The Chaplin Conspiracy Page 18

  He attempted to drink the tea he had been given. It grated his taste buds as badly as the books offended his eyes. Maybe he was imagining it. The DNA swab he had been unexpectedly forced to rub around the inside of his mouth might have left an aftertaste that disagreed with the tea. Far from being the civilised hospitality intended by his host, Ratty was experiencing a multi-sensory assault. Still, considering he had been kidnapped by Winnifred and Justina, and that all three of them had subsequently been whisked away at gunpoint by the Templars, he figured things could have been worse. He had seen nothing of the women since their arrival at the olive farm. The Templar had put him in the library with a pot of not-quite-tea and taken the Americans elsewhere, and now he waited.

  He twitched when the door handle turned slowly. A dribble of brown liquid slid down the outside of his cup, into the saucer. He put the beverage on the table and stood up to greet the Templar.

  ‘Please sit,’ said the Templar, limping towards him and pointing at the chair where Ratty had previously sat. The Templar eased himself onto one of the chairs opposite. ‘Don’t worry about the women. They are safe.’

  Ratty had no concerns whatsoever for their safety.

  ‘That is a welcome unburdening,’ he said. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be ungrateful for the hospitality, but the council bulldozers have a rendezvous with my home in a couple of days and I really ought to go and lie down in the mud in front of them.’

  ‘These things do not occur without good reason. And I am sorry for making you wait. I just had a visit from the gendarmes of Quillan. They do an excellent job, but this was a small misunderstanding which I was able to straighten out without difficulty.’

  ‘Gendarme chappies? Did you offer them tea? I would be willing to sacrifice my own pot in the interests of community wotnots.’

  ‘That will not be necessary. They have already departed. Now, the reason you are here is because we are in a very fast-moving, quickly evolving situation,’ said the Templar. ‘Yesterday’s enemy is today’s friend. Do you understand?’

  ‘No at all, old onion.’

  ‘Let me explain.’ He adjusted his legs to make his recent injuries more bearable. ‘For many years people have investigated the so-called treasure of Bérenger Saunière. It has come in and out of fashion. Many books were written, holes were dug, and lives were dedicated to finding his secret. All wasted, of course. And all because the villagers of his day didn’t understand the source of his money and so they started to spread rumours of treasure. And human nature being what it is, when those rumours start they never go away.’

  ‘So where did the old fellow find—’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ interrupted the Templar. ‘What I am saying is that no one ever came remotely close to the truth before. And then suddenly, with no warning, everything happens at once. The Marsaud family are murdered. One of the suspects claims descent from Saunière. You arrive on the scene. Rennes-les-Bains is destroyed by floods. My brother is killed in a car accident. And you force us into a corner until we have no options remaining.’

  ‘Golly. Frightfully regrettable. My deepest doodahs and dingdangs. Thing is, not quite sure how I forced you to do anything when I didn’t know you existed.’

  ‘Your ignorance is understandable, but you know us. We are in your soul.’

  ‘Are you? Are you indeed? In my soul, eh? Thought it was a bit crowded in there, actually.’

  ‘You know Saunière left Rennes in 1917, don’t you? You know he was alive for many years after. No other researchers noticed this until you. That is how you have cornered us.’

  ‘Still not a hundred per cent with you, old baguette.’

  ‘The question we must ask is how? How did you find this out? Because of all the secrets of Saunière, the knowledge of his lost years is the greatest.’

  ‘Gosh, well, just a little coincidence, really. That Charlie Chaplin fellow—’

  The Templar stood up, looking frightened, then winced as the pain in his leg reminded him of his current frailty. ‘The Chaplin conspiracy! Well, Lord Ballashiels, I am even more impressed by your ingenuity. You cultivate your image of stupidity very well, and you use it to mask your true genius. I must admire your tactics.’ With that, he sat back down again.

  ‘Quite. Yes. The Chaplin thingummy. That’s the fellow.’

  ‘Chaplin is a French name, you know.’

  ‘No one’s perfect.’

  ‘It is from the old French word, chapelain. A chaplain. A priest. Do you see?’

  ‘See what, old croissant?’

