Dangerous to Know (23 page)

“Another daughter?” George asked.

“This one much younger than Edith and Toinette,” I said. Colin subtly jabbed my side. “Not that it's any of our business, of course.”

“No, of course not,” George said, laughing softly as he turned to look out the window. “Must be something to have so many children.”

Discomfort prickled in the air, as each of us looked away from the rest. Each of us childless. Each of us carrying the small heartbreak of tiny losses.

None of us spoke again for the duration of the journey.

21 July 1892

Emily's questions about the daughter of the Markhams' gardener spurned me to inquire about the matter. The servants wouldn't tell me a thing—no surprise there—but a visit to the
boulangerie
in Fréville resulted not only in a spectacular baguette stuffed with ham and Gruyère cheese, but also the story that circulated at the time. The child, it seems, did die on the property, and the good citizens of our village are convinced she haunts the area.

Ridiculous, of course. I've no time for wailing cries and misty apparitions. And ribbons, according to the story. The ghost, you see, has a propensity for dropping them wherever she goes. No doubt they're supplied by every bored adolescent in the area.

Now that I think on it, I saw a ribbon crumpled on the ground when I was out riding some days ago. Blue, though I'm not sure the color is of any significance. I have a vague memory of Emily asking about ribbons in conjunction with the child. I do hope no one has polluted her mind with such nonsense. My opinion of her is much improved, but she's still more vulnerable than I would like.

No one, however, could argue she is not a good teacher.

I was pleased, when we returned to Mrs. Hargreaves's house, to find a letter waiting from Monsieur Leblanc. His update primarily served to inform me he'd learned nothing new, but he also asked if he could call soon, saying that he needed my assistance on a matter, but that it could wait until after the questions of Edith Prier's death had been answered. The thought of someone needing me was more than a little flattering. Colin allowed me to assist him on occasion, but would have had no trouble carrying on in my absence.

Allowed
. How I hated that word.

A hot fire burned in the sitting room's enormous stone fireplace, the three of us snugly fortified against the damp, each hard at work. Normandy was giving us days that felt more like autumn than summer, but the cool weather wasn't oppressive, not given the bright sun that managed to cut through the clouds often enough to remind us it was July. Mrs. Hargreaves and I had spent no small amount of time on Homer after dinner, and I was more enamored by the poet's work than ever. I'd never before filled the role of teacher, and found that I learned as much while assisting my mother-in-law as I did studying on my own. More, perhaps, as the understanding it took to explain to her the rules of Greek grammar or to help her analyze of passages of the poem required more active and thorough thought than it took to study by myself. I adored every minute of it.

“Ah!” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “I have it now—‘The wine urges me on, the bewitching wine, which sets even a wise man to singing and to laughing gently and rouses him up to dance and bring forth words which were better unspoken.' I do like this, Emily.”

“I'm glad,” I said.

“What we need, Mother, is port,” Colin said. “It's appropriate to what you've just read, and it's Emily's favorite.”

“I'm afraid I have none,” she said. “You'll have to settle for cognac.” This may have been the first time a lady had not balked at my preference for drinking port, traditionally considered a gentleman's beverage. My respect for my mother-in-law was increasing exponentially.

“I'll expect you to have filled the hole in your cellar before our next visit,” Colin said, filling glasses for each of us as our conversation returned to the Priers.

“Laurent's feelings for his sister go deeper than perhaps they ought,” I said. “Could he have crossed an unspeakable line? Could he have been jealous of Vasseur, and furious when he found out Edith had given birth to the child?”

“And killed her?” Colin asked. I nodded. “How would he have found out about the baby? Girard didn't tell him.”

“He did seem surprised when we told him Lucy was alive,” I said. “But he may very well be an excellent actor. As soon as Edith went missing, he would have started to search for her. And that search may have uncovered the truth about the girl.”

“Wouldn't it also have uncovered the girl?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked.

“Possibly,” Colin said. “But not necessarily.”

“Would he have been so angry that he'd actually kill the sister he loved? And in such violent fashion?” I frowned.

