She picked up his jacket and brushed it to remove the worst of the grass and mud, then handed it to him.
“Thanks.” He shrugged into it. “So, why do you say mystery?” He nodded towards the arch.
She flicked through her notebook. “This is what I found in the library. Margo Guiffeaux’s Arch.” Then she read:
“It is said that a great French lord built it for his bride, Margo. During the 17thcentury, a small chapel was built in the clearing where marriage ceremonies were held. Nothing remains of the chapel but the arch continues to be regarded as blessing for nuptials. As late as the 19thcentury, many weddings were held here but that tradition died out after the island was invaded by the Germans during WWII.”
“Do you think he really was French?” Gabriel asked, pointing at the spelling on her notepad. “Because they normally spell Margot with a T.”
It was a surprisingly astute question; Pierre herself had been wondering. “A lot of names on the island are a mangled Franco-English.”
“Margo sounds much better than” — He narrowed his eyes thinking — “What was the old-fashioned name...Meg?”
“It could be Margot, short for Margaritte,” she agreed. “Or it could be something else entirely. Not even a name.”
“I like the way your mind works.” He was still looking at the arch through the viewfinder on his camera. He didn’t take any photos, but he looked very thoughtful. “So, what kind of ‘something else’?”
Somehow his interest sharpened hers, as if doors were opening inside her mind, doors that had been closed and abandoned since her university days.
“The practice of naming things after women, like ships and buildings,” she said. “That’s relatively modern. Usually, late Middle Ages and Renaissance. But this arch is much older. The ruins look tenth- or eleventh-century. So, I wonder if it really was named after a woman or…”
“Or a man called Margaritte?” He laughed, crooking his arm to make his biceps pop to demonstrate.
She giggled. “I was going to say it might have been named something else, then renamed Margo later.”
But the thought returned as she folded her notebook. Gabriel unscrewed his lens and packed the camera back into its bag.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” she said. “We assume it’s French, but what if it wasn’t at all...”
She stopped talking because Gabriel was scuffing his boot on something on the ground.
“What is it now?”
“I’m guessing from the much-flattened field they have some kind of regular people gathering.” He kicked at a pile of blackened logs. “They have picnics or barbecues here?”
“I don’t know,” she said absentmindedly. Someone had mentioned something about…What was it? A festival or some such. It wasn't supposed to take place again this year.
“What?” He walked back towards her.
She shook her head, hoping to reshuffle her thoughts. “I don’t know, someone mentioned something.” She shook her head again, unable to remember. “I keep thinking harvest festival, but it can’t be, can it?”
“Well, not in February,” he said.
They stood side by side, watching the clearing.
“Do you remember who told you?” he asked.
“No, it’s ages ago, I was buying honey—” Then it hit her. “Of course. Hedge!”
“The Hedge Festival?”
She shoved her notebook into her coat pocket. “No, Hedge is a man. He told me.”
“Perhaps we can go and ask him.” He followed her out of the clearing.
When she didn’t answer, he said, “If you don’t mind me tagging along.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “I just thought…well…the village is in the opposite direction, to St Mary’s church.” She checked her watch and was shocked to see it was noon already. They had spent a lot of time here. “By the time we’re finished with the church, it’ll be too late to go to the village. Dark comes early this time of year and we don’t have lights at night here.”
