The Secret Prophecy Page 4

  Em recognized him at once and felt his chest tighten. “I think we should get out of here.”

  “I haven’t paid for the citron pressés,” Charlotte said. “I’ll call a waiter.”

  “Don’t do that,” Em told her quickly. He leaned forward. “How do you know he was following us?”

  “I saw him in the street earlier. He—”

  “Outside the hotel?” Em interrupted.

  Charlotte shook her head. “No—later. When we were crossing the bridge. And then when we turned down the boulevard, he pretended to look in a shop window. You know, the way they do in detective movies.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wasn’t sure,” Charlotte said. “It might just have been a coincidence. Then when I saw him at the table . . .” She hesitated. “You don’t think it’s a coincidence, do you?”

  Em shook his head. “I’ve seen him before.”

  She was quick off the mark: “So he’s not following us, he’s following you?”

  “I suppose,” Em said.

  “Why?” Charlotte asked.

  Em had just been asking himself that question. Why had he pretended it never happened? Why had he pretended the man wasn’t really carrying a gun at his father’s funeral? Or that he hadn’t seen the same man on the train? “I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

  “I’ll call the waiter,” Charlotte volunteered again.

  “We don’t have time!” Em hissed urgently. His mind was racing at top speed. “It’s me he’s following, but he knows we’re together now. I want you to stand up and walk directly toward him, then go into the main restaurant as if you’re looking for a loo. He’s bound to focus on you since you’re moving; and when he does, I’ll slip away. If you go straight through the restaurant, there’s bound to be another way out. It’ll be easy to throw him off since he’s not following you anyway. We can meet back at the hotel.”

  “He may know where we’re staying.”

  “You saw him on the bridge, not outside the hotel.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “That doesn’t mean anything; maybe I just didn’t notice him before. I think we should meet up somewhere else. How about the main entrance to the Musée d’Orsay? You remember—we passed it on the way.”

  “Yes, all right,” Em muttered. Although he was working hard to control it, there was more than a hint of panic rising from his stomach. “Now will—?”

  But Charlotte hadn’t finished. “It’ll never be enough for me just to wander off looking for a restroom. You leave this to me. Once I have his attention, you slip away.” She stood up abruptly. “See you at the museum.”

  “No, wait a—” But it was too late. She was already weaving her way through the tables, headed toward the man in the linen suit. For a moment he thought she was going to follow the plan he’d suggested, but she walked past the door to the main part of the restaurant and directly up to the man’s table. Em’s view was blocked for a second, then he heard a sudden shout, part anger, part pain. The man in the suit was on his feet, gesticulating. Charlotte seemed to be talking to him urgently, her words lost in the general buzz of conversation in the colonnade.

  Em moved without thinking. He ran along one of the lines of schoolchildren, cut across the square, then dived behind the empty coach, which was crawling forward at a snail’s pace because of the milling tourists. With no trouble keeping up, he looked around wildly, trying to work out an escape route. It occurred to him that if he could keep the bus between him and the man for another fifty yards, he could take one of the side streets without being seen. Then, if he made it to a corner—or even another side street—he would be free and clear without the man having the slightest idea where he’d gone.

  The bus stopped suddenly and so did Em. They were too far from the side street for him to reach it unseen. But if he stayed where he was, he might be discovered. He crept toward the front, hoping to find out why the driver had stopped. If it was simply because of the press of pedestrians, he would move on again in a moment. But if he was preparing to park, Em was in real trouble.

  He slowed as he neared the bus’s entrance door so the driver wouldn’t see him. He still had no idea why the vehicle had stopped and began to debate the wisdom of moving away from it a little to get a clearer view. Then a better idea occurred to him and he dropped down to look between the wheels. So far as he could tell, they were nowhere near a parking bay, but there was a steady stream of people ahead. He was climbing back to his feet when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

  “Yipes!” Em started in shock, then spun around, bit the hand, and jerked himself free. He was poised to run for his life when he realized he was facing the waiter who had served them in the colonnade.

  “Six euros cinquante, s’il vous plaît!” the waiter hissed. He’d obviously abandoned his English for he added, “Pour les deux boissons.”

  Three euros twenty-five seemed a lot for a glass of stuff that turned your mouth inside out. But that was beside the point. The focus of Em’s mind was that he had two euro coins in his pocket—not enough to pay for the drinks—and a twenty euro note in his wallet that would certainly pay for both drinks but leave him waiting for change, and he hadn’t time to do that. So unless the waiter kept the change, which Em didn’t want either—it was all the money he had, for Pete’s sake!—his only option, his only option . . .

  Em ran. He ran for the side street. Which meant he ran out from behind the cover of the coach.

  He’d scarcely covered fifteen yards when he heard Charlotte scream.

  Em spun around, almost losing his balance. He was right out in the open now, completely exposed. But the man in the linen suit was otherwise engaged. Four waiters were gathered around him, gesticulating furiously. Every patron in the colonnade was looking in his direction. Charlotte seemed to be weeping, comforted by an elderly woman with blue-rinse hair. She looked over the woman’s shoulder directly at Em. And winked.

