Freeman

By David Connolly

Archaeologist Will Freeman is working on a dig in Southern France looking for links between modern France and the Cathar heresy. When his colleague is murdered Will becomes the focus of the police investigation. Coming under pressure from his family, the University and the French establishment Will is forced to abandon his research and take a job in Paris.

Working to clear his name Will uncovers evidence of a shadowy organisation dedicated to locating the legendary treasure of the Cathars. When the pressure on Will is increased he has to make a choice between caving in and fighting back. Using his logical academic approach and enlisting the help of some unlikely people, Will sets out to turn the tables.

As pressure on Will increases further he searches ever more desperately for a way to clear his name and is forced into one last, desperate gambit knowing that failure will result in the destruction of everything he holds dear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Connolly
• Release date: Oct 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310542114

Book preview

FREEMAN

The first book of the Cathar Trilogy

Copyright 2005 David Connolly

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

This ebook is licensed to you fir your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given way to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it ws not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Titles by the author include

Freeman

Hardy

Willis

(The Cathar Trilogy)

The Legacy of Harry Dean

The Ghost of Thomas Reed

The Death of Adam Semple

Life Support

and

A New Broom

(A fantasy for all ages)

Shakespeare’s Monkey

(Science Fiction)

More details of these titles can be viewed at

http://daveconn.com

This book is for Sally and Charlie

Chapter 1

At the time I was shot dead I was busy underground with the traditional archeologist’s pastime of grave robbing. I didn't know anything about my death until the next morning.

The day had started well enough. I took the bus down to the dig at just after nine. I've never been much of an early riser. I spent a couple of hours checking the site against the measurements I'd made the previous week and the documentary comment I had collected. The grave was one of three I had identified as a possible site for the Bessant Records. I was just about ready to begin opening the ground when the Citroën pulled up at the site.

Dig is perhaps too grand a word for the place. The old churchyard was neglected and barren having been abandoned some fifty years before. The damage of the war followed by fifty years of erosion combined to give the place that unique unkempt look so familiar in the countryside in southern France. Dust from the highway made the ruined church indistinguishable from the rest of the village which was still inhabited. The run down bar and the deteriorating shutters on the houses were enough to convince passing travelers that the whole village of St Etienne was dead.

By the time I noticed the car Hawkins was out of it and striding towards me with his usual purposeful stride. He shouted before he was within fifty feet of me.

What on earth do you think your doing Will? You know I’m supposed to open this one. I have the press coming in two hours for a viewing.

A viewing of what for God's sake? We don't know if there's anything there yet.

Of course there is. I've been through your work and it stands out clearly. The papers must be here in the family vault. Exactly where I predicted they would be

Where I predicted they might be thank you Matthew. Let’s not forget who did the analysis for this project.

And let’s not forget who arranged the backing either Will. This is my dig and you're on my staff. You may have done some of the paper work but that doesn't give you the right to take credit for the discoveries I intend to make.

It was an old argument which we had reworked several times already this summer. I had defined the project, identified the likely sites, done the legwork and gained the necessary permissions to go around opening up graves in the French countryside. He had gained the funding and put his name to some documentation. He was a professor and I was just an archaeologist. I decided to leave him to it.

Look Matthew, if you want the honour and the glory of speculatively opening another French grave then you are welcome to it. I have better things to do than stand around here arguing about who gets to open the vaults. You just carry on and do as you please. I picked up my brief case and walked away from the broken stones which defined the entry to the vault.

Where are you going Will? he asked, and I knew I had affected him. He wanted to open this vault, but he wanted me on his side as well.

I'm going over to Château Margeaux to look at the next site on the list. I'll have some peace and quiet over there.

There was slight pause, and then he said, You may as well take the car. I’ll get a lift from someone. The place will be alive with photographers and officials soon. Rather than throw me the keys he placed them on a stone and turned back to the vault. We had been arguing about who did what since the project began. Matthew Hawkins was a poser with a good brain. He liked the attention of the media and was good with them. But he hated the legwork required for good research. He had survived on a series of excellent research students and thorough colleagues. I was just the latest in the series.

