“Isn’t that Signor Gallo?” he asked, aghast, when he reached me. “My God, who killed him?”
“I imagine the police will wonder that as well,” I said. “But yes, it is Gallo. The paramour of Signora Ruggeri, is he not? Or former paramour, I suppose.”
Fernand continued to regard the dead man in abject horror. I studied him curiously, wondering why he was so affected. Surprise and pity was natural for the poor fellow sprawled at our feet, his dark eyes staring sightlessly at the sky, but Fernand’s face was tight with shock.
“Do you have any idea who could have done this?” I asked him.
Fernand whipped around to stare at me, his pupils becoming pinpricks. “No. Of course not. Why would—” He broke off as Colonel Moreau reappeared on the far side of the bridge, several men in uniform behind him. “I must go. I must?—”
His last words followed him as he hastened back the way he’d come, to disappear into the narrow streets of the west bank.
The men and women who’d gathered around quickly moved aside as Moreau led the gendarmes to Gallo’s body, some quietly fading into the nearby lanes.
The lead gendarme, in a dark blue coat, removed his tall hat and tucked it under his arm. His high boots over tan breeches held no dust at all, as though he spent every morning polishing them to a sheen. His hair, which held threads of gray, and was thinning over the top of his head, which I saw clearly as he bent over the body. The silver braid on one epaulet told me he was a captain, if the insignias hadn’t changed since I was last in France.
He gave Gallo’s body a hard once-over, noting the wound and the knife that Moreau had laid down next to him. The captain nodded at his underlings, one of whom covered dead man’s rigid limbs with a cloak, mercifully hiding his staring eyes.
The captain straightened up, shaking his head. “Signor Vincenzo Gallo. The surprise is not that he is dead but that he escaped murder for so long. He was a nuisance to many. This is the English officer who found him?”
He directed the question at Moreau, his blue eyes holding both curiosity and patience.
Moreau darted a glance at me. “I found him first,” he said stiffly. “The Englishman came upon me only moments later.”
The gendarme faced me, fixing his hat more securely under his arm. “I have little English,” he said, forcing the words out in that language.
“D’accord,” I answered. “I speak French fairly well.”
“Bien,” the gendarme answered, reverting to his native tongue in relief. “I have never been out of France, except during the war, and spent the whole of it in Austria, where French is widely spoken. I have often considered learning another language but have never come around to it. I am Captain Vernet, in charge of this area of Lyon. You are?”
“Captain Gabriel Lacey,” I bowed. “At your service.”
Vernet nodded. “I am pleased to hear it. Why are you in Lyon?”
He asked me congenially, as though a dead body did not lie at our feet. His men, a lieutenant and a sergeant, stood quietly, waiting for their captain’s next command.
“My daughter is marrying a gentleman of the area,” I answered. “Emile Devere.”
“Ah, a Devere.” Vernet sounded impressed. “My felicitations, Captain.” He turned to Moreau, his nod deferential for a man of superior rank. “Colonel. Please tell me what you saw here.”
“Not very much,” Moreau answered without hesitation. “Gallo lying on the bridge. Found the knife covered in blood, Gallo stabbed. I would guess murdered in the dark as he crossed the bridge last night or very early this morning.”
“Followed by a cutpurse, ready to steal his money?” Vernet pondered.
“Possibly,” Moreau said. “He was not a young man who took care, from what I have observed.”
Vernet swung to me. “Captain? You agree?”
“Was he robbed?” I asked. “His clothing appears undisturbed.”
Vernet gazed down at Gallo’s fine cashmere trousers sticking out from under the cloak. “True, but a skilled pickpocket can rob a man blind without moving a thread.”
“If the pickpocket was so skilled, why bother murdering him?” I asked.
The corners of Vernet’s mouth quirked upward, almost a smile. “That is a question I will be asking myself. Did you see anyone else here, Captain, besides the colonel?”
“No,” I had to say. “But I doubt the colonel was responsible. His actions were of a man trying to discover what had happened, not one gloating over a victim.”
Moreau gave me a sideways glance. His eyes were a light shade of gray, which I remembered from that faraway day. He clearly wondered why I hadn’t claimed I’d seen him kill Gallo so Vernet would have his men march him off in chains.
