Dangerous to Know (18 page)

When I woke the next morning, I knew I would forgive him. Anything else was impossible. Still, I was unhappy with what had transpired between us and the cautious and too-tender smile he bestowed upon me as he turned on his pillow to kiss me was like harsh light in delicate eyes. My body responded the way it always did to his touch, but there was a disconnect, and it was as if I watched us from above instead of drowning in pleasure with him the way I used to. As always, he was beyond attentive, deliciously thorough, but I wanted to cry, wanted to erase the hours that had led us to this painful and awkward place.

Painful and awkward for me, at any rate. My husband did not seem troubled in the least. Quite the contrary. He sprung out of bed, bent over to kiss me, and rang for Meg. “Ready for your morning ablutions?” he asked, whistling an obtrusively cheerful tune.

I rolled over and groaned. “I'm going back to sleep.”

“Up, lazy girl,” he said. “I'm not cutting you out of the fun altogether, so there's no need to mope. What do you think is our best strategy? Talk to the obtuse Monsieur Prier? Grill moody Laurent? Or shall we pester Dr. Girard again?”

I pulled the pillow over my head. “I'll leave it to you to decide.”

“Oh no, my dear.” He wrenched the pillow from my hand. “I won't have you making my decision into something it's not. You're still involved with this, and I need your opinion.”

Need it now
, I thought,
but not when things get interesting
. No sooner had this flown through my brain than a wave of guilt followed, hard on its heels. I could choose misery or accept the reality into which I'd freely entered, a reality that somewhere in my soul I knew to be reasonable. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. “Monsieur Prier is unlikely to know anything about the whereabouts of the child, and I think that's the piece of the puzzle we need to find next. Dr. Girard has told us what he will—unless you've some hidden plan to torture more out of him when I'm not around.”

“You're dreadful,” he said, bending over to kiss the side of my neck. Once again, my body betrayed me and my skin delighted at the feeling of his lips.

“I doubt very much he's the only person at the asylum who knew about the birth,” I said, sitting up. “We need to speak to the nurses, the orderlies, the rest of the staff. Someone may be able to identify Edith's mysterious visitor. I'm confident he could lead us to the child.”

“Do you think she's still alive?” he asked.

“The child?” I asked; he nodded. “You agree with me that she's a girl?”

“I've yet to see reason to doubt your intuition,” he said.

This brought immediate tears to my eyes.

“It's not that I've lost any measure of faith in you, Emily. But I'm going to better look after you from now on.”

I wiped the tears with the back of my hand.

“And I won't have you wallowing,” he said, smiling. “I love you.”

“I love you,” I said, my insides a mass of confusion.

“So?” he asked. “Do
you
think the child is alive?”

“I do. And we should find her as soon as possible.”

 

“He was definitely French.” The girl wriggled in her chair, uncomfortable. “I never really talked to him, though. He came every other Friday, I think it was. Or maybe once a month. Can't rightly remember, but I know I thought of him as reliable. You could always depend on him showing up again.”

The young nurse's assistant was the eleventh person to whom we'd spoken. Dr. Girard—who assured us he'd not had a recent visit from Laurent—had not objected to us questioning them, even gave us the use of his office, though he made it clear again he had made no progress when searching out the true identity of the man who, according to the nurses, called himself Charles Myriel. Everyone remembered him as kind and constant, and the general consensus was that his presence soothed Edith, even when she was in the midst of a difficult spell. But no one had ever had occasion to extract from him any personal information. He always came on horseback, alone, stayed exactly an hour, and disappeared with no fanfare.

Frustrated, Colin and I called for the doctor to rejoin us.

“Sir,” my husband said. “We appreciate the situation in which you now find yourself. You assisted this lady in her time of greatest need—you refused to
help her along
, as her brother requested, when she was with child. And that means you must have sent the baby—whom you must have delivered—somewhere to be cared for. Now is not the time to hide your courageous deeds. Tell us where she is.”

