Cupid's Arrow

by Isabelle Merlin

'Rubbish,' she said, 'I'm being reckless really, eh?' Her bright grin flashed out, suddenly. 'And that's just what Oscar and everyone will say, once they know, but too bad. I think you both need a breathing space and that's what you'll get. No questions asked. Now come in and I'll show you around.'

  The inside of the house was just as nice as the outside. Bright, sunny rooms, decorated in pale colours, with simple, beautiful furniture and bowls of flowers everywhere. The back rooms looked out over a garden just as pretty as the one in front, but different, with herbs and flowers cascading over rockeries. Christine told us she loved rock gardens, and was always collecting pretty or unusual rocks in the woods not far from the house to add to the collection in the garden. From the top rooms, you could see those woods. She told us that in there was a place known as La Roche des Fées, or Fairy Rock, which, like the Lady's House near Bellerive, was reputed to be haunted by otherworldly spirits. 'People are very superstitious in this part of the world,' she said. 'If you believed all those stories, you'd think it was one of the most magical places in the world, open to God knows what strange things. There's another place not far from here, an abbey, where there's a standing stone that's supposed to turn around and dance every year at Christmas time. Some people say it was a girl turned to stone for dancing when she should have gone to church. Stupid story, in my opinion.'

  'But you're Irish,' said Remy. 'I thought Ireland was full of those stories too.'

  She shrugged, looking out of the window at the outline of the woods. 'They're just as stupid there. Backward. I reckon this place, this region, it's beautiful, but it's backward. People look back to the past all the time. I don't care about the past. It's the here and now that counts. People ought to live like that, it would make the world work better.' She turned to us. 'But listen, how about you two freshen up, then I'll make us all a cup of coffee or something? Yeah? That suit you? Remy, you can use the room near the stairs, it's got a little bathroom attached. Fleur, you can use the main bathroom, it's near my room. Help yourself to any shampoo or whatever you want. I'll just get you some towels. When you're ready, come down. Okay?'

  It was more than okay, having a blissful long hot shower, drying off with a big fluffy towel. I washed my hair and dried it in front of the mirror, scrunching in a bit of mousse I found in the bathroom cabinet so that it would look not as wild as usual. It was after I replaced the can of mousse that I found them, and at first I didn't know what they were: little discs in different colours, lying in tiny glasses filled with clear liquid. They looked like half-marbles – some blue, some brown, some green, some purpley, some with gold flecks and stars. I stared at them and suddenly it dawned on me what they were. Contact lenses! Contact lenses in all sorts of different colours! I thought, jeez, so that's why her eyes are so bright! She's wearing coloured contact lenses. I wondered what colour her eyes really were. I'd had a go once at a friend's house – she'd bought some of those party ones, the ones that are weird colours and with stars and stuff, like the ones Christine had. They were pretty freaky. They made you look like something out of an X-Men movie or something.

  I went downstairs. Remy wasn't down yet, but Christine was bustling around making coffee and toast. She smiled. 'Feeling better?'

  'Much better, thank you.'

  'Did you find everything you needed?'

  'Yes, thanks.' I hesitated, then went on. 'I saw your contact lenses. You've got an amazing collection.'

  'Fun, aren't they? I don't know why more people don't use them. If you can get bored with your hair colour, why not your eyes too, eh?' She smiled at me. 'I suppose you're wondering now what colour my eyes really are. Come on, don't look so embarrassed! It's okay. People always want to know, once they know.' She reached into one eye and deftly flicked out a lens. 'Look.'

  Without the contact her eye was still blue, just not as bright and sparkling. She said, 'These ones are just enhancers. I use them mostly these days because they're the only ones Oscar really likes. He can be a bit conservative, my poor Oscar.' She replaced the lens. 'In fact I was thinking of getting rid of the others. Would you like them?'

  'Oh no, it's okay,' I stammered, 'I was just interested.'

  'Try some on,' she said. 'Give Remy a surprise! I'm sure he's not as boring as my man.'

  I flushed at the mischievous expression in her eyes. I didn't know what to say.

  'A lot of people are superstitious about things like that,' she said. 'They're happy to cut and dye their hair but not change their eyes. It's as if they think they'll turn into someone else, that people won't recognise them anymore.' She shrugged. 'But eye colour is not something people remember, mostly. Unlike, say, voices. Tones. Accents. Pitch. And things like gestures. Smiles. The way people walk.'

