There was very little blood on those stones. I consoled myself with that, and with the knowledge that it would have happened quickly. For all it was a wicked drop, he would have fallen faster than his mind could register the fact. It helped a little, thinking that.

There were people talking round me and from both below and overhead the noise of traffic rose and fell, but oddly enough the only sound that truly penetrated was the closer whining of bees – not the portly languid insects so familiar to my garden, but a smaller, nastier-looking variety, as pale as the stone of the high wall behind them. They were everywhere, those bees, drifting amongst the white mist-like flowers of a grasping vine hanging from the weathered stone. The flowers were nasty as well, and the smell of them clawed at the back of my throat. It was an evil putrid scent, like roses left to rot on the rubbish heap.

I turned away from it. Neil was standing two steps down, his shoulders propped against the wall. He straightened as I came back down towards him, but he didn’t say a word – he just fell into step beside me, understanding. With one last ragged backward glance, I turned and let him lead me down to the fountain square, away from the place where young Paul Lazarus had died.

The brandy burned. My second sip was much too large, but I coughed a little, forced it down, and raised the glass again. It was odd, I thought, how the mind behaved so differently in times of stress. Mine grasped at detail, any detail, anything that might distract it from the thoughts that brought it pain.

I counted three pink petals clinging to the lone geranium that drooped against the window of the hotel bar. Four cigarette ends jumbled in the ashtray in front of me: two left there by Madame Chamond, edged with rich red lipstick; two taken from the pack I’d found in Paul’s coat pocket, stuffed beside Ulysses. I had smoked them to the filter, till the paper curled and burned. Another sip of brandy washed the acrid taste away.

The Chamonds had moved off a discreet distance to the cushioned bar stools, respectfully out of earshot, yet near enough to lend support. Madame Chamond had cried. I saw the smudge of shadow at the corner of one eye, and the specks of black mascara that bore witness to her tears. Monsieur Chamond, grim-faced, reached out to shield her hand with his. I looked away.

Across from me the young policeman with the tired eyes made one more scribble in his notebook. He was sitting in the place where Paul usually sat, and I hated him for it. But then, I thought with a sigh, I was tired myself and still in shock and anything but rational. And we’d gone over all these questions once, already.

The policeman glanced up, reading my mood. ‘I know, Madame, this must be trying for you, but it’s necessary that I ask these questions, you understand. The boy’s brother can’t tell us much. He was in the château when it happened. And you have spent much time with the … with Monsieur Lazarus.’

‘Enough time to know he didn’t kill himself.’ The police, I knew, thought differently. It didn’t take an expert to interpret all those questions. Was Paul a happy person? Had he been depressed of late? Did he have a stable family? On and on the questions probed and prodded, dozens of them, variations on a theme. ‘He wouldn’t kill himself,’ I said, to make it absolutely clear. ‘He was very happy with his life.’

‘I see.’

‘He loved his family very much.’ I looked away again, and focused on the pink geranium. The sun was nearly gone now, and the light was weak. It would be early afternoon in Canada. Paul’s mother would no doubt be busily at work somewhere, preparing for the holy day of Yom Kippur, not knowing that her son … I struck a match and the flame trembled as I touched it to my third cigarette. ‘I can’t believe,’ I said, ‘that no one saw what happened.’

‘It is unfortunate.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘But this is market day, of course, and most people are down here, in the Centre Ville. They aren’t up visiting the château.’

‘But there must be residents, surely. People who have houses on that road.’

‘They saw only your friend sitting alone on the wall. It’s a low wall, where the road is – waist-height, but on the other side …’ He shrugged, and let the image form itself. Not that I needed reminding. I’d seen the deadly drop, myself – I knew the likelihood of somebody surviving.

‘If he did not jump, this friend of yours,’ said the policeman, ‘then he must have fallen. Perhaps he lost his balance, sitting there.’

‘Or perhaps someone pushed him.’

‘Perhaps. It is my job to look at all the possibilities.’ His face looked almost kind at that moment, and I gathered my courage, drawing a deep breath so that my next words came out on a kind of endless rushing current.

‘Then you might want to ask questions of another man, Monsieur. A gypsy, with a dog, who often hangs about the fountain square.’

‘Oh, yes?’ The pencil halted on the page, and he raised his eyebrows expectantly. ‘And why would I wish to question him?’

I told him everything, beginning with the man who’d written to Harry – the man Paul had believed was Didier Muret – and ending with our final conversation by the river, just that morning, when the gypsy had followed Paul into the market-day crowd. The young policeman took notes politely. He even asked me, once or twice, to clarify a point. But it was plain from his expression, so carefully-schooled, so bland about the eyes, that he thought I was off my trolley.

‘I see.’ He flipped back a page in his notebook. ‘You say your cousin left a message, Madame? And that you did not worry about him, at first, because it was his habit to change his mind, is that correct?’




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