“He's the only one in the family who kept visiting her,” Colin said. “He might have felt doubly betrayed—first that she took a lover, second, that she lied to him about the baby.”

“Did he not see her during her confinement?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked. “Surely even an ignorant man would take note of her condition.”

“It wouldn't have been too difficult to hide,” Colin said. “She was in bed, and could have had a mountain of blankets over her. Laurent might have never noticed.”

“Which would have angered him all the more once he realized the doctor's real game,” I said. “The note in Dr. Girard's pocket is in Laurent's handwriting. That's solid evidence.”

“It
may
be in his handwriting,” Colin said.

“Yes,” I said. “But I'd stake my life on it. The police will confirm it.”

“We need more proof than just the note,” Colin said. “Even if Laurent did write it, someone else could have slipped it in the doctor's pocket.”

“There's also Vasseur,” I said. “We must find him.”

“I've persuaded the office of the Foreign Legion to give me the two addresses he'd given them,” Colin said. “But my subsequent inquiries turned up nothing, so it's time for a personal visit.”

“Why don't we go there tomorrow?” I asked.

“That won't be necessary. You stay here and deal with Sebastian. We do have a bet, you know.”

“A murder is more significant,” I said.

“I'm not trying to give you useless tasks,” he said. “You know me better than to think that. I'm convinced your old friend has more of a connection to all this than we've figured out so far. He took Monet's painting to and from the Markhams'—good fun for Sebastian, but I'm beginning to suspect he wasn't in the neighborhood simply to follow you.”

“I wonder—” I stopped. I didn't want to say more out loud. I wondered if Sebastian had Lucy. I wondered if he were Jules Vasseur. “How long do you think you can pacify me in this way?”

“Undoubtedly not long enough,” he said. The teasing rhythm of his words combined with the warm intensity in his eyes tugged at me deep inside. I wanted to lean forward and kiss him, to feel his arms around me, to hear him murmur soft words against my neck.

“I shouldn't be gone more than a few days,” he continued.

“Perhaps when you come home you can buy me a pony if I've been a good girl,” I said, teasing him back.

“Don't forget, Emily, I know you're intellectually at least as capable as I am. I'm protecting you from nothing but physical weakness.”

His mother coughed. “‘It is tedious to tell again tales already plainly told,'” she read. “Simple sentence. Obvious truth. I'm glad you've brought me back to Homer, Emily.”

 

“So I'm to contact Sebastian?” I asked Colin after we'd retired to our room and he was helping me undo the long row of tiny buttons down the back of my dress, slipping them through their silk loops.

“I'm confident you'll find him easily enough.” He kissed the back of my neck. “Buy something you think he'd like to steal.”

“It won't be that difficult. I had the foresight to set up a method of contacting him,” I said, and explained to him how he'd given me his cravat to hang from the window. “It almost seems a pity, though. Tricking him into stealing something would have been much more fun. I could have had a day or two in Paris, shopping for just the right priceless item, irresistible to our favorite thief. You do realize if I did such a thing he would be eternally indebted to me. And that I would then call in the favor and have him join forces with the Crown—and you'd lose our bet.”

“A risk that would be worth taking,” he said. “Fortunately, however, your foresight has protected me from having to do so. But no more of this right now. If I'm to be away from you for days, my darling wife, I don't want to spend our last hours together discussing the multitudinous charms of Sebastian Capet.”

“You don't?” I asked. He was loosening my corset now. “Whatever else did you have in mind?”

“I thought perhaps we could play chess,” he said.

“What a pity there are no pieces in our room.” Free from my stays, I turned to face him and traced his lips with my finger. “And no board. You'll have to find another way to amuse yourself.”

“Have you any suggestions?”

“None that do me credit,” I said.

“My favorite kind.” He pulled pins from my hair until it hung down my back. I kissed him.

“You're a corrupting influence,” I said.

“Would you want any other sort of husband?”

And then, in an instant, every confused and conflicted complicated feeling I'd had for him over the past days vanished. I loved him, even when he wanted to protect me. Even when protection meant curbing my freedom. It wasn't society or some set of arbitrary rules that drove him to hold me back—it was pure and simple love. Tenderness and care. A desire to not lose me before he had to. I melted into his arms and let him carry me to our bed.

