make those visits or to even write these letters. Every time I tell myself that this will be the last, that I can not take it anymore. I remind myself of what you have done and all the reasons I have to hate you, and I make new resolutions. But I still fear you, and I still wish to please you, and all I end up doing is reprimanding myself.
You must believe though that my husband would be enraged if you were to contact me or even if he knew that I contacted you. He treats me like a dream, but he can still be a rash man.
I will not promise to visit you again or even to write, but you must know that you are in my thoughts. And I will be here in Verargent when you are on the outside. You shall see. As you said, your little girl is all grown up now already.
Clotilde-ma-Fleur
The other letters were much the same. A photograph had been inserted in one of them, of a couple standing with a young girl. The woman looked much like Madame Rosenkrantz, and Pelleter figured that it was Clotilde-ma-Fleur’s mother.
He refolded the letters along their much-folded creases, and put them back into the box. He bent down and checked beneath the bed, beneath the toilet, and ran his hands along the walls. Then he stepped out of the cell. “Right,” he said. “It was as you said.”
Fournier looked up from his clipboard. “Of course,” he said.
Letreau tried to catch Pelleter’s eye, but Pelleter put on an air of one who was wasting his time and was ready to leave.
Fournier started to lead them back the way they had come, but they hadn’t gone two steps when a voice said, “Hello, Pelleter.”
The three men stopped, and Pelleter looked at the door to the cell beside the one they had just been in. A smiling face was visible in the small window in the door.
“How is Madame Pelleter?”
It was Meranger’s neighbor: Mahossier.
In the police car in front of the prison, Letreau turned to Pelleter before starting the engine. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Pelleter stared straight ahead at the prison walls. The sun had come up fully, and now, with the last traces of the rain burned away, even the prison appeared gayer in the light. “Was Meranger slashed or stabbed?” Pelleter said.
“Stabbed. More than once.”
Letreau waited, but the inspector remained silent.
“Pelleter, talk to me. I appreciate that you’ve chosen to help, but this is still my responsibility.”
“Start the car. We should get back to town. It’s time to eat.”
Letreau sighed and started the car. The pavement on the road had dried to a slate gray. Puddles of rainwater in the fields reflected the sun, little patches of light dotting the fields.
Pelleter pulled a cheap oilcloth-covered notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. “This is what we know... Tuesday, April 4, just after eight PM: A man is found dead in the gutter by Monsieur Benoît outside of his house. At first it is believed that he drowned in rainwater while drunk, but it is later discovered that he had been stabbed several times and then had his clothing changed to hide the wounds .”
“Or to hide that he was a prisoner. He would have been wearing his grays.”
Pelleter went on: “ Wednesday morning the murderer Mahossierclaims that the prisoners at Malniveau are being systematically murdered, and that he doesn’t feel safe. ”
“Wait a second.”
“ The dead man turns out to be Marcel Meranger, a prisoner at Malniveau Prison. ”
“Wait one second. Is that what Mahossier told you? Then do you think that this Meranger murder is tied up in something larger?”
“I don’t think anything. This is just what we know. Wednesday night Meranger’s daughter Madame Rosenkrantz says that she knows nothing about her father’s murder. She claims at first to have nothing to do with him, then to have visited him on occasion. Her letters are found in Meranger’s cell.
“ Thursday morning another prisoner is knifed at the prison... Nobody can agree on the number of
You must believe though that my husband would be enraged if you were to contact me or even if he knew that I contacted you. He treats me like a dream, but he can still be a rash man.
I will not promise to visit you again or even to write, but you must know that you are in my thoughts. And I will be here in Verargent when you are on the outside. You shall see. As you said, your little girl is all grown up now already.
Clotilde-ma-Fleur
The other letters were much the same. A photograph had been inserted in one of them, of a couple standing with a young girl. The woman looked much like Madame Rosenkrantz, and Pelleter figured that it was Clotilde-ma-Fleur’s mother.
He refolded the letters along their much-folded creases, and put them back into the box. He bent down and checked beneath the bed, beneath the toilet, and ran his hands along the walls. Then he stepped out of the cell. “Right,” he said. “It was as you said.”
Fournier looked up from his clipboard. “Of course,” he said.
Letreau tried to catch Pelleter’s eye, but Pelleter put on an air of one who was wasting his time and was ready to leave.
Fournier started to lead them back the way they had come, but they hadn’t gone two steps when a voice said, “Hello, Pelleter.”
The three men stopped, and Pelleter looked at the door to the cell beside the one they had just been in. A smiling face was visible in the small window in the door.
“How is Madame Pelleter?”
It was Meranger’s neighbor: Mahossier.
In the police car in front of the prison, Letreau turned to Pelleter before starting the engine. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Pelleter stared straight ahead at the prison walls. The sun had come up fully, and now, with the last traces of the rain burned away, even the prison appeared gayer in the light. “Was Meranger slashed or stabbed?” Pelleter said.
“Stabbed. More than once.”
Letreau waited, but the inspector remained silent.
“Pelleter, talk to me. I appreciate that you’ve chosen to help, but this is still my responsibility.”
“Start the car. We should get back to town. It’s time to eat.”
Letreau sighed and started the car. The pavement on the road had dried to a slate gray. Puddles of rainwater in the fields reflected the sun, little patches of light dotting the fields.
Pelleter pulled a cheap oilcloth-covered notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. “This is what we know... Tuesday, April 4, just after eight PM: A man is found dead in the gutter by Monsieur Benoît outside of his house. At first it is believed that he drowned in rainwater while drunk, but it is later discovered that he had been stabbed several times and then had his clothing changed to hide the wounds .”
“Or to hide that he was a prisoner. He would have been wearing his grays.”
Pelleter went on: “ Wednesday morning the murderer Mahossierclaims that the prisoners at Malniveau are being systematically murdered, and that he doesn’t feel safe. ”
“Wait a second.”
“ The dead man turns out to be Marcel Meranger, a prisoner at Malniveau Prison. ”
“Wait one second. Is that what Mahossier told you? Then do you think that this Meranger murder is tied up in something larger?”
“I don’t think anything. This is just what we know. Wednesday night Meranger’s daughter Madame Rosenkrantz says that she knows nothing about her father’s murder. She claims at first to have nothing to do with him, then to have visited him on occasion. Her letters are found in Meranger’s cell.
“ Thursday morning another prisoner is knifed at the prison... Nobody can agree on the number of
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