Fernand was the most belligerent of the four. Emile’s father—Auguste—looked reluctant to be part of the contingent, and Giraud was the most worried. The fourth brother, Julien, joined Fernand in hostility and glowered at me ominously.
“I have spoken to Claude,” I said, as though my future in-laws had merely stopped to make conversation. “I am convinced he had nothing to do with Gallo’s death, and I’m certain Captain Vernet will release him soon.”
“Of course he had nothing to do with it,” Julien snapped. He was of a height with Fernand, the two of them a wall of antagonism.
“This is a family matter,” Fernand said. “You do not understand, and you will stay out of it.”
Giraud, at least, seemed relieved at my pronouncement. He did not call off his brothers, however, and neither did Auguste.
“I advise you not to provoke Vernet,” I said. “He might keep hold of Claude out of annoyance with you, if you try to force his release.”
“Vernet is nothing.” Fernand waved a dismissive hand. “He is not even of Lyon.”
“He is the law, assigned here whether he, or you, like it or not,” I said with taut patience. “Now, I do not wish to quarrel with you gentlemen. My advice is to let Vernet decide to release Claude and clear him of this charge. Trying to free him yourselves might indicate you believe his guilt.”
“Never,” Fernand growled. “This may be how things work in your country, Captain, but the gendarmes in France can imprison a man and never let him go. Vernet will regret what he has done.”
I felt Brewster close beside me, his bulk obscuring the wind from the river. I knew he wanted to seize me and drag me to safety, but I stood stoically in front of the four men.
“Vernet seems a reasonable fellow,” I told them. “He heard Claude’s explanation of where he’d been last night, which I believe. I give you my word he will verify the story and send Claude home.”
I knew I was making a promise that the arm of French law could negate. But I bound myself by my word, and any who knew me understood that.
Giraud’s eyes held sadness. He was a widower, I remembered, and Claude was all he had.
“I am willing to wait,” he said quietly to Fernand.
“I am not,” Fernand said. “But I concede that the captain has a point. If we try to storm the gendarmes, we will only be arrested ourselves.” He fixed me with a hard stare, letting me know that he gave in with the greatest reluctance. “I will hold you to your word.”
I bowed to him. “I appreciate your trust.”
Fernand stepped close to me, never minding Brewster hovering over him. “You will not fail it,” he said in English. “And you will delve no further into this matter. It has nothing to do with you.”
I could not promise that. I nodded, agreeing only with his first statement.
Fernand eased from me. His brothers watched the encounter anxiously, as though worried Fernand would seize me and throw me into the river. He might have done, had we been alone.
After giving me a final glare, Fernand turned on his heel and marched away, heading toward the heart of the Presqu’île. Julien followed close behind, then came Giraud, head bowed. August, Emile’s father, sent me an apologetic nod but drifted after his brothers without a word.
“I agree with ’im,” Brewster rumbled at me as the Devere men faded into the crowded streets. “If Frenchies want to stab each other on the bridges, it’s nothing to do with you.”
“I refuse to let Claude rot in a cell because of his stubbornness,” I said testily. “In any case, Emile asked for my help, and I do not wish to fail him. Now.” I straightened my hat. “Let us explore this place called La Guillotière. I am a bit thirsty, and a large glass would be just the thing.”
Brewster glowered, but he trundled with me onto the bridge while the Rhône rushed noisily beneath us, its waters cooling the heated air.
Numerous taverns lined the Rhône on its eastern bank. From what I understood, La Guillotière had once been an independent village, then had been made part of Lyon, but now was somewhat autonomous again, administered collectively with a few other towns in this area. I wondered how those who lived here kept it all in order.
The main road from Lyon ran east through La Guillotière and wound toward the Swiss Confederation and the passes through the Alps to northern Italian towns. I heard a number of men we passed speaking Italian or its dialects, which made me wonder if Signor Gallo had dwelled on this bank.
Brewster relaxed a bit as we moved from wine shop to wine shop. To be congenial, we had to sample the local drink in each one, or none inside would have spoken to us. Brewster detested wine, but he managed to procure ale in almost all of the taverns, which he pronounced surprisingly tasty.
“Your French colonel chap was right,” he said as he drank his fourth tankard of the afternoon. “They can make a decent brew here.”
I’d managed to put thoughts of Colonel Moreau out of my head as I’d worried about Claude, but I again wondered at the chance that had brought me face to face with my enemy.
Not being a superstitious man, I decided it a coincidence, though not a very surprising one. Moreau and I had both outlasted the wars, and Britons and Frenchmen now freely traveled between our respective countries. I was bound to come across men I’d fought sooner or later.
In the fifth wine shop we entered, we finally found a trace of Claude’s movements.
