CHAPTER TWO
She came to with an aching head, blinded by full sunshine in her face, being lifted out of the road by two men. One was a burly, middle-aged gendarme, judging by his uniform, moustachioed and wearing a grim expression. The other man was lean and dark, in black jeans and black shirt, somewhere in his early thirties. His dark hair was surprisingly long for a man, silky strands brushing his shoulders.
Maeve focused on that silky black hair without comprehension, blinking in pained surprise as she tried to process who these men were and why they were manhandling her.
‘What… Whatever happened?’ she muttered as they lowered her onto the alcove seat in some very welcome shade. Her legs were shaky and she put a hand to her aching head, which felt as though someone had tried to split it open with an axe. ‘Good grief. Feels like I… I cracked my skull.’
‘Stay still and try not to speak, Mademoiselle,’ the silky-haired man told her in such fast-paced French she could barely follow what he was saying. But it seemed to be along the gist of, ‘You’ve banged your head. And don’t move too much either. It could be dangerous.’
Maeve didn’t argue, for she did indeed feel sick and dizzy. She wasn’t even sure how she’d got there. The two men moved away, muttering together, possibly about her, and she closed her eyes with a groan, struggling unpleasantly against nausea.
After a while, she found it possible to open her eyes without pain lancing through her head, and her breathing became less laboured. She studied the quiet Parisian street in baffled silence, not recognizing a single thing and having no clue what she was doing there.
Gradually, memory came back to her and she recalled the coach tour, the Louvre visit, the elderly lady with the hurt ankle, and she jerked upwards, staring in consternation down the street. ‘My rucksack. I remember now. There was a motorcyclist.’ Panic ripped through her. ‘He… He stole my bag. Oh no!’
Both men was staring at her blankly. But she’d been speaking in English. They probably had no idea what she was saying.
Painstakingly, in stammering French, Maeve sat up straighter and tried to explain more calmly and clearly what had happened. It was hard to think of the correct words when her heart was thumping with panic, but she tried her best. ‘There was a lady. Madame… something. Rémy, that was it! Madame Rémy. She’d fallen in the street. I stopped to help her.’ She paused, wincing as she recalled her own painful fall. ‘And while I was looking the other way, a motorcyclist came along and stole my bag.’
Glancing around though, she couldn’t see Madame Rémy anywhere, and wondered with a stab of betrayal if the woman had been in on the theft, maybe part of some Parisian bag-snatch gang. And the old lady had seemed so nice too.
Goodness. Had she only pretended to have fallen over to distract Maeve while her bag was stolen?
The man with black hair seemed to have accurately gauged her thoughts. He shook his head, bending to check her over with cool, efficient hands.
‘Madame Rémy is my grandmother,’ he said in excellent, barely accented English, and flashed her a wry grin when she studied him in surprise. ‘Yes, I speak English. My grandmother was horrified when that motorcyclist stole your bag. And I did try to stop him, pulling my car in front of the bike. But he still got away.’
Maeve recalled the car that had swerved into the motorcyclist’s path. So that had been him. ‘Well, thank you for trying, at least.’
‘You’re welcome. But look, don’t worry… This gendarme was on the corner and saw the whole thing. He’s already filed a report, so other police will be looking out for your thief.’ He stopped to study her face, frowning. ‘Meanwhile, you must let us help you, mademoiselle. You have a nasty swelling on your forehead and ought to be checked over at a hospital.’
Maeve thought that was a good idea. She probably ought to be seen at a hospital, as her head was throbbing. She might even have concussion after hitting her head on the pavement. And she felt guilty now about suspecting that poor old lady of being involved.
‘How is your grandmother?’ she asked meekly.
‘I don’t think her ankle is badly hurt. Just twisted. But I put her in a taxi and sent her to hospital with my sister anyway, while you were unconscious. Just in case she needs an X-ray.’
‘Goodness,’ she said, blinking. ‘how long was I unconscious?’
‘Not long. But we made you lie still until we were sure you hadn’t broken any bones. Don’t you remember?’
‘I don’t remember much,’ she said frankly. ‘Except letting go of the bag and banging my head. Which reminds me, if you do catch the motorcyclist, I’ll need my bag back urgently,’ she added in French, looking at the gendarme.
‘Of course, mademoiselle,’ the gendarme agreed, and took out a small tablet, which he proceeded to turn on. ‘Your name?’
‘Maeve Eden.’
‘And can you describe this bag, Mademoiselle Eden?’
‘A rucksack. It contains all my money, my travel documents, my phone, my souvenirs… Oh, and my passport!’ Shocked, the full weight of what had happened sinking in, she clasped both hands to her cheeks and stared up at them in horror. ‘My passport! I won’t be able to get back to England without a passport.’ Then she remembered something else and her eyes widened. ‘Oh crikey, the time! What time is it? Erm, quelle heure est-il?’
Madame Rémy’s grandson checked his watch. ‘A quarter past five.’
‘Quarter past – Oh Lord!’
Maeve struggled to get to her feet and began hobbling away, her head throbbing painfully. Then she stopped dead, realising she had no idea which way to go for their rendezvous point. Right, and then left, and then right again? She’d marked the rendezvous point in her travel notebook and on her city map. But both the map and notebook were in her rucksack. And her rucksack was somewhere in Paris, no doubt being emptied of her precious belongings at this very moment.