I picked up the keys, packed my tools and took the car. He was right. It was five miles to Château Margeaux and I would have lost an hour getting over there. As it was I spent ten minutes in the car and concluded, once again, that Matt Hawkins and I needed each other.

When I arrived at the Margeaux site I quickly forgot about Hawkins and his foibles. I had work to do. I had been running the three potential sites simultaneously with the idea that we would be able to open all three vaults at about the same time. That was just being blown apart by Matthew and his media circus, so I just got on with the job. I repeated the activities of earlier that morning, measuring and surveying the vault so that it could be reinstated exactly as we found it. It took about two hours until I was convinced that I had all the information I needed.

Once ready I started on the door to the vault. It required a lot of clearance to get the entrance open but I eventually made it and was able to step inside. The inside was cool and dry with several generations of coffins stacked at one end. The space inside looked huge compared to the entrance because of the depth of the vault which was set into rising ground. From the outside I could not see how far it extended.

I took the lamp around and made a quick inventory of the obvious things, identifying the coffins by occupant and their position in the stack. I also took some flash photographs of the interior, just to ensure that I could leave it in good repair. Once those tasks were completed I stopped for a brief lunch before I started a detailed investigation of the walls. A number of the wall panels were monuments in their own right. I photographed and examined each of them minutely to make sure that I had all the information the vault could give up. At one end of the vault was a plain panel which was a slightly different colour from the rest of the stone. I looked closely at it and decided that it would bear further investigation the following day.

I checked my watch and found it was almost nine o'clock. The time had flown. I decided to have a last look at the blank panel and then call it a night. I put the camera back in the car and carried the heavier tools into the vault. I leaned the large brushes and small trowels against the wall in the far corner and left the shovel lying across the floor. I should have known better. I was returning with a box of small tools when I caught my foot somehow on the shovel and fell headlong onto the floor. I pushed my hands out to break my fall and thrust the toolbox away from me. It hit the stone panel in the centre and I watched as the whole panel began to fall forward towards me.

Cursing loudly I put my hands out to prevent the slab from falling onto my head which was still in contact with the floor. I held it without too much effort as the sides of the lower portion were still held between sections of the vault wall. When I stood up and found the lamp I could see that the stone was a slab about half an inch thick and one metre square. I pulled the stone carefully, ensuring that I applied equal pressure to each side, and it slid out from the wall. Then I moved it to one side so that I could rest for a moment.

I measured its outside dimensions and then turned my attention to the blank space it left on the wall. I measured it carefully and looked at the edges of the open space. It looked as though the panel had been put in from the front and just sealed into place with some form of lime mortar.

I scraped the edges of the gap and the remnants of the friable jointing compound powdered into my hand. Then I looked at the wall revealed by the broken slab. I expected to find the earth of the outside world but as I flooded it with light I could see that it was not earth. My first inclination was to believe that it was coarsely plastered in preparation for the fitting of the panel. I dug at it with my pen knife to see if it was the same material as the jointing mortar. It wasn't.

As soon as the point of the knife dug in I knew I was digging in wood. I held the lamp up to the surface and sure enough, I could see the grain just below the surface. I examined the edges and found a small space all the way round into which I could easily push the blade of the knife. Only at the bottom did I meet any resistance.

I tried to get my fingers around the wood but there was not enough room anywhere so I brought a small trowel and used that to lever the edges of the wood. It moved with no problem at all. My curiosity was now in major conflict with my training as a field archaeologist. On one hand I wanted to know what I had found, on the other I knew I should have dismantled the vault stone by stone rather than risk damaging whatever it was. In the end, much to my shame, curiosity won.