It was perfect. Except for the tiniest, darkest part of my soul that was crying out, wishing I could protect him, too.

Rain started to fall at half eleven, so I bundled into a thick cloak and slipped into my sturdiest shoes before going to meet Sebastian at midnight. Before he'd left, I'd told Colin what I planned to do—I wasn't about to hide anything from him—and now I made my way quietly though the house, stopping twice when I thought I heard footsteps, then starting again towards the door, opening it silently, and breathing a sigh of relief when I felt the sweet, wet air outside. I pulled up my hood in what, given the force with which the water was hitting the ground, was doomed to be a vain effort. A cloudy sky meant no moon, so I stepped carefully into the dark, not so much because I worried I would fall on the slick pavement in front of the house, but because everything around me made me want to jump.

The cool raindrops turned steamy as they hit the ground, releasing a disheartening mist to meander through the trees on the estate. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the only relief from the black night came from intermittent flashes of lightning. I'd considered bringing a lamp, but didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself. The sound of the storm and its accompanying wind made it difficult to listen for footsteps, and this put my nerves further on edge. I knew Sebastian would come. But I should have liked to be able to listen for any further—and unwelcome—additions to our party.

I remembered times when I'd been afraid in London, when I feared the man who'd murdered my first husband might try to attack me next. As frightening as a city could be, with its narrow streets and darting shadows, the country scared me more. In town, a person was never truly alone. There were always servants or cab drivers or pedestrians on the street within shouting distance. Here, however, if I ventured far from the house, no one would hear me should I cry for help. Just as no one had heard Edith Prier's screams when her murderer attacked her.

Which was why I had no intention of taking a single step beyond Mrs. Hargreaves's gate. But even that felt too far from the warm comfort of her sprawling house. I shivered, wet from the downpour that only grew harder the longer I waited for Sebastian. Clinging to the iron railing posts in an attempt to stop my hands from shaking, I watched for my friend on the road, periodically turning around in case he was approaching me from behind, as he had previously.

“Kallista!” His whisper was harsh, and came from behind a tree a few paces from me. “Come here, quickly.”

Without hesitating, I obeyed.

“Someone followed me here,” he said. “We need to get you back inside.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I'm afraid I may need to join you. Could your mother-in-law spare a room for me?”

This was hardly a question I wanted to pose to Mrs. Hargreaves so soon after relations between us had begun to thaw, but I saw no other option. “How did you get into the grounds?” I asked.

“Over the west wall,” he said. “I heard someone drop behind me less than a minute later.”

My heart was pounding. The house felt a million miles away. “Will we be safe inside? Or will he pursue us there?”

“I've not the slightest idea—but it can't be more dangerous inside than out.”

I looked around as thoroughly as I could, watching for any signs of unusual movement, and strained my ears to hear beyond the rain. Satisfied there was no visible danger—the best I could manage—I grabbed Sebastian by the hand and ran as fast as I could to the front door. We flew through it, slamming into my mother-in-law, who was standing on the other side.

“There is, I assume, a reasonable explanation?” she asked, looking Sebastian up and down.

He gave his most elegant bow, even as water trickled off the top hat he'd removed the instant he saw her. “I am delighted to see you again,” he said. “It's far too long that I've been deprived of your excellent company.”

“You waste your time trying to charm me,” she said. Quickly assessing the situation as I told her what had happened, she pulled a heavily embroidered bell cord. “You, Emily, need to get into dry clothes at once. You, Mr. Capet, must do the same. Stay here, I don't need you dripping everywhere.”

A footman, disheveled, his white wig not quite straight, appeared, out of breath, undoubtedly from running up the stairs. “Madame?”

“Watch this man. He's a thief. I shall return momentarily with clothing for him. Do not let him out of your sight and do not be taken in by his ridiculous manners.”

She led me upstairs, but said not another word until we'd reached the bedroom I shared with her son. “What is the meaning of this running about in the middle of a stormy night?”

