The Mask of Destiny by Richard Newsome

at the start of a narrow ribbon of elevated roadway that stretched into the bay—the only way onto the island. Ruby wrapped her arms across her chest, bracing herself against the chill of the sea breeze.
    â€˜I’ll secure the chopper,’ Mr Fry said. ‘I understand there’s a hotel on the island. I suggest you go ahead and book some rooms there. I’ll follow shortly.’
    Gerald pulled his backpack onto his shoulders as Mr Fry started the process of tying down the chopper’s rotor blades. ‘You should go back to London,’ Gerald said. ‘Right away. Tell them I ordered you to fly around in circles to put the police off our track while we took a train to Scotland, or something.’
    Mr Fry paused in his efforts. He looked at the Archer corporate logo on the side of the helicopter—an archer at full draw set against a blazing sun. ‘Young sir,’ he said. ‘Your great aunt may have thought me worth little more than a set of teaspoons, or so it would seem from her will, but in your hour of need, the name of Fry— St John Fry—will not be doubted. I shall stay the course.’
    Fry stood tall, his broad-chested physique silhouetted against the lights of the island. Waves slapped against the side of the causeway and the wind whipped across the marshland behind them.
    â€˜Wow,’ said Sam. ‘Way to go, St John.’
    The waves sent plumes of spray across the roadway as Gerald, Sam and Ruby made their way to the island. Water reached high on either side as they neared the castle gates. Gerald shifted his pack on his shoulders and stared up at the sheer stone walls that loomed over them.
    â€˜I thought Beaconsfield looked creepy at night,’ he said. ‘But this is something else.’
    They ascended a ramp towards the fortified entryway, past a huge French flag snapping in the wind. Gerald suddenly realised they were in France and a jolt of excitement shot through him. They were on the hunt again. And despite everything—the accusation of murder, the escape from London—he found himself alive with the prospect of fresh adventure.
    He glanced at his watch. ‘Almost midnight,’ he said. ‘There’d better be a room at this hotel.’
    They passed through the city gates—two enormous wooden portals that looked like they’d stood sentinel over the castle for centuries—and under a portcullis, its rusted spikes pointing to the ground. A cobbled laneway wound ahead of them. It was so narrow people leaning from the high windows on either side of the street could have shaken each other by the hand. A line of street lamps, like orbs of yellow mist suspended in the air, lit the way. Finally, they saw a shingle hanging above a doorway: ‘Hôtel de St Michel’. Light filtered out through glass panels in the door.
    Gerald pushed his way inside. A bell above the door tinkled.
    A dark wooden counter filled the tiny reception area. From behind it, a man stirred. He peered at Gerald over the top of his newspaper with an eye wary of late night arrivals.
    â€˜ Oui ?’
    â€˜Uh, bonjour, monsieur ,’ Ruby said.
    â€˜ Bonsoir, mademoiselle ,’ the man replied. His eyes darted from Ruby to Gerald to Sam.
    â€˜Oh yeah,’ Ruby stammered. ‘Evening. Um, avezvous une chambre pour la nuit ?’
    â€˜You want a room?’ the man said. ‘Just the three of you?’
    â€˜We’ve got a, um, guardian,’ Gerald said. ‘He’s just coming.’
    â€˜He had to lock up the helicopter,’ Sam said.
    The man’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Helicopter?’ he said. ‘You came here in a helicopter?’
    Ruby flashed Sam a furious look. ‘No, of course not. How would we ever get a helicopter?’ she said.
    The man rubbed a hand down his chin. ‘I thought I heard something. Just before.’
    â€˜No, no—just my brother’s idea of a joke,’ Ruby said.