I sat bolt upright, suddenly remembering. It was a picture I'd seen, all right. But not in a book, or a film. No. It was in a dream. But not that nightmare of being hunted. A good dream. Or at least not a bad one. I'd only had it once, but I still remembered it clearly. There was a green road, just like this one. Dappled sunlight falling through leaves. The road went uphill in the dream, too. As you went up, you could see, at the very top, a stone wall, and a door, set into the wall. In the dream, I really wanted to get to open that door and see what was beyond. I had a feeling something exciting and wonderful was waiting for me through that doorway. But the more I walked, the further away it seemed to get. One of those frustrating dreams. I'd woken up without getting to the door.
And now, here I was, in waking reality, on the green road. You couldn't see the top of the hill, not yet, because the road went winding up and up. But I was sure that when we'd get to the top, there would be that wall, and the door, and I'd step out of the car and go towards it.
Once or twice, I've had a dream that's come true. A sort of premonition dream. Never about anything important though. Like once, I dreamed that I was walking along the road and suddenly I heard a noise behind me and when I turned I could see a mob of cattle coming towards me, coming really fast and I thought they were going to stampede and crush me so I began to run. Well, a week later, Mum and I unexpectedly went for the weekend to visit one of her friends who lives in the country, and I went for a walk up the road near their place. Suddenly I hear this noise behind me, turn around and ... You've guessed it, there was a mob of cattle, coming straight towards me. I just panicked and ran off the road, and hid behind a tree, my heart thumping so loud I thought I would burst. I kept expecting the cattle to stampede and go for me, but they didn't, just ambled along calmly and slowly, like cattle do, and the guy on the horse behind them, who was moving them along, saw me and gave me this big cheesy grin. I reckon he thought I was some sort of chicken-hearted city slicker scared of a few harmless old cows. Which I was, of course. But never mind. It was humiliating and a bit of an anticlimax. So much for a premonition dream. The others had all been that sort. A missed phone call; a lost school book – that sort of thing. Ho hum. Humdrum. Not prophetic dreams of world disasters or anything like that, which apparently some people have had (though you'd have to be sure they were telling the truth, eh).
Anyway. The green road dream turned out to be a premonition fizzer too. Because when we got to the top of the real hill, there was no wall and no door, just the road dipping down. The woods thinned out a bit round here and from the vantage point on top of the hill, you could see a charming little village below, with houses built of pale grey and brown stone, sitting on the edge of a winding little stream that sparkled silver in the sun. A short distance from the village, the stream ran under a low stone bridge, and beyond that, half-hidden amongst a belt of leafy trees, was a large, square stone house with brick chimneys at either end. We had arrived at Bellerive.
Bellerive Manor
As we drove in through the tall iron-lace gates of Bellerive Manor, and down the long, tree-lined, gravelled driveway that curved round to the front of the house, I felt a sudden excitement gripping me. I don't know why I hadn't felt excited before then. I guess it hadn't really felt real until that moment when we swept in through the gates.
Close up, the house looked more inviting than from the road. Two storeys high, but with an attic floor as well, it was built of pale grey stone with white facings on the windows, and stood square and solid and plain, except for a riot of beautiful pink and white roses climbing over the doorway and walls, filling the air with their gorgeous perfume.
Set back to one side of the house was a scatter of low-roofed, half-timbered outbuildings, which Boron told us about. 'They date from the Middle Ages. The house itself was built in the late seventeenth century, when the original fortified manor house burnt down. They used to be granaries, stables and so on. Now they're used for storage and as garages. By the way, in the garage is Raymond's car. You may use it whenever you need. There are also two bicycles, should you wish to explore the countryside in a more leisurely way, Madame Griffon.'
She smiled at him. 'Please. Stop calling me that. It makes me feel very old. My name is Anne.'
'Right,' he said, flushing. 'Anne. Then you must ... must call me Nicolas.'
