“See…” Diana pulled her over to a computer that had been set up against the weather under a canvas canopy. Cables snaked back to the van, images displayed on the screen as the archeological team worked.
“God chooses us,” Vilette once said.
Had God chosen this path for her?
She thought about that as the months slipped past, the investigations played out, and she struggled with the loss of someone who had been a good friend. It played out in the media, on the internet, and across the headlines in both France and the UK.
Jonathan Callish was possibly the most pathetic player in all this. Like a pawn on Albert's chessboard, he was used by other people, a much younger, beautiful wife with a secret agenda and connections, then her brother, a dangerous terrorist. As theLondon gallery failed to draw well-known artists and wealthy patrons, Alyia connected him to a source for rare antiquities for those wealthy patrons that frequented other galleries and auction houses—her brother.
Hasan Malik, or Faridani, the name he was known by in art circles, had access to rare artifacts according to the investigation that eventually exposed the depth of his connections throughout the Middle East that included smuggling and human trafficking. Those connections provided a source of rare artwork that found its way into private collections, not unlike the artwork and priceless artifacts that disappeared during World War II. But the sale of these artifacts funded terrorism.
It might all have gone on, if Cate hadn't gone to Jonathan about that photograph of the tapestry and asked his expertise on it. Whether he told Alyia about the photograph, or she might have seen it, would never be known now. What was known was that Faridani found out about the photograph, and Cate's questions about it—an ancient artifact that supposedly held a secret, a secret only rumored about, that he was determined would never see the light of day.
Connected with ample resources and the ability to track every place Cate went and the calls she made, Faridani also knew about the text message to Kris the day Cate died in that car accident.
The more they learned about where Cate had been and whom she had spoken with, thanks to Innis, Faridani also knew.
She knew now that it was Alyia she had encountered at the airport in Edinburgh, that slender, hooded figure so familiar on the Paris gallery security footage, and Alyia who had searched and ransacked the Tavern, and then again at her hotel.
Faridani had driven the van that night at the Blue Anchor, the incident that killed four people, including Brynn Halliday. No surprise, that Kris had been the target. Faridani wasdetermined to stop her. James saw the van later at the warehouse behind the Paris gallery, the front fender damaged. It was the same white van at the farmhouse in Montigny. Shell casings found at the abbey, also tied Faridani to the shooting at the Abbey Mont St. Michel. A simple DNA test from the knife that was found on him by French authorities, also tied him to Brother Thomas's murder.
So much loss, so much pain. So many lives lost.
Was the secret Vilette Moreau spoke of there, beneath that ancient grave slab?
Diana's hand closed over hers. “Look,” she said with growing excitement. “See what they have found!”
Across from them, the parish priest whispered a silent prayer as stone grated against stone and the grave slab was slowly lifted away from the stone burial box.
Diana's hand tightened over hers.
“The slab is intact. This was a person of importance. And see the markings carved there!”
An expectant quiet spread over the site as the slab was slowly hoisted from the crypt and then gently lowered onto a wood platform. Cameras recorded everything, then turned back to the crypt. A thick cloth lay over the body with an image stitched onto it.
“The House of Raveneau!” Diana whispered. “Her mother's family.”
The shroud was made of linen that had deteriorated over time. The remains of a woman's body, dressed in fine garments, were still intact.
“Mon dieu!” Diana exclaimed. “Can it be?”
As cameras continued to record everything, the body was carefully removed. Precautions were taken against damage as it was taken to another platform shielded from the rain by the canopy overhead.
The shroud had covered the woman's face when she was buried, and her hands or what was left of them were barely visible from the sleeves of the gown she wore that was made of what appeared to be fine satin. A crucifix was clutched in the slender bones of her hands. And on one finger was a silver ring with a simple crest on it.
Kris had seen pictures of ancient graves and burial sites in her early studies. There had never been that sense of horror or revulsion, but a sense of how one had lived their life and what that life might have meant. This was so much more than any of them had hoped for.
“It is the same as the tapestry.”
Diana had sent the latest pictures. She had studied them, fascinated with the intricate details that had taken a lifetime to create. And one panel that showed Isabel Raveneau as an older woman, her hand closed around the crucifix that still hung about her neck, and a simple ring on her hand.
She was here. Isabelle Raveneau had returned to be buried with James of Montfort. There was no doubt now that the archeological team had found his grave.
“Are you all right?” Alec asked. “You look as if you've seen a ghost.”
Not a ghost, Kris thought with a smile, but a woman, who had loved someone, had held onto her faith that he would come back to her, shared that small window of time with him at Mont St. Michel, and had then brought him home. A true son.
“I'm fine.”
