Dangerous to Know (14 page)

“Are you simple-minded? Do you not understand the most basic commands?”

“I understand them perfectly well. But I've always had a problem following them.” He did not respond. “My mother insists it's deliberate, but I think it's innate to my personality.”

He stalked across the room, back to his piano. I followed him.

“I want to know more about Edith,” I said. “I have a friend, a writer, who's just begun investigating her murder. He's convinced there's more to it than the police believe.”

“And this is meant, what? To impress me?”

“I'm not sure I care what effect it has on you.” He'd started playing again, the music crashing against the dark paneled walls of the room. “But I do want to know what happened to your sister.”

“What interest can it be of yours?”

“I found her, Laurent. And doing so forged something between us. I didn't recognize it until today because I've been distracted with tragedy of my own. I—”

“I've no interest in your tragedy,” he said.

“And I've no interest in sharing it with you. But I will find out why Edith died the way she did. You can choose to offer whatever meager assistance you can, or you can sit back and brood and help no one, yourself included. It's immaterial to me.”

“If it makes no difference to you, why would I put myself out?”

“It might speed the process,” I said. “I had the impression that you were close to your sister. That you might have some insight into her life.” I watched him as he played. He did not look at the keys. His gaze, focused and intense, was fixed out the window, even as his head moved with his body, the music seeming to flow through him.

I walked back to the opening through which I'd tumbled. On Laurent's side, the door appeared to be part of the room's design, blending enough into the paneled wall so as to be hardly visible. Without a word, I stepped through and slid the cover back into place. I shuddered as I inadvertently brushed against Edith's clothes, and was happy to emerge in what had been her bedroom, a much brighter space than that of her brother's. I would not harass him. My work could commence without him, and when he realized I'd begun, he would want to know what I'd learned. And then I could make him first tell me what he knew.

A grating sound came from the back of the room as the hidden panel slid open.

“It was Beethoven,” Laurent said, pushing the door to the armoire open. “You were right.” He disappeared, closing the door.

Pleased, I set back down the stairs, ready to speak to the servants.

16 July 1892

In all the years I've stayed in France, I never felt lonely until now. Colin is the same gentleman he ever was—he already was a gentleman at five years old—and nothing could ever alter him. Not even his father was so assured in his character, or knew so early what he wanted from life. Much as I adore my William, this mother will admit to playing favorites amongst her sons, and Colin was always that.

It is not reasonable, of course, to think our relationship wouldn't change after his marriage. I would be displeased if it didn't—it would mean he didn't love his wife enough. And on that count he clearly does not fall short. What I didn't expect, however, was to lose him to someone whom I'd find disappointing. After meeting her, I decided the time I would most enjoy with my son in the future would be those moments when his wife was not with him. But her presence is immediate even when she's not here. He thinks of her all the time.

I'd had great hopes that our time together after she left for Rouen would be different. We've fallen into our usual habits, as I thought we would, but while we read together or discuss politics over coffee, she is always with us.

I wonder what she would think of our Gladstone—if she knows enough of the man to form an opinion. Would she be shocked by the work he and his dear wife did to save common prostitutes from poverty and despair? Is she capable of understanding the question of Irish Home Rule? What on earth does my son find to talk to her about?

Yet I can't believe that an unworthy lady would have so affected him. Which means, I'm afraid, I can only surmise there's a weakness on my own part. That I've not given the girl enough of a fair shot. That I should try better to see her as he does.

I have seen her wear riding dress to lunch.

“Have I heard right? Are you leaving for Paris in only two days?” Toinette asked, popping a piece of
pain au chocolate
into her rosy mouth as we all convened for breakfast the next day in a small but charming room in the back of the house. Bright tiles covered the floor, painted with a floral design, and a large bay window faced the garden.

“Yes,” I said, spearing a bite of
oeufs pochés à la lyonnaise
—savory poached eggs with onions and a simple white sauce topped with browned Gruyère cheese. “On the morning train.”

“It's so unfair!” she said. “I've just decided to head off to Yvetot tomorrow and had so wanted to call on you. I understand your
belle-mère
lives not too terribly far away.”

“You can still visit Madame Hargreaves, darling,” her mother said. I felt the beginnings of a headache, no doubt related to the thought of Toinette machinating an opportunity to flirt with my husband.

“I've a friend from school who lives nearby, you see,” Toinette said. “I'm going to spend a whole week with her and we're bound to be bored out of our minds. I'm hoping she might host a dance. Apparently—” she paused for another bite, “her father opposes the idea, but I'm bound and determined to change his mind.”

“You must invite Madame Hargreaves and her son,” Madame Prier said.

“And the Markhams. May I have more chocolate,
Maman
?” She gulped from the cup the instant her mother had filled it. “I can't think of anyone else.”

“Oh the Markhams. Yes, I suppose you must, although they're bound to be tedious.”

“You don't like them?” I asked. “We found them pleasant company.”

“George is all charm,” Cécile said. “And Madeline as well. Eccentric in her way, but a very sweet girl.”

“I never liked her mother when she was young,” Madame Prier said. “And I'm quite certain she's beyond intolerable now.”

“She's ill,” I said.