  ‘It was Saunière’s habit to leave clues, and with the Charlie Chaplin connection he created the biggest, highest profile clue of them all, and for almost a century no one spotted it, even though it was so open and blatant. Until you, Lord Ballashiels. I must congratulate you for being able to see the wood for the trees. Tell me, how did you work it out?’

  ‘Elementary, my dear Wotsname.’

  ‘It is so elementary, you are right, but only the clearest mind can see past the nonsense that distracts all others who seek the truth.’

  ‘So when I saw Charlie Doodah and the Saunière fellow filmed at Rennes-le-Whatsit together, all the pieces in the thingummy fitted and I realised I knew everything,’ lied Ratty, trying to live up to his unexpected reputation for cognitive prowess.

  ‘And yet, and this is the part that is hard for me to comprehend, you then came to Rennes and started poking around in the tunnels,’ said the Templar. ‘Why?’

  ‘Agoraphobia,’ said Ratty. ‘Never did trust open spaces.’

  ‘And I find you getting mixed up with those American women, one of whom, it seems, was responsible for multiple murders while the other claims to be related to Saunière and Calvé.’

  ‘I can explain about the drummer chap, and the archaeologist, and the peculiar Patient fellow. To some extent I can even explain about the rotund young American and the paranoid German scientist, but I must confess that the American ladies just kind of appeared in my life a couple of days ago and for some reason have refused to depart.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I am beginning to see the light. I expected you to travel across the Atlantic upon learning of the Chaplin conspiracy. But that is too obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Quite. Too expensive, if anything.’

  ‘You didn’t go to America. You let America come to you. That’s it, isn’t it? Those women are part of the conspiracy? That’s why they’re here!’

  Ratty didn’t know what to say. He had ceased to comprehend anything the Templar had been saying several minutes ago. He just nodded politely and pretended to take a sip of the vile tea. ‘Do you have a gentleman’s room?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said the Templar. ‘Before you go, I want you to be reassured. What you have revealed to me has saved the lives of those two women. You should feel very proud. Obviously there is some paperwork to sort out, but I can see a resolution to the Saunière legacy at last.’

  ***

  With her nose pressed against the cobwebs, Ruby could see into the unlit barn at the rear of the imposing farmhouse. The barn was used for storing vats of olive oil, rows of metal drums containing extra virgin pressings of an as-yet unbranded variety. She turned to face Scabies, who was still crouched behind the tractor that had concealed him from the departing police, and held up her thumb. He approached the barn door. It refused to open. He shook his head at her and she joined him, huffing disapprovingly.

  ‘How many drummers does it take to change a lightbulb?’ asked Ruby. ‘One. If you hit it hard enough it should just work.’

  ‘How many archaeologists does it take to piss off a drummer?’ he retorted. ‘One. You.’ He kicked the door in using a move he had perfected years before when booting burning floor toms off the stage. ‘Come on.’

  They squeezed past rows of olive oil containers.

  ‘Does this look like the headquarters of a wealthy and influential secret society?’ whispered Ruby. ‘The farmhouse is pretty imposing, but this is a workin
g barn. Just as if it’s a real olive farm.’

  ‘That’s exactly what they want you to think.’

  Scabies approached a heavy-looking door at the rear of the barn. He put his face to the door’s tiny window and gave Ruby a thumbs up.

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked. ‘You can see Ratty? The coast is clear? You’ve spotted a drum set?’

  He turned to her and sighed. ‘Kit, Ruby. They’re called kits.’

  ‘I’m just saying that sticking your thumb up doesn’t tell me enough about—’

  ‘It was good enough for you just now!’

  ‘But that situation was different. No ambiguity.’

  ‘Agh! All right, I get it! Look for yourself!’

  He stood aside and let her peek through. She could see a kitchen: worktops of green tiles with chequered curtains beneath, butler sink, flagstone floor, pine table and chairs, wood-burning stove. The only nod to modernity seemed to be the fridge, and even that could have been thirty years old.

  Scabies pushed the door. The hinges squealed, as if deliberately attempting to raise the alarm. With the door only ajar, he paused. ‘Too loud,’ he whispered.

