

‘What a beautiful day it is,’ said a familiar voice, breaking in on Ben’s reverie. ‘May I join you?’

‘Hello, Father.’ Ben closed the Journal.

Pascal sat by him and poured a glass of water from an earthenware jug. ‘You look better today, my friend.’

‘Thanks, I feel better.’

‘Good.’ Pascal smiled. ‘Yesterday you honoured me greatly with your trust in me, and by telling me your secret-which, naturally, will never go any further.’ He paused. ‘Now it is my turn, for I too have a little secret.’

‘I’m sure I can’t possibly offer you the kind of support that you’ve given me,’ said Ben.

‘Yet I think my secret will interest you. It concerns you, in a way.’

‘How?’

‘You have come looking for me, but in fact your goal was to trace Klaus Rheinfeld? Roberta told me.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

Pascal nodded. ‘Let me start from the beginning. If you knew to look for me, you must already know how I came across the poor wretch.’

‘It was in an old news item.’

‘He seemed to have completely lost his mind,’ Pascal said sadly. ‘When I first saw the terrible cuts he had made on his body, I thought it must be the work of the Devil.’ He automatically made the sign of the cross, touching his forehead, chest and shoulders. ‘And you probably know that I tended to the sick man, and then he was taken away and placed in the institution.’

‘Where did they take him?’

‘Patience, Benedict, is a great virtue. I am coming to that. Let me continue…What you do not know, what indeed nobody has ever known apart from myself and that poor lunatic, was the nature of the instrument Rheinfeld used to carve those dreadful cuts on himself…here is my secret.’

His eyes took on a faraway expression as he recalled the memory. ‘It was a terrible night, the night Rheinfeld arrived here. So wild and violent a storm. When I followed him to the woods, just over there,’ he pointed, ‘I saw he had a knife, a dagger of a most peculiar sort. I thought to begin with that he was going to kill me. Instead I watched in horror as the poor fellow turned the blade on himself. I still cannot imagine the state of his mind. Anyhow, he soon collapsed and I carried him back to the house. We did what we could for him that night, though he was out of his wits. It was only after the authorities had come for him early the next morning that I remembered the dagger, lying fallen in the woods. I returned there, and found it among the leaves.’

He paused. ‘The dagger is, I believe, of medieval origin, though perfectly preserved. It is a crucifix of clever construction, the blade concealed inside. It has many markings, strange symbols. The blade also bears an inscription. I was fascinated and shocked to learn that these symbols were the same as the marks Rheinfeld had cut into his body.’

Ben realized that this must be the gold cross that Clement had mentioned. Fulcanelli’s cross. ‘What happened to it?’ he asked. ‘Did you hand it over to the police?’

‘To my shame, no,’ Pascal said. ‘There was no investigation. Nobody questioned that Rheinfeld had inflicted the wounds upon himself. The police did no more than note a few details. So I kept the dagger. I am afraid I have a weakness for old religious artefacts, and it has been one of the prizes of my collection.’

‘Will you let me see it?’

‘Why, of course.’ Pascal smiled. ‘But let me continue. About five months later, I had an unusual and illustrious visitor. A Vatican bishop, named Usberti, came to see me. He was asking many questions about Rheinfeld, about his madness, about things he might have said to me, about the markings on his body. But what he most wanted to know was whether Rheinfeld was carrying anything when I found him. From what he said, although he made no direct reference to it, I believe he was interested in the dagger. May the Lord forgive me, I told him nothing. It was so beautiful, and like a stupid greedy child I wished to keep it for myself. But I also sensed something that frightened me. Something about this bishop unnerved me. He hid it well, but I knew he was desperately seeking something. He also was most curious to know whether the madman was carrying any papers, documents. He kept mentioning a manuscript. Manuscript- he asked me this again and again.’

Ben started. ‘Did he say any more about it?’

‘The bishop was rather unclear. In fact I thought he seemed deliberately evasive when I asked him what kind of manuscript he was looking for. He would not say what his interest in it was. His manner seemed strange to me.’

‘And did Rheinfeld have a manuscript?’ Ben asked, trying hard to cover up his growing impatience.

‘Yes,’ Pascal said slowly. ‘He did. But…I am afraid to say…’

Ben tensed up even more as he waited. Two seconds seemed like an eternity.

Pascal went on. ‘After they took him away and I returned to the spot where the dagger lay, I found the soaked remnants of what seemed to be sheets of old scroll. They must have fallen out of his ragged clothes. They were crushed into the mud where he had collapsed. The rain had all but destroyed them-most of the ink was washed away. I could see some inscriptions and artwork still intact, and thinking the manuscript was precious and I might be able to return it to its owner I tried to pick it up. But it simply fell apart in my hands. I gathered up the pieces and brought them back here. But it was impossible to save them, and so I threw them away.’

Ben’s heart fell. If Rheinfeld’s papers had been the Fulcanelli manuscript, it was over.

‘But I mentioned none of this to the bishop,’ Pascal went on. ‘I was afraid to, even though I could not understand why I felt this way. Something told me it would be wrong to tell him.’ He shook his head. ‘I have known since then that this was not the last I would hear of the Rheinfeld story. I always felt that others would come and find me, looking for him.’

‘Where’s Rheinfeld now?’ Ben asked. ‘I’d still like to talk to him.’

Pascal sighed. ‘I am afraid that will be difficult.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he is dead. May he rest in peace.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes, he died recently, about two months ago.’

‘How do you know?’

‘While you were ill I telephoned the Institut Legrand, the mental institution near Limoux where Rheinfeld spent his last years. But it was too late. They told me that the poor unfortunate had ended his own life in a gruesome manner.’

‘Then that’s that,’ Ben muttered.