Concerning the awful -- and I use the word advisedly, calling to mind its etymological pedigree -- the awful events that transpired in the faux chateau of Triste-le-Roy in the early autumn of 1944, we now (it is generally agreed) know everything. The perpetrators, their motives, the manner of the executions, the victims (certainly), and even something of their comprehension of that precarious situation: the battered windows of the skylight seemed at first a point of ingress; it was illogical to suspect the skies of salvation. But that must have been their promise, for one moment only, in the dying light.
In one of the many front rooms the fire irons stand crossed against the wall. So close to hand, it is a further error of logic that they remain there; it would have been more expeditious, surely, to have invoked them in place of the actual instruments, so poorly suited to the task.
And in the corner still stands the lectern that for too long supported a credible explanation for the deaths, as for too long it has supported the muddled theses expounded by dead books.
The murderers have gone, the victims long since departed. Of this confused conspiracy we know everything -- but that knowledge is of scant comfort, when, at the slightest remove, we realise that we know nothing at all.