Dangerous to Know Read online

  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.

  The nurse led us through wide corridors whose whitewashed walls stood bright and clean. The ceiling retained its ornate plaster moldings that must have been original to the building, and the parquet floors showed signs of the wear that comes from frequent, vigorous scrubbing. She tapped on a door at the back of the building and then, without waiting for a response, opened it. After motioning for us to enter the room, which was fitted up as a medical library and office, she disappeared, closing the door behind her.

  “How may I help you?” A not unattractive man of average height and build rose from his chair at the large desk that commandeered the center of the room while bookcases filled with thick, well-worn volumes lined the walls. He was younger than I’d expected—in the prime of life—well-dressed, with an elegance to the way he moved. “I’m afraid we’ve not any openings for new patients at the moment, but—oh, do forgive me. I should have introduced myself.”

  “You require no introduction, Dr. Girard,” Monsieur Leblanc said, offering the man his hand and giving him our names. “I know your reputation well. We have come to inquire on behalf of friends of the Prier family.”

  “A terrible tragedy,” he said. “I did not think that many friends knew of the poor girl’s plight.”

  “Not of her illness, perhaps,” I said. “But the news of her death—”

  “Of course. It horrified the entire region,” the doctor interrupted. “Please, sit.”

  We did as he asked and he lowered himself onto his chair. The surface of his desk was clear except for two neat piles of papers and a copy of a medical journal carefully lined up on the upper left hand corner, an inkwell with two pens perfectly centered, and an ancient but polished clock to the right of the chair.

  “I’m the one who found Mademoiselle Prier’s body,” I said. “And feel, as a result, a vested interest in her murder.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Dr. Girard said. “I read the autopsy report and do not envy you what you saw. I understand, however, that the police have a suspect in mind?”

  “They may,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “But what concerns us is the victim. I am a writer, you see, and want to do a piece about her, so that her life is not forgotten.”

  “I can’t imagine the family would welcome such a thing,” the doctor said. “They’re extremely private people. At least when it concerned the health of their daughter.”

  “Was she very ill?” I asked.

  “Her condition deteriorated markedly in the time I treated her. When she arrived, her thoughts were scattered and she was consumed with anxiety. Her parents were concerned that she suffered from the same troubles that led to the death of her mother’s second cousin. Madness running in the family can be terrifying.”

  “How long was Edith here?” I asked.

  “Nearly five years. She disappeared—escaped, I should say, about six months ago.”

  “What was done to try to find her?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.

  “Not much, truth be told,” Dr. Girard said. “Her family, particularly her father, found her lack of progress frustrating.”

  “Did they expect her to be cured?” I asked.

  “Initially, yes, they believed she would stay with us only temporarily.”

  “Despite the fact that they’d seen another relative die from a similar condition?” Monsieur Leblanc frowned.

  “The symptoms of mental illness are not what kill those who suffer from it. The patient’s inability to cope with her hallucinations and dementia can lead to despair, which often results in suicide. The Priers thought that a course of treatment might relieve Edith’s symptoms. Unfortunately, however, her condition did not improve from anything I tried.”

  “Are your treatments successful?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.

  “Sometimes. I consider my work more art than science. Some patients respond with remarkable results. Others…well, for them all I can do is offer comfortable surroundings. You’ll see that we’ve cleared from this facility all the clutter and filth found in most asylums. The deranged mind is not aided by overstimulation, I think.”

  “What treatments did you prescribe for Mademoiselle Prier?” I asked.

  “I agree with the principles of Philippe Pinel, who established the idea of moral treatment. No beatings, no shackles. Patients should be treated with respect. There are some medicines that can help restore a person’s vital force, but I found they did little for Edith. I set her to work—having time strictly organized can help a troubled mind. She made clothing for dolls that we sent to church charities. I talked to her, tried to ease her pain. But she slipped further and further away from reality.”

  “Was she still able to work as her condition worsened?” I asked.

  “Yes. Oddly enough, although she would forget where she was, forget those around her, her sewing grew more and more proficient. You could tell, however, that her mind was fixed in unusual ways. Every outfit she made included a blue satin ribbon. She was obsessed with them.”

  Swallowing hard, I pictured the ribbon in the road in front of Colin’s mother’s house, pictured it tied in the hair of the girl who stood in the window of the Markhams’ dovecote, and wondered what, precisely, I’d seen. Trying to remain calm, I drew a deep breath. “Where do you think she went when she escaped?”

