One Thing More by Anne Perry

with some overwhelming emotion which excluded everyone else. Even if she had touched him, it was easy to believe he would not have felt her.
    Madame Lacoste was still paralysed, her face a mask.
    Torches were passing in the street outside and Célie smelled the smoke of them, sharply astringent from the tar. There was a bang as the front door swung wide against the wall again, and a moment later there were three National Guardsmen in the room, followed by Fernand. Two of them stopped by the door; the third, a slender man, neat and straight, came forward to where Bernave lay. He had fairish hair, falling a little forward over his brow and his wide eyes were pale, but it was impossible to see of what colour in the wavering light.
    He stared down at Bernave, then at the window, then very slowly he looked at each of their faces.
    ‘They broke in,’ Fernand said, pointing to the street, then to the hallway. ‘They thought we had food. But I suppose you know that ...’ He stopped.
    ‘Menou,’ the man introduced himself. ‘Yes, I was there. They’re half starved, poor devils. Willing to steal from anyone they think is hoarding.’ His face darkened as he looked down at Bernave again. ‘Bad business.’ He turned to the window, squinting a little against the sting of smoke from the torches as it drifted in on a gust of icy air.
    Everyone in the room watched him. No one offered anything else to say.
    Menou walked slowly over to the body and squatted down beside it, regarding the wound with a frown, then very gently he turned Bernave over.
    Célie did not want to look at Bernave’s face. He had been so vividly alive, it seemed an intrusion now to stare at him when he was no longer there, the flesh so vulnerable without him.
    Menou raised his head and looked at them each in turn.
    St Felix was the first to speak.
    ‘It must have been one of the men who broke in,’ he said huskily. His voice sounded odd, lacking in timbre. Célie guessed how shocked he was, yet it could hardly be grief. He must have hated Bernave for the way he treated him.
    Marie-Jeanne sat down heavily in one of the chairs. She was obviously close to tears. Her face was flushed and her lips trembling.
    Fernand went to her and put his arm around her shoulders.
    ‘He won’t have felt anything,’ he said quietly. ‘He won’t have known.’
    She buried her head in his shoulder, clinging on to him. Her body shook with sobs, but curiously she made no sound.
    Menou hesitated. For a moment ordinary human grief such as touched people in Paris, or anywhere else, was more real than issues of belief, loyalties to revolution or aristocracy, questions of blame for riots, hoarding or carelessness.
    ‘One of the men who broke in,’ Menou repeated thoughtfully. ‘Did they have guns? Who saw a shot inside here?’ He searched their faces.
    Monsieur Lacoste drew in his breath, then apparently changed his mind and let it out again without speaking.
    Menou waited.
    There had been no shots inside, Célie knew that. And worse, Bernave had been facing the crowd in the doorway, not with his back to them. They were intruders, angry and desperate men who had broken into his house. He would never have turned away from them, leaving himself so exposed.
    ‘Citizeness?’ Menou prompted. ‘A flash? A report?’ he looked at Madame.
    ‘No ...’ she said slowly, her voice a dry whisper. ‘Not in here ...’
    Menou looked at St Felix.
    ‘I didn’t see ...’ he admitted. ‘There was confusion—shouting ...’
    ‘Threatening?’ Menou asked, his eyes wide.
    ‘Yes,’ St Felix agreed. ‘They thought we were hoarding food.’
    ‘We aren’t,’ Fernand put in. ‘We have no more than anybody else.’
    ‘Did they have weapons?’ Menou would not let go.
    ‘Of course they had weapons!’ Monsieur Lacoste said exasperatedly. ‘They killed Citizen Bernave, didn’t they?’
    Menou stood still in the middle of the room, frowning. ‘Men, armed with weapons, broke into the