  Em twisted around again and ran for the side street. Minutes later, he’d left the Louvre far behind.

  Chapter 10

  It took Em nearly an hour to find his way to the Musée d’Orsay. Although it wasn’t far from the Louvre, he’d forgotten he had to cross the river again and wasted time wandering along various mysterious rues before he plucked up the courage to ask directions in French. By contrast with the Louvre, there were no queues at any of the four entrances; but to his dismay there was no sign of Charlotte waiting outside either.

  He hung around for a few minutes wondering what to do. He’d taken the wink to mean she was all right; and the man in the linen suit had certainly seemed to have his hands full. But suppose Em had misread the scene? Suppose Charlotte had been in trouble and he’d simply run away, leaving her to it?

  A more likely, but only slightly less disturbing thought occurred to him. Suppose she was waiting for him inside the museum?

  This whole little adventure, which was just supposed to be an hour or so exploring Paris, had turned into a bit of a nightmare. He’d run away from a café without paying. There was a strange man following him. (A strange man known to carry a gun, a voice in his mind reminded him.) He had only twenty-two euros in his pocket, and he had no idea how much admission to the Musée d’Orsay might be. Why couldn’t girls just do what they said they’d do and wait outside the entrance?

  He walked hesitantly inside and then took his courage in his hands and marched up to the ticket desk. “Combien?” he asked.

  The ticket clerk was a matronly woman who looked at him benignly. “Quel âge avez vous, jeune homme?”

  What age? Em licked his lips. “J’ai . . . ,” he said hesitantly. That was right, wasn’t it? The French said “I have so many years” not “I am so many years.” He watched the woman’s face for signs of confusion. “J’ai moins de dix-huit ans.”

  The woman smiled. “Ensuite, l’entrée est gratuite.”

  Em stared at her for a moment, then smiled back.

  He found Charlotte on a be
nch outside the library room. She jumped to her feet the moment she saw him. “Where have you been? I’ve been sitting here for hours!”

  “Are you all right?” Em asked. Then, without waiting for her to answer, “What happened?”

  Charlotte grinned. “I spilled coffee on his lap, then when he got cross, I told the waiters he was threatening me.” She pursed her lips mischievously. “It was all a big misunderstanding.”

  “And you’re sure he didn’t follow you here?”

  “Absolutely,” Charlotte said. “I was long gone before the waiters were finished with him. By the way, you owe me three euros twenty-five—I paid for your drink.” She reached for his hand and drew him down beside her on the bench. “Now you must tell me what this is all about. Tell me everything.”

  She looked at him expectantly; and Em, with a sudden flooding of relief, told her everything.

  “Your mother thinks your Dad was murdered?” Charlotte asked incredulously when he finally ground to a halt.

  Em nodded miserably.

  “Was he?”

  Em shook his head vigorously. “No, of course not. He just caught some sort of superbug.”

  “Then why would your mum think he was?”

  That was the thing Em hadn’t mentioned. He took a deep breath. “Mum hasn’t really been the same since Dad died.”

  To his surprise she didn’t even pursue it. Instead she said soberly, “That man was carrying a gun at your father’s funeral. Even if your dad wasn’t murdered, there’s something going on.”

  Of course there was something going on! His father had died when he was supposed to be getting better. There were strangers at the funeral—not just the man with the gun, but lots of other people he didn’t know. His father’s study was ransacked—not their whole home, the way you’d expect from burglars, but just the study. And now Em was being followed . . . all the way to France. Why? He could only nod helplessly.

  Charlotte took charge at once. “Well, the first thing obviously is to find out what’s going on. Until you do that, there’s not much else you can do. You need to mount an investigation.” She made it sound as if he was a government department with all the resources of the nation behind him. He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him short. “We can do it together, if you like.”

  Em closed his mouth again. He was an only child; his mother had her own worries; and his father, when he was alive, had been a very busy academic. Em had become so used to doing things on his own that he scarcely noticed it. Now he felt an entirely unexpected emotion: a flooding warmth, combined with gratitude and something that could only be surprise. “Would you really?” he asked.

  “Would I really what?”

  “Help me.”

  “I’ve already helped you,” Charlotte said. “Who do you think poured the coffee on the rude man’s lap?”

  The rude man? That was how Charlotte thought of a threatening figure with dark glasses and a gun? Despite everything, Em felt the ghost of a smile begin to crawl across his face. He pushed it away in case she misunderstood and said seriously, “You know this could be dangerous.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Charlotte said, and continued to look at him.

  “All right,” Em said. “Yes, sorry, thank you. Yes, I’d like your help, thank you, if that’s all right.” He hesitated. “Where do we start?”

  “With Whistler’s Mother,” Charlotte said.

  He stared at her.

  “I’ve always wanted to see the original,” Charlotte told him. “They have it here somewhere.”

  They walked between the two stone lions and up a short flight of steps into the main body of the museum. “What did your father do?” Charlotte asked.

  “You know what he did. Taught late medieval and Renaissance history at the university.”