  ‘You don’t say,’ came Ruby’s reply.

  ‘Wait here.’ He looked around the barn until he found a stack of boxes. Inside the top box he found bottles of the farm’s produce, extra virgin olive oil. He took a bottle and opened it, pouring a drop onto his hands to taste.

  ‘Is it real?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘Yes and no,’ Scabies replied. ‘Try it.’

  He poured a drop onto her fingers and she licked them.

  ‘Eek,’ was her reaction. ‘Rancid.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. It’s olive oil all right,’ he said, ‘but it’s been sitting here a few years. Doesn’t matter. Watch.’

  He sprinkled the ancient oil onto the hinges and tried pushing the door again. This time it swung open in reassuring silence. Scabies put the bottle into his pocket in case they encountered any other sticky doors.

  They stepped into the rustic kitchen. In the centre sat a wonky table dressed with a couple of baguettes. Scabies went instinctively to the little fridge that hummed in the corner and opened it. ‘Fromage?’ he offered.

  ‘No time,’ she replied, snapping off the end of a baguette and stuffing it into her mouth.

  ‘They’ve got both kinds of cheese,’ he continued. ‘Camembert and Brie.’

  Ruby’s mouth was too full to be able to articulate the sarcastic response she so wanted to utter, so she compromised with slapping Scabies on the arm and pushing him towards a door that led to a hallway.

  The hallway was long and dark. It was lined with three doors on each side. All closed. They could hear voices. Scabies pressed his ear against each door in turn. At the second he gave a thumbs-down sign. At the next he smiled. The muffled tones of Ratty talking gibberish floated into the hallway.

  ‘He’s there?’ whispered Ruby.

  ‘Yes, but he’s with someone.’

  ‘We need to hide until he’s alone.’

  Before they could retreat to the kitchen, the door opened and Ratty emerged. He instantly shut the door behind him.

  ‘Just looking for the gentleman’s department,’ he wibbled to Scabies.

  ‘Ratty, listen, we’ve come to get you out of here,’ Ruby spat into his ear, her words fractured by nervous excitement and pieces of baguette.

  ‘Say again, old trout?’

  ‘This way!’ she summarised, grabbing his arm and guiding him to the kitchen. Scabies closed the door.

  ‘By “gentlemen’s department” I was really referring to the water closet,’ said Ratty, looking confused to be in a kitchen. ‘You know, to powder one’s, you know. Without getting vulgar or too explicit. Unmentionables. If you’ll forgive my—’

  ‘Listen Ratty, we found out something,’ interrupted Ruby. ‘These Templars have been watching you for a long time. Your name and address were in a notebook we found in the car that chased us out of Rennes-les-Bains.’

  ‘Yes, most amusing story, actually, because the Templar chap knew all about Charlie Chaplin and Saunière. Only he went further to talk about Chaplin meaning priest and something about America and then quite frankly I felt a little light-headed and ceased to follow what he was saying. Let me introduce you to him. Charming fellow.’

  ‘No, Ratty, we can’t trust him. He was trying to kill us just twenty-four hours ago.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, Ratty. A bullet hit the camper van, remember?’

  ‘I know, I meant it wasn’t quite twenty-four hours – probably only about nineteen – but the Templar fellow explained all that, I think. Something about him realising all sorts of things, and people not being the enemies he originally considered them to be, and all that wizzle-wazzle.’

  ‘Wizzle-wazzle?’ repeated Scabies. ‘Why did we ever get involved with this clown, Ruby?’

  The kitchen door swung open to reveal the Templar, holding himself painfully upright against the frame. ‘I thought I heard the sound of other guests,’ he said, his voice lacking the sinister undertone that Ruby and Scabies were expecting. ‘Don’t be afraid of me. It was not me who shot at you yesterday. That man is dead. He was my brother. And it was I who killed him. Please sit. My stitches are painful.’

  He limped to the kitchen table and pulled up a chair. The others joined him, self-consciously sticking to the opposite side of the table.

  ‘Why did you bump your brother off?’ asked Scabies. ‘If it’s not a personal question.’

