Cupid's Arrow (27 page)

Mum was at the hospital when we arrived, sitting in the waiting room with Nicolas Boron and Wayne Morgan on either side of her. Once we'd got out of the ambulance, we'd been met by nurses and made to sit in wheelchairs, though I hardly think we needed it – at least I didn't – so it must have looked worse than it really was. Poor Mum. She already looked terrible – her face drawn, white as a ghost, black circles under her eyes – but when she saw me in the wheelchair, it seemed like she was going to faint. She got to her feet with a little cry and would have fallen if Nicolas hadn't gently steadied her.

'Don't worry, Mum,' I said, rather embarrassed now because everyone was looking at us. 'I'm fine, I am, really.'

She said nothing, just came to me and hugged me. I could feel her trembling. Her skin felt cold. My stomach churned. I hated to see her like this. And it was all my fault. I said, helplessly, 'I'm sorry, Mum.'

'Fleur,' she murmured, 'my little Fleur. I'm so glad you're –' But it seemed she couldn't go on. She held me a moment longer, then she straightened. She looked at Remy, then back at me. I swallowed and said, 'Mum, this is Remy. Remy, this is my mother, Anne Griffon.'

It's got to have been the strangest introduction in the history of the world. Not the best way for your mother to meet your boyfriend, that's for sure. Mum and Remy stared at each other without speaking for an instant and I held my breath. If the two people I loved best in the world hated each other on sight, if Mum blamed Remy for what had happened and Remy reacted badly, then life would be very hard for me in the future. To say the least.

Then Mum laid a hand gently on Remy's shoulder, and just as gently withdrew it. She said, 'Thank you for finding my daughter, Remy. The police have explained what happened.'

I could feel tears in my eyes. I knew that had cost her. I knew she could have raged at him, said hurtful and horrible things to him. I knew he'd been expecting that, that he wouldn't really have blamed her either. I saw the relief that flooded over his face, and the smile lighting up his whole face. He bowed his head and said, formally, 'You are very kind, Madame.'

'Not Madame,' she said. 'My name's Anne. And I'm not at all kind, as I'm sure Fleur might tell you. I'm just telling the truth. I'm glad you were there for her tonight.'

They looked at each other – and in that moment, I knew things would be all right. Oh, there was still a long way to go and I didn't know whether Mum would be at all comfortable with the idea that at 'only' sixteen I knew I'd met my soul mate, the love of my life, and that I wanted to be with him always even if we had to wait to be together properly – but things would be okay. They liked each other. At least, they didn't
dislike
each other. Mum would try, for my sake, perhaps at first, but eventually, I hoped, because she really did like Remy and did understand what there was between us.

One of the nurses coughed, breaking the atmosphere. 'I'm afraid the young people have to be examined by a doctor.' She looked over at Nicolas and Wayne, hovering rather uneasily behind Mum. 'Are either of you gentlemen the father of this young lady, or of the young man?'

Nicolas blushed, and shook his head. But it was Wayne who said, in strongly accented French, 'Neither of us has the honour, Nurse. But we are good friends of Anne and would like to support –'

'No, no,' said the nurse briskly. 'I'm afraid you will have to stay here. But Madame can come in with her daughter. Is there any family you would like us to contact, Monsieur?' She looked at Remy.

He shook his head, and a shadow passed over his face, turning his face into a mask of sorrow. 'There is no-one,' he said bleakly. The quiet words fell like stones and I found I couldn't say a word, not say a thing, to help him. All I could do was reach over to him, take his hand, and squeeze it. Then, as the nurses wheeled us down the corridor towards the ward, Mum, who'd been walking beside me, went over to him and said something quietly to him, something I didn't hear, that wasn't meant for my ears. But I saw that though his eyes were still full of grief for his mother, the mother he'd hardly even had a chance to mourn really, whose loss he was only going to start coming to terms with, the shadow lightened just a fraction. And I thought I knew then what Mum might have said to him and my heart leapt with gladness and hope. Yes, he was an orphan – but he wasn't alone.

The doctors found nothing wrong with me and discharged me immediately. They kept Remy in till the next day though because of the fact he'd been hit on the head and they wanted to make sure he didn't have concussion or any other problems stemming from his injury. Mum and I stayed with him till he fell asleep and then we went to Nicolas Boron's house in Avallon, where I had a shower and went to bed in his spare room because I was suddenly so tired I could not keep awake a moment longer. I fell asleep immediately and slept dreamlessly till the morning when I had the dream: not the nightmare of running, the one that had come true, but my old dream, of the green road, and the door in the wall. But this time, I walked up that green road, up the hill, and I put my hand on the door handle, and I opened it.

