Old Bones

Don't forget, Guillaume had already killed that SS pig a few hours before, in revenge for his death. His supposed death.” She glanced up irritably at the ring of rapt faces. “Will you all sit down, for heaven's sake? I feel like a—I don't know what. And don't look so ludicrously glum. This happened forty-five years ago.'

They dropped obediently into chairs, pulling them around to face her. Gideon leaned against one end of a marble-topped side table, John against the other. Only Marcel and Beatrice, next to invisible, remained standing at the edge of the room.

'I had to pull Guillaume from Alain's throat,” Mathilde said. “I was so shocked and happy to see him alive I barely knew what I was doing. He was terribly weak from what they'd done to him. I took him to the kitchen to see if there was some brandy and something to eat. He tried to explain to Guillaume that he'd tried with all his strength to hold out, but Guillaume was beside himself, screaming with rage.'

'No,” Sophie said, almost to herself, “how could that be? I was here. If there was shouting in the kitchen I would have heard it from my room.'

'No, my dear, you're forgetting. You were hysterical. Guillaume made you take a sleeping pill at dinnertime. You were only ten, you know.'

'Was I only ten? Yes, that's right,” Sophie said slowly, remembering. “But Rene?” She looked at him. “You didn't hear?'

'I can sleep through anything,” he said. “I always could.'

'Go on, Mathilde,” Ben said.

Mathilde sipped minutely at the vermouth. “Guillaume came into the kitchen after us. He threw Alain against the wall, he knocked him down, he—I truly believe he would have killed him if Alain hadn't . . .” For the first time she faltered.

'...stabbed him with one of the kitchen knives,” Gideon said.

'Oh, no,” Claire said, her fingers at her mouth. There were more gasps.

'Yes,” Mathilde said. “Guillaume had raised a fist over his head like some patriarch in the Bible—he was using it like a club—and Alain, to save himself, snatched up a huge knife from the counter and stabbed him. Once only, before I could move.” Her lids flickered momentarily. “Guillaume looked so terribly surprised.'

Gideon caught John's eye and nodded. It jibed perfectly with what they'd learned from the skeleton: the upraised arm, the heavy kitchen knife, the single thrust.

'And that's the story,” Mathilde said with a shrug. “Guillaume was dead, and Alain ran off, half out of his mind with remorse. I had no idea what to do. I told everyone Guillaume had gone to join the Resistance. I didn't mention Alain at all.'

'You said Alain ran off?” Sophie said dazedly. “Where?'

'He did join the Resistance; in the north. He was very brave,” Mathilde said defiantly. “He wasn't a coward, and he was no traitor.” She had finished the vermouth and Marcel stepped forward with another. Mathilde shook her head and handed him the empty glass. “The next time I saw him he was in the hospital in Saint Servan. I walked into a room and there in the bed, all—all crumpled, like a —'

And suddenly the whole starchy edifice came tumbling down. Her lips trembled, her fingers jerked on the pearls, and a single, hoarse, manlike sob was wrenched painfully out of her.

And no wonder, Gideon thought. What must it have been like when it dawned on that nineteen-year-old girl with skin like rose petals that the maimed, twisted horror lying in a crushed heap on the bed was her handsome, athletic lover?

Rene stood up, his arms outstretched. “My dear Mathilde—'

She sent him back into his chair with a peremptory wave. From somewhere she produced a little handkerchief and dabbed at her nose. The red splotches that had sprung out on her cheeks were already almost gone. The entire emotional outburst had consisted of the one tearless sob.

'Alain had no idea that Guillaume's death was still a secret,” she said, the handkerchief disappearing into wherever it had come from. “We decided the best thing was for him to pretend to be Guillaume. He didn't think he could carry it off, but I knew he could. They were so similar in physique to begin with, and with his body so broken, who could say for sure that he wasn't Guillaume?” She stared coolly around her, completely in control of herself again. “And of course he did carry it off. For forty-five years.'

'But why?” Ray asked. “Everyone believed Guillaume was off fighting. Couldn't you have let it go at that and just let people assume he'd been killed somewhere?'

'Yes,” Ben said. “Why the pretense?'

'Well.” Mathilde fingered her pearls and pursed her lips. It was a critical question, and Gideon could feel a fabrication in the making.

So did John. He made his first contribution, and it showed that he was doing fine. “Because you knew that under Guillaume's old will Claude Fougeray would inherit everything.'

Leona Fougeray, whose grasp of English was not as good as some of the others', sat up at her husband's name and shot a series of staccato questions at her daughter in French.

Mathilde waited until Claire's brief, embarrassed explanations were done, then answered John. “Yes, you're quite right. It was Alain's idea, actually.'

Leona snorted her disbelief.

'No, really, it was. It was important to him that the domaine stay with the du Rochers. The thought that it might go to Claude was horrible to him. I agreed with him.” She looked at Claire. “I'm sorry, my dear. I'm sure you understand.'

Claire didn't look as if she understood, but Leona did. “Sure you agreed,” she said in her Italian-accented French, her voice rising shrilly. “You knew everything would come to you one day!'

'That,” Mathilde scoffed unconvincingly, “is patently ridiculous.'