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agony.
    â€˜ Bon. That is how it should be,’ said Jouvet. ‘There has been a murder, yes, and the Inspector here has come all the way from Paris seeking answers. Your continued silence is mandatory even if it has to last for the next ten days.’
    Christ!
    These students were the little ones from the ages of four to seven or eight, but it was exactly the same in the upstairs room. Not a whisper.
    â€˜They aren’t just afraid of you,’ breathed Kohler. ‘They’re terrified.’
    â€˜As they should be.’
    The view from the promenade des Falaises was lovely, a Lilliputian landscape with distant rows of tall, spindly poplars along the roadsides and boundaries but St-Cyr had no time for it. ‘Madame, I must ask you some difficult questions. Please, if at any time you feel it is too much, simply say so.’
    A nod would suffice, for he was trying to be kind. The Inspector fiddled with his pipe, deciding to ration himself, but when she asked for another cigarette, he readily gave it up as if he had plenty.
    â€˜Your husband, madame …’ he began and she thought, Yes, he would start with André and she would have to tell him something, though suddenly maman was no longer here to advise her, to direct, to say, You must give him only a little.
    â€˜André was not always like this,’ she hazarded softly.
    She did not avoid his gaze. He must be gentle. ‘But things have never been good?’
    Her shrug said, Why should you care? Life’s like that sometimes.
    â€˜My husband always felt he had married beneath him, Inspector.’
    â€˜But was your mother aware of this?’
    Why must he ask it? Why? What had he found at the cave or in that valley? ‘ Maman believed each married couple should stay together, no matter what.’
    â€˜That is not what I asked.’
    Her look was one of instant betrayal. ‘Have you found something?’ she asked sharply and turned away to seek the distant scarps and wooded hills where the murder had occurred. Ash was irritably flicked from her cigarette. ‘Mother didn’t know of it. There, does that satisfy you?’
    She clenched a fist. He waited. He never took his eyes from her. She could feel him memorizing every last feature, the tears and how they could not stop, the chin — was it not a little proud? The bruise … the throat as she swallowed. ‘We … we exchanged letters every week, Inspector. Sometimes twice and even three times. Sometimes mother would telephone the post office here and … and Monsieur Coudinec, the facteur , would send his son to fetch me.’
    He hated himself for pressing her. ‘And these letters, madame, these telephone calls, was your husband aware of them?’
    Behind the tears, her smile, though crooked, was soft and forgiving. ‘There are no secrets, are there, in a little place like this? André often knew of the calls and intercepted her letters and read them. He knew maman hated him for what he was doing to me but also he knew she despised him for having proved her judgement so wrong in the choice of a husband for me.’
    â€˜And the letters you wrote to your mother?’
    â€˜He did not read them. That was not possible but … but mother kept them just as she kept everything I ever did. The notice of my first communion, the little cards of greeting I made for her at Christmas and for her birthday and that of my father — my dear father, Inspector. The letters maman made me write to him at least once a week!’
    Ah merde , the poor child.…
    â€˜It was her way of not only keeping me in touch with the father I would never meet, but of making sure I could read and write at a very early age. She was like that, Inspector. She always had to have two or three good reasons for doing something. Now, please, let us walk a little more. People will see us here. There will be enough talk as it is. I’ve left the children