In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night...
A Gabriel Knight Mystery
Chapter 5
"Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishment the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."
-- William Ernest Henley
******************************
*Saturday, 21 June*
Dawn came, fingers of roseate light leaping over the waiting French countryside; but the morning after could not brighten the macabre events of the night before. The mood in the hospital waiting room was sombre, where three perturbed people anxiously debated their next course of action. Father Jean was steady as a rock, his serenity creating an oasis of calm in the midst of madness for Gabriel and Grace during the chaos of the last few hours. They had just seen Michael wheeled out of the operating room into an intensive care ward, where he now lay unconscious, after emergency surgery to save his life. The young surgeon in charge of the case had told them that the knife had missed his heart narrowly, puncturing a lung. The operation had been successful, but the next 48 hours were critical.
The police had swarmed all around the farm the previous night, asking repetitive questions which irritated Gabriel to distraction. Fortunately, his own wound had needed medical attention, and Father Jean had persuaded the police to leave him alone. Commissaire Dernaud had appeared, and after a mercifully short interview on the way to the hospital, had driven back to the scene of the attempted murder.
The story they had told was that Gabriel had been investigating suspicious movements in the field outside the St.Clair house, and had surprised an intruder. When Grace and Michael had appeared, the intruder attacked Gabriel, and when Michael intervened, the unknown trespasser had thrown the knife at him. In the subsequent confusion, the attacker had made his escape. No, sorry, neither Gabriel nor Grace had seen the man's face in the darkness. Yes, he was tall, about six feet. Oh, right, you follow the metric system: let's see, that would be about 1.8 metres. He was dressed in dark clothing. No, he didn't say anything. Sorry, there's nothing else we can tell you.
"Gabriel? Gabriel!" Father Jean's voice woke him from the reverie he had dropped into.
"Sorry. Yeah?"
"You say that Michael seemed to recognise the demon you saw last night?"
"He called it "Iblis'. Does that mean anything?"
"Iblis." Father Jean exhaled slowly. "I'm not certain. You see, that's an Arabic name for 'demon' or 'devil.' It's sometimes used in the same sense that a Christian would say 'Satan'."
"Well, whatever it was, it certainly recognised Michael. And it knew these," Gabriel said heavily, drawing his Talisman and the St.Clair Seal out of his jacket pocket.
"With Michael injured, it's up to us to stop this Iblis, whatever he is!" Grace declared fiercely. "He can't be allowed to go on like this!"
"You are right, Grace. But how?" Father Jean asked pensively. "I'm afraid that Michael, as the Champion of Light, knew many things that I do not."
"He said we had to find St.George's sword. That's why he gave me his Seal." Gabriel was conscious of Grace's troubled gaze on him as he spoke. He turned to her. "Look, I don't have much of a choice here, Gracie. Not after what's happened."
"Gabriel..." She hesitated. "Last night, when you walked out and left your Talisman behind..."
Suddenly furious, he bit his words out with exaggerated care. "I told you, I was really light-headed from the wine! I think that's why I was sleep-walking."
They were interrupted by a white clad orderly. "Mr.Knight?"
"Yeah?"
"Dr.Bernard would like to see you."
Dr.Julie Bernard was the surgeon who had operated on Michael. She was seated in her office, with an open file in front of her when Gabriel entered. "Please, sit down, Mr.Knight. How is your arm?"
"OK, thanks. One of your people gave me a shot for the pain. You wanted to see me?"
"Yes. I have the results of a blood test that was performed on you when you were brought here. May I ask if you had indulged in any... stimulants, last night?"
"Just a couple of glasses of wine, is all," Gabriel replied, puzzled.
"Nothing else?" she persisted, looking narrowly at him.
"Yeah, why do you ask?"
"Mr.Knight, the results of the test show the presence of a psychedelic substance related to LSD, possibly an ergot derivative, in your blood stream. By the level of absorption, I would say it had been ingested around 10:00 p.m last night, say, with dinner? Under the circumstances..."
"You mean a drug?" Gabriel asked disbelievingly. "I never..." his words trailed off slowly as he remembered that dinner with Nicole Barrat. She had kept forcing more wine on him, and she would have had plenty of opportunity to slip something into one of those drinks... But why?
"Mr. Knight." Dr.Bernard's voice cut off his speculations. "It is dangerous to experiment with hallucinogens; and my advice to you is to avoid anything of the kind in future. I have known fatalities to ensue from irresponsible attempts to 'trip' on mushroom or ergot derivatives."
"Uh, thanks, Doc. I'll keep that in mind."
When Grace and Father Jean heard about the blood test, their concern turned quickly to speculation. It was Father Jean who spoke first.
"I have heard that such drugs can be used to make a subject more susceptible to manipulation, through hypnosis or mental coercion. This Nicole Barrat, you say she is a friend of Lucien Laroche?"
