Dangerous to Know (21 page)

“He is. I'll summon him and we can have tea. You've time for a nice long visit, don't you?”

“We're in no hurry,” I said.

Colin shot a telling glance at me. “I suppose as long as we're home in time for dinner.”

“I'm more interested in what will happen after dinner,” I whispered as we started for the house. He drew a sharp breath and nearly lost his footing. He recovered elegantly, though, just as George called out from behind us.

“Ho! Can you wait for me?” he asked, whipping the straw boater from his head and sprinting towards us.

“Don't make it easy for him,” Madeline cried, giggling. She grabbed Colin's arm and set off at a fierce pace, pulling him with her while she held onto the brim of her black straw hat to keep it from flying away. Having no desire to run, I waited for the master of the house.

“She's a beast, that wife of mine,” George said, out of breath when he reached me. “But bloody good fun. Apart from this new obsession of hers, beekeeping.”

“You'll have excellent honey,” I said.

He laughed. “I suppose so. Have you come about the robbery?”

“Robbery?”

“Have you not heard? We were burgled two nights ago—the Monet is gone.”

“No! Dare I ask if Inspector Gaudet is on the case?”

“He is, my friend, he is. And eager as ever to fight for justice. Unless, of course, it interferes with a meal. Or a party. Or a walk on the beach.”

“Are there any leads?”

“I'm afraid only one that points to your old friend, Sebastian.”

My heart sank. “Why would he take the painting back after having gone to such lengths to get it to you in the first place?” Much though I would have liked to believe Sebastian would stand by the promise he made to Monet about not taking any more of his paintings, I knew him too well to think he'd be true to his word.

“We found another note—this one questioning our taste. Further analysis must have suggested to him our unworthiness as collectors.”

I would need to see the letter, but couldn't imagine who, other than Sebastian, would pen such a thing. “I'm so sorry. He can be such a troublemaker.”

“It wouldn't bother me so much if I hadn't become particularly attached to that painting. A fine specimen.” His gaze softened. “I'll miss it.”

“We will recover it, one way or another.”

“I do admire your spirit, Emily,” he said. “But tell me now. If you knew nothing of the robbery, what brought you to us?”

“Edith Prier,” I said. “There's more to the story of her death than we'd anticipated, and we wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“You don't think the murderer still poses a threat?” he asked, blanching. “I admit I've been uncomfortable about letting Madeline out of the house alone. We've someone looking out for her all the time.”

“Which is wise,” I said. “Although it does seem there's no specific threat at the moment.”

“So tell me what more you've learned.”

“Did you know Edith is related to your wife?”

“To Madeline?” he asked. “The Priers? That can't be.”

“From what I understand it's a distant connection. They're cousins of some sort.”

“I'm shocked.” He stopped walking and searched my face, confusion written all over his.

“Obviously there was no reason for you to have known this,” I said. “But because Edith suffered from a condition similar to that plaguing your mother-in-law, I thought you should know. Particularly as your wife…” My words trailed.

“Yes, of course you've noticed.” He closed his eyes. “I fear what will happen to her. It's beyond devastating.”

“Edith's family put her in an asylum not far from Rouen because of her illness.”

He cringed. “I can't do that to my wife.”

“I'm not suggesting you should,” I said. “Although it might not be a terrible idea to speak with the doctor there—he's more enlightened than I would have expected. It's possible he would have some ideas about treatments—something that might help—”

“Of course. I'm sorry if I reacted badly. It's just that when I think of what my darling girl faces—what I shall be forced to face eventually…” He sighed. “It shatters me.”

“It's I who should apologize. I sprung this on you with no preamble.”

“No, it's an excellent suggestion.” He shook his head. “I can't believe Edith and Madeline…related. It's stunning news.”

“There's one more thing. I tell you this in confidence and must ask for your absolute discretion. Edith had a child—a girl—who went missing sometime before her mother's death. The story's bound to get out eventually, and I thought it might upset Madeline given her experience with children. Hearing it through gossip might prove painful.”

“You're very kind to think of her, and absolutely right. She doesn't do well with children. There've been none here since our long-ago unfortunate gardener left. Terrible story, you know. I still can't stand to go in the dovecote,” he said. “The little girl died there, you see. She fell down the steps. Madeline had been in there playing with her. She doted on the child. Can't bear to talk about it now, of course.”

