Etienne was the son of Claude Fougeres and the nephew of Jacques, the Resistance hero. After the war the family had remained in the South – until the eighties when Etienne’s political career rose from local to national level. That prompted the return to Paris. The house had been rented out for nearly forty years, so it was a real homecoming.
‘And then, just when things got back to where they were before the war, Pascal was taken away
Anselm gleaned this and more from the mumbling old butler who opened the great black front door and took him slowly to a drawing room on the third floor.
Monsieur and Madame Fougeres were subdued elegance itself, sitting apart on either end of a pink chaise longue, their faces darkened by grief. Anselm moved gently over the terrain of sympathy, explaining the predicament faced by the police enquiry. To his surprise, they understood perfectly They made no complaint: no sallies against the Law; no plea for a fairer world. They did not expect the legal system to give them something it was not designed, and could not be designed, to produce: a civic response proportionate to their loss. But while he spoke Anselm observed, painfully the cleft that had opened between mother and father. It was freshly cut.
‘I begged him not to go after that man. Begged him. But he would not listen,’ said Etienne.
Monique Fougeres closed her eyes slowly, her hands cupped upon her lap.
‘I wish he’d left the past alone,’ said Etienne. ‘It’s not a safe place while it touches on the living.’
Madame Fougeres lowered her head, speaking quietly ‘Tell me anything he said, Father, anything at all. I want to imagine his voice.’
‘We only spoke about Schwermann… and someone called Agnes.’
Anselm threw in the last half-truth as the door opened and the butler brought forth tea. Etienne’s facial muscles had seized. The butler poured. Etienne reached for a small cup.
‘Agnes?’ he said, enquiringly
‘Yes. I got the impression she was once known to the family’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
Anselm thought: you’re lying. He said, ‘Apparently she had a child.’
‘Pardon?’ said Etienne, an eyebrow raised, offering milk for the English palate.
‘A child.’
‘I’m sorry, no. As far as I know, Jacques never knew anyone called Agnes.’
Anselm felt the warm trembling of success: we were talking about Pascal, not Jacques…
Monique Fougeres looked at her husband across a void. The butler softly closed the doors and the cleft between mother and father fell open wide.