  I was going to disagree, to say I always noticed people's eyes, when Remy came in, Patou at his heels. He was looking rather pale. He said, 'I was just listening to the TV upstairs – and caught a newsflash about us.'

  We stared at him. Christine said sharply, 'What do you mean?'

  'Not about you, Mademoiselle Foy – about Fleur and me,' he said, and his voice sounded so sad, so tired, I just wanted to hug him and make it all better. 'They said the police were looking everywhere for us, that I was dangerous and that they held grave fears for your safety, Fleur. And they flashed up a picture of me.' He gave a ghostly smile. 'It wasn't the best picture ever. My ID card photo. I look like France's most wanted on it.' He sat down, heavily. 'And I suppose I am, right at the moment.'

  I reached over to him, and took his hand. He said, quietly, 'If they find out I'm here, Mademoiselle Foy, you will get into trouble.'

  'For heaven's sake, stop calling me Mademoiselle Foy. My name is Christine,' she said briskly. 'And why should I get into trouble? I've done nothing wrong. After all, I know you didn't kill your mother or abduct Fleur, don't I? Anyway, they won't find out. They don't even know where you headed. Why should they?'

  'The guy who gave us a lift to Quarré,' said Remy, dazedly. 'He'll remember us.'

  'If he turns on his TV and if there's a news item about you, and if he's the sort who goes to the police,' said Christine calmly.

  'There's not only him. There's the shop guy with the computer we used. And the café people.'

  'Perhaps you ought to give yourself up then, if you think they're bound to find you anyway,' she said, with a touch of asperity.

  'Not yet. No,' I broke in. 'You can't, Remy. Not while we don't know anything. While we have no idea of who might have –' I hurried on. 'I think we should check up on that Dreaming Holmes person again. Maybe they've sent us an email.' I saw Christine's puzzled expression, and quickly filled her in. She said, 'Good God. That's really drawing a long bow, isn't it?' She flashed a look at Remy. 'Sorry. That was just a manner of speaking. Didn't mean to remind you.'

  I couldn't work out what she was going on about. Then it came to me. Drawing a long bow... Valerie, with the arrow in her neck. Remy's bow, found at the Lady's House ... A ripple of unease washed over me. Christine's clumsy apology made her unfortunate image even more glaring for poor Remy. I said, hurriedly, 'Anyway, we just thought we'd try it. Do you have a computer? Could I check?'

  'Of course. Help yourself. The computer's in what I laughingly call my study. It's permanently connected to the internet. You just need to go into the browser. Here, take the coffee with you. Remy, you can stay here with me, tell me the whole story from the beginning, okay? Then we can work out what to do next.'

  I was comforted by her use of 'we'. The TV news thing had rather shaken me. For the first time I really felt what we were up against, and wondered how we could possibly do it on our own. But with Christine Foy to help us – not just to hide us but to actively help us plan our next move – I felt better. Less overwhelmed. Less scared of what might happen next and how on earth we were going to get ourselves out of the bind we were in. I don't know why I thought she'd know more than us. Well, she was an adult, of course, and that made a difference. But it wasn't just that. It was a k
ind of aura she had, a feeling she gave off, that she knew stuff. That somehow she'd be able to help, because she was unshockable and thought differently from other people.

  Christine's study was a crowded little room, with books and papers everywhere in toppling piles, and the laptop computer sitting on the untidy desk. I went quickly into the Mozilla Firefox browser and into Gmail. I logged on, into my 'Caroline' account. And there was an email from Dreaming Holmes:

  Dear Caroline, They certainly make you do different sorts of assignments at school than in my day! I do remember the case you mean. It was not in my precinct but everyone talked about it. Two young policemen, working undercover, had infiltrated a notorious gang of safe-robbers, who had struck several places in Montreal and Quebec City. They were notorious not only because of the heists they committed but also because their leader, one Maurice Ferrier, was a cruel man with a record of violence as long as your arm. It was his particular pleasure to torture anyone who tried to resist him, and I know that every police officer in Quebec and beyond longed to put him away.