“How awful,” I said, a dull pain in my chest.

“Madeline blamed herself. It was a bad choice of a place to play, and she shouldn't have let her run on the stairs. There wasn't a thing anyone could say to ease her guilt. Her mind was not the same afterwards.”

“Poor Madeline,” I said. “Why did you not tell me this before?”

“It's not the sort of thing one likes to share with the neighbors. We kept things as quiet as possible and let everyone assume the gardener was sent away because Madeline couldn't bear to have the girl around. I don't think she could have survived gossip on the subject.”

“Of course not.” I hesitated. “She told me a somewhat different version of the story.”

“Yes, I'm afraid her brain morphed it into another miscarriage,” he said. “It's as if she forgot about the actual child altogether.”

“I'm sorry to have brought up such a painful topic.”

“You couldn't have known,” he said. “And I'm glad to learn of the familial relation. No doubt Madeline will want to call on the family to pay her respects.”

“Have you met any of the Priers?”

“I spoke to the son once at the opera in Paris, years ago. Laurent, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes.”

“Bit of a cad, I thought. Not sure I particularly like my wife being related to him,” he said. We'd reached the house, where I could hear Madeline's laughter bouncing through the corridors. He stopped walking and turned to me, his expression measured and serious. “I am interested in speaking to this Girard. Could your husband introduce me?”

The next day, I was happily settled in the library next to my mother-in-law, working on our Greek. But I was unable to purge George's story from my head. It made the shadowy figure of the girl I'd seen there all the more frightening. I closed my eyes, not moving until Mrs. Hargreaves's voice pulled me back to the present moment.

“
There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep,
” she said. “Is this meant to be a commentary on my company?”

“Not at all,” I said, laughter on my lips. “It's just a sentence from Homer I've always liked. Are you ready for more?”

“No time for that, I'm afraid,” Colin said, entering the room. “If we're to see Girard before lunch we need to leave now.”

The previous day, Madeline had reacted with almost no visible emotion to being told about Edith's child. This didn't surprise me—she would be upset, of that there was no doubt. Most likely, though, the story would affect her most when she was alone, and had the privacy to react in whatever way she wanted to. Hearing Edith was a relative, however, inspired in her nothing but a sigh. “This branch of the family has no interest in the Priers, I can assure you,” she had said. George, however, still wanted to call on them, and suggested doing so after we were to see Dr. Girard. He discussed neither plan in front of his wife.

“I feel almost as if I'm betraying her,” he said, as our carriage clattered along the road towards Radepont and the asylum. “Her mind can be so fragile—if I tell her I'm consulting with yet another physician it might send her reeling again. And odds are despite having treated Edith, he'll have little to suggest that we've not already tried.”

“If Edith's condition was more advanced than Madeline's, it's conceivable he'll know more about the later stages of the disease.”

“I've done all I can for Madeline's mother, and she's bound, given her age, to be worse off than Edith ever was.” He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. “Apologies. I don't mean to deflate every possibility. But I feel I must prepare myself for disappointment. I've been let down more times than I can count.”

I leaned forward and patted his hand. “Absolutely understandable.”

“Girard's innovative and sharp,” Colin said. “I have faith he will be able to offer you something.” We passed the ruined abbey and continued along the Seine to the hospital, serene in its setting, silent except for the sound of the river. Everything was as it had been on my previous visits except that no nurse immediately greeted us at the door. Colin banged the heavy knocker against the hard wood, and we waited. After a few minutes passed, he knocked again, still soliciting no response.

He walked to the edge of the stairs and tipped his head to try to look into the window. “Can't see anything,” he said, and set off to investigate the other windows on the front of the building while George took over knocking duties. When at last the door swung open, we saw a disheveled woman, tears staining her face, a crushed nurse's cap in her hand. I barely recognized her as the same person who'd welcomed me on my previous visits. In a few long strides, Colin was back with us, stepping in front of George.

“How can I help?” he asked, pulling out papers that identified him as an agent of the British Crown. Not something I should have thought would inspire confidence in the French, but clearly enough to satisfy the sad figure before us that it would be all right to usher us inside.

