Cupid's Arrow

by Isabelle Merlin

  Christine thought then of throwing suspicion on to Remy, because of what had happened that afternoon, down at Bellerive, his mother coming between him and the girl. Fleur. There was the bow and arrow – she knew he was an archer, she'd heard the girl say so and she'd hear about his haunt at the Lady's House. She knew his fingerprints were likely to be on it, and she was wearing gloves. It had seemed a nice touch to deface the Tarot pictures, as if whoever had done it had been full of fury. She'd just kept one, that portrait of Valerie. And the dream book, of course, with the paper from Hotel du Lys in it. She liked to have souvenirs, she said.

  Then there was Oscar. He'd gone to pieces after his uncle's death. Perhaps he'd found out something. Perhaps Raymond had said something. Perhaps he wasn't as stupid as she'd always thought, as lovesick, and he'd sensed something. He had doubts, anyway. Whatever it was, it was clear the night he prowled around Christine's house that he was becoming a real threat to her safety. She felt she had to deal with him. Not happily, because she liked him, in a way. Not loved him, you understand – she couldn't love anyone after Maurice. Her heart was still his. She'd liked Oscar well enough, and she'd certainly liked the lifestyle he'd given her. But he was weak and she'd never trust a weak man. She had to kill him. But humanely, without suffering. He deserved that, at least.

  No, she was not sorry about any of that. About any of them. Not really. The only thing she was sorry about, a little, was the death of the dog Patou. The dog was an innocent. And she was sorry about us too. Not because of us, exactly. Not because she'd liked us – though in her psychopathic way, she had. But because we had won. Because we had made her lose control. We had made her lose her grip on events, challenged her image of herself as the genius who'd committed the perfect murders.

  In the court, she had looked across at me when I was in the witness box. Her eyes had fixed on me. There was no expression in those eyes, but the memory of them makes me shiver. It was like looking into the pit of Hell. A cold, cold Hell. Vicious. Frightening. Arrogant. And lonely. For a tiny, tiny instant, I'd felt the ghastly, pitiful and horrible loneliness of her reach out and stab me, right in the heart.

  No. I draw a big black line in my book right here, and finger Remy's eglantine brooch, which I wear pinned next to my heart. I don't want to write any more about her. I can't bear the thought of her. I don't want this book just to be an exorcism of her malevolent spirit, of the nightmare she had inflicted on us all. This book has to be more than that. It has to be an affirmation of life. Of love. Of kindness and gentleness and trust. Of remembrance of her victims, but also of new beginnings.

  So Remy came back to Paris with us, after Valerie's funeral, and her burial in the cemetery at Avallon, next to her dear friend Raymond Dulac. (Poor Oscar is buried there too.) We had stayed longer in Paris than we'd thought. But when we went back to Australia, Remy didn't come with us. He went to Canada instead. It was his idea, not anyone else's. He said he wanted to know more about his mother's family. His father. His uncle. Where they'd come from. He wanted to get to know who he was. He knew by now that 'Gomert' wasn't his real surname. It was Louvel. The Louvels are a big family, well-known in Montreal. Several of them are in the police force. He'd have lots of relations to call on.

  And guess who went with him? No. Not me. But my father. Tom. Tom Mallory. I still can't call him Dad, not yet. But one day, maybe I will. Maybe. Or maybe he'll always be Tom. But that's okay. Maybe you can't wind back the clock and have a dad like other kids, the kind of dad you really need when you're a kid. But maybe, when you're almost an adult – and I'll be eighteen in, like, about four months' time – then maybe you can do with a Tom. You can make a different kind of relationship.

  Anyway, Remy took off to Canada with Tom. You might think I was angry. Upset. But I wasn't. We'd talked. I understood. I really knew he had to do this. I can't say I wasn't scared, that he'd, like, well go there and forget about me or think that what had happened was all too weird and unreal or that maybe we were too young. I knew Tom wouldn't try to convince him of that. I knew that, you see, because he'd told me that was where he'd made his big mistake. He'd met Mum when he was young and immature, and he'd known it was right, this was it, but then he'd taken fright and told lies and run away. He said he'd never stopped regretting it. He'd written to her a couple of times over the years (which was how she knew he was back in Montreal) but she'd never answered. He had not dared to insist. He thought she must hate him. And Mum said he was right, she had. She'd hated him for ages and gloated over the fact that he didn't know about my existence and then one day she'd woken up and she knew she didn't hate him anymore. She had looked up his number in the Montreal directory. She had kept it in her phone list for years. But she'd never had the courage to call it. Until that fateful night.

  For about five minutes, I thought it'd be kind of cool if Tom and Mum got back together again. I suppose everyone whose parents are separated think that. But the fantasy didn't last long. It's too late, now, for them. Much too late. They can be friends, of a sort, but not anything else. They've moved on. And besides, there's Nicolas. And Wayne, too. Neither of them's given up. They both write, email, ring up Mum. They even came to visit us in Australia. Funnily enough, they've become great mates. I don't know which of these two guys Mum will end up preferring. It's like anyone's guess. Maybe she won't want either of them. Maybe she'll meet someone else, quite different, one of these days. Maybe it'll be a new beginning for her, too.

  One Saturday afternoon, about five months ago, I was minding the bookshop while Mum had slipped out for coffee, when I heard the door chimes go. And there was Remy, standing in the doorway, smiling. He was as gorgeous as ever, but with something different about him. I could see that at once. At first I couldn't put my finger on what it was. But it didn't matter. Because I very, very soon realised that whatever it was, Remy had certainly not changed his mind about me.

