Page 7 of The Paris Trip

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?’

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