“I remember you from before,” she said to me, her voice shaking. “Dr. Girard liked you.” She looked at George. “Have we met?”

“Unfortunately not,” he said, his voice grave. “I've come to speak to the doctor about my wife. Is this not a good time?”

She didn't reply, or say anything as we followed her inside. The corridor looked no different from when I'd seen it last, but everything felt off-kilter. The nurse's uniform was a mess, full of wrinkles, and large rust-colored stains covered her apron.

“What has happened here?” I asked, alarm in my voice.

“Dr. Girard is dead,” she said, more tears streaming down her cheeks. “In his office…”

Colin waited for nothing further. He raced towards the closed door at the end of the hallway. I started to follow, but he motioned for me to stop. I sat down on a long wooden bench next to George, feeling frustrated, then bit my lip and turned to the nurse.

“Is that blood on your apron?” I asked.

She nodded.

“His?”

Another nod.

“What happened?” I asked. “Has there been an accident?”

“No,” she said. “There was a knife…” Her tears morphed into consuming sobs.

“Who was with him?” I asked.

“No one, not at the end. I found him there this morning when I arrived.”

“Who on the staff was here last night? Did anyone hear anything?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Where was he stabbed?” I asked.

George shot me a stern look. “Is this necessary? The poor woman's upset. Can we not comfort her now and leave questioning to the police?”

“Oh we won't need police, sir,” she said. “He did it to himself. The blade was in his hand.” Her face was gray, her skin cold. I looked around for something to wrap around her, and found a blanket in a cupboard partway down the corridor. Colin stepped out of the office and looked at me.

“Would you come take a look at this?” he asked.

“Do you need a second set of eyes?” I liked that he was seeking my help. Maybe this new arrangement wasn't so abysmal as I'd originally feared.

“We're going to need more than that. But you're an excellent observer, Emily. If you can stand the sight, I'd like your thoughts.”

I took the blanket to George, who had the nurse well in hand and had summoned an orderly to bring her tea. Colin stopped me as I was about to enter Dr. Girard's office.

“You're sure?” he asked. “It's gruesome.”

“Of course I am,” I said. “It can't be worse than Edith.”

Worse
was perhaps not the best choice of word. The doctor sat, sprawled in his desk chair, one arm dangling at his side, the other resting in his lap, a sharp surgeon's scalpel in his hand. Blood had pooled below each wrist, leaving a shiny, coagulating puddle on the floor and a dark, viscous stain on his shirt and waistcoat. I tasted bile and held my breath, unsure if I wanted to see more.

“Why would he do this?” I asked.

“He didn't,” Colin said. “There are scratches on his hands. He was fighting with someone. I've no doubt the coroner will find more signs of a struggle. And there's blood on the windowsill.”

I crossed to the window, not seeing anything at first. But then, as I scrutinized every inch of the wood, I spotted it—a small speck of dark red smeared on the edge of the sill. “He couldn't have got that here without bleeding everywhere else in between,” I said.

“Precisely,” Colin said.

“Is there a suicide note? Or something purporting to be one?”

“I've not found it yet. Care to help?”

“Of course,” I said. “If I'm allowed.”

“Don't tease now. I need to summon the police. Will you be all right in here alone if I leave the door open? I'm only going to call to George and ask for his assistance.”

I nodded and could hear him speaking to George as I began my search of the room. Surely a suicide note would be left someplace obvious, but the surface of the desk, the bookshelves, and the tables revealed nothing. Someone had closed the doctor's eyes, and for this I was grateful. I was uncomfortable enough rooting through a dead man's belongings. Feeling his vacant stare following me would not improve things. I circled the space again, and this time opened the desk drawers, but to no avail. Their contents were perfectly ordinary.

Turning, I looked at the poor doctor's body. And then I saw it—a corner of folded paper tucked into his jacket pocket. Delicately, so as not to disturb the body, I pulled it out and opened it. The page had been torn from a lined notebook.

Below that, a line had been drawn, with another sentence following:

 

I should never have let her go.

 

It gave me chills to read it. Chills made worse as I studied the blood that had soaked through Dr. Girard's clothing and stained the note. The handwriting was familiar, but I couldn't be sure, and thought about how I could get back into Laurent Prier's room to check my suspicions. All of a sudden, Colin touched my shoulder, and I jumped; I'd not heard him reenter the room.