And there, behind the door, was a garden. A beautiful walled garden, like in that kids' book, you know,
The Secret Garden.
It was full of roses and smelled of heaven and there was a bench there where someone was sitting. I couldn't move. The person who sat there and smiled at me was so beautiful it took my breath away, but that wasn't the only reason. I recognised her, you see, and she wasn't how I'd last seen her, twisted in hate and fear, the past burnt into her face, but serene and lovely and gentle. It was Valerie Gomert sitting in that heavenly garden, Valerie Gomert with a whole face and the sunlight shining on her hair. Smiling, she held out a hand to me, not to beckon me in but to show me something she held in her palm. I could see it clearly now. It was a tarot card. The card known as The Lovers, one of the best cards in the tarot pack, which represented love and trust and the marriage of minds and hearts, and the fulfilment of heart's desire.

I woke up then, and lay there in the sunlight – it was already past midday, I'd slept for ages – with my heart beating fast, thinking of what it all meant, and remembering how she'd looked, and her smile. And that card. It had felt so real. It had felt like I had really seen her, in the place where her spirit was now – and that she'd given us her blessing. Yes, it was a dream. Yes, I don't believe in woo-woo stuff. But this wasn't woo-woo. It was real. A dream could be more than the subconscious working out of problems or a jumble of disconnected images. A dream could be a genuine foretelling, even if you don't understand it – like my running nightmare. Or it could be something even more amazing. In the old days, people thought dreams could sometimes be direct messages from the dead. This one felt like that, even in the daylight. Maybe it wasn't. But I would tell Remy about it when I went into the hospital. For that was the purpose of it. I'd been given this dream – to give to him. So that he would be comforted. So that he could begin the long, hard journey from sorrow to hope.

But before we got to the hospital that day, the police arrived. It was my old friend Lieutenant Balland, and a colleague. They'd just been to interview Remy in the hospital. He was much better, and he'd been able to fill them in on a good deal, but they needed to speak to me too, just to clear up certain things. I didn't mind, though I could see Mum looked ready to protest that they should leave me alone right now, I'd had a bad time. She sat beside me on Nicolas Boron's sofa and glowered at the police officers, while Nicolas hovered. There was something I needed to know, though, before I could concentrate on the police questions. Something that lay in the back of my mind, far away, but like a distant dark cloud.

'Am I going to be charged with murder, or manslaughter?' I blurted out, in the middle of Lieutenant Balland's spiel about needing only a bit of stuff from me. I saw Mum wince and Nicolas make a movement of protest but I couldn't help it. I just had to ask.

Lieutenant Balland looked at me, surprised. I'd spoken in English, not knowing the French words for those terms. She said, 'Why would we do that, Fleur?'

'She –' I swallowed. 'Christine Foy – I, she's –'

'She's certainly not dead, if that's what you mean,' said Lieutenant Balland grimly. 'And even if she was, there is something known as self-defence. I doubt you would have been charged. In any case, the matter does not arise. She is well and truly alive.'

'But the rock – I hit her – I heard it.'

'She was only stunned, though she had a flesh wound that bled profusely.' Lieutenant Balland smiled faintly. 'When my colleagues arrived at Fairy Rock, she was just coming to. They had quite a time subduing her. She fought like a wildcat.' She looked at me. 'That rock you hit her with – where did you find it, Fleur?'

The memory flashed into my mind, and with it, all the strange feelings I'd had in that darkness under Fairy Rock. 'It was in a cranny – in the wall – I just – I just sort of found it.'

She nodded. 'Fleur, there is something you should know. It is official now. Valerie Gomert was killed not with an arrow, as you know – the arrow wound was inflicted after death, to throw suspicion on Remy Gomert – but with a rock. She was battered to death with a rock.' She cleared her throat. 'Preliminary forensic results on the piece of rock we found near Foy – the rock you hit her with – show that there are faint traces of blood on it, other than Foy's own, which we would have expected. Fleur – those blood traces are of the same blood group as Valerie Gomert's.'

I stared at her. The hair stood up on my neck. My blood ran cold. It really felt like that. I stammered, 'What, what do you mean?'

'We think that it was the very rock that was used to kill Madame Gomert,' said Lieutenant Balland calmly, her eyes fixed on my face.

