Moreau bent a sharp gaze on me. “You truly do not believe I killed him?”
“I’d have preferred it to be you,” I said. “I might have felt a sense of justice if you’d been arrested for murder. But I know it was not you, for the reasons I stated to Vernet. Also, you’d not have left Gallo on the bridge. You’d have gutted him stealthily in the dark, tossed him and the knife into the river, then gone home to rid yourself of any clothes he’d bled on.”
Moreau gave me a nod. “As you say.”
“So why didn’t whoever killed his bloke heave him over the side?” Brewster asked. “The river’s running heavy from all the rain that happened before we came. He’d have washed down into the what-you-call-it—confluence. Be a long way down the Rhône before he bobbed up again.”
We’d reached the plaza by that time, which while dark, had plenty of evening walkers strolling its expanse. We pressed through it and into the narrow streets on its other side to emerge onto the bridge in question.
The Pont Tilsit, made of solid stone, had lasted longer than its namesake treaty Bonaparte had broken when he’d made his fateful march into Russia. A stone balustrade, as high as my chest, guarded pedestrians and carts from tumbling into the river below.
We moved to that balustrade, and I peered over, the rush of water wafting cool air over me.
“A man, or maybe two, might have heaved Gallo’s body over the side,” I conceded. “But he’d need strength and time.”
“A woman killed him, then,” Brewster said. “Gallo were a fit bloke, hard to drag anywhere.”
“Possibly.” I leaned my back against the balustrade. “I can think of three reasons the killer dropped the knife and ran instead of disposing of it or the body. Either he or she heard someone coming and fled, or was horrified by what they’d done and fled, or left Gallo and the knife to incriminate the next person who came along.”
“Which happened to be me,” Moreau said dryly.
“If you had arrived a few minutes later, it might have been me,” I answered in the same tone. “I’m certain Vernet would have been happy to arrest a foreigner and be done with it.”
“Not the first time the captain’s nearly been nicked,” Brewster informed Moreau. “You get used to it, like.”
Ignoring Brewster, I scanned the houses on the western end of the bridge, which were fairly solid buildings with plenty of windows. Anyone glancing out could have seen the culprit fleeing, though it likely had been plenty dark when the deed had been committed. The Presqu’île side also had buildings crowding the bridge, but they were further from the spot where Gallo had been killed.
“It is a beautiful place in the winter,” Moreau said, following my gaze along the riverbanks. “Especially during the Fête des Lumières. We place candles on our windowsills, in honor of Holy Mary, who drove plague from the city in sixteen hundred and something.” He shrugged. “People had simpler ideas then, but the tradition transforms the city every December.”
I was surprised at the sentimentality that tinged Moreau’s voice, incongruous with the brusque man who’d dragged my body into the brush and tramped away, leaving me to my fate.
Forgiveness ought to emanate from me—it had been long ago, after all—but the fear, pain, rage, and helplessness of that night and the many days after still haunted me. I would not weep on the man’s shoulder because he found candlelit houses in December pretty.
“I wonder if Vernet has questioned those with rooms overlooking the river,” I mused.
“You ain’t suggesting we do it, are ye?” Brewster asked in alarm. “It’s only a week or so to your daughter’s wedding, innit?”
“I was more thinking I’d suggest it to Vernet if he hasn’t. Someone must have seen something.”
“If this city is anything like London, they won’t have,” Brewster said darkly.
Moreau nodded. “I agree with your friend. Most people want nothing to do with the gendarmes. If they witness a crime, they might dive in to fight off the assailant, but won’t want appear at anyone’s trial.”
“That early, who’d be peering outside anyway?” Brewster asked.
I did not press my argument, as both made good points.
“I’m off home for now,” I told them. “My leg aches, and I’m certain my wife has planned several rounds of outings I must escort her to. Good evening, sir.” I made a cursory bow to Moreau.
“And to you,” Moreau responded.
We resumed our way across the bridge, as Moreau had indicated his lodgings were on the west bank of the Saône, in the medieval city. None of us spoke, the wind springing up to bathe us in a sudden chill.
I again parted cordially with Moreau once we’d reached the far side, the cathedral looming over us. Moreau tipped his hat and walked unhurriedly along the lane that would take him to the cathedral and beyond to his lodgings.
Brewster and I continued up the hill, I regretting giving the coach to the young and agile Emile.
“By the bye, Brewster,” I said as I limped onward, each step becoming more difficult. “When we were at the comtesse’s chateau, did you notice other ways in and out besides the main entrance?”
