The Devil's Cave: A Bruno Courrèges Investigation (Bruno Chief of Police 5)

groped further and touched something like a wall. It must be some kind of dam over which the water of the lake was flowing. The top of the dam was wide, just a centimetre or two below the surface. That was how Balzac had crossed! Bruno went across at a crouch, feeling his way with his fingertips to be sure he did not stumble, and then Isabelle was there with one arm outstretched to embrace him and the other clutching a squirming Balzac.
    ‘That was easy,’ she said, laughing.
    ‘Phew! You had me worried,’ he replied, holding her tightly. ‘There’s a vertical tunnel, more like a narrow tube of cave, about four hundred metres back that way, and then it’s a steep climb up narrow steps.’
    ‘That’s not all we found,’ she said. ‘Look up.’
    Bruno’s eyes followed the beam of light from her torch and saw several holes in the walls of the cavern that could be more tunnels.
    ‘The ones I looked at seemed either to go straight up or to plunge down further than my torch could reach,’ she said. ‘It’s as if this chamber were a giant colander with holes everywhere, different ways for the water to escape when the pressure in here built up. And look what I found here.’
    She walked to the far point of the lake shore, where it narrowed, and ducked into a hole Bruno had not seen from the other side of the lake. It opened into a sizeable chamber. Isabelle pointed her torch at a rusty green metal box with white markings. Bruno went across.
    ‘W and D with a white arrow and .303 Ball × 500,’ he read. Inside were some black candles, smaller than the two he’d found in the punt, and a wrapped package of white candles.
    ‘It’s a rifle ammunition box from the British army,’ she said. ‘It must be left over from Resistance days. Odd to use it to store candles.’
    ‘The Baron said his father told him they’d stored arms here during the war. He never said there was anything left.’
    ‘And then there’s this.’ She played her torch onto a small cavity where an old-fashioned candleholder stood with another stack of candles and a disposable cigarette lighter. ‘I don’t think those lighters were invented before 1945, so somebody has been here more recently. Maybe you should ask the Baron if he knows of any other military gear that was stored here. If somebody has got themselves a box of grenades or a few guns, we’d want to know who. But I was glad to find the candles, in case my torch ran out while I was waiting for you.’
    ‘Let’s get back. Is your leg OK? There’s a lot of climbing up those steps. ’
    ‘My leg’s fine, but which way are we going? I presume your van is parked at the chapel, so we should go that way, unless you think someone is still waiting for me to emerge at the ticket office.’
    ‘No, they know I have a key. They’ll assume I let you out. And besides, there’s a new place nearby where we should be able to get a good dinner.’
    He picked up Balzac and tucked him back into his chest, and then helped Isabelle over the causeway and up the tunnel towards the chapel.

19
    Bruno set off down the unfamiliar road past the cemetery to the handful of lights that signalled the tiny hamlet of St Philippon du Bel-Air, the grand and hopeful title given to their new home by the survivors of the plague-struck village by the cemetery. Almost deserted, it had not prospered. Perhaps the Count’s new auberge would restore its fortunes, Bruno thought, as the downhill road through the woods suddenly opened to reveal the lavish lights of the restored château where he hoped to get dinner. As he approached he was aware of two men waving him onwards. Large wrought-iron gates opened electronically. Two helicopters stood by the landing pad and he passed a row of expensive cars before a large bald man in a cheap suit flagged him down.
    ‘Some of those are government cars,’ said Isabelle, sounding curious. ‘I recognize the plates.’
    Bruno stopped and wound down his window to greet the bald man.
    ‘Are you here on police business?’ the man asked, polite but his tone was cold. There was a bulge in his armpit. Two more men of similar bulk stood behind him, several paces apart.
    ‘No, we’re hoping to get a meal,’ Bruno replied.
    ‘In that case, sorry, the hotel is closed for a private party. You can turn here.’
    Isabelle leaned across Bruno and looked more closely at the man. ‘Is that you, Mascagny?’ she asked.
    ‘That’s me, but … ahh, Mademoiselle Perrault. What on