He shrugged. 'I'm no expert. You'll have to ask someone who is. But I venture to say it would be worth – something.'
'Enough for someone to kill him for it?'
'I hardly think... well, I don't know. But surely – surely if someone killed him for that book – or what was in it – wouldn't they have gone looking for it? Turned the house upside down? But nothing was taken of value, except his computer and disks.'
'Maybe there was more information stored on them. Fuller information.'
'Maybe. Or maybe not.' The solicitor was beginning to look a little impatient. I could see he was about to tell us that really he had a lot to do. So I spoke for the first time.
'Monsieur Boron, do you know anything about the Bellerive Tarot?'
He was startled. He faltered, 'The what?'
Mum was startled too. But before she could open her mouth to say anything, I hurried on. 'Valerie Gomert was making a tarot based on Bellerive at the time she was killed. Did Raymond – Monsieur Dulac – say anything to you about it?'
'I–I believe he may have mentioned it. He was a great supporter of Valerie's work, you know.'
'Did he tell you he would be in it?'
He nodded. 'He thought it most amusing.'
'Did he tell you who else would be in it?'
'I think he said everyone connected to Bellerive – but he didn't mention specific people.'
'Were you going to be in it, Monsieur Boron?'
He swallowed. 'I–I don't know. I wasn't asked, but I assume ... You know, Valerie had done a portrait of me once – very quick, she was, with her pencil – she gave it to me, it's at home if you want to see it – but I don't know if I was going to be immortalised as a tarot figure. I didn't ask.'
'Yet you would have been the obvious model for Justice,' said Mum, breaking in at last.
'Would I?' he said quietly. Their eyes met. 'I doubt it. I'm just a simple country solicitor, after all.'
'Hardly simple,' said Mum.
'Monsieur Boron,' I said, impatiently, ignoring the slight flush that rose to his cheeks, 'do you know who Valerie Gomert had in mind for the figures of the Hanged Man, and of Death?'
'No. Why would I? We only talked very broadly, and briefly, about this project. I can't tell you any more than that.'
'Do you know if he had any recent visitors from Canada?'
He looked bewildered again. 'Canada? Fleur – I mean, Mademoiselle Griffon – you surely don't think I'd know every coming and going of visitors to Raymond's place?'
'Did he?'
'Not as far as I know. Oh – except Oscar had lived there, of course, for a time. And Valerie and Remy came from there, originally – didn't they? But that's all I can think of. Now, if there's anything else I can help you with?'
'You've been most kind,' said Mum, getting up. 'Thank you for your time, and sorry about all the questions.'
'Not at all,' he said, flushing again. 'I only wish I could be of more practical help. Where are you going now? Could I perhaps –'
'We're going back to Bellerive, briefly, to pick up some things. Then we'll come back to Avallon, to stay in a hotel till the police are finished with us. Perhaps, if you wouldn't mind, you could ask your receptionist to call us a taxi?'
'There's no need for that,' he said. 'I can take you. I'd be happy to,' he added, swiftly. 'It's the least I can do. Really.'
So we went back to Bellerive the same way we'd come, in Nicolas Boron's car. It wasn't the same journey as before, though, and the atmosphere in the car was heavy with unspoken questions, doubts and fears. All I could think about was how I was going to find Remy. Nothing else mattered to me right at this moment, not even the thought that there was a murderer loose – a vicious, deranged murderer, who, if I was right, had killed not once but three times.
Return to Bellerive
The first person I saw as we drew up to the manor was Wayne Morgan, getting something out of his car. It must have been the shock of everything that had happened, but until that moment, I had genuinely forgotten all about him. Now, suddenly, piercingly and terrifyingly, I remembered my last conversation with him, or rather his interrogation of me, the morning of that perfect day, that day I'd spent so happily with Remy, and that had ended so disastrously. Hell, it had only been yesterday...
Now I remembered just how very insistent he had been about trying to discover what it was Raymond had found. He had spoken as though he knew there was something – something proving it. He wanted to get his hands on it. What if – what if somehow he'd found out where the book was? But how could he? Nobody had seen me give Remy the dream book. How could he know it would be in their house? He couldn't. And yet...