Jeez, I thought, scrambling out of the car, aren't Frenchmen meant to be cool and suave masters of flirting? Someone forgot to tell poor old Nicolas Boron, that's for sure.
The front door of the house was made from studded oak, so massive it looked like it might once have belonged to a much bigger place – maybe that earlier house. It had a big keyhole and a big brass knocker, shaped like a giant hand holding a golden ball. I imagined the noise of that knocker booming like thunder through the house. It would be very atmospheric in a spooky film. But Boron didn't knock because there was no-one at home. Instead, he brought out a heavy key, which was exactly the size you might imagine, unlocked the door and pushed it open. 'Please, come in.'
Inside, it was cool and dim after the glare outside. We were standing in a long corridor with a couple of doors on either side of it. Directly facing us was a wide, carved wooden staircase, and on both sides of that, other passages, leading to different parts of the house. Boron went along the corridor, opening doors for us so we could see what was beyond – a formal living room, a formal dining room, a very neat study, a rather more untidy study. ('The first one was Raymond's, the other is Oscar's,' Boron told us.) I only caught a glimpse of each before he shut the doors, but they looked pretty amazing, with velvet curtains and the kind of elegant furniture you see in films like Pride and Prejudice. Next he took us to the kitchen, which was huge, echoey and friendly looking, with a cobbled floor, polished copper pans, a big scrubbed table and chairs and a dresser full of old china. There was also a very cool dim pantry with earth walls, down a couple of steps from the kitchen. It had a very low ceiling and Boron had to stoop as he stood in there.
'You are to help yourself to whatever you wish. Madame Clary – she's the lady who comes in three times a week to do the housekeeping – has made and frozen a couple of meals for you for today. You'll find a microwave in the kitchen. There is milk in the fridge, butter, cream, cheese – all fresh, from local farms. The ham hanging there is for you to use as well, and it's local too. There's fresh bread in the breadbin, and the baker comes with his van tomorrow, so you'll be able to get some more. There's a vegetable garden and fruit trees – Madame Clary's husband also comes in three times a week to do the garden. They'll both be here tomorrow, if you need anything else.'
'It all sounds wonderful,' said Mum, rather dazedly. 'But there was no need –'
'I knew it was what Raymond would have wanted,' said Nicolas Boron quietly. 'He was a man who believed in true hospitality.'
'I wish we'd met him,' I said softly.
'Yes,' said the lawyer. 'He would have liked very much to meet you both. Poor Raymond.' He didn't say any more, but it was as though a shadow had suddenly entered the sunny kitchen, and I shivered. It was only a few days ago that the master of this house had sat at this table, less than a week ago that he had eaten his last meal, not knowing that it would be his last.
I faltered, 'That–that guy who killed him. He ... he won't come back, will he?'
Mum turned her head sharply to look at me and I saw that the scary thought had not crossed her mind until now.
But Nicolas Boron shook his head. 'The police think it highly unlikely. Such people are opportunistic. They will have been frightened off by what they did. They will be a long way away by now.' He paused, cleared his throat. 'Monsieur Oscar will be back tomorrow. And the Clarys live in the village. I will give you their number. They can be here in seconds. But if you feel worried, I can stay here overnight. There is an attic room upstairs I have used before now.'
Mum looked at him, and then at me. She said, 'No, it is very kind of you, but no. It would be too much of an impo
sition.'
'Not at all,' he said. 'I would be glad to do it.'
Mum shook her head, gently but firmly. 'You are more than kind, Nicolas, but no, thank you. We will be quite safe, I am sure.'
'If you are quite sure,' he said, looking disappointed and relieved, all at once.
We looked in at the informal living room, which was cosy and comfortable, with a wood-burning stove in one corner and leather armchairs and sofa, and a piano, as well. There were a few shelves with lots of magazines and paperbacks in neat rows, and a table in the corner which was bare now but which must be where the TV had once stood. Everything was very neat and tidy, like the rest of the house – if the burglar had left a mess, it must all have been cleared up. The thought made me think of something else, something yucky, something I was afraid of voicing, but still wanted to know, still, because, well, because then I'd know which room to avoid. But how to ask without sounding like a ghoul or something?
