by Marie Laval
The old woman’s words made Amy shiver in spite of the bright sunshine and the festive atmosphere in the church square. She looked at Fabien as he bent down to talk to his mother. He must have felt her eyes on him because he swung round and stared at her. The smile died on his face, and he gave her a sharp nod.
Adèle frowned and shot her a puzzled glance.
‘Oh dear, he looks grumpy this morning. I wonder why.’
‘How should I know?’
Amy feigned indifference but the night had done nothing to dispel the raw yearning that his touch and his kisses had awakened inside her, and her humiliation at being used to satisfy a passing fancy.
Frédéric came to stand near Fabien and his mother in front of the church.
‘They are so much alike,’ she remarked to divert Adèle’s attention. ‘They are cousins, but they look more like brothers.’
‘Which is surprising given the fact that they are only distant cousins,’ Lily muttered. ‘He’s a bad seed, that Frédéric, just like his father, and his grandfather before him.’
They followed the crowd down to the market square where smells of freshly baked bread, coffee and chicken roasting in rôtissoires outside the butcher’s shop drifted. Adèle and Lily wanted to stroll around the market square, and together they sampled fragrant olives, slices of garlic sausage and dry, hard goat’s cheese. The gentle peeling of wind chimes attracted Amy to a stall selling jewellery, tie-dye clothing and crystals. On an impulse she walked over to the middle-aged stall holder and asked if she knew anything about fluorite crystals.
‘Fluorites? They’re unusual these days, especially the white and purple ones,’ the woman said. ‘People prefer green fluorites which promote calm and harmony, whereas white and purple stones are said to unleash dark forces and induce prophetic dreams.’
Her fingers toyed with the rows of coloured beads hanging around her neck.
‘Which is why in many ancient religions, high priests and priestesses surrounded themselves with white and purple fluorites to get in touch with their gods.’
She leaned closer and winked.
‘I’ve read that it works wonders for your libido if you put it under your pillow.’
Amy thanked her and walked away, thoughtful.
‘I didn’t know you cared about crystals,’ Adèle remarked.
‘I don’t.’
She shook her head, and repeated as if to convince herself.
‘Of course, I don’t.’
Nevertheless, she couldn’t help finding it unsettling that Eva had suffered so many nightmares after being given a fluorite crystal. Were the lights, the evil and the blood the young woman dreamt about really linked to Bellefontaine? And did her own nightmares have anything to do with Serena Chevalier's housewarming present?
No, this was impossible. Crystals didn’t hold any magic power!
She said goodbye to Adèle and Lily started on the walk back home.
The woman’s voice on the answer phone was, hesitant.
‘This is a message for Mademoiselle Carter. My name is Sophie Dessange. I really need to speak to you. I’ll phone again later.’
Amy played the message again. The woman hadn’t left her number or a reason for her call, so she would have to wait for her to phone back to find out what she wanted.There were other messages too, enquiries about vacancies for the Easter holiday. One couple, the Ducros, wanted a double room for five nights and a Monsieur Garnier from Paris booked a single for Saturday night.
Feeling considerably more cheerful, she wrote their names down in her reservation book. Things were looking up at last! She had forgotten all about the other message when the phone rang.
‘Is this Mademoiselle Carter? My name is Sophie Dessange. I called earlier. It wanted to talk to you about an article I read about Bellefontaine recently, and about you sleepwalking in the forest.’
Amy’s fingers gripped the phone more tightly.
‘I'm sorry but I really don’t want to talk about it. If that was all you wanted, I'm afraid I'll have to...’
‘No, please don’t hang up,’ the woman cried out. ‘You don’t understand. You see, the same thing happened to me at Bellefontaine, years ago.’
Amy drew in a breath.
‘You stayed at Bellefontaine? When was that?’
‘Over twenty years ago, but I would prefer to talk to you face to face about it. Could we meet? I live in Avignon.’
