Cupid's Arrow (11 page)

I went upstairs with the Blackberry and checked my emails. There was only one, from Dreaming Holmes. It was short and to the point.

Hello Caroline

It is possible for people, even when separated, to dream the same dream. But it is very rare and usually only occurs with very creative and imaginative people who are linked in some way – twins, for example, or soul mates. I think it is possible too for people to have a dream that appears to be a premonition about events but usually it is because in their subconscious the person is aware of something wrong about a situation they might be in, or persons they are associated with. I hope that answers your questions.

Keep in touch if you have any more dream problems.

Dreaming Holmes.

Hmm, I thought, not sure if that really did answer my questions – but I'd never really expected much more. I wondered what Dreaming Holmes would think if they knew what had been happening here with the dream book. But I didn't think I'd keep in touch about that. I'd rather work out things for myself.

I logged out of Gmail and went to Google search. I put in 'Riothamus Avallon Burgundy Arthur'. Up came various references. I clicked on the first one, a site called 'Burgundy Today', www.burgundytoday.com, which had several pages about the connection between Arthur, Riothamus and Avallon. The whole thing was called 'King Arthur's French Odyssey', and was in three parts and pretty detailed, talking about how the Riothamus theory was the most likely one in the search for a real Arthur, with lots of historical notes. It also talked about how Britain and, in particular, Glastonbury, had 'hijacked' Arthur so that most people had no idea the real Arthur had probably died in France. But it was in the third part that the author discussed ideas of where Riothamus/Arthur might have actually gone to rest in the Avallon area, and where things might be found. She didn't mention the Lady's House or anything like that but seemed to favour a place called
Les Fontaines Salées,
or The Salt Springs. It was a kind of ancient spa place that had been used by the Gauls and the Romans and was known for the healing properties of its waters. Yes, I thought, a wounded man might well have gone there. It was much more likely than a pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere. I looked it up on a map search place, and the hair on the back of my neck tingled as I saw it wasn't that far from where we were. Maybe I could go there one day. Maybe tomorrow. No, tomorrow I was seeing Remy. But I could go with him. Yes. That'd be great. Instead of a swim and a picnic by the willows, we could go off to The Salt Springs. We could investigate it together, poke around, see what we could find. We could go by bike or by bus or something. He'd know how to get there anyway, he was a local.

I was excited now. Never mind not being interested in Arthur as a story, I was really interested now in the mystery of his identity, and whether Raymond might have found out something really important. Logging off the internet, I went out of my room and took a look up and down the corridor. There was no-one about. I would go and have a quick look in Raymond's bedroom, see if I could find any diaries or anything like that that might give us more clues.

But I was doomed to be disappointed, because although I looked everywhere in the room, there was nothing there. I mean, no diaries, no other notebooks, nothing. And I felt uncomfortable being in that room. It was so obvious someone had lived here not long ago. There were still clothes draped over a chair, photos jostling on the top of the chest of drawers, two paperback novels by the bed. I flipped through those too but there were no secret notes in them, or cryptic clues. Not a thing. But the whole room had a poignancy that clutched at my heart.

I slipped out again and went downstairs. On the way I met Christine Foy. She flashed me a bright smile and said hello in a friendly sort of voice, but fortunately she seemed tired and not about to stop for a long chat or anything like that. Up close, you could see her skin wasn't as perfect as all that, she had a few fine wrinkles, and her eyes had a bit of a glaze to them – probably a glass too much wine at lunch, she was most likely going for a nap – but she was still amazingly beautiful. I wondered at her taste, though, getting together with a guy like Oscar. Not exactly gorgeous, was he? And not the most exciting personality either. Maybe Marie Clary was right and she
was
after him for his money. Anyway, it was none of my business.

I checked first to see where everyone else was. Nicolas seemed to have left, as did Marie Clary. Oscar was in the library with Mum and Morgan. The coast was clear for me to duck into Raymond's study.