“Success?” he asked. I handed the sheet to him.

“
Hamlet
, I believe,” I said. “With the addition of a more personal sentiment. I found it in his pocket.”

“You're quick and efficient,” he said, flashing me a smile before looking over the words.

“I don't believe for a second he wrote it.”

“Why is that?”

“Who puts a suicide note in his pocket?” I asked. “I realize I have limited experience—but I do have some.” Less than a year before, I'd found the body of the person who'd murdered Lord Basil Fortescue—the crime for which my friend's husband had been accused. The true culprit, after being found out, committed suicide. “Suicides want their final words to be seen. They don't hide them. And they don't forget to take them out of their pocket.”

“Possibly,” he said. “But what if this wasn't intended for others? What if this was simply for himself?”

“You don't believe he killed himself—you already said so.”

“Quite right. But he might have been murdered and still written these words.”

“He feels guilty about Edith,” I said. “Or do you think he's referring to the child?”

“The child. He didn't
let
Edith go. She escaped.”

“He didn't
let
Lucy go either—he sent her away.”

“Is it a significant difference?” Colin asked.

“I'm not sure.”

“Well it's worth considering,” he said. “I'm finished in here. Shall we interview as much of the staff as possible before the police arrive and take over?”

 

As we both expected, there was little information to be had from the staff. Colin surmised the doctor had been dead since the middle of the night, when it would have been unlikely anyone would have heard a disturbance. His office stood far from the patient wards, and the orderly who made rounds at night admitted to having fallen asleep around three in the morning, only to wake up after six o'clock. Dr. Girard frequently worked late, so to see his office light on wouldn't have been unusual.

George had remained on the bench near the main entrance to the building, waiting for us to finish. He'd done an excellent job comforting the nurse who'd found the body, and, explaining that he'd trained as a physician, offered to check on any patients who seemed in need of immediate medical attention. In the end his services weren't required, as Dr. Girard's partner arrived soon after the police, ready to take over for his colleague.

“Why don't you sit with George while I handle the police?” Colin said, placing a gentle hand on my arm.

“How exactly are you planning to handle them?” I asked.

“I want to witness their interrogations, to see their assessment of the crime scene.”

“Can I join you?”

“It will be difficult enough to persuade them to allow me to accompany them, even with my credentials,” he said. “Both of us would be too much to hope for.”

Resigned, I took the place next to George. “I imagine this is not how you expected to spend your day,” he said.

“Far from it. And while I realize this may sound slightly inappropriate, I'm more than sorry you didn't get to speak to Dr. Girard. I so wanted him to be able to help stave off Madeline's condition.”

He shook his head. “That was unlikely regardless. I was foolish to even let myself hope. I should know better.” He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a slim silver case. “What was it like in there? A nightmare?”

“Yes,” I said.

He lit a cigarette, drew deep, and blew a thin stream of smoke into the air. “I don't think I could bear to see it. If he was wounded, fine. I spent enough time in the military to handle that—but when a situation's hopeless, when it's nothing but gore…I can't stand that kind of brutality. Even sifting through a battlefield you've got a chance of finding someone you can save. Do you think if we'd arrived earlier…”

“No,” I said. “He's been dead since the middle of the night.”

“Would you object to continuing on to Rouen after this? I'd like to call on the Priers unless, of course, you're too upset after what you've seen.”

“I find soldiering on preferable to wallowing.” My statement was true, but wanting to see the reactions of the Priers to the news of the doctor's death also motivated me.

“I want to express my condolences, of course,” he said. “But if you don't think it's too crass, I'd like to ask them about Edith's treatment, see if they think it helped her. If they did, it might be worth going back to the asylum and talking to anyone else who worked on her case.”

“If she were my daughter, it would give me comfort if anything gleaned from her condition could stop someone else's suffering.”

“Another reason to like you,” he said. “You've a wonderful spirit, Emily. Reminds me of my darling Madeline.”

“I'm flattered,” I said, not sure what else to say. “I know how you adore her.”

“She centers me. Accepts me. Doesn't pressure me to devote my life to only one pursuit. I don't think many women would tolerate the way I change my passions like overcoats.”