Madame Prier nodded. “Precisely. Now, Toinette, what else do you need to prepare for your visit?”

I watched as she and her daughter prattled on about clothes and other details of the journey, surprised that she would dismiss Madame Breton with such contempt. Given the struggles with nerves faced by her own daughter, I should have thought she'd be more sympathetic.

But Edith's illness and death were topics garnering no interest in the household that day. Madame Prier snapped at me when I brought up the subject, and I feared my pursuit of further information might prove awkward, particularly as I felt uneasy at the thought of questioning the staff without the family's express permission. I asked Cécile's advice about addressing her friend on the subject.

“Non,”
came her response. “You will not ask first. If necessary, we will beg forgiveness, but we will not give her the opportunity to forbid us to carry out the task. And I am suddenly overcome with a suspicion that something might force us to go downstairs at any moment.” Without pausing, she stepped into the corridor and opened the door that led down to the kitchen, deposited Brutus on the steps, waited until she heard his barks fade to almost nothing, and then took my hand and led me to the domain of the servants.

“Mon dieu!”
she said, her face full of apology as she scooped the little dog into her arms. It had taken us fewer than three minutes to locate him in a dark corner of the butler's pantry. “The little cad is looking for beef, I think.”

The cook, enamored at once by the small furry creature, insisted that we follow her to the kitchen, where the staff had just finished their luncheon. She fished a hearty bone from a soup pot and showed it to Brutus, who yelped thanks and panted at the sight of it. Cécile lowered him to the ground with his treat.

“No use trying to rush him,” she said.

“None indeed.” The cook nodded with pleasure at the dog's delight. “He's a sweet little thing.”

Cécile shrugged. “When he wants to be. The rest of the time he's an absolute beast devoid of all good qualities.”

“Too small to do much harm,” the cook said. A willowy maid walked by, her arms full of freshly laundered sheets. Seeing the little dog, she paused.

“He doesn't belong to the house, does he?” she asked.

“No,” the cook said, holding out her arms to take the laundry so the maid could bend over and pet Brutus.

“Miss Edith would've loved him,” she said with a sigh.

“Your mistress told me Edith was excessively fond of dogs, that she liked them more than she did most people,” Cécile said. “Do you agree?”

“Oh yes,” the girl replied. “She loved them. Had three, you know. Two well-behaved, one a tyrant. Of course, she kept them in the country, not in the city.”

“Did you know her well?” I asked.

“As well as anyone, I suppose.”

“Jeanne was a lady's maid then,” the cook said. “Took the best care of our young girl.”

“Toinette?” I asked.

“No, no,” Jeanne said, shaking her head. “She was too young for anything but a nurse. I was Mademoiselle Edith's maid.”

“Would you tell us about her?” I asked.

“I don't know as we should be talking about her,” Jeanne said, the cook nodding agreement behind her.

“It would help me ever so much,” I said. I glanced up and down the corridor, hoping I looked nervous. “I found her body, you see, and the image has haunted me ever since.” They all cringed when I mentioned the body, Jeanne covering her mouth with her hand. “I thought that perhaps if I knew more about her life, I could associate more pleasant memories with her name. Of course, I don't want to trouble Madame Prier—”

“She could use some trouble if you ask me,” the cook said. “Come sit down. I suppose you'll be wanting a cup of tea?”

She went to put the kettle on while we followed Jeanne to a long, well-worn table lined with rustic chairs, mismatched, ten on each side, two each at the head and foot. She'd recovered the laundry from the cook and placed it in a large wicker basket, smoothing the sheets on top before she sat across from us.

“I miss her, you know,” she said. “We was close. She was always kind to me.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said, reaching for her hand across the table, almost surprised she let me take it. Her skin was rough, but warm, her grip strong.

“They should never have sent her away.”

“Why not?” Cécile asked. “She wasn't well and needed help.”

“Maybe she did. But there was all that trouble with her brother.”

“Weren't she and Laurent close?” I asked.

“Too close if you ask me.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Wasn't natural.”

“They were twins,” I said. “And twins are frequently closer than ordinary siblings.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But he hated anyone else knowing her too well. He's a possessive one.”

“Was someone courting her?”

“Well…” She squinted, as if measuring us up. “There was a gentleman, but once Monsieur Prier made it clear he wasn't suitable…”

“Did she go on seeing him?” I asked.

“Monsieur Laurent wouldn't have stood for it.”

“It couldn't have been his decision,” Cécile said. “His father's opinion would have been the one that mattered.”

Jeanne snorted. “Some might think that.”

“Do you know the gentleman's name?” I asked.

“Vasseur.” Her voice softened, turned almost dreamy.

“Jules Vasseur?” I nodded, hoping she'd think I was more familiar with the man than I was. “Of course!”

“You know him?” she asked.

“Who has not heard his name?” Cécile spoke with a perfectly executed casual air.

Jeanne sighed. “I did not know him, of course. Not well. But I did, on occasion deliver messages to his house for my mistress. She loved him very much.”

“You know where he lives?” I asked; she nodded. “Could you show me? I need to talk to him.”

“He left Rouen as soon as Mademoiselle Edith was sent away,” she said. “I couldn't tell you where he went.”

