'Within minutes, probably only a very few. Cyanide is one of the most rapidly lethal of all poisons. It disrupts the oxygen-carrying capacity of the blood the moment it's ingested.'
'Then we can certainly assume that it was in the wine,” Joly mused. He stood looking at the crime-scene crew taking their photographs and bustling around the corpse on their knees. One man was dusting the pieces of the broken carafe with black powder. “Are you getting any prints?” Joly asked him.
'Yes. More than one person's, I think.'
'Good.'
'But you know,” Gideon volunteered, “you wouldn't have had to touch the carafe if you wanted to put poison in it. In fact, you'd be crazy if you did.'
Joly gazed down his nose at him for a long moment, his lips pursed. “Thank you,” he said.
'You're very welcome.” Funny the way policemen never seem to be particularly appreciative when obliging laymen point out self-evident facts to them. “I think,” he said prudently, “that I'll get out of here and take another crack at those bones.'
Inspector Joly did not object.
* * * *
WHEN the manoir had been built, the stairwell in the southeast corner had evidently been housed in a massive tower. The tower itself had disappeared long ago, probably in some nineteenth-century remodeling, so that there was no sign of it from the outside. Inside, however, the worn stone steps still spiraled in their old cylindrical casing, and the landings were big, hexagonal chambers of bleak, gray stone, sparsely decorated with gloomy fragments of Greek and Roman statues, and furnished with a few appropriately austere wooden chairs and benches.
Fleury had taken the family members to the landing on the ground floor, through which Gideon had to pass on the way to the cellar, and there they stood or sat, alone or in small, grim clumps, looking put-upon, annoyed, or bewildered. There didn't seem to be much in the way of grieving, Gideon noted. Not surprising, given his own brief acquaintance with Claude.
Ray (one of the bewildered ones) approached him tentatively. “It wasn't a heart attack, then? I mean, with the police here and all...?'
Gideon led him a little away from the others; out of hearing. “It looks like the wine was poisoned, Ray.'
When his friend seemed more bewildered yet, Gideon said gently: “It looks like he was murdered.'
” ‘As if,’ “ Ray murmured automatically, off in his own world, “in both instances. Or ‘as though.’ “ He frowned dreamily while Gideon's words made their way through. “Murdered,” he finally said. “But why would anyone want to—” Guile was not one of Ray Schaefer's strong points, and Gideon saw his eyes widen at some unwelcome thought in the midst of his conventional response. “—to kill Claude?” he finished weakly and predictably.
Gideon studied him for a moment. “Ray, if you know something, you ought to mention it to Joly.'
'Oh, I don't know anything,” he said, dropping his eyes to stare at his toes. “Nothing important; nothing that could matter.” He paused and considered. “It's just ...well, there was some trouble during the war.'
'The war? You mean the Second World War?” He looked at Ray with interest. There were an awful lot of World War II vibrations bouncing around the Manoir de Rochebonne.
'Well, yes, sure. In 1942.” Ray wriggled and shifted. “Oh—it's just that Claude had a chance to warn some people that the Nazis were going to arrest them, but he didn't do it and the SS executed them. One of them was my Uncle Alain—my cousin, rather; Sophie's and Rene's brother— and I guess there were some hard feelings.'
'Yeah, I can see how there just might be.'
'Well, I mean
'I see.'
'And Mathilde was engaged to him before she married Rene. And—'
'Listen, Ray, if you're thinking about holding this back because you think it'll protect Sophie or Mathilde—'
'Me?” Ray said miserably and uttered an implausible laugh.
'—don't do it. Tell Joly what you know.'
'But I don't—Gideon, it was almost fifty years ago.'
'Ray, don't hide anything; it can wind up hurting whoever you're trying to help. Believe me.'
'Whomever,” Ray said, and retreated into a mute and uncharacteristic mumpishness.
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TEN
* * * *
WITH his slim, elegant fingers steepled before his lips and his elbows on the plain metal desk in Guillaume du Rocher's study, Joly read aloud from the note lying on the blotter in front of him. It had come from the bureau in Mathilde's room.
” ‘I have reached a decision on a matter of singular family importance,’ “ he read. “ ‘We will discuss it at Rochebonne on 16 March.’ You have no idea what he was referring to?'
Mathilde fingered the necklace of heavy gold links at her throat. “I'm afraid I don't,” she said flutily. “You do
