Dangerous to Know (28 page)

“You collapsed in the maze,” he said. “You were frightened and overwrought and slipping into madness. Everyone knows you've been seeing ghosts, that your grasp on reality has become more and more elusive over these last weeks.”

My situation was beyond dire. “When are you going to do this?” I asked, not bothering to fight back my tears. “Can I at least have time in private to make peace with myself?”

“I'm not a monster, Emily,” he said. “Of course you can. I'm going to check on the others and make sure they're sleeping soundly—though I can't imagine laudanum would let me down. I shall return in less than a quarter of an hour and we shall begin. I know it's hard to accept such a fate, but I beg you to focus on the good that will come from it.”

“Do you have a Bible?” I asked. “It would give me comfort to read.”

“I'm afraid I can't unfasten your hands so that you might hold a book. I understand all too well how strong the instinct to survive is—you forget I saw how Edith fought. Pray, cry, do what you must. I will return shortly, and promise to be as kind and gentle as possible.”

I heard the lock snap into place as he turned the key after closing the door behind him. Knowing I had extremely limited time, I forced all fear, all thoughts of what might lie ahead of me from my head and focused on the only task that mattered: freeing my hands. I twisted and wriggled against the leather straps, but to no avail. They weren't tight enough to cut off my circulation, but they were too tight to allow for escape. Tears stung in my eyes, but I ignored them, working harder on the leather.

Stretching it seemed the only hope, so I mustered all my strength and pulled as hard as I could, over and over until I could feel the slightest hint of a gap forming between the straps and my wrists. It wasn't enough, though. Now, instead of trying to free both hands, I expended my energy all on the right, using the whole of my body to tug against the rails on the side of the bed to which I was attached. The leather was bending to my will, but not quickly enough.

And then I heard it. The wailing. The sad sobs, the small voice. Was Lucy up here with me? I was not going to see her lost to the clutches of a maniac like George Markham. I would find her, I would save her, I would return her to Madame Sapin, the only mother she'd known. I felt as if something primal in me had kicked in, enabling me unlimited strength to defend this child.

Only my strength fell somewhat short of unlimited. Nonetheless, with repeated, brutal tugs, I finally managed to slip my right wrist, bloodied and battered, through the binding strap. With a shaking hand, I unbuckled the cuffs on my other hand, ankles, and forehead. Lucy's cries were fading again, and I rushed in the direction of them, pausing when I realized that if I did not first stop George, there would be no escape for either of us.

I assessed the space around me. There was little furniture, and no hope I could block him out of the room for long. The door opened inward, so I dragged the bed in front of it, figuring its presence might buy me at least a few extra seconds. Then I turned my attention to George's strange machine.

I'd heard of the use of electricity in medicine, but never paid much attention to the topic. My mother had once mentioned that a long-ago Duchess of Devonshire had been a proponent of it. That, unfortunately, was my entire knowledge of the subject. The device looked simple enough—turning the crank had to provide the power, so I began working on it at once, figuring I would need as much stored up as possible—and I knew George hadn't been turning it when he shocked me. I then moved the contraption to the bed. Electricity needed metal, so I wrapped the wire George had used to shock me around the tarnished doorknob.

And then I had to figure out how to turn up the current. I played with the dial on the flat surface of the machine's base, carefully touching the wire. Nothing happened. Frantic, I studied the object before me again, finally seeing a small switch. I threw it, touched the wire, and recoiled at the shock. I then turned the dial farther to the right and touched the wire again. A harder shock.

I spun the dial as far to the right as it would go, made sure the switch was still on, and was careful to touch neither the wire, nor the doorknob. I stepped away from the bed and steeled myself for George's return, hoping the shock he got would knock him out, even if only momentarily. He'd said he'd not gone even halfway up with Edith, so surely full strength would have a diabolical effect on him.