I should tell someone. But before I could bring myself to say anything, Mum and the solicitor had got out of the car, and Morgan was heading towards them, a big, false smile on his face. I had no option but to get out myself, though my flesh shrank with fear at the thought I might be face to face with the real killer of Valerie, and Raymond, and the PI. I must not let him see what I felt. I must act normally.
'Poor Anne. Poor Fleur. You must be exhausted. Come in. Let me make you a good strong cup of coffee. Oscar said you were with the police?'
He sounded perfectly normal, if concerned. His gaze had flicked over Nicolas Boron without acknowledging him. There was no love lost there. Perhaps I should confide in the solicitor. But not right now. Not when he was here.
'They've talked to all of us here too,' Morgan went on, putting an arm around Mum's shoulders. She didn't push him away. It made me feel sick. I could see it made Nicolas Boron feel sick too, but all he said was, 'If there is anything more you need –'
'No thank you, Nicolas.' She said his name gently, and I saw him flush.
He said, 'You must not hesitate to call if you need anything – a lift back to Avallon, perhaps?'
'There's no need for that,' said Wayne Morgan firmly. 'I'm here, and Oscar has his car, too. Thank you, Nick, old boy. They are in good hands now. You can go. I am sure you have lots of work.'
Nick, old boy! I saw the solicitor's fists clenching, his face paling. He said, in a strangled sort of voice, 'Nevertheless, do not hesitate, Anne. Fleur. My door is always open.'
'Thank you, Nicolas,' said Mum, and she gave him a smile then, and let herself be led away by Morgan. Nicolas Boron made a kind of noise in his throat and I thought he was about to say something to me – and then I would have told him – but instead, he turned abruptly, strode back to his car, got in, slammed the door, and roared off with a quite unnecessary clash of gears.
I hurried into the house after Morgan and Mum. I wasn't going to let him be alone with her. All sorts of horrible pictures shot through my head. But he simply led her into the kitchen where Oscar and Christine were sitting, having a cup of coffee. They jumped up when we came in and the next few instants were taken up with a whole lot of fussing about whether we were all right, and whether we hadn't been pushed around by the police, and all sorts of things like that. Oscar looked terrible, but Christine was her usual sparkling self. I got the impression she was kind of enjoying it all, in a weird sort of way, the excitement, I suppose, and she wasn't insincere enough to hide it.
They sat us down and made us coffee and a couple of sandwiches. I hadn't realised how hungry and thirsty I was, and fell on the food and drink as though I hadn't eaten for days. I didn't take part in the rather jerky and careful conversation that followed, about how awful it all was, and how everyone was so sorry about it all, and how everyone understood why we had to leave Bellerive and go and stay in Avallon, and how they'd help Mum catalogue and pack up the rest of the library. All the time I watched Morgan carefully and saw no evidence that he was troubled or uneasy by any of it. That could mean either that he was a very cool psychopath, or that he was innocent, and sort of relishing, like Christine, the excitement of it all. Of course, if he was innocent, he'd only clapped eyes on Valerie once, so he wouldn't feel that bad about her death, except for the fact that an
y violent death, especially murder, is surely frightening and horrid to any normal person. Especially someone who was supposed to be all for peace and love – you'd think it would disturb him more than it had. But perhaps he was just unfeeling. Psychopaths are like that, aren't they? But also just your ordinary type of self-centred person.
Oscar, however, was different. He looked ill. Sad. Devastated. Haunted. It was as if his world had fallen in and he didn't know what to do. He was much more shocked than any of us there, except perhaps me. None of them mentioned Remy in front of me, but I could see his name in their eyes, I knew they were just waiting for me to go so they could discuss it more openly with Mum. At last I couldn't stand it any longer and I said I'd go upstairs and start to pack my bag. I was a bit worried about leaving her there with Morgan but Oscar and Christine were there too and I didn't think he'd try anything with them around. And, in fact, he had no reason to try anything with her. If he'd killed Valerie, he had the dream book. So there was no need to go after anyone – except Remy, if Remy had seen him or knew he was the culprit. And if he was innocent, why would he harm Mum? He was keen on her, obviously, in his self-centred way. No. She was safe, whatever way I looked at it. But I still had to let someone know what he'd said, that morning. I should call that detective, in Avallon.
