Old Bones

realize he sent the same note to everyone.'

Joly unsteepled his fingers. “You, your husband, and your son flew here from Germany—your husband giving up several days of work—without knowing why you were coming? Merely on your cousin's instructions to do so?'

'Yes, Inspector. Others came from considerably farther. There was nothing strange about it. When business matters of importance to the family arose, Guillaume would simply send for us, and we would come.'

'But you arrived Sunday, the day before. You had many chances to talk with him. The subject never arose?'

'Everyone arrived Sunday,” Mathilde said patiently. “Everyone had many chances to talk with him. I should be very surprised if any of them know any more than I do about it.'

'Not even Claude Fougeray?'

Mathilde's upper lip curled very slightly. “Claude least of all.'

'Claude and Guillaume were not on good terms?'

'I believe Claude Fougeray had not set foot in the manoir in over forty years.'

'And why was that, madame?'

Ah, a hesitation, a fleeting shift in the focus of her eyes, a gathering of resources for equivocation.

'Oh, he had some sort of falling out with Guillaume— ages ago, in the forties. I never knew the details. I was quite small at the time.'

You were seventeen at the time, madame, Joly said to himself, but he decided to let it go for the moment. There were more immediate matters.

'Madame du Rocher, can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Claude Fougeray?'

Mathilde's eyes lit up with happy malice. “Well, there is someone who comes to mind, but . . . no, it's ridiculous, and I'm not one to tell tales...” Her glittering fingers rose again to her necklace as she paused demurely.

With a small sigh Joly delivered what was expected of him. “Permit me to decide that, madame.'

'Very well, Inspector,” she said promptly. “I understand that most murders are committed by one's closest relatives. Isn't that so? Well, that's where I should look if I were you.” She rested her topmost chin on the next one down and eyed him meaningfully.

Joly did not enjoy coaxing, and he was not very good at it. And he didn't care for Mathilde du Rocher.

'If you have something to say, please say it clearly,” he said sharply.

She glared at him, as if deciding whether to punish him by holding back, but in the end her instincts won out, as he was sure they would. How often could opportunities like this fall into her lap?

'Leona Fougeray,” she said flatly, letting him know that he had taken the joy out of it for her, “is having an affair with a man in Rennes; an elderly, immensely wealthy widower who is eager to marry her. He is in his dotage, as I need hardly point out—or haven't you met Leona?'

'Briefly, madame. I should think she would find divorce a more delicate avenue than murder.” Damn. Sarcasm wasn't going to get him very far. Did he used to be more tolerant of mean and boring people, or was it his imagination?

'More delicate, perhaps,” Mathilde replied evenly, “but far slower, and with the disadvantage of requiring dealings with obstructive petty fonctionnaires.'

He looked at her with new respect.

'In addition,” she said, “Monsieur Gris is a devout Catholic. He would never marry a divorced woman. But a widow—well, that's a different story.'

'May I ask how you come to know this? Is it common knowledge?'

'In our family? I don't think so. I certainly have never talked about it; except with my husband, of course.” She glanced challengingly at him, but there was nothing to read in his eyes. “However, I happen to have a friend in Rennes who keeps me informed. You can rest assured that it's true.'

'I have no doubt of it.” He stood up. “Thank you for your help.” Joly was known among his colleagues for his abrupt interview terminations, which often shocked informants into giving more information than another twenty minutes of questioning might bring. He walked around the desk to the door of the study and opened it.

Mathilde watched him without getting up.

'Is there something more you wish to tell me?” he asked with a small smile.

'How,” she replied, “is this to be paid for?'

The smile disappeared. “Pardon, madame?'

'Am I expected to maintain the people you've ordered to remain here? Food is not free, and I'm sure you're aware that it's going to be some time before the estate is formally settled—'

'I didn't order them to stay here, I asked for their cooperation,” Joly said, drawing a finer point than he liked. “But I'm sure that if you speak with Monsieur Bonfante he'll arrange something.'

He sincerely hoped so. A complaint from the commanding Mathilde du Rocher to Monsieur Picard, the public prosecutor, was not something he wanted to think about. And now that he had a fresh murder on his hands, things would be getting even worse; there would be a juge d’ instruction riding herd on him as well. Pity the poor French detective. Did John Lau appreciate how simple his life in the FBI was? Joly doubted it.

He bowed Mathilde out, went back to the desk and jotted a few more sparse notes on the lined pad on which