"More than a friend, I'd say. And she would definitely have known Tornenkov, too."
Grace took it a step further. "The police said all the victims seem to have walked into the country of their own will, and none of them seemed to have struggled, right? So maybe they were drugged too!"
"Maybe. I think I'd like to find out more about Ms.Barrat, and this Laroche character too. Think I'll drive to Paris, visit Claire Desmoulins," Gabriel drawled, pulling out a card from his pocket.
"What about this demon-possession stuff? And St.George's treasure? We need to figure some stuff out."
"Yeah. Gracie, you know that stuff you researched on the Serpent Cult? About the possessed person needing a physical object, a focus, to maintain the demon's possession? Maybe you should look into that."
"I will. And I'll work on translating the map we found in the St.Clair vault. I'm sure it's the key to finding St.George's sword!"
"I shall do my best to assist you, Grace. I think we should start by returning to the farm. And perhaps Gabriel, you could get that peculiar substance you found at the scene of Tornenkov's murder analysed while you are in Paris?"
******************************
Outside the farm, the police had taped off the area where the previous night's attack had occurred. There were still several people around, so Gabriel decided to avoid the spot till later. He got into Michael's car and drove out as inconspicuously as possible.
The drive to Paris was short and uneventful. Following the map in Michael's car, Gabriel soon found himself in front of a nondescript building that housed a laboratory run by a former student of Jean Gerard's. He made a quick stop to request an analysis of the strange dark brown cystalline substance he had found in the field where Tornenkov's body had been found. After reading the letter provided by Father Jean, the young chemist had agreed to have the results for him in an hour.
Gabriel's next stop was a quietly luxurious apartment in the 16th arrondissement.
Seated in the plush living room of Claire Desmoulin's apartment, Gabriel sipped the coffee she had offered him, and wondered where to begin.
"I'm sorry to have intruded on you so soon, Mam'selle Desmoulins, but I really would appreciate your help. You see, Michael St.Clair, you met him yesterday, was attacked last night; he's in hospital."
"My God, how is he?" she asked, with quick concern.
"We don't know yet. Doctors say, if he doesn't recover consciousness within the next two days... Anyway, the one who stabbed him, we think it may have been the same guy who killed your friend, Vladimir Tornenkov."
"That's horrible! I hope the police catch him soon. But how can I help you, Mr.Knight?"
"I was hoping you could tell me something about the people he had dinner with that last night; you know, his friends?"
"Vlad's friends." The beautiful flautist sighed. "You mean Lucien Laroche."
"Anything you could tell me, Ms. Desmoulins..."
"Claire, please. I don't know what to tell you, Mr.Knight. Vlad was close to Lucien, they've been partners for many years. As you may have noticed yesterday, I am no longer on good terms with Lucien."
"Please call me Gabriel, Claire. You said you're no longer on good terms with him? Then you were once close to him."
"Yes. Very close. " Her voice was bitter with recollection. "I used to live with him. I was young and foolish, and thought I was in love."
"I'm sorry. What happened?" Gabriel asked gently.
"I left him. He would be utterly charming one day and the next, he would act so bizarrely, so cruelly. It was as if he wanted to hurt me, to drive me away. I couldn't stand it any more. Vlad was so unhappy, torn between us. You see, we were both his friends. Vlad was the gentlest man..."
"Must have been hard. But he continued to perform with Laroche after that?"
"Oh yes. Lucien was careful never to do anything to alienate Vlad. I think he loved Vlad, as much as that strange, cold man can love anyone. To hear the two of them perform together: it was magic. They could bring the music alive, it would haunt you for days after you heard it. There was something uncanny about it, something not quite of our world. Here, let me show you," she said, getting up and sliding a CD into the player that sat in a corner. Gabriel inserted a fresh tape in his recorder.
The liquid tones of a piano filled the room, joined by the plaintive voice of a violin. The music was eerie, sending shivers down Gabriel's spine, calling up phantoms, conjuring dark chimeras from the subconscious to dance almost visibly in front of him.
Claire turned it off, watching his face. "Yes, I can see you feel it too. That was their speciality, 'Danse Macabre' by Camille de St.Saens. Lucien loved playing that. He used to say it was his private joke against the whole world."
"Claire, I've heard rumours that Laroche uses drugs? Is that true?"
"Drugs? I don't know about Lucien. He never used to. Though it's quite common in theatrical and musical circles. A lot of Lucien's crowd abuses cocaine, I know. Also LSD, marijuana, some exotics; you know, psychedelics? Nicole Barrat, Alain Meunier, quite a few of them are into that. Alain said that Lucien had introduced him to a fantastic new supplier, Christian something."
Gabriel sat up. "Christian Lemaitre?"