I was still wondering how to phrase my question when we came to the library. And for an instant I forgot about it in the astonishment of seeing a room such as this. It was like something out of some museum or one of those big old public libraries. Huge, and lined on three walls from ceiling to floor, were tall grille-fronted bookcases. Behind the grilles you could glimpse the spines of books, most of them leather-bound and old-looking, but a few, on one wall, more modern looking. There were polished wooden floorboards, but in the middle of the room was a large, faded red Persian carpet, on which sat a large desk with bowed, carved legs and a shiny top. In one corner were a couple of leather armchairs and a low table, and on the one wall where there weren't any bookcases, there was a series of five old black and white engravings, framed in gold.
I looked closer at the engravings. The first picture showed a knight on a white horse going up a dark forest path, where you could see the towers of a large castle in the distance. Then it was the same knight closer to the castle, stumbling across a grim sight: skeletons of men and horses scattered around. Third, you were inside the castle now, and it all looked different: all laughter and feasting, the young knight in the middle of a group of young men and women. There was a young woman with long fair braids looking at him. In the next picture, he was back on his horse, waving goodbye to her. She's looking rather peed-off, but he looks cheery and ready to be on his way. Then the last one was back to the forest path, him on his horse, and you could see faces in the trees, watching him. Narrow little watchful faces with wicked, knowing, deadly eyes that suddenly reminded me of that fox we'd glimpsed on the road.
'Amazing, aren't they?' said Boron, startling me. 'They are very rare engravings by the famous nineteenth-century French artist Gustave Doré. This is only the second example of this series known to exist, and it's very valuable. It's based on Arthurian legend, of course.'
I hardly listened. There was something about those pictures – especially that last one, with its hint of what might happen next – that was very powerful and disturbing. I couldn't understand why anyone would want it on their wall. You could almost see that knight beginning to realise something was wrong. He was turning his head, trying to see for sure. You could sense the start of his fear, the fact that he was beginning to know that someone – something – was watching him – stalking him – and that the path stretched on and on into darkness, and soon it would be quite dark and then they'd come down from the trees and ... Remembering those fleshless skeletons lying by the side of the road, you could just see the tension in his shoulders as he began to think about whether he could get out of that dark place alive ...
The feeling of danger and of evil was so intense I had a strong urge to rip that picture from the wall and fling it across the room. I didn't, of course. I just moved away quick smart and went over to a shelf at random and opened the door and looked in at the books, blindly. They weren't the old leather-bound ones but the more recent ones.
Mum said, sharply, 'Be careful, Fleur. I don't want you making a mess of them.' She wears cotton gloves when she's dealing with old or valuable books. She hadn't taken in the pictures at all, or if she had, they had no effect on her. And I could see that she was just itching to get at the books, and couldn't wait for poor old Nicolas B to take himself off so she could start taking a serious look around.
He left after showing us to our rooms upstairs. The bedrooms were known by the colours they were decorated in: the Red Room, the Blue Room, the Green Room, the Yellow Room, the Brown Room. Mine was the Yellow Room, Mum's was the Green. They were both really nice, not too big, but comfy, with a big bed and table and wardrobe. Mum's was on the front side of the house, while mine was on the back, with an amazing view over an enormous garden that looked more like a park than a regular garden, with big trees and rolling lawns. Looking out at that view made me quite forget the feeling I'd had downstairs, looking at that engraving.
To one side, near the house, was a fenced-in vegie garden, with a greenhouse at one end. I could see a bed of strawberries from where I was standing, the red fruit gleaming in the sun. Yum! Suddenly, I felt very hungry. I looked at my watch. It was nearly midday. No wonder. I hadn't eaten for hours, not since a crap breakfast at the Paris hotel at the crack of dawn. Forgetting dark pictures, spooky feelings, sinister questions and everything other than that we had a nice full fridge and pantry of food and there were strawberries in the garden, I went to tell Mum we needed lunch before she started rummaging in the library and I lost her for hours on end.
