Cupid's Arrow (3 page)

Two days later, on a bright, warm afternoon, we touched down in Paris. We didn't stay there long, because we had to get to Raymond Dulac's place in eastern France as fast as possible. Mum said we'd come back after our business was done, and do Paris properly; but in the meantime, we had a bit of time, so we shouldn't waste it resting. Jet-lagged like mad, we still managed to tramp around the city for a few exciting, grainy-eyed hours, trying to squeeze in as much sightseeing as we could. We managed the Eiffel Tower, the Champs Élysées and the Louvre – though only from the outside – and a few other places before collapsing in a heap at the hotel at nine-thirty that evening. Then we had to get up at the crack of dawn to catch the only direct train from Paris to Avallon, the nearest town to Bellerive, Dulac's home village in Burgundy.

That took about three hours. French trains are pretty comfortable and go along fast and smooth, and though I'd wanted to stay awake and watch the countryside as we sped through it, I was just too tired. I couldn't help closing my eyes, and woke up, what felt like only moments later, out of a dreamless sleep to find Mum shaking me. 'We're here, Fleur!' Right there on the platform where we'd stopped was a big sign that said 'Avallon'.

'Funny to think Raymond lived near Avallon,' said Mum as we gathered our stuff together and headed out of the train.

Honestly, sometimes she says the weirdest things. 'Why? He's got to live somewhere, doesn't he?'

She shook her head, smiling. 'Darling, sometimes I think you do it on purpose to annoy me. You know he was fascinated by King Arthur. Well, where did Arthur end up?' She didn't wait for me, but answered her own question. 'Avalon. The Island of Avalon, where he was cared for by the Lady of the Lake.'

'Yeah, but this isn't an island, and wasn't it supposed to be somewhere in England where he ended up, and anyway, King Arthur wasn't true. He didn't really exist. He was a myth.'

'A legend,' corrected my mother automatically. 'That's different. A myth usually concerns gods. A legend is based on a kernel of human truth – around a real figure, however shadowy, around whom all kinds of stories are woven.'

'Whatever.' I didn't feel like arguing myths and legends with her today. Or any day, come to that. I'll always lose the argument. She knows too much about it all and she gives no quarter.

Just then, a man came hurrying along the platform towards us. He was a big guy, about Mum's age, with broad shoulders under his grey suit, and dark brown hair snipped so short that it was almost a crew cut.

'Madame Griffon? I am Nicolas Boron.' So this was Raymond Dulac's lawyer. But he didn't look much like a lawyer. More like a soldier just out of uniform or something like that. 'I am sorry to be late.' He spoke in English. His voice was deeper in person than on the phone.

'You are not late, Monsieur. We have only just arrived,' said my mother calmly, as they shook hands. She motioned towards me. 'This is my daughter, Fleur.'

'Welcome to Avallon, Mademoiselle Griffon,' said Nicolas Boron. He was smiling politely, but I could see the surprise in his eyes. That's not an uncommon reaction – I don't look a bit like my beautiful mother, with her striking Latin looks. I'm tall and red-haired and I haven't got much in the way of boobs and my skin goes red in the sun rather than a lovely bronze as hers does. My French grandmother once told me I was a female version of my father. She didn't say it kindly, I might add. I tried then to quiz her about my father – but she just sniffed and said the less I knew about that one, the better, and she wouldn't be drawn into any more revelations.

About the only thing I get from Mum, physically, that is, is the colour of my eyes, which are the same shade of hazel-brown as hers. Mum's always telling me I have a really unusual kind of beauty, but I reckon that's her being a mother and doing the boost-kid's-self-esteem sort of thing, not the honest truth. I ain't never gonna be a model, as they say. But I also couldn't care less. I know what I want to do with my life, though I've never really told anyone about it in case they laugh.

I don't have really close friends. Not the sort you tell secrets to, anyway. See, I was badly bullied in Year 7 by this girl and none of my so-called friends helped me at all. I think they were scared of her, or wanted to suck up to her cos she was one of the really cool people at school. I wasn't cool at all. It got so bad I was feeling sick in the stomach every day, and didn't want to go to school. Mum tried to talk to the principal about it, but that bully was clever, she did things in a sly way so she wouldn't get caught, and the principal didn't believe me. In the end Mum actually took me out of that school and put me in a new one. It was much better there but the experience had sort of put me off getting too close to other people.

