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‘My first customer.’ He went to open the door, his mood lifting. ‘Well?’ he said, lips twitching.
There was a small whine and something that looked like a hairy brown carpet slunk inside on three legs.
‘And where have you been, Tapis?’ he asked the creature, as if it would answer and tell him of his adventures.
The animal blinked up at him with amber eyes half buried beneath wiry fur. Monsieur Géroux made a tutting sound, then went to fetch the old thing’s breakfast.
Tapis was a dog, but he lived the life of a cat. Monsieur Géroux swore that he’d once seen him waiting at a traffic light. Other shopkeepers on their street swore that they’d seen him roaming the night with a pair of cats who appeared to be doing his bidding, like some furry mob boss. Monsieur Géroux wouldn’t have been surprised.
Tapis ate his breakfast, then settled down for the day in the window seat. Monsieur Géroux watched the dog fondly for a while before he moved on to the next book he needed to repair, only to realise he hadn’t actually finished the first one, and he had left globs of glue all over his desk. Again. He closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He was still distracted because of that letter and it was no use pretending otherwise.
He sat drumming his fingers on his chin, then gave in at last, opening up his desk drawer to retrieve it and read it once again.
19 Avril 1987
Dear Monsieur Géroux,
I am a paralegal at the law firm Lefauge et Constable. Recently we had a development with one of the properties we manage – a former restaurant on the corner of Rue Cardinet and Lumercier that used to trade under the name Luberon. We were finally able to locate the last remaining relative of the former proprietor, Marianne Blanchet. French law dictates, as you may know, that we cannot sell a property until we have identified all potential inheritance claims.
I understand from our records that you are familiar with the establishment I am referring to. This is why I am reaching out to you.
In our files regarding this property, I discovered that you were listed as a contact because you submitted testimony to the authorities forty years ago. As one of the few people alive with knowledge of what truly happened there all those years ago, would it be possible for me to put our client in contact with you?
Our client, Sabine Dupris, was not aware that she was a relation to the former owner, and the news – as well as the discovery of the incident that occurred there – has been most distressing, as you can imagine. She has many questions that remain unanswered. Questions we are unable to answer, regrettably. You are, of course, under no obligation to speak with her.
Sabine Dupris has given us permission to share her details with you, which are below.
Best regards,
Julie Dupont
Monsieur Géroux paused over the word ‘incident’ with a grimace. A nice euphemism for murder, he thought, grimly, wondering if they gave lessons to lawyers and paralegals on how to write such things.
He frowned, continuing to the part that read our client was not aware that she was a relation, and despite his promise to be stern with himself, felt his heart soften, knowing that none of this could have been easy to discover.
He read again the words, under no obligation, then pursed his lips at young client rather distressed. Knowing that despite those assurances, an obligation was most assuredly implied, one that may as well have been circled in red ink. This was a letter not so much written as designed to pull at his heart strings.
He didn’t have to give in to it, though. He could just shove the letter back in his desk drawer and ignore it. He had provided information to the authorities about what had happened in that restaurant forty years ago, and as far as he was concerned, that had been that. What this woman was asking was unthinkable… to dredge up all those memories and to tell some relative of Marianne’s what she had done?
All those people she poisoned, intentionally.
To speak of the murder of his brother to some stranger. Like he was what – giving a history lesson? She was likely young; the young haven’t yet learned yet how real the past is, just a whisper away the older you get, and sometimes too real to face.
Monsieur Géroux pinched the bridge of his nose, and put the letter down.
The details that this client had searched were still available on the public record. He didn’t need to relive it so that he could provide insight into some forgotten family history. Or attempt to make sense of the insensible – as he would never be able to answer the one question she was bound to want to know more than anything: why? Why had Marianne Blanchet killed all those people?
He didn’t know.
And it haunted him still.
The thing was, surely what he had to say, what he hadn’t put on record, was even more distressing? Because it would just lead to more questions he couldn’t answer. The only one who could was Marianne and she was dead now, thank goodness. Executed for her crimes.
Still, he was, as the paralegal had so cleverly pointed out, the only one alive who remembered what had happened and could speak about it.
For a moment, his brother Henri’s face floated before him. When Monsieur Géroux died there would be no one else to remember him either. It was this more than anything that changed his mind. Henri deserved to be remembered, especially by Marianne’s family, after what she did. At the bottom of the letter was a name and number. His fingers trembled as he picked up the telephone.