‘Can you not tell me on the phone? Or maybe you could come here.’
She heard the woman gasp.
‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly come back to Bellefontaine. It’s difficult enough for me to talk about it. Please.’
Amy hesitated.
‘Listen, if it’s about these old stories about the temple in the forest, I really don’t think …’
‘There are things you need to know,’ the woman interrupted, in a more forceful voice. Believe me, I wouldn’t ask to meet you if it wasn’t important.’
Amy thought carefully.
‘Very well. Where we can meet?’
Sophie Dessange suggested the garden of the Palais des Papes on Tuesday morning.
‘It will be quiet,’ she said. ‘The Palais is closed on Tuesdays.’
Amy put the phone down, uneasy. Was it wise to drive all the way to Avignon to meet a woman who claimed she’d been sleepwalking into the cedar forest and had important information? Sophie Dessange might be deluded, or deranged.
After lunch she sat in the study to sort out her mail. Buried under a pile of papers was an invitation to a cocktail party she’d forgotten about. It was organised by the local Chamber of Commerce and would take place at Manoir Coste the following Saturday evening.
She toyed with the card, tapped it against the top of the desk, stared at its elegant golden lettering. She dreaded seeing Fabien again. Talking to him, or just being in the same room as him, would be torture. On the other hand she had a business to think about, and Bellefontaine had to come before her bruised ego and immature crush on her wealthy, handsome neighbour. Furthermore, there would be lots of people at the cocktail party and she may not even have to talk to him at all. She typed an email accepting the invitation and sent it before she had time to change her mind.
Later in the afternoon, she took Michka out for a walk along the main road which overlooked the plain. In the distance was a group of riders. She could just about make out a dark-haired man riding a huge black horse in the lead. Fabien and Pacha. He was probably exercising the horses for the hunt the following week. She was almost glad to be reminded of yet another side of him she didn’t like. Together with his arrogance, his love of hunting and his womanising, there was really little to like about the man. No, she corrected. There was nothing to like about Fabien Coste, and she would do well to remember it the next time she met him.
That evening, she phoned Stéphane and arranged to pick him up early the following morning.
‘Thanks Amy,’ he said in a weary voice, ‘it means a lot to me. I know Brice didn’t run away, despite what everybody say. I have to find him. ’
She couldn’t shake a feeling of apprehension as she drove to the Michons’ house the following morning. Stéphane may not believe that his friend had run away, but Brice may have been in trouble and not have confided it to him.
The obvious place to start their investigation would be the children’s home itself. Even if the gendarmes had already looked at Brice’s room, Stéphane might be able to spot something they had missed.
Stéphane stepped out of the bushes at the end of his drive, right in front of the Clio, and she had to slam on the brakes to avoid running him over.
‘Why didn’t you wait for me at home?’ she asked when he opened the door.
He slouched into the passenger seat.
‘Dad is mad at me again. He's dead against me looking for Brice. He says I should leave it to the gendarmes, even if they can’t be bothered and aren’t doing anything.’
There was anger in his v
oice, but his eyes shone with tears.
‘Maybe he is worried about what you’ll find,’ Amy ventured.
‘I don’t know, he’s been really weird lately.’
Stéphane produced a handwritten sheet of paper from his jacket pocket.
‘I made a list of all the places Brice likes to visit.’
Amy suggested they go the children’s home first. Stéphane agreed and gave her directions as she drove along the quiet road, winding its way around blossoming cherry and apricot orchards, and groves of olive trees.
Maison Espérance was a mansion set in large grounds, away from the road. As they made their way into the reception area, Amy wondered if she should have phoned beforehand. Soeur Michèle might be too busy to see them, or may not want to talk to her and Stéphane.
As it happened, they only waited a few minutes before the manageress came to meet them in the lobby. A thin woman with short grey hair, Soeur Michèle was dressed in a plain navy skirt, matching cardigan and white shirt.
‘What can I do for you?’