  “The only member of her family who visited her was her brother. Initially, he was happy she was here, but eventually, he started pleading with me to release her. In the end, I think he came to realize that she could not live in an ordinary way. Her father asked for regular updates on her condition, but even when he came to speak to me in person refused to see her. Her mother never came at all, only sent letters at infrequent intervals.”

  “Did anyone else visit her?” I asked.

  “One gentleman,” the doctor said. “A family friend. Or so I thought. After she’d gone, I tried to get in touch with him and found it impossible to track him down. So far as I can tell the identity he’d presented to me—that of a Monsieur Myriel—was false.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Only that he was extraordinarily kind to Edith, and that she enjoyed seeing him. I do hope someone’s told him of her death. I was as thorough as possible in attempting to find him—I’m afraid he’s disappeared.”

  16

  “It’s Vasseur, you know,” I said. Monsieur Leblanc and I had returned to Rouen, but instead of going to the Priers’, we’d settled into a café where we could discuss Edith’s lover away from her family. Dr. Girard, though charming and pleasant, had refused to give us any further information about Edith’s condition, and would not address the possibility that she thought she was seeing ghosts. “He had to be the one who was visiting her and calling himself Myriel. What do you know about him?”

  “Very
little despite extensive research,” he said. “He’s a career soldier, which wasn’t a glamorous enough occupation for Monsieur Prier.”

  “He probably didn’t want his daughter to marry a man who required an occupation.”

  “You aristocrats are an odd lot.”

  “Are the Priers aristocratic?” I asked.

  “Not on his side, but his wife’s family still retain their obsolete titles. Not the sort to want an undesirable son-in-law.”

  “Is Vasseur an officer?”

  “He is. Spent some time in Indochina.”

  “And you’ve no idea where he is now?”

  “I traced him to the Foreign Legion, and according to their records he was discharged eight months ago.”

  “It had to be earlier than that or he couldn’t have been visiting her regularly,” I said.

  “He could have had someone checking in on her on his behalf. And then, when he was able to return to France—”

  “He came for her,” I said. “As soon as he could. So why, then, is she dead?”

  When I reached the Priers’ house I went straight upstairs and pounded on Laurent’s door, which was locked. After being ignored (I could hear him inside, his footsteps heavy on the old plank floors) I crawled through the passage in my armoire.

  “Don’t you find this somewhat ridiculous?” I asked, smoothing my skirts. “It would be so much easier to just let me in.”

  “Edith always liked making a game of it,” he said.

  “I’m not Edith.”

  “And I didn’t invite you to speak to me.”

  “Monsieur Vasseur left the Foreign Legion not long before your sister disappeared from the asylum.”

  “Is he back in France?” Laurent’s face reddened and he clenched his fists.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Perhaps now would be a good time to tell me what you know about him.”

  “He killed her because he couldn’t have her.”

  “A romantic idea, to be sure,” I said, incredulous. “But has it any basis in fact?”

  “My sister had a heart and soul unlike anyone’s. She felt things more deeply than ordinary people do. Vasseur fed her pretty lines and poetry and seduced her with hardly any effort.”

  “Did she love him?”

  “Desperately.”

  “Why do you despise him? Perhaps he loved her.”

  “There are things a gentleman doesn’t do to a lady he loves.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m not discussing it.”

  “You frustrate me, Laurent,” I said. “The police believe your sister was killed by a man who murdered prostitutes in London. If you have reason to believe someone else is guilty, you’re obligated to come forward with whatever evidence you have.”

  “Do you like playing detective?”

  “I do, in fact, and I’m good at it.”

  He laughed. “I suppose you always identify the killer before the end of Sherlock Holmes novels.”

  “Yes, but that’s hardly the point. I caught the man who murdered my first husband; I cleared erroneous charges against a dear friend, and have solved two other crimes. I’m certainly more qualified than you to figure out what happened to your sister—although I can’t vouch for you being capable of anything beyond brooding and playing Beethoven.”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “I don’t care. All that matters now is where your sister spent the last six months of her life.”

  He turned away from me and stomped across the room to a window, which he flung open. “Can you doubt he killed her?”

  “Vasseur?” I asked. “I know nothing about him except that it appears he was romantically involved with Edith. The fact that you were jealous of their relationship is hardly cause to suspect him of murder. It’s more likely to make me wonder about you.”

  “You accuse me?” He whirled around.

  “No. But you give me nothing—not even the slimmest reason to doubt this man’s feelings for your sister.”

  “He got her with child,” he said, stepping towards me, his eyes full of menace. “And then left her to deal with the consequences on her own.”

  “But he wanted to marry her?”

