it, since it has deliberately chosen to remain hidden from us; we have no verification that the documents mentioned by Baigent really do exist, or, if they exist, that they derive from the Priory, or, if they derive from the Priory, that they fully represent that organization’s beliefs, or, if they do represent the Priory’s credo, that they are in fact true. The Priory may well believe in the descent of the Merovingians from Christ, or in the descent of modern royal houses from the Merovingians; the fact that they claim these things as historical facts, and have produced written documents from their own files supporting their claims, does not make them so.
In the end, one must say that Baigent and his colleagues have piled too many inconsistencies and unsupported suppositions one upon another; it is one thing to examine the problem from many different angles, as the Fanthorpes have done; it is quite another to proceed from a conviction that the evidence must support one particular theory. Having reached such a conclusion, for whatever reasons, a person tends to orient the supporting documentation and its presentation in such a way as to best demonstrate the conclusion one wishes to reach. The entire business becomes a perpetual motion machine.
The Fanthorpes are much less pretentious in their examination of the mystery surrounding Rennes. They have attempted here to comb the evidence for every possible clue, to examine the man, his place of origin, and each facet of the puzzle in order, like detectives scanning the scene of the crime. They have allowed their imaginations to consider every angle, every theory, every fact that might apply. Some of their suppositions are outlandish, as they readily admit; some of their speculations are as wild as any science fiction story; some of their hypotheses will stand your hair on end. But they never pretend to know what the answer is absolutely, although they have their own ideas, and are not hesitant to present them. I do not agree with everything they say; I did find their six-year adventure as much fun as they clearly found it themselves. This love of a mystery, this enjoyment in pursuit of the unknown, shines through every page of their account. In the end, when they sum up what is known and what remains speculation, one is forced to agree with them; when they itemize the possible theories, one must applaud their thoroughness; when they finally present their answer, but decline to shove it down the reader’s throat, one must approve their evenhandedness.
Once upon a time, an impoverished parish priest in a little town of southeastern France stumbled upon a treasure, and suddenly found himself rich overnight. I wonder what he would think of all the commotion he has caused. I wonder if, somewhere in another space, time, or dimension, Bérenger Saunière is lying in his bed, laughing so hard that the tears are streaming down his cheeks. They do say in Rennes-le-Château that Saunière had a wicked sense of humor.
7. NEB
(6 February 1983)
I murdered my friend today. I didn’t have the courage to do it myself, so I paid someone else to handle the dirty work. I put him in the car, and took him to a place that smelled of death and fear and hurt. He submitted to all of this without balking, without any doubt whatever that I, his oldest and closest and only friend in this world, would save him from this awful place and from the terrible things that were destroying him inside. I did neither. I had him killed.
It began just over ten years ago, in March of 1973. I was a lonely bachelor living in a duplex on a hill overlooking San Bernardino, three years out of graduate school, working at my first professional position, and finishing my second book. My work was my life, and vice versa—I had few friends, little furniture, minimal social life. I was still enjoying the exhilaration of being away from home for the first time, but beginning to realize that there are more things in heaven
In the end, one must say that Baigent and his colleagues have piled too many inconsistencies and unsupported suppositions one upon another; it is one thing to examine the problem from many different angles, as the Fanthorpes have done; it is quite another to proceed from a conviction that the evidence must support one particular theory. Having reached such a conclusion, for whatever reasons, a person tends to orient the supporting documentation and its presentation in such a way as to best demonstrate the conclusion one wishes to reach. The entire business becomes a perpetual motion machine.
The Fanthorpes are much less pretentious in their examination of the mystery surrounding Rennes. They have attempted here to comb the evidence for every possible clue, to examine the man, his place of origin, and each facet of the puzzle in order, like detectives scanning the scene of the crime. They have allowed their imaginations to consider every angle, every theory, every fact that might apply. Some of their suppositions are outlandish, as they readily admit; some of their speculations are as wild as any science fiction story; some of their hypotheses will stand your hair on end. But they never pretend to know what the answer is absolutely, although they have their own ideas, and are not hesitant to present them. I do not agree with everything they say; I did find their six-year adventure as much fun as they clearly found it themselves. This love of a mystery, this enjoyment in pursuit of the unknown, shines through every page of their account. In the end, when they sum up what is known and what remains speculation, one is forced to agree with them; when they itemize the possible theories, one must applaud their thoroughness; when they finally present their answer, but decline to shove it down the reader’s throat, one must approve their evenhandedness.
Once upon a time, an impoverished parish priest in a little town of southeastern France stumbled upon a treasure, and suddenly found himself rich overnight. I wonder what he would think of all the commotion he has caused. I wonder if, somewhere in another space, time, or dimension, Bérenger Saunière is lying in his bed, laughing so hard that the tears are streaming down his cheeks. They do say in Rennes-le-Château that Saunière had a wicked sense of humor.
7. NEB
(6 February 1983)
I murdered my friend today. I didn’t have the courage to do it myself, so I paid someone else to handle the dirty work. I put him in the car, and took him to a place that smelled of death and fear and hurt. He submitted to all of this without balking, without any doubt whatever that I, his oldest and closest and only friend in this world, would save him from this awful place and from the terrible things that were destroying him inside. I did neither. I had him killed.
It began just over ten years ago, in March of 1973. I was a lonely bachelor living in a duplex on a hill overlooking San Bernardino, three years out of graduate school, working at my first professional position, and finishing my second book. My work was my life, and vice versa—I had few friends, little furniture, minimal social life. I was still enjoying the exhilaration of being away from home for the first time, but beginning to realize that there are more things in heaven
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