  I believe the policemen involved in the case were particularly brave men, who'd been decorated for past efforts. I believe also that they were related – perhaps brothers, or brothers-in-law? I can't quite remember. The gang used to meet at the Hotel du Lys in Terrebonne – it was that kind of place. It doesn't exist any longer – it was pulled down years ago. Anyway, the undercover cops set up a police ambush to catch the criminals red-handed, but the gang did not take kindly to it, and in the resulting shoot-out, Maurice Ferrier was shot dead and two of his men severely injured. A couple of the gang members escaped and swore revenge. The policemen got all sorts of threats and they were moved to a safe house but somehow that was discovered. One night there was a fire and both young men were killed. I believe someone else – the wife of one of them? The sister? – was severely burnt as well. The culprit was never found, and though the surviving gang members were intensively questioned, there was just a lack of evidence against them – they were in jail by then anyway. Other people were pulled in: I think there was a certain amount of suspicion about the role that might have been played by Terrier's young cousin, Laurence Ferrier, who was very close to him. But nothing came of it, and Ferrier had to be released. The case remains a mystery to this day.

  I hope this helps! Let me know how you go with your assignment. DH.

  I stared at the email for an instant, my heart pounding. Laurence ... Ferrier... Laurence Laurie, Laurie ... cousin of a criminal, whose gang used to meet at the Hotel du Lys! I hit Reply and typed frantically,

  Thanks so much for this, it's really helpful. One last thing. Do you know what happened to Laurence Ferrier? Where did he go after he was released? Please reply ASAP. Thanks again, Caroline.

  I hit Send, scrambled up from my chair, and raced off to get Remy and Christine. One look at my face told them something important had happened.

  'It's him! I knew it! It's Laurie!' I gabbled. 'Come quickly, have a look!'

  We all crowded around the computer. Christine read the email out loud. She finished by saying, 'Caroline? Who's Caroline?'

  'My pen-name,' I said impatiently. What did that matter, for heaven's sake?

  'Bright girl. More to you than meets the eye, I knew that,' said Christine, smiling. 'But listen, what makes you think this person – this Dreaming Holmes or whatever – knows what they're talking about? Remy told me you'd had difficulty finding out anything about it on the web.'

  'Dreaming Holmes used to be a police officer. I just think it's been hidden officially, to protect Remy and his mum. So Laurence Ferrier wouldn't find them and kill them too.'

  She nodded. 'And you think this Laurie person – that dreadful Yank, never liked him, I must say – that's Laurence Ferrier?'

  'Sounds like it might be, don't you think?'

  'Could be. But why would Laurie want to kill them, now after all this time? Surely not still for revenge?'

  'Because Maman recognised him,' said Remy, speaking at last, his golden eyes still fixed on the screen, as if imprinting every word in his memory.

  'Yes,' I said, slowly, horror-struck, remembering that terrible scene at the door of Bellerive Manor, when Valerie Gomert had come raging like a lioness to tear me apart in front of everyone, because of that piece of paper she'd found in the dream book. The piece torn from a shampoo bottle or drinks coaster or whatever, with the name of the Hotel du Lys on it. 'She came to scream at me,' I whispered, 'and then she caught sight of someone standing in the hall. Laurie, the "film producer", who'd appeared out of nowhere. Who was nosing around Raymond's place, looking for –'

  'Yes. Looking for the thing that must incriminate him. The thing he must have looked for, earlier. The thing he must have killed Raymond for,' said Remy, very low.

  'He must have been suspicious of Laurie, somehow. Raymond, I mean,' I said, as a pattern took shape in my brain. 'I mean, Oscar said that Laurie had contacted Raymond some time ago, didn't he?' I looked at Christine for support. She nodded, gravely. Gone was all trace of laughter or mischief from her face. Her eyes were very bright, and there were two red spots in her pale cheeks. 'Yes. He must have worked it out, somehow.'

  'He must have found that paper. The one from the Hotel du Lys. He must have employed that PI to look into it,' I said. 'That's why he was killed, too. But still Laurie didn't find the paper. And then, on that day, Valerie came to the door, and she saw him –'

  'And he saw her,' said Remy, drawing a hard breath. 'He saw her. And he must have come after her. That night. After I'd gone. After I'd slammed out of the door like a selfish idiot, leaving her there to face ... to face –' He crumpled on to the chair. 'Oh my God, I left her there on her own –'

  'How could you know? How could you know, Remy?' I had my arms around him. 'You can't blame yourself. You can't. Besides, he'd probably have killed you too, if you'd been there ...'