Amy introduced herself and Stéphane.
‘He doesn’t think Brice ran away,’ she said.
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘He would have told me,’ Stéphane explained. ‘He always tells me everything, especially since his brother got in touch and he’s been preparing to go and live with him.’
‘What brother?' Soeur Michèle cut in. 'Brice doesn’t have a brother. In the ten years he’s been with us the only member of his family who ever made any attempt at contacting us was an uncle, who sadly died last year.’
Stéphane hesitated.
‘No, you’re wrong. His brother is called Alain. He works on cruise ships. He got in touch with him for the first time a few months ago. Since then he has sent him several postcards from his travels.’
Soeur Michèle looked doubtful.
‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Why didn’t Brice tell us anything about that so-called brother of his?’
‘Alain asked Brice not to tell anyone.’
‘Why not?’ Amy and Soeur Michèle spoke at the same time.
‘He said people would try and keep them apart. Alain was saving up to get a flat in Marseille so that they could live there together when he quit his job.’
‘There is no brother. There was never any brother.’
Soeur Michèle directed a steely glare at Stéphane and walked over to the reception desk and grabbed hold of the phone.
‘I’m afraid this changes everything. ‘You really should have told the gendarmes about this before.
‘I’m sorry, but Brice made me promise to keep his secret.'
Stéphane looked pleadingly at her. Amy slipped her arm around his shoulders and gave him a comforting hug.
‘You did the right thing telling us now. Better late than never.’
‘The gendarmes are coming to speak to you now,’ Soeur Michèle said after putting the phone down. ‘In the meantime, we’ll take a look at Brice’s room.’
They went up to the first floor, past several brightly painted doors. Soeur Michèle stopped in front of a blue one and produced a key from the pocket of her cardigan. She unlocked the door and led the way into a small but cheerful bedroom furnished with a single bed, covered with a red and blue duvet. Posters of rock bands and Formula One cars hung on the walls, and textbooks and exercise books were piled up on a desk underneath the window.
‘Do you think Brice kept the postcards?’ Soeur Michèle asked Stéphane.
The boy nodded, went straight to one of the rock posters and ripped it off the wall. A handful of postcards fell on the bed.
‘There they are.’
He was about to pick one up when Soeur Michèle stopped him.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ she instructed. ‘We must wait for the gendarmes.’
There were cards from Barbados, Seychelles, Madagascar.
‘I don’t remember Brice getting any of these,’ Soeur Michèle remarked. ‘In fact I always felt sorry for the boy as he never got any mail.’
‘He went to the Poste Restante in Bonnieux every week. His brother wrote to him there,’ Stéphane explained.
Amy glanced at Soeur Michèle.
‘Something doesn’t make sense.’
‘That’s because there is no brother,’ the woman muttered.
Amy leaned over the postcards to read the message written at the back.
‘Dear Brice,’ she read aloud. ‘We’ve been island hopping today. Mauritius is beautiful. One day you’ll come with me and we’ll pretend we’re pirates. Alain.’
The postmark on another card was dated two weeks before. ‘We’re on our way back. Will get to Marseille next month. Be ready to meet me as planned. Alain.’
This must have been the last message Brice had received.
‘Let’s go back to the reception. Capitaine Ferri should arrive any minute now.’
Soeur Michèle walked out and locked the door behind them. As they walked back downstairs, she turned towards Stéphane and said sternly.
‘You have been very foolish to keep this a secret.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Stéphane said again.
His eyes welled up with tears, his shoulders sagged and he dragged his feet down the corridor.
Soeur Michèle let out a long sigh, her face mellowed and she put a comforting arm around Stéphane's shoulders.
‘Come with me, boy, it looks like you need a hot chocolate.’
Turning to Amy, she added, ‘I’ll take Stéphane to the kitchen while you wait for Capitaine Ferri, if you don’t mind.’