I explained to her that Colin had wanted me to talk to Sebastian. And then I explained the method Sebastian had given me to contact him. She stepped into our dressing room and began making her way through Colin's clothes, looking for something her unexpected guest could wear.

“Do you think he will be useful?” she asked.

“I hope so.”

“Let's find out,” she said. “Change your clothes and come downstairs. I'll have the footman continue to keep an eye on Mr. Capet while he dresses. We can't take any risks with that one. Let's hope Colin won't mind lending him a suitable outfit. We can have his own clothes ready for him tomorrow.”

She started out of the room, but I stopped her. “Mrs. Hargreaves…” I couldn't keep my voice from trembling. “Would you wait for me? I'm afraid I've frightened myself. And Sebastian heard someone following him outside. I—”

“Say not another word,” she said, and rested the full weight of her body against the closed bedroom door. “No one is getting through here. Now. Dry clothes. And give me the wet ones.” There was a calm to her tone that reminded me of Colin in stressful situations. He was a master at being soothing in the midst of madness.

In short order we'd made our way back downstairs, and soon a blushing Sebastian, his hair wet and unruly, sat across from us in a smallish study dominated by an enormous brass globe. Tall, elegant chairs surrounded the ebony table dividing us from him as he leaned forward, clasping his hands.

“I do apologize for intruding on your hospitality,” he said.

“My daughter-in-law has told me everything. Who is following you?”

“I'm afraid I've no idea,” he said.

“What did you want to discuss with this man, Emily?”

“Edith Prier's child,” I said, staring evenly at Sebastian. “The little girl you were with the last time I saw you outside in the middle of the night?”

“What on earth can you possibly mean? I was alone,” he said.

“I heard her crying. It's what brought me outside. And I saw her ribbon in the road—the same one you picked up and took with you after you left me.”

“Kallista—Emily—I don't have her,” he said. “I don't know what you're talking about. As I told you that night, you're seeing things, no doubt due to the grief caused by your own loss.”

“Mr. Capet.” Mrs. Hargreaves pulled herself up straight. “You will not torment a member of my family.”

“I assure you I've no intention of doing any such thing,” he said. “But she's confusing two things here—the neighborhood ghost and a missing child.”

“Neighborhood ghost?” I asked.

“Don't play dumb,” he said. “Markham told you about the girl who fell down the stairs. What do you think about the supernatural, Mrs. Hargreaves? Are you a believer?”

“I've not given the subject much thought,” she said. “I never found it interesting.”

“But you can't deny there are strange things afoot here—and that not all of them have simple, or even human, explanations,” Sebastian said.

“Of course I can,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “I've seen nothing to make me believe otherwise.”

Sebastian turned to me. “Don't you think, Kallista, that the spirit of a lost little girl might seek out a woman who's missing a child?”

I could hardly breathe, had to force words from my throat. “If that's the case, she'd stay close to Madeline,” I said.

“Not if Madeline pushed her down the stairs.”

 

We stayed awake half the night, but I had trouble focusing on the conversation. I hoped Sebastian's words weren't true. Surely Madeline could never have done such a thing. I shook off the horror of the possibility, reminding myself we lacked any evidence and were speculating only because we'd been scared. Sebastian continued to insist he'd been followed, but none of us was about to go outside and search for the intruder—we would have needed Colin for that—and in the end decided sleep would be best.

The rain was still falling when Meg brought my tea in the morning. “Are there adventures afoot in the house, madame?” she asked, setting the tray down next to me on the bed.

“Not of the good kind,” I said. “Have you heard any gossip about Edith Prier's murder, Meg?”

“Not really,” she said. “Everyone's talking, of course, but there's not much to say, you know. Nobody's got a clue who did it and we all—all of us below stairs, that is—is convinced as it's the Ripper, madam, no matter what the police is saying now. I told them all how I was in London when he was doing his evil work there.”

The glint in Meg's eyes told me she was thoroughly enjoying getting to be the neighborhood's resident Ripper expert. “Have you heard any other stories of violent death?” I asked.

“Oh, you mean the little girl? Whose father worked for the Markhams?”

“Yes, her.” My heartbeat quickened.