Dream book
We had a lovely lunch: fresh bread and butter and cheese, with thick slices of the ham (which was like a prosciutto sort of thing), along with a salad of lettuce and tomatoes and herbs from the garden. For dessert we had sweet juicy strawberries and whipped cream. There was also some really nice apple juice. I love food and so does Mum and we eat pretty well normally but, I tell you, that simple lunch was one of the nicest meals I'd ever had. Everything tasted so fresh and delicious. It all looked beautiful too, like a still-life painting, Mum said, as she put the big blue china plates out.
After lunch, she went straight off to the library to start burrowing about. I said I wanted to explore the house and garden a bit more. She said okay, but that I shouldn't poke about too much, and I should keep out of Raymond's bedroom and his study. I wasn't planning to go near there anyway, because I'd finally learnt, from a casual remark of Boron's before he left, that the study was where the poor old guy had died, and I had no intention of going into that murder room, not now or ever!
I had a quick glance up into the attics, but they were just small whitewashed rooms with low ceilings and skylights instead of windows. One of the rooms was set up like a very basic kind of bedroom, the other rooms were for storage, with piles of boxes and trunks and things in them. I went back downstairs and looked into the Brown Room, as I knew the Red and the Blue rooms belonged to Raymond and Oscar. But the door of the Blue Room was ajar and I could see a little way into it, so I just took a quick peek. It was much tidier than the downstairs study, and had blue patterned curtains, a four-poster bed, a blue Persian carpet and a big chest of drawers with several photos on it. One was of Raymond. I recognised his face from the book jacket photos, even though he looked much younger in this photo. By his side was another young man, who looked a fair bit like him. I guessed he must be his younger brother, Oscar's father. There was also another old photo of a family group, but most of the other photos were much more recent, and they all showed the same person: a strikingly beautiful woman with pale skin, black hair and dark blue eyes, in all sorts of poses and settings. Nicolas Boron hadn't said Oscar was married or that a woman might be living here with him, but then we hadn't asked. In fact I had no idea how old he was. Anyway, I would find out soon enough.
I closed the door gently and went back to my exploring. The Brown Room had some interesting little bits and pieces in the drawer of its bedside table: old restaurant menus and tickets to concerts, little shells and old postcards and things like that, stuff you might inten
d to stick in a scrapbook or something, but have somehow never got round to and just stuck in a drawer and forgot.
I closed the drawer and went downstairs to the bottom floor. There wasn't much to look at in the formal living room, apart from some nice old photos of Raymond and his family when he was young, and three beautiful old oil paintings, which even I could see must be worth a bit. Then I had a look at the stuff in the informal living room. There were a few crime novel paperbacks in English on the shelves there which I could read, as well as some history magazines. There was also a whole shelf of books on arms, armour and weapons and another one on castles and ancient buildings, which I guessed he must use as research for his books. I had a bit of a go on the piano, too – I'm not that great at playing, but I've had lessons for a couple of years, and I quite enjoy mucking about on it. And it was a beautiful piano, with a really sweet tone. Raymond had lots of music stacked on a shelf beside it – mostly jazz sheet music. I tried out one or two pieces, they were quite fun, but not very easy, so I soon gave that up and made up a tune of my own instead. I called it Bellerive, and I dedicated it to Raymond's memory. . .
I was thirsty again by this time so I went back into the kitchen and had another glass of apple juice. I went into the pantry again and looked at all the jars and bottles on the shelves, noticing now that they all seemed to be homemade things: jams and sauces, bottles of fruit and vegetables, gleaming and appetising and all labelled. Well, you wouldn't run out of food round here, even when it was winter and the vegie garden didn't produce as much as it was doing right now. This was a real country pantry, that was for sure.
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