Minerve in Nadia’s e-mails had intrigued them both.
Pam led the way up the narrow streets of the little walled town, its ancient stones and terracotta roofs glowing golden in
the strong sunlight. As they made their way towards the candela, the only part of the Cathar castle that still stood defiant,
the effort of walking in the heat made Wesley realise that the rich food, red wine and idleness of the past week had taken
their toll on his body. He perched on a wall of tumbled grey stone with his arm round Pam, admiring the breathtaking view
of the dramatic limestone gorges and thick wooded landscape. It must have once been an exceptional defensive position but
now it was just stunningly beautiful. Yet somehow he still preferred Devon.
Pam wandered off to take some pictures so Wesley took the opportunity to reread Nadia’s e-mails, alert for any clues and hints
about her life and relationships. There were mentions of someone they referred to as M. Rowe had told the waitress at the
restaurant that he had worked for Sir Martin Crace. At the time, Wesley had suspected this was a bit of name-dropping but
itwas always possible that Rowe had once had some tenuous link with the great man.
Everyone knew about Sir Martin Crace. He had developed drugs for the AIDS epidemic in Africa and paid personally for their
distribution. With his wealth he had started a charitable foundation, building schools and hospitals in developing countries.
The government consulted him about welfare policy yet he had famously refused a peerage and liked to be known as a man of
the people. Rumour had it that the holy grail of many tabloid editors was to discover some dirt on Crace. But so far all their
efforts had failed and he remained widely regarded as a secular saint and a national treasure in the making.
It was difficult to know what connection Ian Rowe could possibly have with this paragon of virtue. After glimpsing a little
of the life Rowe led in Carcassonne, Wesley was sure they would move in entirely different circles.
Unless Nadia was the link. As he sat there he began to go through in his head everything he actually knew about Nadia. He
knew that she lived in Neston and worked for a professor at Morbay University who had once worked in Toulouse. And he had
found the address of a Professor Yves Demancour at Morbay University in Rowe’s house. Nadia had mentioned an Yves in her emails,
an Yves who had a dirty little secret, and someone called Jeanne de Minerve who was taking over her life – presumably something
to do with her research. But the e-mails gave little away, apart from the fact that she was sure her mother hadn’t killed
herself and that she wastrying to discover the truth about her death. And that she suspected there might be someone who didn’t want that truth to
come out.
He glanced up at Pam. She had her guidebook out again. ‘Did you know that on the twenty-second of July, twelve hundred and
ten, a hundred and forty Cathars were burned to death on a huge pyre?’
‘I do now,’ said Wesley, putting the e-mails back into his pocket. ‘No mention of a Jeanne?’
‘No. No mention of a Jeanne.’
As they walked back to their car they passed a monument, a rough stone pierced with the shape of a dove. Wesley paused and
read the words. Simple words in Occitan, the ancient language of the region. ‘
Als Catars
’: to the Cathars. He turned away, suddenly feeling a chill despite the burning heat.
Neil Watson had had enough of his desk. He had read everything he could get his hands on about the site on the outskirts of
Queenswear but now he wanted to have a look at what he was dealing with. The theory was all very well but it was the practical
aspect of archaeology that made his pulse race a little faster.
But something was puzzling him. There were references in the records he had to an excavation of the site in the 1980s and
normally he would consult the plans and findings
Pam led the way up the narrow streets of the little walled town, its ancient stones and terracotta roofs glowing golden in
the strong sunlight. As they made their way towards the candela, the only part of the Cathar castle that still stood defiant,
the effort of walking in the heat made Wesley realise that the rich food, red wine and idleness of the past week had taken
their toll on his body. He perched on a wall of tumbled grey stone with his arm round Pam, admiring the breathtaking view
of the dramatic limestone gorges and thick wooded landscape. It must have once been an exceptional defensive position but
now it was just stunningly beautiful. Yet somehow he still preferred Devon.
Pam wandered off to take some pictures so Wesley took the opportunity to reread Nadia’s e-mails, alert for any clues and hints
about her life and relationships. There were mentions of someone they referred to as M. Rowe had told the waitress at the
restaurant that he had worked for Sir Martin Crace. At the time, Wesley had suspected this was a bit of name-dropping but
itwas always possible that Rowe had once had some tenuous link with the great man.
Everyone knew about Sir Martin Crace. He had developed drugs for the AIDS epidemic in Africa and paid personally for their
distribution. With his wealth he had started a charitable foundation, building schools and hospitals in developing countries.
The government consulted him about welfare policy yet he had famously refused a peerage and liked to be known as a man of
the people. Rumour had it that the holy grail of many tabloid editors was to discover some dirt on Crace. But so far all their
efforts had failed and he remained widely regarded as a secular saint and a national treasure in the making.
It was difficult to know what connection Ian Rowe could possibly have with this paragon of virtue. After glimpsing a little
of the life Rowe led in Carcassonne, Wesley was sure they would move in entirely different circles.
Unless Nadia was the link. As he sat there he began to go through in his head everything he actually knew about Nadia. He
knew that she lived in Neston and worked for a professor at Morbay University who had once worked in Toulouse. And he had
found the address of a Professor Yves Demancour at Morbay University in Rowe’s house. Nadia had mentioned an Yves in her emails,
an Yves who had a dirty little secret, and someone called Jeanne de Minerve who was taking over her life – presumably something
to do with her research. But the e-mails gave little away, apart from the fact that she was sure her mother hadn’t killed
herself and that she wastrying to discover the truth about her death. And that she suspected there might be someone who didn’t want that truth to
come out.
He glanced up at Pam. She had her guidebook out again. ‘Did you know that on the twenty-second of July, twelve hundred and
ten, a hundred and forty Cathars were burned to death on a huge pyre?’
‘I do now,’ said Wesley, putting the e-mails back into his pocket. ‘No mention of a Jeanne?’
‘No. No mention of a Jeanne.’
As they walked back to their car they passed a monument, a rough stone pierced with the shape of a dove. Wesley paused and
read the words. Simple words in Occitan, the ancient language of the region. ‘
Als Catars
’: to the Cathars. He turned away, suddenly feeling a chill despite the burning heat.
Neil Watson had had enough of his desk. He had read everything he could get his hands on about the site on the outskirts of
Queenswear but now he wanted to have a look at what he was dealing with. The theory was all very well but it was the practical
aspect of archaeology that made his pulse race a little faster.
But something was puzzling him. There were references in the records he had to an excavation of the site in the 1980s and
normally he would consult the plans and findings
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