The Chaplin Conspiracy Page 15

  ‘It is a notebook. It has all sorts of handwriting.’ He scanned its contents, looking for anything of significance. One page stood out, virtually screaming for his attention. ‘Oh my goodness!’ shouted Rocco. ‘This is not possible!’

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘I have not been there, but I am familiar with this address. And, of course, the name … Look.’ He passed the notebook to her, open at the page that he’d found so alarming.

  ‘Lord Ballashiels,’ she read, ‘Stiperstones Manor, Shropshire, Angleterre.’

  ‘Hey, I know that place,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s the Hamster dude!’

  ‘Talking of which, where did he go?’ asked Ruby, suddenly aware of Ratty’s absence. She felt guilty for losing him. He wasn’t best suited to being unaccompanied.

  ‘Maybe he stuck with the Patient,’ said Rocco.

  ‘Question is,’ said Scabies, ‘how did Ratty get on the radar of these guys? It doesn’t make any sense. He’s only been in the Saunière treasure-hunting game for a few days. That notebook doesn’t look new, and there are loads of pages of stuff written after he gets a mention.’

  ‘You mean Ratty was being targeted by the Templars before it even occurred to him to investigate Saunière’s imaginary gold?’ asked Ruby. ‘That’s impossible. It makes no sense at all.’

  ‘Welcome to the world of Bérenger Saunière,’ said Scabies. ‘Nothing makes sense here. Don’t worry. You get used to it.’

  ‘These temple dudes,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Templar,’ corrected Ruby, flicking through the notebook and reading the handwritten passages and phrases as she spoke.

  ‘Whatever. These guys are a secret society, right?’

  ‘I think secretive is a more appropriate description,’ Ruby added, without looking up from the book. ‘People know they exist. They just like to keep themselves to themselves.’

  ‘What I mean—’ Charlie attempted to continue before Ruby cut him off yet again.

  ‘Of course, the term secretive should really apply to all so-called secret societies, not just the Templars.’

  Charlie took a deep breath. Words were about to exit his mouth that he’d never thought he would say. Whether it was the lack of sleep, or the brush with death, or his inability to cope with the guilt at what he had done to the Patient, he had no idea, but when the words started to flow he couldn’t turn off the tap.

  ‘You know what I feel about you Ruby. You know I’m your biggest fan, and maybe that’s true in more ways than it should be, and you’ve no idea how many nights I’ve spent fantasising about you and me dating, living together, married, whatever, all that shit. Well, no more, Ruby. Because I’ve just learned something. I know I’m not a fast learner and that’s why it took me a couple of years to get it, but I’ve realised what a pain in the ass you really are. I don’t want to marry you, or live with you, or even take you to dinner. There. It’s said. I won’t obsess over you any more. Go find yourself another fan, if you’ve got any others. Which I doubt.’

  Charlie felt sick. He knew he had no realistic chance of ever becoming Ruby’s other half, so he’d had nothing to lose, but it hurt him to have said such things about someone he usually cared deeply about. And now the damage was done. He would have to be a man and deal with it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ said Ruby, closing the notebook.

  ‘Well I am too, but it’s cool that you said it. Anyhow, I’ve said what I’ve said, and we should move forward now.’

  ‘I meant “sorry, could you say all that again”? I was reading something interesting in this book.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Never mind. Look at this page. Right after it mentions Ratty and his address.’ She showed him the text she had just read, knowing that he wouldn’t have a clue what it meant.

  ‘It’s written in Chinese,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t speak Chinese.’

  Ruby shook her head in disbelief. She showed it to Rocco and Scabies.

  ‘Charlie’s close,’ said Rocco. ‘It’s not French. Not Chinese, either. It’s a Latin text.’

  ‘Absens haeres non erit,’ said Ruby. ‘Those absent will not inherit, or something like that – Latin is not my strongest subject area. But look at the other notes around it. It’s like someone was putting together the rough draft of a letter. Something to do with inheritance rights.’