  He lives close by now – in fact, in the 'granny flat' in Dr Troy's back garden! (Our old friend is delighted his new tenant shares quite a few of his interests!) He's enrolled in an arts degree – specialising in art and in medieval history (he finally decided, after meeting his Canadian relatives and talking to them, that the police force wasn't really for him). He also works part-time at the bookshop. Mum's got that Raymond Dulac room she was talking about back in Bellerive up and running – it's a beautiful sunny room just off the main part of the bookshop, full of Raymond's books, and pictures. It gets quite a lot of visitors – and will get even more, once the star-studded blockbuster film based on Raymond's novel, The Lady of the Lake, is released next year. (Yes, Laurie was a real movie producer.)

  Remy and I spend heaps of time together, but he's made friends at uni, too, as well as getting on really well with my mates from school. Funny thing is, I've become closer friends with them, too. I've changed. And I know now what's different about him. He's more confident, somehow. He's easier in company. He's emerged from the forest and into the ordinary world but he's not ordinary. He never will be. And not just to me, either. People say he's amazing. That he's like no-one they've ever met.

  There's no big hurry, for us. And though back then when it was all happening it would have made me impatient, upset even, to have to wait to live together permanently, now I know it's the right thing. We have time to get to really know and discover each other. Because we love each other so much. And we're going to be together. Always. And that's just about the most exciting and wonderful thing in the world, and worth waiting for.

  Okay. Remy and Mum and Nicolas and Wayne will be back from the station any minute, with all the important guests. I've got to finish this quickly, before they arrive and we have to go to Bellerive. So I'll end that way, I think. On the reason for why we're here, and what's happening at Bellerive today.

  See, when Oscar left that letter to Nicolas about his suspicions of Christine, it wasn't the only thing the envelope contained. As well, there was a will, properly signed and witnessed, which said that on his death,
Oscar wanted Bellerive and all the Dulac money to go to Remy. The will was dated just a day before. Poor Oscar may have had a premonition of his own end.

  Remy was stunned. He knew Oscar had meant well. He was very grateful. But he was sure it wasn't what Raymond would have wanted. It certainly wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to give it all away. In the end, Nicolas persuaded him to keep most of the money (and he put some of that money in the bookshop, by the way, for renovations and extensions. Mum didn't want to accept, at first. But then she'd thought about it and said okay, if he'd agree to become part-owner. He accepted). But he most certainly did not want to own Bellerive Manor. If it wasn't going to the Dulac family, Remy said, then it should go to the cause Raymond believed in and loved most of all. And so he had looked up the right names and addresses, and with Nicolas' advice, sent off a letter, which must have been received with enormous surprise.

  So you see, Bellerive is passing today into the hands of its brand new owner: the International Arthurian Society, which specialises in research and study on everything to do with King Arthur. Today was the ceremony of the opening of Bellerive as a new Arthurian centre. The Dulac Centre, as it was to be called, would be the headquarters of a huge research project, to find out as much as possible about Riothamus and his times, with the eventual aim of proving he was the original inspiration for King Arthur. It would be well funded, because as well as the rest of Raymond's money, a very large donation had been given for its running and maintenance – by none other than good old Wayne Morgan himself. Yep, I do say good old Wayne Morgan, and I mean it – I still don't like his smarmy New Age ways much, and I hope he's not the one Mum's going to pick, if she picks anyone, but hey, he's shown he's a good guy, really. I had seriously misjudged him, like I had misjudged just about everyone. Except Remy.

  Anyway, scholars will come to The Dulac Centre from everywhere in the world. There will be archaeological investigations. There will be intensive study of documents in the revamped, well stocked library. There would be conferences and seminars. And a painstaking search for a certain ancient coin depicted in a battered notebook: a coin which shows the portrait in profile of a long-haired man, and, around it, the words: RIOTHAMUS. ABALLO.

  We don't know if the 'Arthur coin', as the media calls it, will be found. There was nothing more on Raymond's recovered computer hard drive about it, or on the USB key and disks. Just those enigmatic clues in the dream book. He'd really kept his cards very close to his chest. It will be a long investigative process. Possibly even a very long one. I'm not even sure that if the coin is found, it will prove that Riothamus was King Arthur. You probably need much more than that, they tell me. But still, it would be a start. A very big start.

  The old stories tell of how Arthur didn't really die, but was taken to Avalon to be nursed of his wounds. They say that he sleeps and dreams there still. They say that when a suffering world needs him again, when in the midst of death and destruction and sorrow, it is crying out for the healing magic of hope, then he will awake and come from Avalon. They call him the once and future king for that reason.

  Maybe, just maybe, that prophecy will come true, in a way, in the real Avallon, and I'll look back on this day as the one when it all began, when a great king moved from the dreams of centuries into the light of history, and we will know him again.

  I've just seen the cars drawing up outside. There is Remy jumping out, taking the steps two at a time to come and fetch me. His face, as he sees me at the window, is alight with joy and excitement and love. And that, it seems to me, is as good a place to end as any.

  Mysterious fire claims killer's life

  A fire in the maximum-security wing of a prison in eastern France, which claimed the life of one inmate and caused thousands of euros worth of damage, began in the cell of the deceased, it was confirmed yesterday. The dead prisoner's identity was confirmed as one Laurence Jeanne Ferrier, also known as Christine Jane Foy, who was convicted of four murders and two attempted murders in France and was suspected of involvement in two other murders in Canada. A year ago, at the end of a dramatic trial that transfixed the French public, 34-year-old Ferrier, dubbed 'Madame la Mort', or 'Lady Death' by the media, had been sentenced to life imprisonment without remission. Investigators are yet to determine the exact cause of the blaze.

  ......................................................................................

  Note to readers:

  You can look up the actual Casebook of Dreaming

  Holmes website on the internet:

  http://dreamingholmes.googlepages.com

  The Burgundy Today site, which Fleur also visits, has

  information about Riothamus and Avallon:

  www.burgundytoday.com

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