"Yes, that's it, Lemaitre. Ratty looking man, quite disgusting. He would hang around at the parties, smarming up to everyone." She shrugged contemptuously.
"Claire. Christian Lemaitre was one of the vistims of the Slasher," Gabriel explained quietly.
She went still with shock. "What?" she gasped.
"Are you sure it was Laroche who introduced him to your friends?"
"That's what Alain said," she replied absently, still taken aback by the information. "What was that utterly insignificant man doing in Gisors?"
"That's what I'd like to know," Gabriel said grimly. "Claire, have you also heard of someone named Cesar Capelli?"
"Capelli, Capelli... the name seems familiar, but I can't quite... wait, there was a quiet man at a party once. Italian looking. He didn't talk much. It was after a concert. I remember thinking he looked really out of place there. But he was obviously very impressed with Lucien. Like everyone else," she added dryly.
"Do you think you'd recognise a photograph of him?"
"It's possible. I'm not sure. It's been a year since that party, and I only noticed him because he was so different from everyone else there..."
Gabriel got up, suddenly in a hurry. Laroche! Laroche was the common factor. "Claire, thank you. You've been a real help!" he said, impulsively kissing her cheek.
"If you say so, Gabriel," she said, surprised. "If there's anything else I can do, please let me know. I hope we can get together under less difficult circumstances; I'd love to hear about the Wagner opera..."
"I hope so too; though Grace is the expert on Wagner!"
Sitting in the car, waiting at an intersection, Gabriel drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. The clues were there: but the whole picture was just eluding him...
The chemist's report was concise and informative. The substance he had found was definitely some sort of incense. It was not of a standard variety, and had probably been specially made up. The chemist had directed Gabriel to a shop that specialised in selling incenses and other exotic goods of that kind.
"Les Tziganes" the sign said. Gabriel walked into the dimly lit store, that was vaguely reminiscent of a gypsy fortune-teller's room. The impression was heightened by the lady who stood behind the counter. Thin, dark, with a red scarf tied over her graying hair, and a silver crucifix hanging around her neck, if she wasn't a gypsy, she was certainly dressing the part well.
"Bonjour. Vous voudrais..."
"Excuse me, do you speak English?"
"Yes, some. What is it you seek?"
"Uh, I heard that you stock incense?"
"Yes, what kind would you like?"
"Like this, maybe?" Gabriel said, pulling out the fragment he had retrieved from the chemist. The woman accepted the sample and held it to her nose. Then she gave the piece a close look.
"No," she said. "We don't have this. Where you did you get it?"
"Picked it up at a friend's place," Gabriel said vaguely. "Liked the smell, so I thought I'd get some."
"You should ask your friend then, M'sieur. This is a specially made blend." She looked slightly perplexed. "Nothing I've seen. We do get requests from the, how you say, New Age groups, for special blended incenses; they use them in their rituals. But I've never seen this before."
"Thanks, anyway," Gabriel nodded, and started to leave.
"M'sieur!" the woman exclaimed. When he turned to look, she had a strange, unfocussed look in her eyes. She made the sign of the cross over him, saying, "Be careful. Something dark awaits you. But faith is powerful..."
"What?" Gabriel asked, mystified.
"I don't know, m'sieur," she said, eyeing him with a peculiar expression. In the doorway where he stood, half in and half out of the shop, a halo of sunlight shone around Gabriel's blond head. "Perhaps you should leave now."
"On my way out," he shrugged. "Thanks again."
******************************
Grace wore a forbidding scowl of concentration as she worked on translating the hand-drawn map that had lain in the vault below the St.Clair farmhouse for nearly 900 years. The words were clear enough, but the meaning was enigmatic. The Latin incription 'Verbum sapienti sat est' -- 'A word to the wise suffices', was written in large letters across the top of the scroll.
"'This word means trap or obstacle; what's this, 'The treacherous pit awaits the false step'. What the h*ll is that supposed to mean? Is this a map or a riddle?" she muttered.
Father Jean entered, carrying a brown-wrapped package. "This just arrived in the mail," he said, holding it out.
"It's from Gerde! She said she was sending me Wolfgang's notes!" She opened the package excitedly.
"Hmm...Templars, Crusades, St.John's Eve...", she said aloud, skimming through the pages. "Wait a minute: what's this about Saint John's Eve?"
'The tradition of lighting bonfires and conducting special prayers on 23 June, the Eve of St.John, and on the next day, the Feast of Saint John, was an important part of the rituals of the Order of the Temple, as well as of the Order of the Knights of St.John. This tradition was followed in every country that the Templars established themselves: in Europe, bonfires were lit in the chapterhouses of France, Germany, Portugal, Spain, England, Scotland; it seems to have been an extremely important festival to the Order. In my native Bavaria, the Ritters too have continued to light the need-fires, with the people of Rittersberg joining in; it is said that the sacred fires serve to drive away dragons. I have found similar beliefs in the peasantry of France, Scotland, and Spain.'