Not now, though. Not while they were all in the house, and could hear if I made a phone call. I'd have to get hold of Mum's Blackberry. Later. Right now it was more important for me to find Remy. I had to get a message to him. I would have to sneak out of the house and go to the willow hideout and leave him a note. And then I'd have to hope he'd reply before we left. It wasn't a promising scenario, and my heart sank as I realised just how difficult it was going to be.
It was strange, going back in my room, cos it looked just the same as it had when I left it. My things scattered about, the books on the bedside table. I stopped. But I hadn't left that window ajar, surely, and there was an atmosphere – a feeling that made me feel as though someone had been in here. A creepy feeling ran up my spine. I whirled around. I'd suddenly felt as though someone was watching me. But there was no-one there. I went out into the hall. No-one. Downstairs I could still hear the murmur of voices.
I went back into my room and shut and bolted the door. I stood in the middle of the room, trying to work out what was different apart from that slightly open window. And perhaps I'd just forgotten I'd opened it. Everything looked the same – and yet I couldn't shake off the feeling that, subtly, it was different. Someone had been in here. And not long ago either.
I looked around again. My glance fell on the chair, where I had flung my clothes from yesterday – and, I have to admit, the day before. I've never been very tidy. And there was the dress I'd worn on my perfect day, crumpled into a ball. I hadn't left it like that, I was sure. Even me, messy as I am. A little pulse beating in my throat, I went over to the chair and gingerly picked up the dress, as if I was expecting – I don't know what, exactly. But there was nothing wrapped in its folds. Nothing except for . . .
The eglantine brooch. The one Remy had given to me. It was still there, pinned onto the dress. The sight of it made me feel suddenly so sad I wanted to just howl and howl. I stroked it, gently, imagining it still felt warm from Remy's touch. Thinking of how he might have made it, safe and cosy in his cottage, with his poor mother stirring her herbal mixtures, painting her pictures.
Oh God, poor Valerie. Poor, poor Remy. My stomach turned over with the pity and horror of it. With shaking fingers, I unpinned the brooch from the dress, and pinned it onto the T-shirt I was wearing. As I did so, something fell from behind the brooch, fluttering onto the floor. It was a tiny, rolled-up piece of paper, and I knew at once that it had been wedged behind the pin of the brooch, hidden from sight – for me to find.
My heart thumping, I picked up the piece of paper. I unrolled it. It seemed blank at first, and then, as I passed a finger over it, I could feel that the paper was scored. The breath whistled in my lungs as I remembered the other paper that had been scored in just that way. I took the paper over to the window and held it up to the light. And yes, very faintly, there were score marks. Words?
I rummaged around for a pencil, and found one in a drawer. Very carefully, I shaded over the scoring. And up sprang words, in tiny writing. Mary's well. Je t'aime. R.
I felt sick. With excitement, relief, fear, and utter confusion. I stared and stared at those words and then I got scared and I shoved the piece of paper in my pocket and paced up and down, my brain whirling. Mary's well? What on earth did that mean? Who was Mary? Did he mean Marie Clary? But why would he write about her? Why say she was well? What did it matter to us? Je t'aime. That meant I love you. Oh, me too, Remy. Me too. I love you. I love you. I could feel the blood rushing through my veins, pulsing to my heart, the hotness of it coursing through me, my ears almost deafened by the force of it.
It was Remy who had been in my room, I thought. Remy who had left me that message. But why had he said, Mary's well? What did he mean? And why hadn't he said where – and then, in a blinding flash of clarity, it came to me, as I suddenly remembered something he'd said on that perfect day. Yesterday. He had spoken of a well. A well dedicated to Mary. The Virgin Mary. Our Lady. He had said, one day he'd show it to me. It wasn't far from here. He was at Mary's well, on the other side of that village where we'd ended up yesterday, where we'd eaten those beignets.
I had to get there. I had to go there right now.