The thin wail of Lucy's cry filled the room again. Startled and on edge, I spun around, taking better stock of my surroundings. Where could she be? There were no windows in the room, so the sound could not have been coming from outside—it wouldn't have been able to penetrate the thick stone walls—and there was no visible door except the one through which George had exited. There had to be another one—hidden—that I hoped would lead to the child.

A cold chill shot through me. Scared out of my wits, I shuffled back to the door, my legs so feeble I could hardly support myself. I felt a presence—someone had to be here, but it didn't seem possible. The crying ceased and was replaced by the sound of heavy footsteps just outside.

My heart pounded. I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes, knowing I had only one chance at survival. I could hear him on the other side of the door. He'd stopped walking but hadn't yet touched the door.

I heard him sigh, fumble with a key. I held my breath waiting for it to slip into the lock, then turn. The instant the lock clicked, I turned on the machine.

And then, a buzz, a hum, and a shriek—a hideous shriek of pain—followed by a thump. More scared than ever, and trembling uncontrollably, I closed the switch on the machine, hesitating to touch the wire even though I knew it should be off. Then, afraid he might return to his senses quickly, I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and reached for the wire.

Nothing happened.

I ripped it from the knob, pushed the bed away from the door, and opened it. George lay before me on the floor, twitching, foam bubbling from between his lips. My stomach turned and I felt sick, but there was no time for contemplation, guilt, or compassion. I raced down the stone spiral stairs to the bottom of the tower, then stopped.

Lucy had to be somewhere near, and I couldn't leave her here in case George should wake up before I could return with help. I forced myself back up the steps, took the key from the door, and locked myself into the room from which I'd only just escaped. Unable to stop shaking, I made my way around the perimeter, steadying myself against the stone wall, feeling for any imperfection that might unlatch the hidden door I was convinced had to exist. Weren't castles full of passages through which escape would be possible should the inhabitants have fallen under siege?

The silence around me was oppressive, broken only by the sound of my heart thumping and the blood beating its way through my ears. I circled the room for a fifth time, with each rotation scrutinizing another swathe of the wall. Finally I found a place where the smoothness of the stone gave way to a rough patch, a spot where the mortar had crumbled. I thrust my fingers into it, and felt a cold, hard switch. It took all the strength left in my already injured hands to pull it, and as I did, a rectangular piece of the floor swung down like a trapdoor to reveal a narrow staircase.

I grabbed a lamp from the table on which George had placed his machine. Pausing, I considered checking to make sure he was still unconscious, but it didn't seem wise to waste any precious time. I placed a foot carefully on the first step and made my way to the bottom, where I found a tight passageway, too short for me to stand up straight. Another switch was here, on the wall, a twin to the one I'd found in the tower. Holding my breath, I flipped it, knowing it would close the way from which I'd come. Another layer of protection should George wake up.

Frightening, though, if it wouldn't reopen should I need it to. I could not, however, imagine the point in building a secret passage that led to nowhere.

I continued on as quickly as I could, my feet slipping on the mossy pavement, until I heard Lucy's cries, and the sound of small footsteps. In an instant, the child was in front of me, tears streaming down her pale, dirt-streaked face, a blue satin ribbon crumpled in her little hand. I scooped her into my arms and held her close, then shot the rest of the way down the tunnel to where it hit another set of steps.

At the top of which was a door that led to the dovecote.

Above it, a key hung on a high hook. I jumped up and grabbed it, unlocked the door, burst through it, and didn't stop running until I'd reached Mrs. Hargreaves's house.

27 July 1892

At last it's all over, thank heavens. If I never am subjected to such drama again, it will be too soon. It's impossible to reconcile the neighbor and friend I'd known for years with the brutal killer for which he's now been exposed.

Emily's strength shows through better now than ever before. The servants say she appeared here with the child, breathless and exhausted, surely terrified out of her mind, but she was calm, direct, and put them all at ease as she told them what to do.

The police came in short order and it's all settled now. No more murderous neighbors to contend with, no more ghost stories or strange cries in the night.

