“He always made me nervous. There was something about him…People found it amusing. You know—eccentric poet, and all that. They thought he said these things for the drama of it. To make himself seem more interesting or funny or something. But I was afraid of him. He had a skeleton in a raincoat hanging above his staircase. It had a contraceptive in its mouth. Does that sound normal to you, Robert?…Robert?”

“I’m sorry. I have to be off to work. Do please, think some more about us going away. I understand that it’s difficult for you, but—”

“Oh my!” She was clutching at her throat. “They must have gone straight from the police station to the hotel and done it! Really, I’m surprised it was such a momentous thing for him—hitting the owner of La Rotonde, I mean. Of all the things that would push a person over the edge, it seems rather trivial. I wonder—did they both commit suicide? Or did one murder the other and then turn the gun around? How does a death pact work?”

“Only…Genevieve…I’ve been under quite a bit of strain lately, and I really feel…”

“Strain?” She put down the paper. There was an odd look on her face. He had the sense that he wasn’t the only one of them who was hiding something. But that was how he’d gotten himself into this mess, wasn’t it? Groundless suspicions about his wife. He closed his eyes, but the bodies were there, lying neatly, each with a hole in its head.

“What’s the matter?” she said.

“Nothing in particular.”

“Well, do buck up then, there’s a good chap. Oh, I know what it is!”

He gulped. And twitched.

“It’s to do with that letter, isn’t it?” she said.

“What letter?”

“The postman brought it half an hour ago. I saw it on the hall table. The one in the lilac envelope.” A mischievous smile had crept across her face. “It was from a woman, wasn’t it? What woman is writing to you, Robert?”

What could he say to that? He could hardly expound his latest theory: That it was Felperstone—bitter and desperate to get back on the job.

“Do you have a secret admirer, darling? Come on, you can tell me. I shan’t be all mad and jealous, I promise.”

“It was from my sister,” said Robert.

“Your sister?” She frowned. “But it was posted in Paris, surely?”

“It was damaged in transit. Some kind person put it in a new envelope and re-posted it.” How ridiculous this sounded, even to him. He had to steer the conversation away from the damned letter. “Genevieve, remember what you were saying just now about the comforts of home? I’m so homesick, I can’t begin to tell you. I want this baby to be born in Boston, in the heart of my family.”