  ‘Justina thinks she’s going to inherit whatever Saunière left behind,’ said Rocco. ‘The Templars said they’d just give it to her if her lineage could be proved. Which, I must add, it cannot. I don’t see how anyone can demonstrate beyond doubt that they stem from an illicit affair between a priest and a singer more than a century ago unless they have access to the DNA samples they need.’

  ‘Does it say who the letter will be addressed to?’ asked Scabies. ‘You said it had Ratty’s address in it. Was it sent to him?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It looks like there’s a local address tucked in there. A street in Quillan. Probably a solicitor.’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Scabies. ‘I don’t understand all these scribbles, but I don’t think it’s meant to be a letter to a legal geezer. Some of the passages are in French. Look, it mentions ‘détruirez la maison’. Even a drummer can see that means knock the fucking house down. This isn’t the draft of a legal letter. It’s the draft of an illegal letter. These guys were hiring someone to do their dirty work.’

  ‘To knock Stiperstones Manor down?’ asked Ruby. ‘Why on earth would they want to do something like that to someone they know nothing about?’

  ‘Didn’t you say Ratty got a letter from the council saying they were going to flatten his gaff?’ asked Scabies. Ruby nodded. ‘Did anyone bother to check with the council if that letter was real?’

  ‘The fire brigade seemed to know about it,’ she answered.

  ‘Doesn’t mean shit,’ he said. ‘You don’t know how far the influence of these guys can stretch. How hard can it be to spread a rumour about a bypass throughout a small community?’

  ‘Ratty said he felt like someone was manipulating his life from afar,’ said Ruby. ‘If we can find out who the Templars hired to do this, maybe we can find out why?’

  ‘So we need to go to that address in Quillan,’ said Scabies. ‘It’s a long walk. Shame Charlie’s such a shit driver.’

  ‘What about poor Ratty?’ Ruby asked. ‘We don’t know where he is and we need to tell him the Templars have their sights on him and on his house.’

  ‘Charlie and Rocco will go to Quillan,’ said Scabies. ‘You guys cool with that?’

  ‘I speak French,’ said Rocco, so it will be no problem to speak to whoever is at this address.’

  ‘Right. I’ll stay here with Ruby and look for Ratty. Everyone watch each other’s backs. We don’t know if the Templars are still after us. We don’t know what those crazy American birds are planning. And we don’t know if the gendarmes are likely to take a close interest in anything we get up to.’

  ‘Let us try to meet up by the church in Rennes-le-Château tonight,’ said Rocco. ‘I will take you to my apartment and we can stay there. I don’t think we need to fear Winnifred now that she’s proved that she’s capable of saving the Patient’s life, and that we owe her.’

  ‘How are you going to get to Quillan?’ Ruby asked.

  ‘My phone is broken and Charlie’s camping car is broken, but my thumb is still working,’ he replied, holding his hitch-hiking thumb out in demonstration. ‘We are not pretty in these dirty clothes, but many people are like us today. I think someone will give us a ride.’

  ‘Don’t fancy their chances,’ whispered Scabies as the two groups parted.

  ***

  Less than a kilometre to the north of Rennes-les-Bains, Winnifred stretched out her aching body in the Roman baths adjacent to the river and hidden from public view by the road bridge above. These stone bathtubs built into alcoves in the rock had survived the flood intact, and relaxing water still flowed into them from natural hot spr
ings, as it had done for thousands of years.

  ‘Do you have to do this naked?’ Justina asked, perched uncomfortably on the steps beside one of the baths.

  ‘It’s how it’s always been done. The Romans wouldn’t get their togas wet in here. Why would I want to?’

  ‘Because your clothes are disgusting, covered in crap, soaked with sweat. Do I need to go on?’

  ‘Chill out, Justina. Whip your stuff off and jump into one of these things. It’ll do you good.’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Someone might come down here. And we need to think of a plan. Rocco said they found a crypt under the church here. He said we could keep half of whatever was in there. We never got a chance to go in there before the cops arrived. We should go back.’

  ‘Have you learned nothing since we got here? If he said he’d already found it, and if he offered you half, that can only mean there’s Jack shit inside it. Don’t waste your time.’