I have, without question, been in the country too long.

Gladstone's won. It's time I return to London.

“I think perhaps I ought to be slightly affronted you didn't come rescue us before sending for help,” Cécile said as we all sat at a rough-hewn table under the shade of a magnificent tree in the garden at Mrs. Hargreaves's house the next afternoon. None of us had touched the spread of cakes on pretty silver platters, but the scalding hot tea proved a panacea for all, and we consumed pot after pot at an alarming rate.

“I was afraid if he woke up he'd catch me again before I could sound an alarm,” I said. In fact, he hadn't regained consciousness until after Inspector Gaudet and his men arrived, having been summoned by Mrs. Hargreaves's servants the instant I'd told them what happened. His physical condition was not great—I'd injured him severely—but his mind was intact, and the police physician who examined him predicted what he called a
full-enough recovery
.

“It's terrifying to think—” my mother-in-law started, but stopped at a fierce glare from Colin. We all fell into a tense silence. Madeline was still with us, shaken and devastated, incoherent. I wished Dr. Girard could look after her. We'd arranged for his partner to come for both her and her mother, and I had no doubt they'd be well taken care of in the asylum, although seeing them committed felt something like a failure. George, for all his evilness, had started with a noble motive—trying to cure his wife's illness so that she would never be relegated to hospital. His ill-formed plan had in the end served to do nothing but guarantee she would spend the rest of her life in one. And he would certainly be executed.

“Adèle!”

The sound of Madeline's voice startled me. Cécile dropped her fan and Mrs. Hargreaves poured tea onto the table instead of into her son's cup. Madeline had been only short of catatonic all day, but now her face was bright, her eyes eager.

“Adèle!” she said again. “What do you think? Should we go to Paris? It's been too long since we've been to a real ball, and I'm desperate to see Mr. Worth about new dresses.”

“Oh, Madeline,” I said, sitting next to her and taking her hand. “Of course we'll go to Paris.”

“I've met the most handsome gentleman and I'm certain he's going to propose to me. He's English—but I suppose I can learn to tolerate that. He's called George, and I absolutely adore him.”

Mrs. Hargreaves rose from her seat and bent over Madeline's shoulder. “Do come inside with me dearest,” she said. “I want to hear all about George and to ask your advice on my dinner menu. You will help me, won't you?” She led her towards the house. I felt sick, unable to determine which was worse—that she believed she'd only just met George and was hoping to marry him or the fact that she'd never see him again. Would she even know?

“That's a relief,” Sebastian said as soon as they were gone. I glared at him. “Don't even think about scolding me, Kallista. It's beyond awkward having her around here now in that state of mind. There's nothing more any of us can do for her. No point in suffering with her.”

“You are so heartless,” Monsieur Leblanc said, tugging at his moustache. “It's inspiring.”

“Why, thank you,” Sebastian said, puffing himself up. “It is a delight to be appreciated.”

“You've put me on a new track,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “I want to abandon journalism altogether—can't be any more difficult than abandoning the law, wouldn't you say?—and turn instead to fiction. I'm going to chronicle the adventures of a gentleman thief.”

“And base him,
naturellement
, on
moi
,” Sebastian said.

“Does your ego know no bounds?” I asked.

“I certainly hope not,” Cécile said. “That would be a grand disappointment.”

“I shall call him Arsène Lupin,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “And I will, perhaps, let it be known—or at least rumored—that he's not altogether an invention.”

“I shall come to you at Étretat twice a year and update you on my exploits,” Sebastian said. “And I may even adopt the name Vasseur as a nom de plume, seeing as how it goes with eyes of a certain shade of blue. Might be useful if people thought I'd been in the Foreign Legion.”

“Capet!” Colin's eyes gave a stern warning, then he looked away, his attention diverted by a bright flutter at the garden gate.