“You know she was a girl?” he asked, slumping in his chair.

“Every vision Edith reported to her family was of a little girl,” I said.

The doctor shook his head. “That may be so, but she couldn't have known the gender of the child at the time.”

“She had a one in two chance of guessing correctly,” Colin said.

“And in this case she was correct,” Dr. Girard said. “I wish I could give you something to lead you to this man who visited her, but I can assure you he had nothing to do with Lucy—she was called Lucy. Edith asked if she could name the child. How could I deny her when she was suffering such anguish? She knew her parents would never accept the girl, and agreed to let me send Lucy away—far away—with a cousin of mine.”

“So your cousin is raising her?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I felt there needed to be a further layer of distance to ensure Edith's identity would remain secret. My cousin took the baby to Gibraltar—he was on his way to Egypt—and delivered her to the care of a Catholic convent there. So far as I know, the nuns are raising her.”

“Do you receive any reports from them?” His story seemed about as plausible to me as the queen deciding to remarry.

“I don't,” he said. “Monsieur Prier's reaction to his daughter's illness was so…violent…I feared for what he might do if he learned the truth.”

“Violent?” Colin asked.

“Violent?” I echoed him. “Did you not think pointing out to us that her father was violent might have been a pertinent fact given that she was brutally murdered?”

“You're suggesting that he might, somehow, have found out about Lucy and come for Edith, and murdered her?” the doctor asked.

“You just admitted that you were concerned about the possible violence of his reaction,” I said.

“I should, perhaps, have chosen my words more carefully. Violent is what I think of it. Monsieur Prier is an extremely forceful man—and his daughter's mental condition disturbed him greatly. According to her brother, when she first exhibited signs of illness at home, he scolded her vehemently, as if she could control her behavior if only she chose to. His yelling and bullying did not have the desired effect, of course. But that doesn't mean he wouldn't have used similar tactics on her again if he disapproved of her…condition. Given my own study and beliefs, I thought any such exhibit of temper could cause her a significant setback.”

“What did you think of her relationship with her brother?” I asked.

“Laurent Prier presents a fascinating case of his own,” Dr. Girard said. “He was obsessively close to his sister, and she to him.”

“Is that uncommon with twins?” Colin asked.

“Not entirely,” the doctor said. “But these two took it rather to an extreme.”

“Toinette, Edith's younger sister, insists that Laurent deliberately drove Edith mad,” I said.

Dr. Girard laughed. “It may have seemed like that to Toinette. His compulsive jealousy and desire to protect her at all costs certainly did not improve Edith's nervous state. But I wasn't in the house with them and cannot vouch for what went on there. I only know that Laurent showed deep concern for his sister's health, stability, and reputation.”

“Did you consider their relationship inappropriate?” Colin asked.

“I did, but I cannot say precisely why or how. Something in the way they interacted unsettled me. He did once after a visit leave behind a journal he keeps, and I admit—with no pride in my actions—that I read it. There was nothing enlightening, I'm afraid. Myriel was here the next day and offered to leave it at the tavern for him. They used to run into each other on occasion. But I didn't feel comfortable giving it to him.”

“What did you do with it?” I asked.

“I left it with Edith, in her room and her brother collected it on his next visit.” He pushed his hands against his desk. “I do wish I could be of more use to you. I should, I suppose, have put in place a system for better identifying my patients' visitors, so I might have been better prepared for foiling their murderers.”

His comment—an obvious attempt at humor—did not sit well with me.

“We appreciate what help you have given us,” Colin said, rising. I didn't feel quite ready to leave, but had no clear idea of what I wanted to do instead. So I stood as well and took my husband's arm. We thanked Dr. Girard and walked down the long, brightly clean corridor in silence. Only when we stepped outside and were once again alone did I turn to Colin and speak.

“We should go to the village,” I said. “Any visitor to the asylum would have to pass through and someone there must be interested enough in gossip to have noticed a regular gentleman caller. There's not much else going on around here.”