  ‘Well we can’t get in the Templar house because it’s not there any more. We don’t have Saunière’s bones and we don’t know where they’re guarding his gold. We’re out of options. I can’t think of a way forward.’

  Winnifred sat up, reached out towards Justina, and yanked her backwards into the shallow bath, laughing hysterically as her associate spluttered and screamed in protest at her unexpected dunking.

  ‘Not funny, asshole,’ Justina mumbled, wriggling to get upright and climb out.

  ‘Don’t get out. Lie back. Relax your mind. Then you’ll know what to do next.’

  Justina stopped herself. Her brain was overloaded and stressed. Winnifred had a point. She closed her eyes and lay back, letting the warm water nourish every tired part of her body. Instantly she knew what she must do. It would look ugly. It would seem unkind. It wasn’t something she felt comfortable doing and it was going to involve the biggest risk she had yet taken, but she knew it was her last chance.

  ‘Do you know where Ratty was going to?’ she asked Winnifred.

  ‘Dunno. Probably to the hospital at Quillan to see that weird friend of his that I saved. Why?’

  ‘You still have your knife, right?’

  ***

  The hospital corridor smelled like a hospital corridor, and Ratty wasn’t sure if he could take much more of the aroma of excessive cleanliness. It was as far removed from the homely and sometimes farmyard-like smells of Stiperstones Manor as it was possible to be. There were surfaces back home that in recent decades had not encountered a broom, let alone bleach. The Patient had yet to return from the operating theatre, and Ratty had no outlet for the boredom and frustration that he was experiencing. The magazines available were aimed at a predominately female readership, and he failed to concentrate when he flicked through pages of gossip in French about whichever celebrity he had never heard of was considering divorcing another celebrity that he didn’t care about.

  A doctor appeared. He approached Ratty and offered to shake his hand. ‘I am Dr Wainwright. Are you here for the man with the leg injuries?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ratty, relieved to be conversing in his mother tongue. ‘Am I to infer from your name and accent that you are not indigenous to these parts?’

  ‘Well spotted. I’ve lived here a few years, though.’

  ‘Golly. So how are his Mystics?’

  ‘Mystics?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Mystic Megs. Legs,’ explained Ratty. ‘It is the common parlance in London, so I am told. Don’t they teach you anything at medical school these days?’

  ‘Cockney rhyming slang was a module I didn’t take, to my lasting regret. So, his legs, as we call them in the medical profession, have multiple fractures. They required metal pins and several transfusions, but he will live and he will even be able to walk, eventually. He’s been taken to ward seven on the floor below. Oh, and I need to ask you for his personal details. We have no name on record.’

  ‘It’s a long story, doctor. Suffice to say the fellow is no stranger to the medical environment, and as such he has always been known as the Patient. With a capital P.’

  The doctor’s face displayed dissatisfaction as he wrote this in his notes. ‘Nationality?’

  ‘British of course. Can you not tell from my demeanour?’

  ‘The Patient’s nationality,’ he sighed.

  ‘Guatemalan.’

  ‘Ah, so he won’t be covered by EU reciprocal medical treatment rules. Does he have medical insurance, or will you be paying his bill? Surgery of this nature won’t be cheap.’

  ‘His bill?’

  ‘We had a team of three surgeons and seven support staff in theatre, and it took us four hours to put him back together. I don’t have a final figure for his treatment, but I’d guess that with post-operative care and rehabilitation included, you’re probably looking at about forty thousand Euros.’

  ‘As little as that?’ asked Ratty. ‘Hmm, let me think. Golly, what’s that outside the window?’ Ratty pointed, spun round, and ran to the door at the end of the corridor. It was locked. He looked back and saw Dr Wainwright standing with his hands on his hips, waiting for Ratty to return. ‘That’s better,’ puffed Ratty. ‘Just had an impulse for a little exercise. Spontaneity is the mother of all thingies. Or something.’

  ‘I take it the Patient has no insurance and you are not in a position to pay for his treatment?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Such a statement would not be entirely without factual basis,’ Ratty replied, head hung low.