“Did you ever hear from her after she left the house?” I asked.

“No, madame. We weren't to speak of her—it was too painful for Madame Prier. Only Laurent disregarded her wishes.”

“He was upset,” I said. “Yet you think it was he who did not approve of Monsieur Vasseur?”

“Monsieur Laurent's scheme did not work out as he hoped. He worked too hard at making his sister seem unhinged—and in the end drove her to madness. He'd wanted the doctor to prescribe rest so that he could take her to Nice to recuperate. Instead, he was too effective and she was bound for the asylum.”

“You're not saying her brother deliberately drove her mad?” I asked.

“Oh he did, madame,” she said. “I'm not the only one who knows it. But you're unlikely to get many of us to talk. We seen what he's done, you know, and don't want it done to us.”

“How did he do it?” Cécile asked. “Surely such a thing would not be simple?”

“I can't rightly say,” Jeanne said. “It was a gradual thing. First it all seemed small and unimportant. Until she started talking to the girl.”

“The girl?” I asked.

“The girl.” She looked away from us now. “The little dead girl.”

A shiver ran through me. “What girl?”

“Don't know. It never made any sense,” she said. “But it scared the devil out of me. She'd talk to her—at night especially—crying and moaning.”

“Whose child was it?”

“I couldn't say. But she wept over it until she could hardly speak. And then she started sleepwalking—fell down the stairs more than once. With all of it, I don't see as how her father could've done anything but send her away.”

“Tell me more about the girl,” I said.

She nodded. “Monsieur Laurent, he told her some kind of ghost story, about a little girl who died in some sort of sad circumstance and was searching for a mother. My poor mistress, she took it to heart, she did. It ruined her.”

“Did you ever see evidence of it?”

“The ghost?” She scrunched her forehead. “No. But I can tell you mademoiselle's bedchamber was always at least ten degrees colder when she said she saw it. I felt it myself more than once. Have you seen something funny in the room?”

“No,” I said.

She shrugged. “I wouldn't want to spend much time up there. Even if there is no ghost.”

 

Soon after Cécile and I emerged from below stairs, Monsieur Leblanc arrived to call on me as we'd planned. But rather than allow him to come inside and speak with the Priers, I intercepted him at the door and dragged him away from the house.

“Do ghosts travel?” I asked him.

“Ghosts? How on earth should I know?”

“You're a journalist. I expect you to have leads on any topic I throw at you,” I said.

“You are a funny lady,” he said. “I already told you my ghost story. And she does travel, the little ghost.”

“Yes, but does she ever follow the same person to more than one place?”

“You're not serious?”

“I am.”

“I can't say I've heard it said she's latched on to anyone in particular.”

“I just wondered if she'd ever found a single person she thought might end her wandering,” I said. He was looking at me as if I'd lost my mind. “How far away is the asylum where they sent Edith?”

“Ghosts, asylums, you're full of surprises today, Lady Emily.” He adjusted his hat. “It's outside the city, perhaps fifteen miles or so. Lovely setting near the river.”

“Can we go?”

“Now?” Surprise registered on his face, but a glimmer of excited delight crept into his eyes.

“Would it be possible?”

“I—” He paused, looked around. “We could hire a carriage.” I set him to the task at once, and within a quarter of an hour we'd bundled ourselves into a comfortable hackney and were speeding along dusty country roads.

“Have you a plan for when we arrive?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.

“Fear not,” I said. “I'll have hatched something by then.”

The drive took longer than we'd anticipated due to the condition of the roads, which were dotted with potholes and washboarded from frequent rain. We passed through numerous small villages, the spires of stone churches rising from amongst thatched roofs; bright red, blue, and green market carts gathered in town squares; women sweeping their front steps with brooms fashioned from twigs. And then, the buildings would suddenly disappear, giving way to great expanses of fields—tall wheat and bending barley—their edges lined with crimson poppies. The occasional farm wagon, piled high with hay, slowed us further as it clattered along the way beneath the overstuffed white clouds dotting the sky.

We turned onto a smaller road and crossed the river. I leaned out my window, marveling at the ruins of a Norman abbey, its roofless chapel standing as if at guard near a much better preserved chapter house. Turning again to parallel the water, we drove on only a bit farther and then traversed another bridge, this one leading to a narrow island. The heavy foliage of old-growth trees hid all but glimpses of a reddish brick building buried in their midst, branches hanging so low they scraped the top of our carriage. The drive widened slightly as we approached the entrance.

The asylum had been built to mimic a castle—or perhaps it had once been a stately home. The reddish color and shape of the towers reminded me of a smaller Hampton Court Palace. The structure itself was well tended, with gleaming windows and pristine marble steps. After Monsieur Leblanc spoke to the driver, arranging for him to wait while we were inside, we went to the door and lifted a heavy brass knocker shaped as the head of a lion. In short order, a crisply uniformed nurse greeted us with a warm and welcoming tone in her soothing voice. She assumed we'd come to visit a patient, but showed no sign of surprise when Monsieur Leblanc asked to see Dr. Girard, the man whom, he'd told me on our way, had attended to Edith during her illness.