  ‘I was driving the car. It was not intentional. Likewise, I know his intention was not to hurt you. He was convinced you would stop if he frightened you. We were arguing about it. I told him he was reckless, this was not how we do things. I tried to pull the gun from his hand. Your van swerved suddenly into the river and I didn’t have time to see the fallen tree in the road. He died at that moment and I woke up later in Quillan hospital. These are strange days. Much has changed and will change and must change. Lord Ballashiels is an undisputed genius. He has uncovered the Chaplin conspiracy. I am at once grateful and relieved that he has done so. It is the lifting of a burden that has been carried for too long.’

  Ruby and Scabies looked quizzically at Ratty.

  ‘Genius?’ asked Scabies.

  ‘Chaplin conspiracy?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘That’s the fellow,’ said Ratty. ‘The wotsname thingummy. Worked it all out.’

  ‘We are in the presence of greatness,’ said the Templar. Scabies looked over his shoulder and around the room. ‘And I recognise you, Monsieur. A face from my youth. Perhaps the greatest drummer on the planet?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ coughed Scabies, modestly. ‘Certainly the greatest drummer in The Damned.’

  ‘The qui?’

  Scabies bit his lip tightly. Ratty brought the conversation back to topic.

  ‘Monsieur Templar chappy, I have yet to acquaint my chums with the Charlie Chaplin conspiracy story and I wondered if you would do the honours, since you tell it with so much more aplomb, if you’ll excuse my French.’

  ‘I am sure you would prefer to explain the complex conspiracy which you have so brilliantly uncovered,’ suggested the Templar. ‘Go ahead. In your own words.’

  ‘Ah. Words. Right. Speaking, no less. A fine oration is what you want. My best spiel. And why not? A not entirely unreasonable suggestion. Most laudable. However, if I may protrude an opinion into the general mêlée, I always think such a tale sounds more authentic with the amusing – I mean the appropriate – accent. An accent which, for various reasons including dignity, breeding and not smoking, I am unable to emulate.’

  The smoking reference caused Scabies to produce a roll-up and a lighter from his pocket. Ruby slapped his arm, shook her head and mouthed the word ‘outside’. He grunted and lowered his hands.

  ‘You wish me to tell it for you?’ asked the Templar.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, why not. If
you insist,’ said Ratty.

  ‘A pleasure,’ the Templar replied. ‘Saunière passed on in January 1917. We have his death certificate, the details of his burial, and there is even a photo of him on his deathbed in some books. But the certificate was signed by the mayor along with Pierre Captier and Louis Bousquet, a farmer and a builder. Is it feasible that these three men could have been paid off by Saunière for their complicity in aiding his escape from Rennes-le-Château during a time of extreme crisis for the priest? Well, I know that was the case. And we know too that the supposed deathbed photo was not even Saunière. Skip forward three months and there is a document from Limoux, registered by the clerk of the court, which proves that Saunière’s brothers and sisters, the only known heirs to his considerable estate, declined their right to inherit. Is that not strange behaviour?’

  ‘Most queersome,’ said Ratty. ‘I was going to mention the very same thing.’

  ‘So Saunière’s young housekeeper, Marie, continued living in his properties with her parents. Under French law, if the estate remained uncontested, she would inherit everything after thirty years. But that was just the bricks. Saunière had already given them up when he disappeared in 1917. Those rumours of treasure put about by ignorant villagers were a useful smokescreen, and one that he encouraged in order to draw attention away from his lucrative trade in mail order masses. He may have sold some gold along the way, treasures from a crypt or a tomb, but if that did happen it was an isolated event. No one else will find anything of value in the village.

  ‘The fact is, when he started advertising to the faithful of the United States, the scale of his operation became vast. So huge, in fact, that he began to keep some of the money in America to invest in the New York Stock Exchange. It was partly his escape plan, and it was also because at one point he had no choice. The Vatican was putting pressure on the Bishop of Carcassonne, Beauséjour, to stop this errant priest. Saunière was constantly in trouble, on trial, and getting banned from the ministry. Whilst suspended from his job, he was not entitled to collect letters addressed to the curé of Rennes-le-Château from the post office at Couiza. His funds were cut off. So he hired a New York lawyer to invest the money for him, without it travelling to France.’