"St.John's Eve," Grace repeated thoughtfully. "That's the day after tomorrow!' She turned to Father Jean. "You know, Father, Gabriel and I had a pretty harrowing experience with the followers of the Voodoun snake god Damballah on St.John's Eve a couple of years ago..."
"I'm not surprised, Grace. It is a very significant time of year, the summer solstice. You see, that day is the great turning point in our year, when after climbing higher and higher, day by day, in the sky, the Sun begins his downward path in the sky, and the days begin to shorten. To Mithrans, it is a time of prayer and renewal of oaths; we light the sacred fire outside the Mithraeum, and pledge to dedicate ourselves to the fight against evil." He paused. His lined face grew stark with distaste.
"But also, to the followers of darker faiths, this is an important time. A time for sacrifices. The Cult of the Serpent, for instance, believes that the summer solstice marks the start of the ascendancy of Darkness over Light. They believe that a human sacrifice at this time generates enormous power, so that the Serpent confers special favours on the sacrificers."
"You mean, these murders may have been timed to coincide with the Eve of St.John?" Grace asked, comprehension dawning.
"I think it is probable," he nodded.
"But the murders have all been committed on weekends! And 23 June is Monday!"
"Grace, from what we know of the third stage of the Greater Ritual of the Cult, in order to invoke the Serpent physically into our world, they would need to make six human sacrifices; not counting the attempted murder last night, there have been four 'slasher' killings so far."
"So," Grace added slowly, "That would mean one more murder this weekend, and the final one on St.John's Eve?"
"That is my surmise," Father Jean assented. "How is the translation going?" he enquired, as an apparent non sequitur.
"The *translation* is going fine. But the map still doesn't make sense to me! There's all this cryptic stuff about traps and hidden paths..."
"Let me see," he said, coming around to stand at her shoulder. "This looks to me like a description of how to reach a hidden Mithraeum. It is obviously subterranean, and if it was constructed in the Middle Ages, no doubt the traps were to keep out the uninitiated. Officially, Mithraism was banned, so the builders would have gone to some trouble to ensure that the secret was safe. Especially if this particular Mithraeum also contained Ascalon, the legendary flaming sword of St.George himself!"
"That makes sense, I guess. But what are these traps? And where is the entrance to this maze, anyway? The map doesn't say!"
"I'm afraid I am no wiser than you on those points, Grace. Let us hope that He who illuminates the world will also enlighten us!"
******************************
Gabriel drove past the St.Gervais Cathedral in Gisors and turned right. He pulled to a halt outside a three storey building set in the middle of a green little park. The phone book had this luxury apartment block listed as Lucien Laroche's address.
When Gabriel walked into the lobby, he was stopped by a uniformed concierge. "I'm here to vist Monsieur Lucien Laroche," he explained.
"Are you expected, Monsieur?" the concierge asked, with a doubtful look at his battered leather jacket and jeans.
"Not exactly," Gabriel admitted. "We met yesterday at the memorial service, and he did ask me to drop in some time," he added mendaciously.
"And you are...?"
"Knight. Gabriel Knight. This is my card," he said, proferring one.
"Just a moment, please." The concierge picked up the intercom and dialed a three digit number. "Monsieur Laroche? There is a Mr.Gabriel Knight to see you." He paused to listen. "Yes, Monsieur." He turned back to Gabriel. "Mr.Laroche will receive you. Apartment 3A."
Glancing at the letter boxes behind the concierge's desk, Gabriel noticed that the one for apartment 3B was marked 'V.Tornenkov'.
"So this where Vladimir used to live, huh?" he asked, guilelessly.
"You knew Monsieur Tornenkov, sir?"
"No, not really, but I know a friend of his, Claire Desmoulins. She was pretty close to him."
"Ah, yes, Mlle. Desmoulins used to come here often. A great pity," the stocky man said, shaking his head sadly. "M. Tornenkov was a true artist."
"Yeah, very tragic," Gabriel agreed. "The elevator's this way?"
Lucien Laroche opened the door to admit Gabriel into a richly embellished hall, all black metal furniture and red upholstery. Carefully selected modernistic bric-a-brac adorned various corners. A faint, sweet odour permeated the room, emanating apparently from a shallow, smoking censer in an alcove. Laroche himself, dramatically handsome in stark black, was the carefully orchestrated center piece in this decadent decorator's dream. Who does this guy think he is, Aleister Crowley? Gabriel thought derisively.
"Mr.Knight," Laroche greeted him urbanely. "What an unexpected pleasure." Was that a hint of mockery in the green eyes?