It wasn’t Capitaine Ferri who waited downstairs, but Fabien, dressed in jeans and a green shirt with the sleeves rolled up. They stared at each other in surprise. His eyebrows drew in a puzzled frown.
‘Amy? What are you doing here?’
‘I came with Stéphane Michon. You may remember that he’s a friend of Brice’s. There have been … developments.’
She strove to keep her voice calm even though her heart was beating like a drum. He was the last person she had expected to see here – the last person she wanted to see.
He walked up to her.
‘What developments? Has the boy been found?’
‘Unfortunately, no.’
She took a step back and explained in a few words what Stéphane had just confessed.
‘I don’t understand how anyone can be so cruel,’ she finished. ‘Pose as a long-lost brother, carry out a deception for months. What for?’
He didn’t answer straight away.
‘There could be dozens of reasons,’ he said at last. ‘Unfortunately none of them are very reassuring. I can only hope the gendarmes manage to trace this Alain before it’s too late.’
Her nightmare about the boy in the chamber slammed back into her consciousness. Feeling suddenly faint, she swayed on her feet.
‘Amy, what’s wrong?’ Fabien wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled a chair out, and helped her sit down. Calling over to the receptionist, he asked for a glass of water.
‘It’s nothing. I’ll be all right.’
She forced a few deep breaths down. The anxiety tightening her throat and chest didn’t loosen. She had been quick to dismiss the market woman's claims about the powers of fluorite crystals the day before, but what if she'd truly had a prophetic dreams about Brice? A dream about him being found dead?
Fabien passed her the glass of water.
‘Here. Drink this.’
The cool water revived her. Her heartbeat was soon back to normal and she felt steady enough to stand up.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked Fabien.
‘I try and help out Soeur Michèle once or twice a week. Today I’m taking a group of kids to the zoo.’ He paused and smiled as voices echoed down the corridor. ‘I believe they’re here now.’
The lobby filled with a dozen boys talking and laughing excitedly. They were followed by a couple of members of staff.
‘I have
to go,' Fabien said. 'Are you sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Positive.’
‘Well then, goodbye.’
He waved to the boys, told them to wait outside while he got the keys to the minibus. She watched as the children climbed into the minibus, and he sat behind the wheel and drove away.
‘Fabien takes them to the pool, the safari park, even rock-climbing or to football matches in Marseille,’ Soeur Michèle explained when she came back, Stéphane in tow, a few moments later.
‘He has always been more than generous with his time and his money. Probably because he knows what it’s like to grow up without a father.’
Amy remembered the background noise of children laughing when she’d phoned Fabien on his mobile the day of the garden party. So that’s what he was doing that day, taking the children from Maison Espérance out. The man was decidedly full of surprises. She would have thought him more likely to indulge in expensive hobbies such as motorboat racing, water-skiing or shopping in designer boutiques in Cannes or St Tropez.
The gendarmes’ van came up the lane at speed, its blue light flashing.
Stéphane came to stand closer to her and sneaked his hand into hers. It was shaking. She smiled to reassure him. He had been very brave to come out with the truth. Now she could only hope her nightmare about Brice had been just that … a bad dream.
Chapter Eleven
A flight of stairs next to the Palais des Papes led to a secluded garden overlooking the river Rhône and the Pont Benezet, the original Pont d’Avignon. Annoyingly, the tune of the nursery rhyme crept into Amy’s mind as she made her way along the gardens’ empty lanes and sat on a bench to wait for Sophie Dessange.
She didn’t have long to wait.
‘Mademoiselle Carter? I’m Sophie.’
A brown-haired woman, smartly dressed in a blue linen trouser suit and white shirt, stood in front of her.
Amy stood up.
‘Shall we walk?’ Sophie suggested.
They strolled in silence for a moment.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ Sophie said, before asking Amy if she had had a pleasant journey. The two women talked about bad-tempered French drivers and bumpy country roads. Neither seemed willing to broach the subject of Amy’s sleepwalking.