She took my arm, leaning a fragrant head for a moment against my shoulder. She sighed. “Sometimes we’re so alike it’s frightening. I couldn’t stop thinking about poor Marcel. Last night I’m afraid I drank rather too much wine. Danielle had to put me to bed.”
“Fritz did the same for me.”
We got into the car and drove to the cemetery. The service wasn’t due to begin until ten o’clock, so we had nearly two hours to walk through the surrounding countryside and compose ourselves. I decided that my suspicions about Tania on the day before had been ridiculous, but resolved not to say anything unnecessary to anyone until this mess had been cleared up.
When we finally walked down to the cemetery proper, Georges and Paul had arrived. Paul looked especially out of place in a dark suit. In the time that I’d known him, I couldn’t ever recall having seen him dressed even semiformally before. We joined them by the gate.
Gradually, some other of Marcel’s friends and relatives began to appear, and the four of us who had been in the room that night found ourselves effectively ostracized. Henri and his wife arrived among a small group who left them immediately after they’d passed the gate. Madame Pulis, whom I’d never met, was weeping, and Tania walked over to comfort her. Henri joined the rest of us.
After a few moments of uncomfortable small talk, we walked over to the grave. Marcel’s parents had died long ago, and he hadn’t been married. I had probably been his closest friend, and yet the others around the grave treated all of us as though we’d been his enemies. We stood in a knot while the usual forms were followed and, when the body had been lowered, were the first to turn and go. Madame Pulis had been constantly crying throughout.
Georges walked crookedly next to me. “Rather ugly, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I don’t suppose you can blame them.”
Gathered around my car, we stopped to talk. Tania packed Madame Pulis into their carriage and walked pensively back.
“I can’t understand those people,” she said. “Henri, your wife . . .” She stopped.
“I know, I know. I suppose I shouldn’t’ve brought her along. She’s so emotional. She was fine until we met that other group. They asked if I’d been there Wednesday and acted as if . . . well, you know. And she’s very sensitive to that sort of thing. You’d think one of us killed him, the way they were acting.”
Paul was seated on the running board, his tie now off, his coat across his legs. “It appears,” he said, “that one of us did.”