"I'm sorry to intrude on you, Mr.Laroche, but I was sort of hoping you'd be able to help me," Gabriel drawled in his best 'dumb American tourist' manner.
An elegant eyebrow was raised in polite enquiry. "Of course, but I don't see..."
"I don't know if you've heard, but Michael St. Clair was attacked last night."
"Yes, I had, Mr.Knight. This is a small town, and news travels. I hear he's in the hospital? How is he?" The voice was all courteous sympathy.
"The doctors are cautiously optimistic," Gabriel replied, every instinct on the alert.
"Well, we must hope for the best, then." Laroche shook his magnificent red-maned head sadly, his concern apparently genuine. "When will the police catch whoever is responsible for these deplorable murders?"
"Soon, I hope. Actually, that's where I thought you could help."
"Me? I don't understand," the violinist said, with a bewildered gesture of the hands. "How are you involved with this investigation, Mr. Knight?"
Strong hands, Gabriel noticed, with long fingers.
"Uh, I'm sort of assisting them, in an unofficial capacity. I've done something like this before, so... Commisssaire Dernaud's been very kind."
"I see."
"Could you tell me what happened that night? I hear Vladimir was at a party at your house that night?"
"The police already asked about that," Laroche said, unhappily. "I told them all I could, that he seemed quite normal, cheerful, a little quiet, perhaps? He said he was was going home to bed when the other guests started leaving, and the next morning... The police seemed to think Vladimir was an unfortunate victim in a series of senseless random killings."
"Well, you know, that's the thing. I think that there's a possibility the murders aren't as random as they look," Gabriel explained, his New Orleans drawl growing more pronounced. His accent always got stronger when he was playing the sincere but slightly dense 'good ole boy'.
"Really? What makes you think that?" Laroche seemed honestly curious.
"For one thing, all the victims took an unexplained late night walk into the country; why did your friend Vladimir go out after that party?"
"I don't know!", the musician admitted, with a perplexed expression. "The guests were all leaving, and he said he would call it a night too. I heard him opening and shutting his door. I stayed up reading in my study for a while after that. The study is sound-proofed, so I wouldn't have heard him leave in any case, but the night concierge didn't see him go out, either. It's a mystery," he confessed despondently.
"Sure is. Could you tell me who else was here that night?"
"Just a few friends, Nicole Barrat, you remember her of course?"
"How could I forget?" Gabriel smiled.
"Yes, of course. Also, Alain Meunier, Solange Guitry, Vlad, and I. A small group. Alain is a composer, and Solange plays the cello, so you see, we talked shop most of the time. It was a wonderful evening," he said reminiscently.
"And Vladimir didn't seem disturbed, or anything?"
"Not at all. Believe me, if he had been in any way worried or unhappy, I would know! We were very close." His face clouded over with sudden grief. "Oh, Vlad. Why?"
The anguished question silenced Gabriel for a minute. He was willing to swear the grief and loss were absolutely sincere. Either Lucien Laroche was genuinely heartsick over the loss of his friend, or he was the world's greatest actor, he decided.
"Did you know any of the other victims? They were visitors here, the Commissaire said."
"I don't believe so," Laroche replied. "Tourists, the paper said."
"What about the French guy: Lemaitre?" Gabriel watched his face narrowly.
"Doesn't ring any bells, I'm afraid." The shrug of denial was casual. Too casual?
"Can you think of anything else that might help? Maybe Vladimir knew some of the other victims?"
"No, I don't think so. At least, he never said anything of the kind." He paused. "But you know, he used to keep an appointment diary. Would that be of any use?"
"Maybe. I'd sure like a look at it," Gabriel asked, interested.
"Right this way." Laroche rose and gestured for Gabriel to follow him. "It's in my study; I'd pointed it out to the police, and they returned it yesterday."
The study was a total contrast to the opulent hall. A warm, wood-panelled room, it was lined with crammed bookshelfs. An antique gramophone stood in a corner, beside a lovingly polished mahogany desk. A couple of worn, comfortable armchairs faced an old fashioned fireplace. Gabriel couldn't hide his surprise.
"My den," Laroche said with an amused wave. "My refuge from the tyrannies of modern life. Vlad and I used to sit in those chairs and talk the night away..."
If this room accurately reflected its owner, Gabriel thought, there was more to this man than he had thought. And somehow, he looked as much at home in this setting as he had in the outrageously hedonistic hall. Which was the real Lucien Laroche?
"Quite a collection you have here, Mr.Laroche. You read a lot?"
"The pursuit of knowledge, Mr.Knight, has always been my absorbing interest."
"Hey, 'Faust'," Gabriel exclaimed, picking up a worn leatherbound volume from the desk. "This is heavy stuff!"
"We all have our old favourites, I imagine. What do you read?"
"I like Raymond Chandler myself," Gabriel grinned.