Not wanting to risk going downstairs again, I decided I'd have to leave through my window. My room was only one floor up, but the ground still looked quite a distance away, because the house was big. I've never been good with heights. I tried to think calmly. I couldn't just try to jump down, or I might land badly and break a leg. Or my neck. I needed a rope of some sort. But of course there was no rope.
In stories people sometimes used bedsheets twisted into a kind of rope. But I had no idea whether such a thing would really work. I stuck my head out of the window and looked down, properly this time. Perhaps I could climb down without rope? But there was no real ledge under this window, and no obvious spots for handholds – but over there, where the Brown Room was, there was a big old fruit tree whose branches stretched maybe just far enough for someone to climb on from the window, and down.
I'd have to try it. I took a look around my room, picked up my shoulder bag and a jumper, and went out of the room very quietly, closing the door behind me. I went to the stairs and listened carefully. I could hear thumping and voices coming from the direction of the library. They were being as good as their word, helping Mum with the books. I felt a little twinge of unease then, thinking I should leave a note for Mum so she wouldn't worry about me. But there was no time for that, and anyway, I didn't want people to come looking for us just yet. I'd ring Mum when I was safely with Remy.
I hurried to the Brown Room and tried the handle. Thank God, it wasn't locked. I went in, slipping the door closed very quietly. This was the room Wayne Morgan was using, I saw that at once. Now was my chance to see if he had the dream book. Quickly, I searched the room, opening drawers, looking under the bed, rummaging in his open suitcase, taking care not to mess anything up. But there was nothing there. I mean, no dream book. No, it had been too much to expect that it would be that easy. If he had taken the book, he'd not have hidden it here. He'd have it somewhere else – somewhere away from Bellerive.
I was wasting time and he might come up at any moment. I opened the window and carefully climbed up onto the ledge. The closest branch of the tree was almost close enough to touch. If I stretched out just a little ...
I can't tell you how scared I was. My hands and feet were prickling so much I thought I might lose my grip. My stomach felt like lead. But somehow I managed to do it. Somehow I managed to grab that branch and slowly, clumsily, edged myself forward till I could properly lever myself into the tree. I had no idea how I did it. It felt like forever that I was sort of suspended between the window and the tr
ee, but finally, I was there. I crawled along the branch till I got into the main part of the tree and then climbed down carefully. It wasn't until I was down on the ground that I realised that my palms were bleeding where I'd scratched them along the branches, and that my jeans were covered in dirty patches where I'd scraped them along the wood, but I didn't care. Without stopping to look behind me, I took to my heels as fast as I could go, heading for the path along the river.
Thank God I met no-one. I don't know what I would have done if I had. As I ran along, I kept expecting shouts to break out behind me, people to come in pursuit of me, but they didn't. Nobody came. Everything was quiet. Everything seemed normal. The sun shone, the river sparkled, butterflies flew about, birds sang. Hideous things had happened, but nature continued pottering on, doing the same old thing. It was weird but kind of comforting. It made me feel that perhaps, just perhaps, things might be all right. One day. One day.
At Mary's well
When Remy and I had walked to the village the day before, it had taken us quite a while, because we'd been mooching along happily. Today I zoomed past everything without looking, going so fast that at one stage I tripped over a tree root and went sprawling, giving my chin a hard whack and feeling the teeth jar in my head. I just picked myself up and ran on, ignoring the throb in my jaw. I'd have a nice fat bruise there later but I couldn't care less.
The old man from yesterday was in his riverside garden again and he stared frankly at me as I ran past. I must have looked a sight, red, panting and dishevelled, my jumper tied around my waist. Soon I reached the village and it's then that I suddenly thought, Heck, I don't even know which way I'm supposed to go from here. Remy had said beyond the village, but which way? I'd have to ask. I couldn't afford to guess and head off in the wrong direction.
I burst into the café, to find the owner at his counter chatting with a couple of blokes who were standing there drinking minuscule cups of very black coffee. They all stared at me when I came in. French people don't think it's rude to stare, obviously. They're curious. They want to know what on earth you're doing, running into their café like all the devils of hell were after you. Well, I guess any-one'd be curious.
Cupid's Arrow Page 18