I argued to myself that the ease of movement of the wood suggested that there was nothing to break so I wasn't doing any real damage. I inserted the trowel in a couple more places and moved the wood surface out towards the open space. A couple more slight movements and there was enough of the edge of the wood for me gain some purchase with my fingers. I gripped it with my finger tips and applied a gentle pull. The whole thing moved with a little effort. The greatest difficulty was keeping a firm pressure on the wood through my fingers. I repeated the process three or four times until I could get the whole of my hand onto the edge of the wood. From there I applied firm continuous pressure and slid the whole thing out.

At first glance I thought I had a block of wood. It was so light that it had to be hollow so I looked closely at it for some sign of a lid. I could not see enough so I turned the whole thing through ninety degrees and held the lamp over the top of it. From this angle I could see clearly that it was a box. The top was richly carved with what looked like seventeenth century ornamentation.

I was tempted to open the box there and then but this time my training overcame my eagerness. I cleared the floor of dust and debris and placed stone panel back where it has originally been. It would be fine as long as nobody came careering about the vault carelessly in the dark. I tidied the tools once more and took the box out to the car. It was no great weight but it was bulky and difficult to maneuver up the stone stairs. Once outside I placed it carefully in the trunk of the car and turned my attention to re-sealing the vault.

It took me longer than I expected to get everything back into place so that the outside world would not be able to see where I had been working. This was made doubly difficult by having to work with only the light of an electric lantern. I tidied and replaced bits and pieces, consulting my notes now and then, until I was sure that the casual observer would not know that I had been there. I have learned over the years that nothing attracts attention like an archaeologist. If people catch a fleeting glimpse of somebody investigating the past they have an uncanny ability to interfere. If the public knew I was digging around the graves the site would be over run with metal detectors, dowsers, sightseers and god knows what else the following day. Although I had permission to be there it was an unwritten condition that I be discrete about my work.

I looked at my watch as I climbed back into Hawkins' car. I was shocked to see that it was past midnight. I had been working on the box for three hours. I drove back to my hotel with my mind playing all kinds of games on the theme of what's in the box. The whole point of the dig was to find the records of the Bessant Family which, according to some references, went back to the Albigensian conspiracy. All of the references I had found were of late eighteenth century origin and we were seeking something which was from a considerably earlier period, maybe as far back as the fifteenth, the time when the Bessant family had become rich and respectable. My head was filled with questions and ideas as I drove back to our dig headquarters and lodgings.

Hotel is too grand a word for le Coq d'Or. It was an old-fashioned guesthouse with many rooms and few facilities. The building was referred to as a Château, but it was just a reasonably large eighteenth century house with thick stone walls and inadequate sanitation. There were no mod cons and most of the guests were very glad of that. It reflected in both the price of the accommodation and the type of person who elected to stay there. The owners were a wonderful French couple who defied every cliché and truism one heard about France.

They spoke perfect English and German and welcomed many guests from both countries. Anne-Marie was a barely adequate cook and Henri, although knowledgeable about wine, was more interested in football. However, they were both natural conversationalists and it was not unusual for the guests to retire in the small hours after an evening of stimulating debate and discussion, and possibly several large glasses of local brandy. It was the perfect place to base our dig with cheap, out of season rates and a sympathetic landlord.

I was delighted to find the house quiet when I returned. It was almost one a.m. and I could not face the thought of intelligent conversation. I left the box in the boot of the car, deciding that it was too late to make a lot of noise unloading it. I was hungry but too tired to eat. I made my way to my room, undressed, drank a small brandy and fell into bed. I slept, as someone would later remark, like a dead man.

Chapter 2

The following morning I lay in bed luxuriating in that brief period of time between sleep and waking. My natural inclination was to stretch it as far as possible and this had often led me to hurried breakfasts and delayed appointments. This morning however, there was no chance of that. The noise in the hotel was somehow more clamorous than usual and I could not escape the feeling that something was going on. I covered my ear with one pillow and tried to keep the sound of the day out but it was too much. I had just decided to get up and face the day when the door burst open.