  'Fleur's right,' said Christine sharply. 'No question, guy like that wouldn't hesitate. Take it from me. Question is, though, why didn't your mother run away before he got there? She could have done. Why didn't she?'

  Remy shrugged. 'I don't know. I suppose she wanted to have it out with him. Or maybe she was too scared. I don't know.'

  'Or maybe she thought he'd forget it,' I said. 'That he wouldn't risk it. That he'd run away.'

  'Maybe you're right,' said Christine. 'But I don't suppose we'll ever know for sure.'

  'What are we going to do now?' said Remy quietly. 'We don't know where Laurie is, or how to find him. Perhaps we should call the police now and tell them what we know. What do you think, Christine?'

  He was asking her first now, I thought, stung a little. Before she had a chance to reply, I rushed in, 'I think we still need to find out more. We need to wait for what Dreaming Holmes tells us.' I looked at my watch. 'Anyone know what the time difference is, between France and Canada?'

  'About six hours or so I think,' said Christine vaguely. 'But we'd better check that. That means your friend will probably answer sometime in the night. I'm not sure though that I think it's a great idea to wait, myself. Anything could happen.'

  'What?' I said. 'We're here, safely. Laurie doesn't know we know about him. So what could happen?'

  Famous last bloody words, a damned fool rushing in where angels fear to tread or whatever the saying is. I can still hear myself saying those words, so brash and confident and stupid and naive, and I hate myself for them, I wish, how I wish with all my heart that I could take them back ...

  Blood moon

  The afternoon wore on, and still there was no reply from Dreaming Holmes. By some kind of unspoken understanding, we decided to put everything aside for the moment, ignoring the TV, the radio, and even any discussion that might remind us that Remy was a fugitive wanted by the police and I was thought to be in grave danger from him. Hand in hand, Remy and I took a walk with Christine in the garden and she burbled on and on about her plants and her rockeries, stopping every now and then to dead-head a ros
e, or rearrange a rock that had slipped out of place. I've never been interested in gardening – do you know any teenager who is? – and I didn't really listen to her chatter but it was kind of comforting to have it wash over us, a flow of normality in a wilderness of chaos, weirdness and fear. She showed us her back garden, too, where her garden wall butted onto the beginning of the Fairy Rock woods. There was a door set into the wall and as she opened it and we went through to look at what lay beyond, I was suddenly filled with a feeling of familiarity. It was like the door in my good dream, except that it wasn't at the top of a hill. I told Remy and Christine about it, even though I thought down-to-earth Christine would probably smile and think it was fancy. But she didn't. She said that she was glad it was a good dream because it would trouble her if anything about her lovely place featured in anyone's nightmare. I said, 'How could it, this is such a beautiful, peaceful spot', and she sighed and said, 'I'm glad you feel that, I feel that too, I wish Oscar did. He has a ridiculous attachment to Bellerive. I mean, it's not as though it was in the family for a long time, the old man only bought it twenty years ago or so, when his books started to make real money. Before that, he lived in Paris.'

  She told us a bit about the Dulacs then, and how Oscar had been orphaned in his mid-teens and his uncle had taken him in, reluctantly, she said. Oscar had gone to Canada to try to make his fortune, to impress Raymond, and had got into the stockmarket somehow, but though he made money, it still didn't impress his uncle. 'And the old man let him know it,' she said, 'he really did.'

  I could see from the expression on Remy's face that he was uncomfortable with this kind of talk about Raymond – and so I turned the conversation quickly away by exclaiming over a bed of flowers. She was easily diverted and the awkward moment passed.

  We went inside again. Christine brought out a pack of cards and we played a few hands of poker. Then she said she was going to throw some dinner together and it would be at least an hour before we ate. She refused our help, said we should just relax. We went back to the computer and checked the mail but there was still nothing. I was rather tempted to check the news on Google, but Remy was there next to me and I could tell that he was almost at the limit of his endurance and couldn't face the thought of being plunged into his real situation once more. So instead we went to Christine's living room, found a DVD of Fawlty Towers on her shelves and put that on.