“We set off the moment we got your telegram,” Madame Prier said, Toinette trailing behind her in a yellow dress. “You have saved us all from the distress of never having justice done for our dearest girl!” She pulled me out of my chair and embraced me, not balking at my expression of disbelief. Toinette, however, was not yet so practiced in the art of selective notice.

“She doesn't believe you for an instant,
Maman
,” she said, and took the seat closest to Colin, who immediately rose and crossed to me, standing behind my chair and putting a hand on my shoulder.

“You should treat your mother with more respect, Toinette,” he said. “Impertinence is not an attractive trait in a young lady. Not, that is, when it is full of malice.”

Toinette opened her mouth and closed it again without speaking. Her mother lowered herself onto a chair and accepted a cup of tea from Cécile.

“My husband apologizes for not coming with us,” Madame Prier said. “He is much engaged in business at the moment. But his relief at what you have done is palpable.”

Toinette snorted.

We all ignored her.

“Have you learned anything else from that horrible man?” Madame Prier asked. “I can't believe I received him at my house. It makes me want to move. I can hardly bear to go into the sitting room anymore.”

“He admitted to having stolen the page from Laurent's notebook after he found it in Edith's room at the asylum during one of his visits to her,” Colin said. “He was already planning to kidnap your daughter, and considered Laurent's words a sort of insurance should anything go wrong. Planted correctly, he thought it would implicate Laurent in his sister's disappearance.”

“Despicable beast,” she said. “And he was calling himself Myriel?”

“Yes,” I said. “And disguised himself with a moustache and spectacles. Told her he'd been paying for Lucy's care.”

“I always knew one couldn't trust any member of the Foreign Legion. Mercenaries, all of them,” Madame Prier said.

“Did it ever occur to you,
Maman
, that had you actually visited Edith instead of pretending to she might not have accepted Myriel's false friendship?” Toinette asked. “And hence you might have averted this entire situation?”

“There's no point thinking that way,” I said. “George was fixed on his purpose. He would have got to Edith one way or another. No one could have prevented it.” I didn't entirely believe my words, but saying them seemed the right thing to do.

Madame Prier leaned forward. “May we see Lucy now?”

My heart clenched. I hated the thought of the little girl in the hands of the Priers, even if they were her closest relatives. “She's resting now,” I said. “But you'll meet her soon.”

Toinette rolled her eyes. “And that will be a delight, I'm sure.”

Cécile cleared her throat, no more eager to see Lucy handed over to her grandmother than I. “I haven't figured out all the details of this horrendous crime. Why did George take Edith away from Étretat?”

“He knew all along it wouldn't be practical to stay there indefinitely, but it made for an excellent starting point—a perfect place to hide where there was no connection to him. He'd used Vasseur's name to take the house, so if Edith ever were traced there, everyone would believe she'd gone with her lover.”

“As soon as her illness grew worse, he sedated her,” Colin said. “He told Lucy her mother was ill, and that he was taking her to hospital. Instead, they went to the château, where he'd set up a makeshift laboratory—”

“With which Emily is all too familiar,” Cécile said.

“Quite,” Colin continued. “He stashed Lucy away in a hidden room in the dovecote—one connected by secret passageway to his laboratory—and started to work on her mother. He was convinced it would lead him to a way to help his wife—something that until that point had seemed to him utterly hopeless.”

Already, Gaudet had found two physicians with whom George had consulted, asking them to do more aggressive electrical treatment on Madeline than either of them thought responsible. There hadn't been enough research, they said, so he pursued it on his own, even building his own machine. And in the months that followed, he tortured Edith with his experimental treatment, until the fatal day when he turned the current too high.

“Why did he kill Dr. Girard?” Monsieur Leblanc asked, looking up from the notebook into which he had furiously been scribbling notes. “First, he was afraid Girard might recognize him as Myriel. Second, because he got nervous, and thought—erroneously—that another death so far removed from his life with Madeline would protect him from being considered a possible suspect,” Colin said. “He still had the page from the diary, and knew that we were suspicious of Laurent.”