  “My father had forbidden his suit, but he continued to pursue her. Because they couldn’t meet openly, he arranged clandestine meetings. And once he was able to be alone with her, away from all decent company, without any limits, he took advantage of her.”

  “She must have been devastated,” I said.

  “She wasn’t.” He sank onto his piano bench and dropped his head into his hands. “She was ecstatic. She wanted to marry him. Thought they would elope.”

  “Was he unwilling?”

  “I wasn’t about to leave her in the hands of a man who would behave so dishonorably.”

  “And the baby?”

  “She lost it,” he said. “Which was the best thing that could happen in such a situation.”

  “Did your parents know?”

  “Of course not. Only Dr. Girard, who cared for her.”

  “So she’d already been sent away?”

  “I was able to persuade her that she needed rest.”

  “I’ve heard stories that you drove her mad.”

  “It hurt her to hear the things I said. No one likes to be told her lover is a useless wretch. She was heartbroken, yes, but not mad.”

  “But she was with child when she went to the asylum?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then she lost it?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s awfully convenient,” I said.

  “Sometimes nature needs only a little help.”

  I trembled and felt the room go cold. A stiff wind blew through the window, rattling the glass, and all I wanted to do was run. Edith had suffered abominably at the hands of men, and more than once. I looked at Laurent, whose eyes turned hard. He stepped forward and reached for me. I stepped back, avoiding his touch.

  “You are not to discuss this with anyone,” he said. “These events have nothing whatsoever to do with her death.”

  “Does Vasseur know you arranged this?” I asked.

  “No. Only Girard. Everything we did was hidden from Vasseur. It was not his concern.”

  “How can you believe a man’s child is not his concern?”

  “When a man is a worthless profligate, nothing is his concern.”

  “I agree that his behavior was appalling,” I said. “But you’ve told me nothing to suggest he would want to see Edith dead.”

  “She lost his child. He despised weakness.”

  “A thin argument at best. Do you know for certain he was aware of the pregnancy?”

  “She told him in a letter. I read it before she sent it.”

  “She shared her correspondence with you?”

  “No,” he said. “I opened and resealed it. Edith believed he was going to come for her, that they would elope.”

  “And you wouldn’t let that happen.”

  “She was the dearest part of my heart,” he said. “I could not let her come to such inglorious ruin.”

  “So instead you had her committed and labeled insane? Forgive me if I don’t see the kindness in your strategy.”

  “How could I have known the events would drive her irrevocably mad?”

  “Of course. Who would consider that the loss of both the man she wanted to marry and her child would have a deep impact on her mental condition?”

  “You need not be sarcastic. I saved her from a worse fate. Girard’s asylum is no Bedlam. I intended for her to recuperate in comfort and then come home. For her to have kept the child was unthinkable—she would have been ostracized.”

  “You have no appreciation for the grief you caused her,” I said. “You destroyed her. If you hadn’t manipulated the situation she’d still be alive.”

  He took me fiercely by the arm and leaned in close to my face. “I loved my sister like no one else. Our family did not understand her. I alone knew what was b
est for her, and I saw to it that she got it. Do not dare accuse me of bringing her to harm unless you should like to suffer a worse fate than she did.” He pushed me away, and I fell against the wall, my heart pounding, unable to move until the sound of his footsteps disappeared down the stairs. Then, stepping tentatively, I went to my own room and collapsed on my bed, scared and horrified, but unable to cry.

  I didn’t want to believe what Laurent had told me; it was too awful, unthinkable. I couldn’t believe that a man like Dr. Girard would participate in such an odious endeavor. I pressed the heel of my palm against my forehead, felt a rush of sadness tear through me, and lamented that Edith had suffered such a loss in circumstances worse than my own. Or were they? Could one compare grief? Could solace be found in doing so? I raised my head, resting my chin on my left hand, tugging at the duvet with my right, listening to the sounds of Rouen lumber through my open window. It differed little from what one would hear in any city—carriages clattering over cobbled streets, the chatter of business, laughter and gossip, the tinkling bells that announced the opening of shop doors, the thud of them closing.

  But something familiar strained to be heard over the clamor: a thin sound, reedy and sharp, growing louder and more rhythmic. I froze and closed my eyes, concentrating, eager to disprove what I suspected. Shaking, I rose from the bed and stepped to the window, leaning out when I reached it. Lost in the din, it was barely discernible, but still recognizable. The voice I’d heard in the country had followed me to Rouen, its lonely weeping twisted by the breeze fluttering the lacy curtains in my room.