I felt sick. I thought I could see things in her eyes, accusations. I struggled to my feet. I faltered, 'Are you, are you saying I–I killed her?'

'Fleur!' said Mum, in an anguished tone.

Lieutenant Balland gestured at me to sit down. 'No, no, no. I'm sorry, Fleur. Of course I did not mean to give you that impression. We
know
who killed Valerie Gomert. The same person who killed Oscar Dulac and his uncle Raymond and Jules Chassin.' I almost asked who that last person was, but then realised it must be the PI from Vezelay. Poor man, I had never even known his name till then. 'Each of them killed by a different method, so as to confuse us. But now we know all the murders were done by one person. And that person is Christine Foy, as she calls herself. Even if she hadn't made a full confession – which she has, in fact, she seemed eager to talk – Monsieur Boron here gave us something that would have alerted us to her.' She glanced at Nicolas, who took his cue.

'I found a letter from Oscar first thing this morning,' he explained. 'He must have put it under my office door last night sometime. It detailed his suspicions of his fiancée – the poor man was obviously in agony about it.' I thought of the last time I had seen Oscar alive – how haunted he'd looked, how drawn. He must already have been in torment about his suspicions. If only he'd talked to someone, sooner.

'He didn't want me to tell the police,' Nicolas Boron went on. 'He just wanted me, as a family friend and a lawyer, to advise him on what to do. I wish, I wish I'd seen him. I don't understand why he went to see that, that murderess.'

'He loved her. He wanted to give her a chance,' I said sadly. 'He wanted to tell her to run away, to go away and never come back. At least, I think so.'

'You are probably right,' said Lieutenant Balland. 'But I don't suppose we'll ever know for sure, for he cannot tell us now.' She paused. 'Foy told us that she had hidden the rock with which she killed Valerie. She had hidden it in that place where you found it. Why, we're not sure, but she seems to have been the sort of killer who likes to keep souvenirs, as we've discovered. Maybe the rock would have gone into her collection. What is certain though is that it was the very same thing with which she so brutally took the life of that poor lady, which proved to be her own undoing. Life can be full of strange ironies and coincidences.'

'Yes,' I echoed, remembering being in that darkness under the rock, my hand finding the cranny, the stone, the picture of what I must do in my head. It had been so clear. I had been shown. Shown by something – or someone. I thought of the dream I'd had that morning, Valerie Gomert with her whole face smiling at me and showing me The Lovers, giving us her blessing, and my heart filled with a wonder touched with just a little thrill of fear.

But it wasn't something I could talk about, not in front of the police, and not yet to Mum, either. It was something I could only share with Remy.

'Did you find the dream book?' I asked.

Lieutenant Balland looked puzzled for an instant, then her face cleared. 'Yes. It was in Christine Foy's house. She's admitted to taking it from Madame Gomert's house.' She looked at me. 'Now, I've also heard about a website called Dreaming Holmes. Remy Gomert has told me you contacted this person. Can you tell me more?'

So I told her, and they took it all down, and then she said they were in touch right now with the police in Montreal, and getting them to check various things there. Then she got up and thanked me, said that I'd been of great help, and then they left. But before Mum and Nicolas could bombard me with any more questions, I jumped up and said, 'Please, let's go to the hospital right now. Remy will be waiting.'

Mum's mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. She gave me a little smile, and a big hug. 'Okay, darling. Okay. But later – later – I want to hear all about it. All, do you understand? And no leaving anything out.'

'Yes, Mum,' I said, meekly.

Remy was already dressed when we finally made it into the ward. He was sitting in the armchair by his bed, waiting for the doctor to come through on his rounds and pronounce him completely well and ready to go. His bruises and cuts had been dressed but his black eye had gone a weird shade of green and purple, making it look as though he'd gone ten rounds in the boxing ring, or that's what Mum said anyway, making him crack a smile. I felt a bit shy at first because Mum and Nicolas – and Wayne, who had appeared in the ward a short time after we'd arrived – were all there looking at us interestedly, but thank God after a short time Nicolas anyway got the message and gently took Mum and Wayne off to have a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria, while Remy and I waited for the doctor to give the all clear.