It's not that I'm really a loner, I get on fine with kids at school these days, and I don't get bullied at all anymore, but I prefer to stay at a distance. It's best that way, I reckon. You don't get hurt.

'It is very kind of you to meet us, Monsieur Boron,' Mum said as he shepherded us out of the station towards his car, a green Peugeot parked a short distance away.

'Not at all, Madame,' he said, smiling. 'It is my pleasure, as well as my duty. I will drive you to Bellerive, where you are to stay, and we can talk a little along the way. No doubt you will have questions.'

'Of course,' said Mum, 'and my first one is this – what does Raymond's nephew think of this situation?'

A wary look came into the lawyer's blue eyes. 'Monsieur Oscar Dulac is aware of the ... er ... situation,' he said carefully.

Mum's eyes narrowed. 'Is aware of, perhaps, but does he accept it?'

'He knows it was his uncle's wish.'

'I see,' said Mum. 'So he isn't too happy. Is that it?'

'I am not in his confidences,' said Boron. 'But I assure you, Madame, that he is fully aware of the situation and will not put any barrier in your way. Besides, he does not have anything to complain about. You know he inherited the rest of his uncle's estate: a very nice house and land, and a large sum of money, not to speak of healthy book royalties. He was already a wealthy man; now he will be very well-off indeed.'

'Is he living in Raymond's house now?'

'Yes. He has lived in
Bellerive Manor
for the last two years, since he returned to France from Canada, where he made a tidy fortune on the stock market, I believe.'

'Then perhaps we should stay in a hotel in Avallon.'

'No,' said Boron, emphatically. 'It is arranged that you are to stay in the Manor. You will need to, if you are to catalogue and look over the library properly. It is a big house with many rooms. Oscar is away for a couple of days at present, so you can settle in before he returns.'

'But afterwards?'

'He has agreed you should stay as long as you need. Believe me, Madame, he will present no problem to you.'

We had reached the car. He unlocked the boot, put our bags in, and opened the doors. We got in, Mum in the front, me in the back, and he slid into the driver's seat. But instead of starting the car, he reached inside his jacket pocket and brought out an envelope.

'Monsieur Raymond Dulac was very particular you should be given this letter, in private, as soon as you arrived. This is why I wanted to meet you here rather than in my office or wait till you got to Bellerive.' He paused, and cleared his throat. 'It is addressed to you both. I will have to ask you, Madame, that you and your daughter keep the knowledge of the existence of this letter to yourselves.'

Mum's eyebrows rose. She took the letter, looked at both our names written with an inky flourish on the front of the envelope, turned it over, and murmured, 'How very mysterious.' To my intense annoyance, she was about to put the letter away in her handbag, when the lawyer inter-vened. 'Please open it now, Madame.' She looked surprised, and he continued, 'Those were my client's instructions. You were to be given this when you arrived and it was to be opened at once, before you got to Bellerive.'

'Come on, Mum, open it!' I said, impatiently, when she looked as though she was ready to raise an objection. I couldn't wait to hear what was in it.

She gave me a bit of a glare, but didn't say anything. She carefully opened the envelope, and slid out a single sheet of paper, covered in the same elegant handwriting. She began to read. I tried to read it, too, over her shoulder, but found it hard to decipher the writing in time to make sense of the French.

Meanwhile, Nicolas Boron sat, looking discreetly out of the window. But there was something tense about the way he waited. What was he tense about? He must know what was in that letter, mustn't he? Or maybe he didn't. Maybe Raymond Dulac had given it to him without telling him what was in it. Maybe it was a mystery to him too, a mystery he would like to clear up. Or maybe he knew and was wondering how Mum would react.

She read it twice. Still holding it, she turned to Boron and said, 'I don't understand. Why did this letter have to be kept secret?'

'Those were Monsieur Dulac's instructions,' said the lawyer stolidly.

'Yes, but why? This is a lovely letter, and there is truly nothing in it that could offend or hurt anyone or could –'

'Those are the instructions,' repeated the lawyer. 'Monsieur Dulac stressed the need for absolute discretion several times.'