A uniformed policeman with a large gun stepped into the room followed by two other men I did not know. Even though out of uniform, they had the arrogance of policeman the world over.

Professor Hawkins, please get dressed said one of the men in excruciating English. I answered in French

I am not Professor Hawkins, his room is next door. What do you want him for?

A look of puzzlement passed between the two plain clothes men.

Please dress and come with us none the less, one replied, reverting to French. I remained where I was but directed a stream of questions at them, all delivered at high speed with the strong Parisian accent I had picked up from my mother and her family. The general tone of my questions was what is going on? I am not moving until somebody tells me what this is all about.

The French police, like their colleagues in other countries, have many roles to fulfill. They have to act as family advisors in domestic disputes and they have to catch hardened criminals. I was expecting the former but what I got was the latter. The uniformed man went into overdrive with his gun, pointing firmly at my chest

Quickly he snapped, Do as the sergeant says

I mentally changed gear from an outraged citizen to a compliant member of the public. I jumped up and grabbed my clothes. It took me several minutes to make myself presentable but once I was dressed I felt back on equal terms with the plain clothes men. I tried again.

It would help a lot if I knew what was wrong I said There was no reply. I was taken from the room at gunpoint and escorted to a waiting car. In total silence I was driven the fifteen kilometers to the nearest police station.

The next few hours were a deeply depressing waste of my time and French taxpayers' money. I was eventually questioned by a large shambling man, who insisted on calling me professor. Then I was taken before an investigating magistrate who asked me all the same questions the shambling man had. I answered as best I could but I still had no idea what was wrong. In the end I addressed myself to the magistrate.

Please I begged, Will somebody tell me what is going on? You keep calling me professor and you ask questions which I can't answer. Now it is obvious, even to me, that these questions are important, but I have no idea what you are all talking about so please let me in on the secret.

The magistrate looked carefully at me and then consulted his notes. Professor Hawkins, he began, We are here to investigate a very serious crime, a murder. We need to establish precisely what crimes have been committed and who shall be questioned. At the moment you are being asked to assist us with enquiries, that is all

Then I think you should know that I am not professor Hawkins. I also think I should know who has been murdered

The magistrate looked at me and then at the plain clothes policemen. Not... Professor Hawkins he said, his inflection making it a question rather than a statement.

My name is William Freeman, I am an archaeologist and a colleague of the Professors. Now what on earth is going on?

I might just as well have confessed to murdering the president. The silence was stunning. The plain clothes men looked first at each other and then at the magistrate. Then they looked at me. The magistrate looked at me and then at his notes. Then he looked back at me.

You are not William Freeman. William Freeman is dead. If you are not Professor Hawkins what were you doing in his room, in his bed, this morning? You are perhaps his lover?

My head reeled and my voice grew louder.

Will Freeman. I am Will Freeman. I was not in Matthew Hawkins’ room. I was in my own room. As I have been every morning this week at that time. Check with Henri the owner. He will confirm this.

You cannot be Will Freeman. Because Will Freeman is dead.

That silenced me for a few seconds. I put my hand in my jacket to find my wallet and identification. There was nothing there. I began to pat myself down in a parody of puzzlement. Then I remembered. My wallet was in my other jacket at St Etienne. I shrugged my shoulders in a way which my English colleagues thought particularly Gallic and annoying. There was total silence as I worked hard to understand what was going on. Then I tried again.

Look, I would guess that you have a body and you have found my wallet in his pocket. Not unreasonably you have concluded that the body is mine. I paused to look at the faces around me. They seemed to want me to go on. Clearly the body is not mine, but the wallet is. Using my identification you have discovered that I am working with Matthew Hawkins and want to ask him about me. Your men got the wrong room and that has led to a lot of confusion. How am I doing so far?

The magistrate nodded to himself slightly.

"If you are