The Corpse with the Silver Tongue by Cathy Ace Read Free Book Online Page A

until five past eleven—it was farther away than I had thought, and much farther than the map had suggested. I’d asked the receptionist if he thought I could walk it in fifteen minutes and he’d said yes—but he was clearly a hopeless judge of distances. I’d been almost running for the last ten minutes and I was still late.
    Having told the uniformed policeman behind the plate-glass divider who I was and who I had come to see, I still sat there for twenty minutes. Waiting. By the time the English-speaking policeman from the night before came to collect me, I’d had a chance to cool down, mop the sweat off my face, and tidy up my once-again dishevelled hair.
    â€œAh, Professor Morgan, please come with me,” he said, as he opened a little side-door with a polite bow.
    â€œPlease, call me Cait,” I replied.
    He smiled and nodded, and drew close to me. “And I am Pierre,” he whispered, “but here I am Lieutenant, or Officer, Bertrand,” he added with a warm smile, “so you had better be Professor Morgan.” He winked and opened a heavily embossed dark-wood door, holding it open for me to walk through. “Professor Morgan, Captain Moreau.”
    I walked into a magnificent room: a high vaulted ceiling with a deeply embossed cornice, tall double windows with shutters, walls with plaster panels and, a good twenty feet from me, a small man sitting at a large modern desk. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his greying hair looked as though it had been freshly raked, leaving it delightfully messy.
    â€œ Bonjour, Professeur Morgan. Entrez. Je suis le Capitaine Moreau. Asseyez-vous. ” His voice sounded gentle enough, as he motioned toward the seat he wanted me to use. Polite. He flashed his teeth, but his eyes were not smiling.
    â€œ Merci ,” I ventured, as I walked across the expanse of the room. I hoped this man’s English was better than my French. I suddenly felt nervous. Ordering food and getting directions, or even attempting to hold a polite conversation about the weather or the locale, are all within my grasp in French, but a police interview?
    â€œ Parlez-vous français? ” he asked, reasonably enough, with some hope in his tone.
    â€œ Je suis desolée, ” I managed, “ je parle français un petit peu seulement. ” I was pretty sure I’d said “I’m sorry, I only speak a little French” properly. His smile suggested that I hadn’t quite got it right, but that he understood quite well what I’d meant to say.
    He sighed. “ Ah, tous les mêmes, ces Anglais ,” he muttered under his breath. I wasn’t letting that one pass!
    â€œ Mais, Monsieur, je suis originaire du Pays de Galles et je vis maintenant au Canada. Je ne suis pas Anglaise .” I smiled, knowing that I was being a little wicked in pointing out that rather than being English, I was originally Welsh and now lived in Canada. I wondered if he would know, or understand, anything about the feelings that Welsh people have when they are lumped in with the English.
    He smiled and nodded. It seemed he understood something. “ Excusez-moi, Professeur, je comprends. ”
    â€œ Bertrand, entrez. Traduisez ,” he called to Bertrand, who was still hovering at the open door. The young policeman, now designated the official translator, closed the door and hesitantly walked in. He stood at attention behind my chair. It felt a little intimidating.
    Captain Moreau and I then spoke directly to each other, and we each waited for Bertrand to translate. It was an odd way to proceed, but that’s how it went for the next twenty minutes. Through Bertrand the senior officer made it clear that he was making general enquiries into the events of the evening before; that I was being interviewed informally as a witness to those events; and that, while notes would be taken of what I was saying, I was not yet going to be required to make