Colin nodded. “An excellent suggestion.”

“If you tell me you believe in nuns in Gibraltar happily waiting for abandoned babies, I'm never speaking to you again.” I thought carefully about all I knew of Dr. Girard. He seemed a kind man, decent, but had his relationship with Edith grown inappropriate, as her brother's had? What did he stand to lose if the truth about her child ever came to light? Did he have a motive for wanting her dead?

My husband wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. “I could not love you more.” He kissed me and his lips felt warm and safe and tender. I kissed him back and took his hand, wondering if this was what settling into contentment felt like. We stepped into our waiting carriage and in a few short minutes arrived in the village, which consisted of a single road containing a bakery, a butcher shop, and a tavern.

“Tavern,” we both said, simultaneously, and laughed.

Settling into contentment, I thought, might not be all bad.

 

I caught myself before I tripped on the wide, uneven floorboards of Le Clos des Roses, a name I hoped was meant to be ironic. The walls, with patches of crumbling plaster, seemed poised to collapse on the rough tables filling the poorly lit room, and the only decoration to be seen was the stuffed and mounted head of a wild boar. Great chunks of the unfortunate beast's fur had gone missing along with one of the tusks. Hanging from the one that remained was a dingy rag, whipped down by a skeletal serving girl to wipe the table in front of us.

“Would you like the plat du jour?” she asked, scrubbing vigorously, her rough accent making it hard for me to understand her French. “Chicken with tarragon sauce and potatoes.”

I wasn't particularly hungry, but Colin instructed her to bring the special to both of us. “Gives an excuse to be here longer,” he said after she'd disappeared into the kitchen.

“I fear for our health,” I said. “But we are in France, so there's a distinct possibility that rather than poisoning us, this will be the single most spectacular meal we've ever eaten.”

“Let's just hope our poor
poulet
was better treated than the boar,” he said. He patted my hand. “I'll be right back.” He walked up to the bar and spoke to the surly looking man standing behind it. From a distance, their exchange appeared congenial enough, and a few minutes later my husband returned carrying two glasses of tart cider. “I told the bartender that your cousin—your
French
cousin—was engaged to a girl who wound up here, and that he visited her constantly despite his parents forbidding it. When his father, despot that he is, tried to interfere, your cousin left home and disappeared. We, of course, are here in search of him.”

“So what did he say?” I asked.

The girl returned with our food before he could answer. She dropped the plates in front of us, uninterested in preserving the cook's unexpectedly beautiful presentation. “You're looking for a man?” she asked.

“We are,” I said. “My cousin.”

“He told me,” she said, tossing her head in the direction of the bar. “We've a gent who used to come in here. Sounds like it could be him, but he ain't been around for the last couple of months. Thing is, he always said he was visiting his mother, not his fiancée.”

“He wouldn't have wanted to draw any attention to what he was really doing, lest his family discovered the attachment was still very much alive.” Fiction, it seemed, came easily to me. “Can you remember when you last saw him?”

“Springtime, I think. That was the last time he came regular, at least. Seems like he was here once more, just a few weeks ago, but I didn't talk to him and can't be sure.”

“Did you usually speak to him?” Colin asked.

“He was very chatty,” she said.

“Did he ever say where he lived?” I asked.

“He kept a room at Madame Renaldi's. The house across from the church?”

Colin thanked her and dug into his chicken as soon as she'd left us to our food. “This,” he said, “is extraordinary. Have you tasted it?”

The sauce was tangy perfection, the meat moist and flavorful. But I was still unnerved, still unsure as to what to think about this new turn in our relationship. I didn't like being an unequal partner—or equal but different, whatever that meant—and I didn't like the fact that it was distracting me from the work at hand. I took one more bite, but found I could stomach no more. Colin, unperturbed, traded his empty plate for my nearly full one and polished off my meal.