at the start of a narrow ribbon of elevated roadway that stretched into the bayâthe only way onto the island. Ruby wrapped her arms across her chest, bracing herself against the chill of the sea breeze.
âIâll secure the chopper,â Mr Fry said. âI understand thereâs a hotel on the island. I suggest you go ahead and book some rooms there. Iâll follow shortly.â
Gerald pulled his backpack onto his shoulders as Mr Fry started the process of tying down the chopperâs rotor blades. âYou should go back to London,â Gerald said. âRight 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.â
Mr Fry paused in his efforts. He looked at the Archer corporate logo on the side of the helicopterâan archer at full draw set against a blazing sun. âYoung sir,â he said. âYour 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 Fryâ St John Fryâwill not be doubted. I shall stay the course.â
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.
âWow,â said Sam. âWay to go, St John.â
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.
âI thought Beaconsfield looked creepy at night,â he said. âBut this is something else.â
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 everythingâthe accusation of murder, the escape from Londonâhe found himself alive with the prospect of fresh adventure.
He glanced at his watch. âAlmost midnight,â he said. âThereâd better be a room at this hotel.â
They passed through the city gatesâtwo enormous wooden portals that looked like theyâd stood sentinel over the castle for centuriesâand 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: âHôtel de St Michelâ. 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
âUh, bonjour, monsieur ,â Ruby said.
â Bonsoir, mademoiselle ,â the man replied. His eyes darted from Ruby to Gerald to Sam.
âOh yeah,â Ruby stammered. âEvening. Um, avezvous une chambre pour la nuit ?â
âYou want a room?â the man said. âJust the three of you?â
âWeâve got a, um, guardian,â Gerald said. âHeâs just coming.â
âHe had to lock up the helicopter,â Sam said.
The manâs eyebrows shot up. âHelicopter?â he said. âYou came here in a helicopter?â
Ruby flashed Sam a furious look. âNo, of course not. How would we ever get a helicopter?â she said.
The man rubbed a hand down his chin. âI thought I heard something. Just before.â
âNo, noâjust my brotherâs idea of a joke,â Ruby said.