Laroche laughed lightly. "So do I, Mr.Knight. That row," he pointed, "contains nothing but popular crime fiction. Sam Spade to Hercule Poirot: they're all there." Following the pointing finger with his eyes, Gabriel noticed a safe set in the wall.
"Shouldn't that have a painting hanging over it or something?"
"Please, acquit me of such obvious cliches! In any case, there's nothing there that would interest a common burglar. A few personal treasures, that's all. And I doubt if any ordinary thief would manage to figure out that particular lock." He laughed, as if at a private joke.
There was no visible lock at all on the door, just a handle. Gabriel stared at it, oddly preoccupied by the puzzle.
"Here," Laroche said, handing him a small black book. "This is what Vlad used to keep track of his appointments."
Gabriel leafed through it, but the entries were in French. "Mind if I hang on to this for a little while?'
"Help yourself. Would you like a drink before you go? Some wine, perhaps?"
"Sure, thanks."
"Please, make yourself comfortable." Laroche walked out of the room.
A close look at the safe revealed a peculiar feature below the door. It reminded Gabriel of a miniature microphone... He heard a footstep, and turned to face his host.
He accepted the glass of wine that was held out to him, and followed Laroche's example, sitting down.
"You know, I was listening to a recording of one of your performances with Vladimir. 'Danse Macabre'. That was your speciality, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was. An idiosyncrasy of mine. I like the symbolism, the reminder that death is part of human life. Isn't it odd, the moment a man steps into this world, he begins to die. Yet humans think of themselves as such significant beings, with the power to shake the world!"
"Never looked at it that way before," Gabriel commented.
"Well, ars longa, vita brevis."
"Excuse me?"
"'Art is long, but life is fleeting,' Mr.Knight. An old saying."
"Oh. Well, I guess I'd better be going, Mr.Laroche. Thanks again."
"It was nothing," the musician disclaimed politely.
On his way out, Gabriel paused to quickly pick up a piece of incense from the censer in the hall. Downstairs, he stopped to talk to the short, stocky concierge.
"So, were you on duty the night that Vladimir...died?"
"No, monsieur, that was Jean Paul's shift. He's the night concierge."
"Say, I was wondering: is there any way I could get a look at Vlad's apartment? I'm such a fan!"
The concierge stared at him suspiciously, but responded politely enough. "I'm sorry, Monsieur, but the police have asked me to let no one in without authorization."
"Oh. Well, thanks anyway."
Gabriel walked out and strolled slowly around the building. At the back, he looked up to notice adjacent balconies on the third floor.
"Hmm. One of those is Laroche's, I guess. And the one on the left has to be the corresponding one in Tornenkov's apartment."
He sauntered back to the car, absently fingering the piece of incense in his pocket. He was pretty sure Laroche had been lying about not knowing Christian Lemaitre, the ratty little cocaine dealer who had been the slasher's third victim. Claire had indicated that it was Laroche who had been Lemaitre's initial contact. And Vladimir had eaten at Laroche's place that night, leaving ample opportunity for the violinist to drug his partner with a hallucinogen. On the other hand, his grief was obviously genuine. Why would he contribute to his best friend's death? It didn't add up.
He drove back to the St.Clair farmhouse, his mind working furiously, assessing everything he had learnt so far. When he got there, he noticed the people who had been milling around in the morning had gone, and the spot where Michael had fallen the previous night was marked off with the ubiquitous yellow tape that police everywhere seemed to use.
Time for a quick look, Gabriel decided, with a rapid glance around to make sure no one was watching.
******************************
Whatever the h*ll this 'Iblis' was, Gabriel decided, he knew how to move through grass without leaving tracks. Recalling the twisted gargoyle-like face and repellently sinuous body of the mysterious creature that had tried to kill him, and would have succeeded had it not been for Michael St. Clair's intervention, he repressed a shudder. No traces of the entity remained on the ground; it was as if Iblis had been nothing more than a phantom, an illusion. Gabriel knew better. The knife that had impaled Michael's left lung, missing his heart by a hairsbreadth, had been all too real.
Blood stains marked the ground where Michael had fallen. Looking around, Gabriel tried to relate the scene with what he had learned about the other murders. A thought struck him, and he walked slowly around and away from the taped off area, tracing a steady spiral outward from the spot. About a hundred feet north, he struck pay-dirt: a curiously flattened rectangular patch of grass, as though something heavy had lain there. Just as he had discovered near the place Tornenkov's body had been found. Kneeling down, he retrieved small crystals of a brown substance from the edge of the flattened patch.
"This looks like more of that incense stuff", he reflected.
With sudden energy, he swung around and headed for the farmhouse. "I need to talk to Grace!"
