Chapter 10: The Parish Archive
The morning air was razor-sharp, the kind of cold that bit into your lungs and froze the moisture on your eyelashes before you could blink. We parked the sedan three blocks away from the Saint-Quentin parish church, its towering stone steeple cutting a sharp silhouette against a bleak, overcast sky. The cobblestone streets were slick with black ice, and our footsteps echoed hollowly between the ancient brick buildings that lined the square.
The church doors were unlocked, swinging open with a low, heavy groan as Alessandro pushed them back. The interior smelled of old beeswax, damp stone, and centuries of burning tallow. Rows of polished oak pews stretched toward a high altar bathed in the dim, colored light of stained-glass windows depicting saints with faded halos.
"The archive room is behind the sacristy," I whispered, leading the way past a stone baptismal font toward a low wooden door marked with a brass plaque.
Inside, the room was lined from floor to ceiling with heavy oak filing cabinets and metal lockboxes containing the vital statistics of the region dating back to the late nineteenth century. I pulled off my gloves, my fingers trembling slightly as I began scanning the alphabetical labels on the second tier of drawers.
"Sevigne, M.," I muttered, sliding open a heavy metal drawer that glided smoothly on oiled tracks. "Here. 1974 to 1980."
I pulled a thick, leather-bound register from the shelf and carried it over to the heavy oak reading table in the center of the room. Alessandro stood guard by the door, his eyes fixed on the stained-glass window that looked out over the front square.
I flipped open the pages, my eyes scanning the handwritten entries until my finger stopped dead on a line near the bottom of page one hundred and twelve. The name had been entered in neat, precise ink—and right beside it, stamped in red ink, was the exact seal of the Bordeaux finance ministry that had appeared in the restaurant menu two nights ago.
May you like
"Found it," I whispered, looking up at Alessandro. "The signature matches the one in the municipal ledger."
Before Alessandro could reply, the heavy oak door at the front of the church slammed shut with a concussive boom that echoed through the stone rafters, followed by the sound of boots marching purposefully down the central aisle.