‘Mademoiselle, please… You need to sit down.’ The man in jeans had come after her. ‘You’re confused and in no fit state to go anywhere.’
‘But the coach tour… I have to get back to my coach, don’t you see?’ She was speaking in English again, her brain too frazzled to try communicating in a foreign language. ‘The coach was due to leave for Calais at five. Rendezvous at five o’clock sharp, Betsy said – she’s our tour guide – so I must find her and make her wait. Or I’ll miss the boat back home to England.’
‘But, mademoiselle, even if this Betsy has waited for you and the coach is still there, you don’t have a passport,’ the man pointed out gently in English. ‘So there’s no point attempting to reach Calais.’
She gulped. ‘Oh.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure it will be a simple enough matter to sort this out. First, you must give the gendarme a full description of your bag and its contents, then I will help you contact the British Embassy.’ He paused, looking a touch impatient when she said nothing but continued to look about wildly, as though wishing Betsy and her coach tour would appear and rescue her from this disaster. ‘But hospital before the Embassy, yes? You are not looking well, mademoiselle.’
She could see the good sense in that. ‘I suppose I should go to a hospital, yes,’ she said slowly, and batted away a stupid tear. Whatever was the point in crying? She never cried. Except perhaps at funerals or over old photographs. She was in shock, that was all. And the bang on the head wasn’t helping. ‘I expect Betsy won’t have waited for me, anyway. Five o’clock sharp, she said. Not five past. And certainly not a quarter past. Besides, even if you drove me to the coach right now, by the time we arrived…’
She was babbling, she realised, and moaned in despair. But the gendarme calmly led her back to the alcove seat and took her statement, noting down her name and British address, and what little she could remember of the theft, even taking the man’s name too, as he had been a witness too.
‘Leo Rémy,’ the man told him calmly.
‘Merci, Monsieur Rémy.’ The gendarme paused, studying him curiously, then added what sounded like, ‘Leo Rémy? The artist?’
‘Oui, c’est moi.’
Leo Rémy. The artist.
Maeve blinked, wondering what he meant but it hardly seemed a good time to ask. Besides, her head was aching again. Perhaps she really did have concussion.
Once the burly policeman had gone, reminding her to call at his police station in a day or two for any updates, Leo Rémy helped her towards his car. It was indeed the vehicle that had slewed across the path of the motorcycle, a sleek black car with blacked-out windows.
‘Hospital first,’ he reminded her, helping Maeve into the front seat of the car as carefully as though she were an invalid.
To her chagrin, Leo insisted on accompanying her into the hospital casualty department, a visit made even more awkward by her complete lack of documents. With no way of proving her identity or nationality, and with no method of payment available to her, Maeve struggled to assure the receptionists, nurses and doctors in turn that she had an NHS card guaranteeing free health care in France and would produce it as soon as the police caught her voleur. (Assuming they ever caught him or retrieved her belongings, that is, she thought grimly, but tried to stay positive.) The receptionist in particular had not seemed very confident in what she was saying and, in the end, Leo had to intervene, using his own bank card to pay for her treatment and ignoring Maeve’s repeated demands to be told his bank details so she could reimburse him as soon as humanly possible.
Once payment had been made, she was treated with impressive speed and efficiency, and only discharged from the emergency department once the doctors had concluded she was showing no signs of concussion. But she was given a list of worrying symptoms to watch out for – blurred vision, headache, dizziness, confusion or drowsiness – and told to come back for another check-up if anything didn’t feel right within the next few days.
Refusing to leave her to make her own way there on foot, Leo drove her to the British Embassy, even though it was late at night by then. But she had nowhere else to go, did she?
It was clear he didn’t want to leave her there, especially with the place mostly in darkness, but she’d decided enough was enough. The man was a perfect stranger, and although it was very kind of him to be driving her about like a taxi service, she was chafing at the bit to feel like less of a passenger in life and to take charge of her own destiny again.
‘Merci, Monsieur,’ she told him, holding up a firm hand as he attempted to follow her to the embassy entrance, ‘but I’ll take it from here. You’ve been very kind.’
Leo began to protest, but sighed and gave a weary shrug when Maeve glared at him. ‘Bien, but please take my telephone number, at least.’ He handed her a business card. ‘In case of any problems.’
‘Thank you. And… well, thank you,’ she said, flushing as she considered how rude she’d been. It wasn’t like her to be rude. But she had suffered a bang on the head and a tremendous shock, so maybe she should allow herself a little leeway on this occasion. ‘I’m really very grateful for all your help today, Monsieur Rémy.’
‘Leo,’ he corrected her, shook her hand, and headed back towards his car. ‘Au revoir, Mademoiselle Eden. Bonne chance.’
She hesitated as he walked away, suddenly uneasy, and had to restrain herself from calling him back.
It was ridiculous, of course. But now that the coach tour had well and truly departed for Calais, having probably reached it and the ferry by now, Leo was the only person she knew in Paris. Well, him and his elegant grandmother, Madame Rémy. And watching as he drove away with a final wave of his hand left her feeling distinctly alone and friendless.