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When he finally found her, Grace was standing in the hospital corridor outside the intensive care ward, staring through the glass window, oddly rapt, attention focussed on the unconscious man who lay within. Gabriel halted some feet away, reluctant to intrude on the moment, afraid of what he might see in her face when she did turn around. He braced himself and moved to stand at her shoulder, looking in at Michael's pale face on the white pillow, at the barely perceptible rise and fall of his breathing under the sheet that covered his chest.
"Dr.Bernard says he's still under sedation," Grace said, without looking around. "She said he won't come out of it till tomorrow."
"I know. Just talked to her on my way in."
They stood in silence for a while, thoughts and feelings in turmoil, until Grace pivoted sharply away from the sight, starting toward the exit. "Did you find out anything about Lucien Laroche?"
"Yeah. I've got quite a few things to tell you."
Back at the St.Clair farmhouse, Father Jean leafed through Tornenkov's appointment book and glanced up at Gabriel.
"Vladimir appears to have been a most methodical man," he remarked. "He wrote down all his appointments, from rehearsals with his partner down to his sessions with his tailor! However, there's no mention of any plans other than dinner for the night he was killed."
Grace called up a reference file on her laptop computer. "Here you go, Gabriel: the background you wanted on the 'Danse Macabre'."
'Danse Macabre: the Dance of Death
Dance of Death, a medieval allegorical concept, expressive of the all conquering power of death, to which the arts of poetry, drama, and music, as well as the visual arts, all made their contribution. In painting and sculpture this phrase, often used loosely in the sense of memento mori (i.e. a reminder of death), should be restricted to representations of a procession of the living and the dead. Although known in most countries of Western Europe by a local equivalent of the term Dance of Death (e.g. Totentanz in Germany, Danza de la muerte in Spain, etc.) the dance is known in France, its country of origin, as the Danse Macabre.
The earliest recorded use of the term danse macabre occurs in 1376 in a poem by Jean Le Fevre, but the concept was already present in the Vado Mori ("I walk with death") poems of the late 13th or early 14th century, in which its essentials (the inevitability and the impartiality of death) are combined. It must have gained momentum as a result of the Black Death in the mid 14th century. By the end of the century (1393) a dramatic version of the theme was being performed in a church at Daudebec, Normandy. Widespread preoccupation with the idea of memento mori in general, however, makes it difficult to identify the moment at which the Dance of Death assumed its definitive form. The mimed dance and the morality play undoubtedly contributed to its development, even if they did not actually supply the source. The presence of a preacher in many of the picture cycles suggests an illustrated sermon; and the dance song "Ad mortem festinus", found in 14th century manuscript, provides an early example in music.
The theme of the ultimate equality of all had great satirical potentialities. The French composer Camille de St.Saens scored his famous version of the 'Danse Macabre', a piece originally written for piano and violin, in the nineteenth century. It is this version that is most familiar to audiences today, with numerous arrangements for multiple instruments.
In recent times, the famous duo, Laroche and Tornenkov, have lent a fresh popularity to the piece with their mesmerising interpretation of the St.Saens composition and Laroche's own variations on the theme.'
Gabriel fingered his miniature tape recorder, recalling the recording he had made in Claire Desmoulins' apartment. "Claire said that Laroche claimed the 'Danse Macabre' was his own joke against the rest of the world. Wonder why that is?"
"I'd say he's obsessed with death, for some reason," Grace commented.
"Maybe," Gabriel said thoughtfully. "Or..."
"Or?" Grace prompted him when he trailed off.
"Or he's obsessed with the opposite idea," he finished slowly.
"The opposite idea? You mean, with life?" Grace asked, confused.
"Immortality, Gracie. Not having to die at all. And he told me 'Faust' was one of his favourite books..."
Grace shook her head sceptically. "That's not much of an argument, Gabriel. I don't think..."
"Don't be so quick to dismiss the idea, Grace," Father Jean chimed in unexpectedly. "Gabriel may well be right, especially if, as I suspect, he is following his instincts in this matter. Immortality is certainly one of the classic lures the Serpent uses to tempt his followers. In any case, we must not lose sight of the main problem at hand."
"That there's going to be another murder. Probably tonight," Gabriel agreed, sighing heavily. "I'm going down to talk to Commissaire Dernaud."
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Dernaud listened quietly, not interrupting, while Gabriel spoke urgently and persuasively.
"...so, we figure the murders have been timed to coincide with the summer solstice; that is, the last one should happen on 23rd June."
"It's against the pattern; all the other murders have taken place on weekends," Dernaud said. But he looked very thoughtful.
"That's just it: there is going to be another murder this weekend! And then one last one on Monday!"
"Perhaps your theory is right; but who is responsible? If these are Cult-motivated killings, where are the members of this Serpent Cult? How have they managed to stay undiscovered? And why here, in Gisors?"
