Madame was very distressed to hear this. “Non, non,” she said, shaking her head. “La police? Pourquoi?” Then she launched into a long tirade involving finger shaking and a few words that Lucy understood, mainly “les im-pôts ” and “les officiels du gouvernement.” Eventually, Madame ran out of steam, placing her hands on her hips and demanding to know how much money they had found.

“Cinquante mille euros,” said Elizabeth, getting an incredulous look from Madame.

“Pas possible,” said Madame, correcting Elizabeth. “C’est cinq mille, n’est-ce pas?”

“Non, madame,” insisted Elizabeth. “Not five thousand. I know my numbers. It was cinquante mille, fifty thousand. Not five thousand, or cinq mille.”

Madame seemed to sway a bit on her feet, and Lucy took her arm and guided her to the stairs beyond, where she sat down heavily. “C’est incroyable,” she said.

“Ask her if she thinks Sylvie was keeping the money for someone,” Lucy instructed Elizabeth, who obliged. While she and Madame Seydoux were talking, Lucy looked around the hallway, which was spotlessly clean. The stairs were covered with a thick striped carpet, and the banisters and railing were polished to a high sheen. A few pictures hung on the gray-painted walls. One especially large one was a photo of a handful of French legionnaires arranged in front of a pyramid.

“Pardon, madame,” apologized Lucy, interrupting. “Was Monsieur in Egypt?”

Madame looked at the photo, and her expression softened, as if she were remembering a younger, handsomer Monsieur Seydoux. “Non,” she said, shattering Lucy’s assumption. Madame pointed to the picture. “My father. Sylvie took an old photo,” she said, describing the snapshot’s size with her fingers. “I don’t know the word,” she continued, pointing to the crisp new print. “For my anniversaire.” Then, regaining her energy, she stood up, her arms wrapped around the fruit basket. “Merci, merci beaucoup,” she said, making it clear it was time for them to leave.

“What did I miss?” asked Lucy as they followed the winding road up to the cathedral. “I gather the legionnaire was her father, and Sylvie had an old photo restored as a birthday present.”

“That’s right,” said Elizabeth. “She said she didn’t believe Sylvie had that much money, but she was really upset that we gave it to the police, although she finally admitted that we didn’t have any choice. It was kind of weird. At first she thought the money should have gone to her and Monsieur, but when she realized it was really fifty thousand, she backed off, like she knew it was tainted in some way.”

“Did she think Sylvie was killed because of the money?” asked Lucy, breathing hard as she pounded her way up the cobblestones.