  “No, when he wasn’t teaching. Did he have any strange hobbies or interests . . . ?”

  “You think this has something to do with my father?”

  “It was his funeral the strange people turned up at,” Charlotte said, “including the one who followed us today. You may not have known them, but you can be sure he did. Or rather, you can be sure they knew him. Was he working with other people on some project, maybe outside the university?”

  Em shook his head, frowning. “Not that I know of. All he seemed to think about was Nostradamus. He was writing a book about him.”

  “The prophet Nostradamus? The one who predicted the Twin Towers?”

  Em shook his head again. “That was a fake—just something that went around the internet.”

  “So he was no good?”

  “No, I don’t mean Nostradamus was a fake. The Twin Towers thing was a fake; somebody wrote the prophecy after it happened and put Nostradamus’s name on it to make it look good. Actually, Nostradamus seems to have been okay. He definitely made some prophecies that came true.”

  “Did he think he ever made an accurate prophecy about the present day?” Charlotte asked. “I mean, like who’s going to be the next president of the United States, or whether there’ll be another war in the Middle East or something?”

  “Dad was very wary about stuff like that,” Em said seriously. “He used to say it was easy to find a prediction after the event. I mean, you could take something crazy like Sarah Palin winning the Nobel Prize for logic, then go through all the prophecies—Nostradamus wrote hundreds of them—and find one you could make fit. But it’s another thing to find a prophecy that tells you clearly in advance that Sarah Palin is going to do something or other. Know what I mean?”

  “I think so,” Charlotte said doubtfully.

  “What Dad was getting at—” Em began, then stopped, frowning. “You don’t think whatever’s going on has something to do with Nostradamus, do you?”

  “I think it has something to do with your father,” Charlotte said. “And since you say his only interest was Nostradamus, then maybe it does have something to do with him.”

  “I don’t see how . . . ,” Em told her honestly.

  “Neither do I,” Charlotte said, “but just suppose this book your father was writing was, like, bestseller material, the most popular book about Nostradamus ever; and some publisher was going to buy it for millions. Maybe the man with the coffee stain wants to steal the manuscript and pass it off as his own so he makes the millions.”

  “Not very likely.” The most any of his dad’s books had ever sold was just short of two thousand copies. None of them made even thousands of pounds, let alone millions.

  “It would fit in with the robbery. Or rather the not-robbery. They only went into your father’s study, and they were obviously searching for something. You say there was nothing missing, but did you actually check on the manuscript?”

  Em hadn’t actually checked on anything. That was something else he’d left to his mother. “Not as such,” Em said uncertainly.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Charlotte told him. “I doubt they have it anyway.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If they got what they wanted, they wouldn’t still be following us.” Charlotte stopped suddenly. “Oh look,” she said. “There’s Whistler’s Mother.”

  Chapter 11

  Tom Peterson wasn’t a particularly good-looking man, but he had one of those fresh, plump, open faces that people instinctively liked and trusted. At the moment it was frowning slightly. “Why the sudden interest in Nostradamus?” he asked as he negotiated a forkful of mussels into his mouth.

  Charlotte shrugged casually. They’d decided, after a long discussion, not to tell him the whole story, not to tell him anything about being followed; but he’d still been Em’s father’s best friend and might know something useful. “No reason,” she said. “Just wondering what you thought of Nostradamus. Like, could he have made predictions about the present day? Could he have made real predictions at all?” She glanced briefly at Em.

  “Actually, there is a reason,” Em put in. He felt uncomfortable cutting Tom out of the loop, but both
he and Charlotte were worried that Tom might not believe the story about men with guns and being followed. Somehow it all seemed too much like a paperback thriller. Em licked his lips. “My dad was writing a book about him before he died. I wondered if he ever showed it to you?”

  “Oh, his famous Life of Nostradamus? He used to bore us all silly about it on the faculty. He showed me an early draft of the first few chapters, but that was years ago. Are you interested in the subject, Em?”

  “Sort of,” Em said vaguely.

  They were together in the dining hall of their hotel, a smallish room with highly polished tables and flocked wallpaper. The only other people in the place were an elderly couple seated near the window and a family group of four by the door who chatted loudly in French.

  “Did he ever talk to you about the secret prophecy?” Tom asked him.

  Em looked at him blankly. “What secret prophecy?”

  Tom took a sip of his Pouilly-Fuissé—he’d ordered a half bottle for himself and a liter of Coca-Cola for Charlotte and Em—and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “He mentioned something to me once about finding a secret prophecy by Nostradamus. One that didn’t appear in any of his published works. I thought he might have said something to you about it, but obviously he didn’t.”

  “No . . . ,” Em said thoughtfully. A secret prophecy sounded intriguing. “What did he tell you?”

  A mildly pained look crossed Tom’s face. “I don’t remember exactly. I think he said he’d come across some sixteenth-century documents that referred to an unpublished prophecy. They couldn’t have been Nostradamus originals—otherwise it would have been all over the newspapers—but he was still pretty excited. I suppose he thought he might be on the track of something.”