The Body In the Vestibule by Katherine Hall Page

effect on other people. This certainly seemed the path of least resistance. But she knew her feet weren’t going to be following it. Murder was murder, no matter whether you had a home address or not.
    Monsieur Leblanc was snoring gently. Others were strolling about the garden and she could hear the children’s shouts from the tennis court. She got up and went into the house in search of Ghislaine. Faith suddenly felt the need of conversation.
    Inside the house, she followed the direction of the laughter she heard and emerged from the long hall to step down into the large sunny kitchen, where it appeared most of the women had gathered. Some were still cleaning up; others sat with coffee and cigarettes around the table. The kitchen was what some Aleford ladies of her acquaintance were striving desperately to replicate in Pierre Deux, Ethan Allen, or whatever they could afford—Country French. Here pewter chargers, pitchers, and faience plates from Gien were displayed on the shelves of antique cupboards. Carved mahogany chests for linens and cutlery, a towering armoire for staple goods, and mismatched chairs with rush seats lined the walls. There were worn rust-colored tiles on the floor and more decorative ones on the wall behind the stove. This cuisine was the real thing.
    â€œFaith!” Ghislaine called from a small pantry where
the sink was located. “We thought you were taking a petite sieste with my father-in-law. No, that doesn’t sound right, although I’m sure Henri would not mind.” Everyone laughed. “We should have come to get you. Come sit with us,” she finished. “I’ll join you in a moment.”
    Faith went into the pantry and picked up a dish towel, over Ghislaine’s protestations, and started to dry the silverware.
    â€œI did think I might nod off,” Faith said, “all the lovely food and the sunshine, but somehow sleep evaded me.”
    Ghislaine paused in her work and looked at Faith searchingly.
    â€œYou do not seem to be the same cheerful fille we knew when you first came. Is it still this business with the clochard? It’s not the baby, is it?”
    Tom and Faith had told them at dinner Saturday night about the whole strange experience. The Leblancs had expressed concern for the unpleasantness and hoped it would not spoil the visit. Faith was so busy reassuring them it wouldn’t that she had almost convinced herself. But this was Sunday now and there was no reassurance anymore.
    â€œOh, the baby is a dream so far. Much easier than the first time. It’s not that,” Faith hastened to say. “But you’re right, I am upset about the clochard. It doesn’t seem so simple as it did at first and I am wondering what to do.”
    Ghislaine looked puzzled. “You mean something else has happened?”
    â€œYes, in a way,” Faith replied. She wasn’t sure she ought to involve Ghislaine when she hadn’t even told Tom yet, but certainly Ghislaine knew more about Lyon and its inhabitants.
    â€œAbout these clochards. Where do they go to get help, or for food? Surely there must be some who cannot support themselves on the street.” Faith had decided that the key to it all must be with the clochards and their way of life, something she knew very little about. “In the United States,
we have shelters where they can go for food and a place to sleep, though they are still inadequate for the numbers.”
    Ghislaine appeared relieved. Apparently, Madame Fairchild—who was, to be sure, a minister’s wife—was simply concerned about these poor unfortunates, nothing more.
    â€œOf course, we have them here, as well. The Armée du Salut, Secours Catholique, Emmaus, and the Restaurants du Coeur. But most prefer the street and the trash bins, as you have seen only too clearly.”
    â€œThen there must be one of these shelters close to us.” Faith was thinking out loud.
    â€œOh yes,