Lucky he'd kept it tidy. It was easy to find stuff. Not that there was anything to find. There was a glass-fronted bookcase full of Raymond's books in various editions, including a couple of English ones. On the desk were bills and brochures and – I felt a little pang at this – a letter from my mother, listing a number of new books Raymond might be interested in. There was also one of those loose-leaf calendars with a day to a page but nothing written on them. But then, I thought, a bit late, the police would probably have taken any diaries, appointment books, and so on, for their investigation into Raymond's murder. Even if it was a burglar that killed him, they'd still want to check and double-check everything, in case. Struck by a sudden thought, I sat down in Raymond's chair.

What if – what if after all Raymond
hadn't
been killed by chance, by a burglar randomly wandering in – but by someone who was after something that they
knew
Raymond had? Not something of the usual sort – not jewellery or valuable books or pictures, because nothing like that had been taken. But information – priceless information that might make the owner extremely famous. I tried to remember what Nicolas Boron had said, about what had been taken – bits and pieces, he said, a watch, money – and a laptop computer. The watch and money – that could just have been a blind, just to throw people off the scent, make them think it was just some stupid drug-addled thief. But the laptop – the laptop could be
exactly
where Raymond had stored the information on his discoveries about the 'real King Arthur'.

Yes, it made sense. Especially since the thief had worn gloves or whatever – suspicious to begin with, because as Mum had pointed out, what kind of petty thief thinks of things like wearing gloves? But on the other hand, what kind of maniac would actually kill someone just to get hold of something like that? Only characters in books like
The Da Vinci Code
did stuff like that, and that was for a secret that might majorly threaten institutions like the Church. But who would be threatened by a secret about the real King Arthur? Nobody stood to lose anything, did they?

Besides, Raymond would not just have left it on the hard drive of his computer. He'd have made a copy, on CD or USB key or whatever, because one thing I know for sure is you never leave things just on your computer, unless you really enjoy losing all your data. Mum always backs up everything, with USB
and
hard copy. And Raymond was a writer. Writers have to be ultra-careful about not losing files. So there must be another copy of it somewhere. Unless of course the thief had taken that too. Boron had said something about CDs being taken as well. I'd thought he meant music but maybe they were data CDs.

I had a scout around anyway, just in case, but the only CDs I saw were music ones. No USB keys. Either he didn't use them or the thief – or the police – had taken them away. I was trying to decide whether I should risk trying to ring Boron and asking him how Raymond had copied his computer files – and what he'd say if I asked – when there was a thunderous knock on the front door. I was out of the study in a flash, closing the door behind me, and was dawdling nonchalantly down the corridor just as Oscar Dulac came out of the library and headed to the front door. He looked distracted and didn't even glance at me as he hurried to open the door. But I stopped dead just as he did when we saw who was standing there.

It was the police. Two of them, a big burly one and a little skinny one. The big one said, in a voice to match his size, 'Monsieur Dulac? Monsieur Oscar Dulac?'

Oscar nodded, apparently dumbstruck.

'May we come in?'

Oscar nodded and stepped to one side so they could come in. The skinny policeman said, in a precise, clear voice, 'We are following a new line of inquiry in the matter of your uncle's murder, Monsieur Dulac. Could we speak in private?'

Oscar followed the policeman's gaze to me, still standing there like an idiot, staring. He said, tiredly, 'Fleur, would you mind –'

'Of course not,' I said, and fled, not before I saw him ushering them into Raymond's study. But oh, how desperately I wanted to hear what they were saying! After a moment, I couldn't bear it any longer, I just had to find out. So I crept back down the corridor again to the study, and put my ear to the door.

You could hear quite clearly, at least the skinny policeman, because he had the kind of voice that carried well. The big guy was just a rumble and Oscar seemed not to be talking much at all. Concentrating hard, I managed to get the gist of what was being said. And it was chilling.

The police had just found out that in the weeks before his death, Raymond had been in touch with a private investigator in the town of Vezelay. The police did not know why, because all the files relating to his case had been stolen out of the PI's office. The man had not reported the theft because he was dead – apparently from a heart attack in his office last night, but the police now suspected foul play. They wanted to know whether Oscar knew that Raymond had consulted a PI, and why.