'But there is no need for –'

'There is, Madame, as far as I'm concerned, and my late client was concerned,' said Boron quietly. 'In fact, if you and your daughter do not accept the need for discretion as to the existence of this letter, I am under instructions that you are not to be allowed access to the library, which will then be disposed of in a different way. You are to be compensated for your time and expenses, and are to be asked to return from where you came without going to Bellerive at all.'

Mum stared at him. She said, slowly, 'But you know the contents of this letter, don't you, Monsieur Boron?'

He nodded. But before he could speak, I cut in. 'Mum, please, tell me, what does it say? Please, can you read it to me? It was addressed to both of us, Monsieur Boron said.'

Mum gave Boron a hard look. 'Perhaps Monsieur Boron won't allow that, in case we all explode or something.'

He made a helpless gesture. 'Please. It is not my fault. Do read it to Mademoiselle Griffon, Madame.'

She made as if to say something, then thought better of it. She picked up the letter, and began to read it, translating in English as she went.

My dear Anne and Fleur,
the letter started.
You may find it odd to receive the words of a ghost, but you and I, we have been friends for a long time, even if we never met in the flesh. Dear friends, not in the mundane, everyday world, but through the magical Otherworld of words, of books, of beautiful stories, and the dreams of centuries.

I know, Anne, that you are interested in the same things as I am: King Arthur, fairytales, myths, all the green longings of the soul. And if I may be so bold, I think that you, Fleur, are a dreamer, a seeker, like me. My library needs someone who will love and understand it, as I know you will, Anne. And so it is yours, with everything in it. There are rare books and books not so rare but still interesting. There are also notebooks, detailing plans for my books, as well as ideas that never came to anything, collections of dreams, which it might interest you to peruse, Fleur – dreams often inspired me, you know – and a good deal more you will no doubt find of little consequence. But indulge me. Look at it all. Decide for yourself, my dears. And seek always the dream, for it is not always just a dream.

With all my warmest sentiments, your friend, Raymond Dulac

There was silence when she'd finished. Then Mum said, 'You see?'

'It's a beautiful letter,' I said, through a big lump in my throat. I felt as though Raymond Dulac had actually been there with us, in the car, as she read. It wasn't a spooky feeling, despite the reference to ghosts, but a sad one.

'He was a beautiful man,' Mum said quietly. 'I had so hoped we'd get a chance to meet in the flesh one day. But it just never happened.'

'He didn't like travel very much,' murmured the lawyer. 'Loathed planes. He came to know this area very well ever since he came to live in the Avallon region; but that was all the travel he had done in recent years.'

'I remember him writing once that he preferred to travel in his imagination,' said Mum.

'And his dreams,' I said, softly, remembering a little note he'd written in last year's Christmas card. Mum nodded. She looked down at the letter. She sighed. 'He was my favourite client. But more than a client. Just as he said, a friend. He knew so much. And he wore his learning so lightly. He was never a show-off. Never arrogant.' Her eyes were full of tears, her voice trembling. 'I am overwhelmed by his generosity. I never ever suspected that he would ...'

She broke off, and the lawyer said, gently, 'He had spoken to me about you more than once, Madame. There was a bond of family friendship between us too, you see. He was a client and friend of my late father, who had the practice before me, and sometimes he would come into the office just for a chat. We all miss him and mourn his terrible death. At his funeral in Avallon, there were so many people, the church was overflowing. He had so many friends.'

'Have they still not found –'

'Nothing. Not a trace,' said Boron in a hard voice. 'The police found no fingerprints, no DNA, nothing.' His face twisted. 'It sickens me. Whoever it was hit him over the head and killed him for worthless stuff: some cash, his watch, his laptop, the television, the CD player, a few CDs. They ransacked his study too, but took nothing, as far as we're aware – all his manuscripts and correspondence are all still there, though they were strewn all over the floor. They never got as far as Raymond's library, or his collection of pictures, some of which are quite valuable. That's why the police think it wasn't a professional thief, but an opportunist, maybe a drug addict, looking for portable things to steal, who panicked after they killed poor Raymond, and fled.'