“A dreadful business, all of it,” Cécile said. “Thank goodness it's over.”

“All that concerns Markham,” Colin said, turning to Sebastian. “There is one further thing to consider: the matter of the stolen Monet. I know you, Capet, swear you had nothing to do with it.”

“I promised the artist himself I would never touch another of his paintings!” Sebastian said.

“Let me see…” I closed my eyes as if deep in thought. “You might not have actually
touched
the painting, correct? You could have used gloves, had an accomplice lift it for you. Or perhaps you get around your promise by claiming that you have not, in fact, touched
another
painting. You've merely re-stolen what you'd already taken once.”

“You wound me, Kallista,” Sebastian said, rising from the table and leaning against a nearby tree. “How could you think so ill of me?”

“All this crime!” Madame Prier said, fanning herself. “It's beyond anything a decent person could tolerate.”

“Let's hope we've reached the end of it,” I said. “As for the painting, I shall never change my mind about what happened to it.”

“I suppose it couldn't have been Monet who took it,” Cécile said. “Although I half wish is was. It would make for a good story, an artist stealing his own work, don't you think? Perhaps you should write it, Monsieur Leblanc.”

“An interesting suggestion,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “But somehow I don't think Monet has much of the criminal element in him.”

“Fictionalize it, dear man!” Cécile cried. “Replace him with Manet if you must.”

All save Toinette laughed. She, instead, practiced what I could only imagine was an expression she thought made her appear particularly fetching: lips in a half-open pout, eyes wide. She looked as if she was about to speak and, I assumed, change the subject.

I wasn't about to let her. Not when I had the opportunity to coax a confession from Sebastian, whom, there could be no doubt, was one hundred percent culpable for the missing Monet.

“Mr. Capet—” I began but stopped as I turned to the tree against which he had only just been leaning. Now he was nowhere in sight. I met Colin's eyes and he leapt up at once, with me following as close behind as my impractical shoes (silk, lovely, heel far too high for running) would allow. He sprinted away from the others towards a forested section of the garden.

I did not make it far into the woods before I felt a rough hand on my arm as my husband disappeared from sight in the distance ahead of me.

“I owe you an apology.” Laurent's face was dark, only half-visible in the shadows of the towering trees. “You did find justice for Edith, and for that I am grateful.”

A tingling warmth rushed through me. I'd not thought it possible to impress Laurent in any way under any circumstances. “You're welcome,” I said. “I only wish she hadn't found herself in need of justice.”

He scowled. “Don't bother to congratulate yourself too much. If you think you've made things better, you haven't. All you've done is delivered another child into the hands of my parents. Do you think Edith would have wanted that for her daughter?”

“I—”

“Though I'm not sure in the end I care. I'll help Lucy as I see fit, but the truth is, I want to see the monster who killed my sister punished even if it does mean her child will wind up in a situation as bad as the one from which Edith escaped.” He stepped closer to me and I could feel his breath hot on my face. “It's what makes us different, you and I, Lady Emily. You care for the living, and I for the dead.”

Footsteps approached, and Laurent started. He grabbed my hand, kissed it, and took his leave moments before Colin arrived on the scene.

“Interesting conversation?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Do you think Laurent capable of anything else?”

“He elevates brooding to the level of art.”

“Did you find Sebastian?” I asked. My husband shook his head.

“No one—and I know that you, Emily, of all people, will be delighted to hear me admit this—can escape like Capet. Our elusive friend is long gone.”

I sighed, not entirely displeased to see him make another successful escape. “I'd wager anything that if I were to wire Davis right now, our indomitable butler would tell me a package of just the right dimensions to match the missing Monet had arrived at Park Lane only last week.”

“That's a bet I am
not
willing to take,” he said, taking my hand as we dropped, short of breath, onto a little bench far from the picnic grove where our friends, who had not joined the chase, waited for our return. “However, I must inform you that
you
have lost the wager we
did
make. Sebastian has agreed to work with me.”