Gabriel hitched his chair forward. "I may have some answers for you. Remember you said you needed to find a local connection for Christian Lemaitre and Cesar Capelli? I've got one. Laroche."
"Lucien Laroche? The musician?" The studious looking Commissaire was politely incredulous.
"Listen to this," Gabriel retorted, playing back the latter part of his taped conversation with Claire Desmoulins.
Dernaud sat up sharply as he heard Claire explaining about the drug habits of Laroche's intimates, how Lemaitre and Capelli had both known the violinist.
"That still doesn't tie Laroche to the murders," he said, though with less scepticism.
"How about this?" Gabriel held out the incense fragments he had found near the spot Tornenkov's body had been found, along with the lab report the chemist in Paris had given him.
"Incense. So?"
"That's something I found near the Blanchard place a little way from where you found the body." Gabriel took out two more envelopes. "I found this piece near the St.Clair farmhouse. Not far from where I was attacked last night. And this," he finished with a meaning look, "Is a piece I picked up today in Laroche's apartment. I'll bet anything you like that you'll find that the samples match."
The Commissaire accepted both envelopes with a sharp look at Gabriel. "Mr.Knight, I suspect you have been indulging your creative tendencies in this investigation, despite my earlier warning. Don't forget you were nearly the latest victim last night. I think that your involvement in this case has gone far enough."
Gabriel squirmed uncomfortably under the steely gaze of the young policeman, but summoned up a rebellious scowl. "Look, this is personal now. This maniac attacked me and nearly killed Michael! I'm not backing off!"
"Yes, you are." The soft statement was definitely not a request.
"I can't do that. No, wait! You've gotta admit I found you some important leads," Gabriel tried, as reasonably as he could.
"Yes, I admit it. I appreciate your efforts. But I can't let a civilian risk his life over police business. You are out of it from now on, even if I have to arrest you to do it."
Gabriel swore. "At least watch Laroche," he insisted, frustated.
"I will. I'll keep him under tight surveillance. And I've imposed a strict curfew in town. Patrols will see to it no one takes a midnight walk into the country tonight. No, that's all," he said sharply, forestalling Gabriel before he could burst out with an argument. "Go home to bed, Mr.Knight. And stay there this time!"
Gabriel rose to go, knowing he wouldn't get any further here. Just as he reached the door, Dernaud spoke. "Mr. Knight?"
"Yeah?"
"You asked before if any animals have disappeared in this area. There was an unusually high incidence of reported cases of stolen livestock and missing pets, over the months of April and May. Then the thefts just seemed to stop. There have been none this month."
Gabriel turned slowly around to face the Commissaire. He wasn't sure what to say, so he waited.
"Yes, I believe you," Dernaud responded, in answer to the unspoken question. "I think you may be on the right track where these murders are concerned. That's exactly why I want you to stay out of it. It's too dangerous."
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*it is time* the voice slithered through his mind. *give me what i need*.
Please! he begged. Let me go! The price is too high!
*too high for eternal youth and beauty?* the hateful presence mocked him. *think of all the knowledge i have given you. too high a price? why, how you have changed, my little one. still, you do amuse me. but you know it's too late for you now.*
Like thick fog, the evil presence coiled around him, the blood lust rising in a dark tide that choked out conscious thought, filling the hollow void where his soul used to be.
The small corner of his mind that was still aware wept helplessly in pain and despair. The *other* only laughed.
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Grace dreamed.
She stood before a stained glass window in the St.Clair chapel, seeing a beautifully executed scene: two men kneeling before a stone sarcophagus. She felt a warm presence at her shoulder and knew who it was before she even turned. The tall, lithe man she had seen before in her dreams. He beckoned to her, and she followed. The armored knight came to a halt before a familiar painting. A group of shepherds clustered around a stone sepulcher. On the stone were the words 'Et in Arcadia ego'.
Grace knew the painting. She looked questioningly at her companion. He stepped into the painting, as if through a window, appearing in the landscape, still holding out a hand to her. She didn't hesitate. Trustingly, she put her hand in his, and was drawn through to stand in the now deserted scene. She looked around at the peaceful countryside, feeling oddly drawn to the stone landmark that stood before her. She reached to touch it, and was drawn back by the man who stood with her. He pointed wordlessly in the other direction, and her gaze followed, to light on a familiar building. Down the gently sloping valley, in a direct line from where they stood, towered a great castle, its ramparts bristling militantly against the clear morning sky.
She turned back to the man who stood with her, and looked into the achingly familiar eyes that seemed to pierce her soul. She reached out to raise the visor that hid his features, but just as she touched him, he faded away...
Gabriel tossed and turned restlessly in his sleep. Strange voices and images flitted like ghosts through his subconscious. "Wolfgang...?" he muttered vaguely.
Outside, night reigned supreme, hiding unspeakable horrors under a cloak of inexorable darkness...
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