Free Son of Holmes by John Lescroart Page B

a dangerous luxury, an enemy as deadly as any I would ever face.
    Everyone . . .
    How could Fritz have lived in my house for a year without causing me a moment of suspicion? And yet who was more ideally suited to keep tabs on my movements and report on them? No one had had a better opportunity to place poison in Marcel’s bottle, except of course Lupa, who had been sitting in that seat. But my trust in Lupa had proven itself well grounded. Or had it? Perhaps he’d kept me alive last night for another, future purpose. Perhaps in some other game, I was a bishop and Marcel a quickly expendable pawn—perhaps and maybe and again perhaps. My mind was beginning to reel with uncertainties, with possibilities.
    Everyone . . .
    And even Tania . . .
    No! Not Tania! Not the only woman I had ever loved. It was unthinkable. Even if it killed me, I would not suspect her. I shook my head, trying as best I could to purge the poisonous thought . . . ... and looked up to find myself in the middle of the square, still confused and lonelier than I had ever felt before.

    The rain became fierce, and again I found myself soaked. In no mood to continue an already disagreeable walk, I hired a carriage back to my home. Fritz greeted me at the door with undisguised concern, tempered with reproval.
    “Are you well, sir?”
    “Damn it, Fritz, no. No, I’m not well. I’m drenched, my clothes are ruined for the second time, I’m tired, and my oldest friend has been murdered in my house. No, I’m not well at all.”
    He stood back and silently took my clothes.
    “I’m sorry to snap,” I said, “but it has been a trying time.”
    “Monsieur Lupa came by this morning and told me you were in good hands. Madame Chessal went home after breakfast. Would you like some tea or brandy?”
    He handed me my robe, and I went into the front room to sit before the fire, where I brooded for a while about my age until Fritz came back with tea laced with brandy. After one cup I fell off to sleep.
    Fritz woke me again when it was already dark, served me a small meal of coddled eggs with sherry and black butter, and suggested I retire, which I did.

5

    I ronically, but predictably, the sun blazed forth on Friday morning for Marcel’s funeral, and found me well rested. Fritz always rose at dawn and, when the weather permitted, breakfasted by himself in the arbor. Since I was rarely awake by then, he justly considered this his time, and I was loath to disturb him, so I poured myself a cup of espresso before walking out. I was ashamed of myself for the way I’d acted the day before. These days at home had weakened me. I resolved to shake myself out of this softness.
    I walked to the arbor in my robe and bare feet, enjoying the feel of the wet grass. Fritz sat on a cushion that he’d brought out for the stone bench, eating a brioche with some ripe Brie and drinking his coffee. Already, at seven o’clock, the chill had gone from the air. The house and arbor had a striking, newly washed quality. A slight mist rose from the shingles of the roof.
    “Good morning, Fritz. Don’t get up. No muffins for me. I’ll just be having coffee in the mornings for a while.”
    We sat for a while without speaking. The stream murmured peacefully. At such a time it was hard to imagine the trenches, the carnage, a Europe—perhaps soon a world—at war. Yet it would be fatal to be lulled, to allow oneself to forget.
    Fritz pulled me from my reverie after he’d drained his cup. “You’re going to the funeral?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Madame Chessal, then, asks if you’ll pick her up on the way.”
    In a half hour, I had dressed and gone to the old servants’ quarters, where I kept my automobile, a Ford from America that I’d been allowed to keep after mobilization, though there’d been a substantial and very local “tax” for the privilege. The car started without any problem, and within minutes I pulled up to Tania’s house. She sat out on the front patio of the