“Oh?” he asked with interest. Minette, the baker’s wife, was the biggest gossip in the quarter. When not boasting of her grandchildren who had emigrated to Quebec, she was tattling about her neighbours.

“You did say she would be a good friend for Mathilde . . .”

“She’s full of lively conversation; my aunt needs the company, don’t you think, Uncle Giles?”

“But of course, of course. You are a clever lad.”

Indeed, he had encouraged the friendship. It was important that the whole place be intimately familiar with the return of the Massots’ long-lost “nephew.”

“Mathilde told her all about you and your dear mama . . . we can’t wait to meet her.” Giles beamed. “It is so good to have Jean-Paul’s boy here, after all these years. When we had no children of our own ...”

He followed Giles up the stairs into the tiny apartment that sat over the shop. It was old, and rather beautiful, in a faded way; the seventeenth-century structure of the house used mature, thick oak—oak that muffled small and reedy noises.

Pyotr closed the door carefully behind him. The wife was clucking around in their tiny kitchen; he heard the whistle of a kettle starting as the water hissed over the stovetop. Perfect. He crossed to the window—the street was empty; the delivery men had gone on their rounds, but it was not yet time for work.

Mathilde walked into the apartment and smiled; she peered at him over her glasses.

“Pierre!” she croaked. “What a joy to see—”

Pyotr stepped forward smartly and punched her in the temple. It was a precise blow, and the old woman crumpled to the ground, noiselessly.

For a second Giles Massot hesitated. He could not take it in. His mind scrambled to put the pieces together. Then he gazed at his fallen wife and looked back at Pyotr with horror.

“Who are you?” he screeched. And then, “Why?”

Pyotr shrugged. Really, what a pointless question. As Giles Massot feebly swung at him, he shoved the old man to the floor. He screamed, so Pyotr kicked him in the groin, which winded him. The noise became a dull moan. Pyotr went to the bedroom and fetched a pillow; then he put it firmly over Giles’ working mouth and held it there for some minutes.

Eventually the man stopped moving.

He went downstairs. There were some old grey sacks in the back of the store, moth-eaten but serviceable. He bundled each corpse into a sack and positioned them into balls—once rigor mortis set in, an awkward position might be noticed.