As soon as they were gone, I drew the curtains around the bed and sat on Remy's lap and for a little while we did nothing but kiss and hold each other. I was pretty careful because I'd seen Remy wince when I squeezed him too hard and caught him on a bruise, but it was just like heaven to be there with him. Eventually though we started talking and I told Remy about my dream, and about what the police had said. When I finished he said nothing for a moment or two, and then he held me close and kissed my hair and murmured my name. That was all – but I could see the light in his golden eyes, I could feel the feelings in him that were too big to speak out loud. Then, in a soft voice, he began to speak about his mother, about things they'd done together, things he'd said, and then a bit later still about his father, or what his mother had told Remy about him, and I listened without saying anything, because I didn't need to. I knew in some part deep inside me that though it would still be very hard for Remy, and though he would miss his mother every day, something had begun for him, something that in time would heal his hurt and his sorrow and make the wasteland of his life bloom again.

After a time, the doctor came, checked Remy and said he was fine to go. We picked up all of Remy's bits and pieces and walked out into the corridor where Mum and Nicolas and Wayne, back from the cafeteria, met us. Mum looked at us and smiled and said, 'Obviously all went well. Now, Remy, what are your plans?'

'Mum, I thought –' I began, but she hushed me. She turned to Remy. 'The police have finished with us and we will not be needed until the trial. Fleur and I will stay in Avallon tonight and tomorrow so that I can finish in the Bellerive library, as Raymond wanted, but the day after we will be going on the train to Paris.'

'Mum!' I cried, horrified.

'Going on the train to Paris, where we will spend a week or so before returning to Australia,' went on Mum, firmly.

'And where I will come and visit you,' said Wayne Morgan, beaming. 'I've always wanted to visit the land down under.'

Nicolas Boron said nothing but the expression in his eyes as he looked at Mum spoke volumes. I felt the rage rise in me like an unstoppable tide. After all that had happened, she still thought she could just treat me like a child, rip Remy and me apart, trample on the feelings of poor old Nicolas, who clearly loved her to death! Just like that! I couldn't bear it. I said, 'No, Mum. I'm not going. I'm staying with Remy. He needs me.'

She looked at me. 'Be quiet, Fleur. Be quiet for the first time in your life and listen.' She turned back to Remy. 'I was going to say, Remy, that if you did not have any plans, you might like to join us. For the trip to Paris. Maybe even to Australia, if you choose to.'

I gaped at her. Remy swallowed. He looked from me to her, and then he said, quietly, 'I–I can't go from here. Not yet. Not till, not till Maman –' He broke off.

'Oh my God,' my mother said, and I saw she'd gone very red. 'Oh, Remy, I am so sorry. I didn't mean ... You must think me so insensitive. I'm so sorry. Of course. We, of course Fleur can stay till the funeral, if that's what you want. What you need.'

'Yes,' he said, simply.

'Good. Yes. We'll help in whatever way we can. And when, if you think you might be ready to come with us, afterwards – maybe meet us in Paris, if you'd like time to, well, we will delay our departure till then, and we can wait for you in Paris, till you're ready to come. That is if you'd like to –'

'I'd like that,' he said gently. 'I'd like that very much. Thank you.'

'Till then you are very welcome to stay at my place, Remy,' said Nicolas. 'I have plenty of room.'

'And if you need a lift anywhere – if you need any things fetched from your place,' said Wayne eagerly, 'I can help you there, son. Just let Nick here and me know, and we'll do what's necessary. Right, Nick?'

Nicolas looked at him and gave a faint smile. 'Right, Wayne.'

'And you two ladies of course, too,' Wayne went on. 'Anything you need, just call on the two amigos, okay?'

I thought I saw Nicolas wince at this description of himself and Morgan, but he said nothing to dash the enthusiasm. And in fact Wayne's intervention, however naff, did at least have the benefit of lightening the atmosphere, relaxing the tension, so that we went out of the hospital and into the car park with Mum and her beaux chatting more or less normally, while Remy and I lagged a bit behind, hand in hand.

It was as we'd just all piled into Wayne's car and he'd started it up that Mum's Blackberry rang and she answered. Cuddled up against Remy in the back seat, I didn't pay much attention at first. But then Mum turned to me from the front, held out the phone to me and said, 'You'd better take this.' There was a funny expression in her eyes.

'Who is it, Mum?' I cried, fear suddenly racing in my veins again.

'Someone who wants to talk to you,' she said.

I stared at her, and took the phone. Everyone was watching. I whispered, 'Hello? This is Fleur. Who, who wants to speak with me?'

There was a small silence at the other end. Then a deep voice answered, the voice of a stranger, speaking English with an American kind of accent. 'Hello, Fleur. It's Tom Mallory speaking. Your father.'

I was speechless. I just clutched the phone.