  ‘It’s all right, don’t panic. There are discretionary funds available. We will sort something out. He’s on ward seven, remember.’

  ‘Upstairs?’

  ‘Downstairs.’ The doctor departed.

  Ratty found the stairs and had descended one flight when he found himself face-to-face with Winnifred and Justina.

  ‘Goodness gracious,’ he declared. ‘Have you come to visit the unfortunate fellow, too? I’m sure he would appreciate the opportunity to thank you for all the digging and rescuing and wotnot.’

  ‘Actually, Ratty, something has come up,’ said Justina. ‘It’s an emergency and we really need your expertise and brainpower. You can come and see the Patient another time. We have to go now.’

  ‘Of course. But I think it would be an unforgivably poor show not to say a brief how do you do to Patient chappy first.’

  ‘No,’ insisted Justina. ‘You must come with us. No detours.’

  ‘I say. What can be so important that one can’t spare five minutes for an injured chum?’

  Winnifred produced her knife and held it close to Ratty’s stomach. ‘This,’ she told him.

  ‘Ah, well, that puts it in a somewhat clearer perspective.’

  ‘Don’t try anything stupid,’ said Justina.

  ‘That rather narrows my options,’ replied Ratty. ‘Doing stupid things is what I’m best at.’

  ‘Just come with us, don’t say or do anything to annoy Winnifred, and you won’t get hurt. Understand?’

  ‘Er, what if I were to irritate you, whilst maintaining a perfectly pleasant and mutually satisfying relationship with Winnifred?’

  ‘Like you’re doing right now? Just shut up and come with us. We don’t have time for this shit.’

  ‘This is all most intriguing. Where are we going? Have you found something?’

  ‘Just tell him, Justina. It’s the only way to make him stop talking.’

  Justina nodded. Ratty was getting under her skin already. ‘Right,’ she said, checking there was no one close to them on the staircase, ‘we are kidnapping you. OK?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Ratty replied, looking almost flattered. ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. That’s it. We’re taking you hostage. Your friends then have forty-eight hours to find Saunière’s treasure and deliver it to me. That treasure is my rightful inheritance, don’t forget.’

  ‘I believe you may have mentioned it before.’

  ‘So, if your friends do this for me, I will let you go. No harm will be done. I mean that. I don’t
want to hurt you. This is purely business, and you will be looked after very well, and when my inheritance is delivered I promise you will be free. Got that?’

  ‘What a thoroughly ingenious plan,’ said Ratty. ‘I must admit to possessing a hint of admiration for your courageous thinking and a smidgen of jealousy that it hadn’t occurred to me to embark on a similar pursuit. I must ask, however, if you had thought about in what manner you intend to inform my friends of this wonderful scheme? All of our phones perished in the flood last night.’

  Justina looked at Winnifred blankly.

  ‘Shit,’ said Winnifred.

  ‘Where are they?’ asked Justina.

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest,’ said Ratty. ‘But other than that it was a sound plan. Don’t despair, however. I have a suggestion that might save the day.’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Justina.

  ‘We go to see Patient chappy in his bed. We tell him about your marvellous arrangement, and then he can relay the appropriate information to the others.’

  ‘Does he know where they are?’ asked Winnifred.

  ‘No, but if they have shreds of decency of the type from which everyone can at times benefit, present company particularly included, I suspect this establishment will shortly be graced with their presence.’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘It’s OK, Winnifred. He’s right. Sooner or later the others will come by to visit him.’

  They followed Ratty to the Patient’s bedside. His legs were protected from the weight of the bedsheets by a small arch. He smiled at them.

  ‘I love this place,’ he said, pointing at the large ward around him. It was crammed with beds and curtains and worried visitors and nonchalant nurses. ‘The medicine, the people, the smells, the procedures. This hospital brings to life all the things about which I spent so many years reading. Isn’t it wonderful? I can think of no more fascinating place to spend a few weeks.’

  ‘Didn’t I say he was weird?’ whispered Winnifred, sitting herself next to the bed in the only available visitor’s chair.

  ‘They say the operation went tickety-boo,’ said Ratty.