“No one talks about that anymore,” she said. “I asked on account of knowing you'd want to know about any other
suspicious deaths.
” She emphasized the words with such careful effort I had to bite back my amusement. “There's nothing interesting to report. She's buried at the château, you know.”

“The Markhams' château?” I asked.

Meg nodded. “Unmarked grave. So as not to trouble the lady of the house. Who, if you'll forgive my impertinence, hasn't been able to, well…”

“Have children?”

“Yes, madam, thank you. I don't like to say it, you know. Specially after…”

“That's all right, Meg. I do appreciate it.”

I guzzled my tea and dressed as quickly as possible, eager to set out on the day's mission. Mrs. Hargreaves agreed we should try to locate Lucy, and felt Sebastian a worthy companion for me while conducting my investigation. She, of course, didn't want me doing anything dangerous, but did not object to my plan to return to the asylum and search Edith's room again.

“You're a terrible rogue,” Sebastian said as we climbed into the carriage and waved to her as it pulled away. “She wouldn't approve of you looking for Girard's house. Or doing any of the other things we're bound to do once you start getting carried away.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Do not, Sebastian, make me regret bringing you,” I said.

“You can't regret bringing me. You wouldn't have been allowed out of the house on your own.”

Allowed.
Again. He was perfectly correct, however, and given what had transpired the night before, I wouldn't have dreamed of going off on my own. Colin's mother had sent word to Inspector Gaudet first thing in the morning, asking him to come round and search for evidence of whomever had followed Sebastian. None of us expected him to unearth even a shred of something useful.

I don't approve of lying, and it's certainly not a habit into which I'd like to fall. Sebastian and I were, in fact, going to the asylum. It was theoretically possible we—and the police—had missed something in Edith's room, and it wouldn't hurt to make another pass through it. But I also knew someone amongst the staff would be able to direct me to Dr. Girard's house, and I had great hopes for finding a clue there that would point the way to Lucy's guardian.

Order had been restored at the asylum, though the previously disheveled nurse was nowhere to be found. Another one, whom I'd met only in passing the day Dr. Girard died, greeted me warmly, and was quick to show us Edith's room.

“They've all been through here more times than I can count, you know,” she said.

“The police?” I asked.

“And the doctor, of course, as soon as she'd disappeared. And then the police again after they found her body.” She covered her mouth. “Oh, you're the one, aren't you madame?”

“I am.”

“I do hope you can forgive me,” she said.

“Don't think on it,” I said. “There's nothing more to be said on the topic. Did anyone else look through her room?”

“Let's see…there was her friend, Monsieur Myriel.”

“When was he here?”

“Right after Mademoiselle Prier's death,” she said.

“Do you know where he went when he left?” I asked, excitement building in me.

“Oh, no,” she said. “He didn't talk much. He was awfully upset about Mademoiselle Prier.”

Sebastian stood absolutely still in the corner of the room, not appearing to have paid the slightest attention to the conversation. “Did Edith's family collect her belongings?” he asked.

“No one came immediately after we heard of her murder. Her brother did eventually, though.” She turned back to me. “He's the other one who came and searched her room. Him and that writer fellow.”

“Monsieur Leblanc?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes. Monsieur Leblanc. Wasn't sure I could remember his name. But it's hard to forget his moustache.”

“When was he here?” I asked.

“The day after Dr. Girard died.”

“Did he find anything?” I was surprised Monsieur Leblanc hadn't told me of his visit.

“I don't think so. The thing is, madame, we'd cleaned out the room real good after she left. And again after we got word she'd died. There wasn't anything left.”

“Not unless you're clever enough to know where to look. I have a great breadth of knowledge when it comes to furniture construction—people think they're awfully clever when they hide valuables in pieces that don't have drawers,” Sebastian said. He walked slowly through the room, examining every object it contained. Then, his brow furrowed, he crossed to the bed and began to unscrew one of the finials on the metal headboard. Once he'd removed it, he put two slim fingers into the post before returning the finial back to its place and repeating the procedure on the other side. This time, he pulled out a tightly rolled bundle of papers. “Sometimes, my dear girl, you need a gentleman who can think beyond the ordinary constraints of decency.”