'Fleur, are you there?'

'Yes,' I managed to squeak. 'I–I ... hello.' What should I call him? I couldn't call him Dad. No. Not yet. Not Mr Mallory either. Or Tom. So I didn't call him anything.

'I am on my way to Montreal Airport,' he said. 'I should be in France tomorrow. Will you –'

'You are from Montreal?' I said sharply.

'Yes. Well, not originally. I've been living here on and off since I was a small child though. I–I met your mother when I was visiting Australia. I didn't know you –' He broke off, then went on, more strongly, 'I was pretty hopeless then, Fleur. I loved your mother – but I couldn't cope. I told lies. I ran away. I didn't know your mother was pregnant. Well, probably, even if I had known, it would have made no difference, back then. Your mother saw that. She was much more grown-up than me.' He paused. 'But I've changed. I really have. And I'd like to – to get to know you, perhaps. If you'd let me.'

There was a plea in his voice. I sat there and listened to this stranger – to my father – trying to explain himself for sixteen years of silence – for never having been in my life – and I didn't know what to think or what to say. I'd wanted to know so much about him, and now here he was and I suddenly didn't know – didn't know what I wanted anymore. So I said, 'I'm not sure. But if you want, well, if you're coming, then I suppose I will see you.'

He laughed. 'You sound so delighted, Fleur. My fault, I know. I understand. I won't rush you. If you'll agree to see me – well, that's good enough for me, for the moment.'

'Mmm,' I said, then because it felt rude not to say any more, I said, 'What do you do, over there in Canada? Are you still a spy?' I couldn't resist adding that dig.

'A spy?' he said, surprised. 'Why would you think I, oh dear.' I could hear the wince in his voice. 'That was one of the stupid lies I told back then. I'm sorry, Fleur. I was so panicked about the seriousness of our relationship. I behaved very badly. I hope one day you and Anne might forgive me.' He waited, but I said nothing. He went on, with a little sigh. 'Actually, I'm a psychologist now. I know, you'll be thinking, what's this, he can't even get his own life in order but he presumes to try to fix other people's.' He laughed again. I thought, if I didn't know this deep-voiced stranger on the other end was my father, I'd think he sounds really nice. Funny. Kind. Sort of humble. But it wasn't just any old Tom, Dick or Harry. It was one particular Tom. Tom Mallory. My father, a psychologist in Canada. Nothing like what I'd expected or pictured or . . .

But then I nearly dropped the phone. He was still speaking. I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

'I'm not your usual kind of psychologist, though,' he was saying. 'My speciality is dreams. I help people understand their dreams. It's something I've always had a talent for, though I rebelled against it as a young man. Anyway, I've got a practice here in Montreal. I've even got a website, which I run as a kind of outreach thing, under a pseudonym.'

'You're Dreaming Holmes,' I said, the words hot and strange in my mouth. 'My God, you're Dreaming Holmes.'

'You've seen my website?' he said, surprised. 'Why, Fleur, what a wonderful thing! Then in a sort of sense we'll already have been introduced, you and I.'

'And I'm Caroline,' I said, bluntly.

'What?'

'Caroline, who wrote to you about my dreams. And Laurence Ferrier. And all that stuff.'

There was a long silence. Then he said, 'Oh my God, Fleur. I can't, I can't quite take this in. Is it really –' He broke off, then went on, more strongly, 'The police have already been in touch with me about this. I had no idea.' Another pause, then he said, in a rush, 'Then this makes it even more important that we meet, don't you think?'

'Yes,' I said hollowly. 'I suppose it does.' He said a few more words – I can't even remember exactly what they were, something about texting Mum as soon as he arrived in Paris and arranging to meet – and then he rang off. I handed the phone back to Mum and I sat back with Remy, my head on his shoulder. Thank God no-one asked me anything just then, because I would've screamed and burst into tears and said things I would've regretted later. I didn't even know if what I was feeling was angry or scared or happy or creeped-out or any combination of these. I only knew I needed time. Time to sort it all out in my head, and to begin to understand everything that had happened, and what it all meant.

For no reason I can really explain, I suddenly thought of the dream book: not just Raymond's fateful journal, but my own, the notebook I was given by Raymond long ago, in which I used to write down all my dreams and nightmares, back home. And I decided right then that that was what I had to do, write it all down. Because just as writing down a nightmare helps you to deal with it, or writing down a good dream helps you remember it forever, then writing down everything that had happened would help me both to remember – and to deal with it.