I heard Oscar protesting then, his voice rising, that he had no idea, Raymond had never mentioned such a thing, and why hadn't the police spoken to the PI before? They said they had not known, that the man had not told them, and that they suspected he had kept quiet for reasons of his own. They didn't say what reasons, but I had read and seen enough crime fiction to have a pretty good idea. Blackmail, I thought, with a kind of cold thrill.

I wondered how the police had found out Raymond had hired the PI in the first place – surely the murderer would have taken away any evidence that might point to them eventually – but the police didn't say anything about it, and Oscar didn't ask. I listened for a bit longer but there was nothing much to hear, just them saying Oscar would keep them informed if he thought of anything, wouldn't he, and Oscar saying, yes, of course. At this point I thought it a good idea to make tracks and not get caught listening in at doors to stuff that wasn't supposed to be my business at all.

So I went off to the kitchen and poured myself an apple juice, which I drank standing by the window looking out over the park. There was someone working there in the vegetable garden and he saw me and gave me a cheery wave. It must be Marie Clary's husband, the gardener, I thought, but I couldn't remember his name. My brain was whirling. Should I tell the police what I had found out? In my heart, I was sure those things were connected – whatever Raymond had discovered that would prove the existence of King Arthur, what he had gone to the PI for, and the supposed burglary that had led to his death, and then the death of the PI. How it was all connected I didn't know yet. But I was sure it was, somehow.

I should go to the police. I should tell them. Two people had been murdered already, and any information was precious. But hang on – if I went to the police and started talking about King Arthur's last resting place or whatever, they'd think I was mad. They'd think it was all rubbish. I mean, first of all I didn't have any hard evidence, just that dream Raymond had written down, and my instinct. What's more, they would never believe people would kill for stuff like that. I wasn't sure I believed it either. You'd have to be a mad weirdo to think a secret like that was worth two deaths. But then I'd seen quite a few mad weirdos floating through Mum's bookshop at times, people who were totally convinced they knew the secret of the universe and it was all to do with pyramids or ancient secrets or earth magic or whatever. They also often thought there was a conspiracy stopping them from revealing this amazing secret. They were harmless except they could bore you to death with their theories. But there might be a
real
psycho who was obsessed by King Arthur and he might do anything to get his hands on a real genuine discovery that could make him a hero. Or else it could be about greed. What you could get from a secret like that. That's where someone like Wayne Morgan came in. I didn't think he was a believer in ancient magic and sacred secrets and stuff, you could tell, but he'd be someone with an eye on the main chance. Or – my mind whirled again – maybe it was because he came from Glastonbury, which just lived off the idea it was the site for the 'real Avalon' and Morgan had lots of businesses there bringing in heaps of money, so if attention shifted to Avallon and France then overnight his businesses might be in trouble. Still, that was silly. He could just shift his stuff here. After all, he had already shown interest in buying the house, maybe he saw the writing on the wall about Arthurian stuff, that if Raymond had really found something amazing, then the attention would all shift here. But if he knew that then, that must mean he knew quite a bit. Maybe he already had all of Raymond's information, because he had stolen it all already, or paid someone to do it.

Gah. Why do I keep thinking the bad guy is Morgan? Cos he's a phony sleaze who's sucking up to Mum. But it could be lots of people. Oscar Dulac? Family was often the first to be suspected, after all. Nicolas Boron? Someone in the village? Christine Foy? The Clarys? Anyone, really. Someone who knew what Raymond had been investigating. Then there was the murder of the PI. The person who did that must have done it during the night. Who had been in Vezelay that night? I suddenly remembered hearing that news item on the radio this morning, about the man found dead in his office. He had made a date with a murderer and had paid very dearly for his greed.

I shivered. Suddenly, lovely, sunny Bellerive felt haunted by the spectre of violent death and shadowed by evil and fear. I almost made up my mind then to go to the police with what I suspected. But I didn't end up going because, well, because I was sure they wouldn't take me seriously, and would tell me to go away, stop interfering in police business and coming up with crackpot theories.