One Thing More by Anne Perry Page A

house determined to find the food they thought you had, threatening you in this room ...’
    ‘Yes,’ St Felix and Monsieur Lacoste agreed together.
    ‘Citizen Bernave went towards them and told them—what?’ Menou asked, his eyebrows raised.
    ‘That we had no extra food, and that they should leave, or something like that,’ Fernand answered.
    ‘And did they?’
    ‘You know they didn’t!’ Monsieur Lacoste snapped.
    Menou stared at him. ‘But he turned his back on them?’ he said slowly, his eyes still wide.
    Célie was shivering. The room had lost all the heat through the gaping window, but it was not that which chilled her, it was the knowledge inside her hardening like stone. She knew which way he had faced, and what it meant.
    ‘I think not,’ Menou said slowly. ‘I think Citizen Bernave would never have turned his back on armed intruders in his house. No man would!’
    Amandine was rigid. She too had understood what Célie had known. It was written in the fierce angles of her body and the pallor of her skin in the candlelight. She was staring at St Felix.
    Madame seemed past caring. Her face was gaunt, her cheeks hollow, eyes black, her brows too straight, her whole bearing too dark, too fierce, for loveliness. Only her mouth was beautiful, Célie thought, all the pain in the world etched in its lines.
    ‘You see my logic, Citizeness,’ Menou said calmly, dragging her attention back. ‘I am afraid it is inescapable. Bernave was killed by someone standing behind him—someone at his back, where he expected no danger ...’
    ‘None of us has a gun!’ Fernand protested. ‘That’s ridiculous!’
    ‘I can see that,’ Menou nodded, his lips tight.
    They stared at him in disbelief.
    ‘We assumed it was a shot, because we heard them fired,’ Menou went on in the silence. ‘But it could as easily have been a knife ... a thick-bladed, narrow knife, plunged in from the back.’
    Amandine jerked her hands up to her mouth, stifling a gasp.
    Fernand held Marie-Jeanne closer.
    St Felix sank very slowly on to the edge of one of the chairs. It was an awkward position, neither sitting nor standing. Célie could see only his profile. His expression was curious: passionate but unreadable. It seemed a strange mixture of relief—and utter and final loss. Except that that made no sense. It must be exhaustion, and the light.
    Madame Lacoste spoke. Now her voice was surprisingly steady, except for the thickness in it, as though her throat were so tight it nearly choked her. ‘You are saying that one of us murdered him!’
    Menou looked at her unblinkingly. ‘Yes, Citizeness, that is exactly what I am saying. And I intend to find out who, because Citizen Bernave was a loyal friend of the revolution, a man who worked tirelessly and secretly for justice, without seeking any reward for himself. His murderer must be punished.’
    No one answered him. Célie stared round at their faces. Who could believe such a thing? It was the complete opposite of the truth! But of course no one else knew that. No one knew he was planning to rescue the King, and that the mission would all crumble to the ground without his knowledge and skill, and courage. He had been exquisitely careful, even to the minutest detail precisely because he knew the price of exposure.
    Fernand’s surprise was obvious, but it was almost immediately followed by relief, a sort of dawning amazement as if he were seeing Bernave for the first time.
    Célie turned to Monsieur Lacoste, but he was further from the torches so his expression was thrown into shadow and half-profile, his features blurred.
    ‘Was he?’ he said, not a question but a comment on an irrelevance.
    St Felix started to speak, and then changed his mind.
    Menou saw it and looked at him sharply. ‘You were going to say something, Citizen?’
    ‘Only that we did not know that,’ St Felix replied levelly. ‘He was very discreet. We had no idea.’
    ‘I hope not.’ Menou made the words