Off to the side in the second row, John Lau slumped on the small of his back, comfortably askew, one ankle up on the empty chair in front of him, and already two-thirds asleep. Old friends, they had come to St. Malo together, John to attend lectures and Gideon to give them. If that was as much enthusiasm as he could expect from his one and only crony in the place, Gideon thought, he was in big trouble.

"…my privilege to put you into the capable hands of the renowned Dr. Oliver for the first of his four presentations on forensic anthropology. I know you will find him thoroughly fascinating. Dr. Oliver."

Gideon rose to transparently doubtful applause, shook hands with Monsieur Chagny, and waited for the room to settle down.

"What I hope to do over the next few days," he began, "is to acquaint you with what bones can tell us, and how they tell it. I’m afraid we’ll have to work with medical school specimens; there haven’t been any murder cases involving skeletons in Brittany for some time, unfortunately. Or perhaps fortunately, depending on how you look at it…"

Without looking at the dark, solemn servant who proffered the tray of aperitifs, Mathilde du Rocher waved him away with an impatient flick of a beringed and impeccably manicured hand.

"I, for one," she had been saying, and now said again for the benefit of her amiably smiling husband, "I, for one, find the entire business intolerably overbearing on Guillaume’s part, and inexcusably rude as well. We’ve been waiting here for nearly an hour. An hour! " She compressed her firm mouth eloquently. "Collecting seashells!"

"Well," said Rene du Rocher, accepting a champagne cocktail, "I’m sure there are reasons."

Mathilde did not dignify this feeble response with one of her own. She merely glared at his newly furry upper lip with a look that said: Your moustache is utterly ridiculous. Rene smiled pleasantly and sipped his cocktail.