Dangerous to Know Page 23

  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.

&n
bsp; “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.”

  28

  “Love letters,” I said, smoothing the pages on my lap. We were all sitting on what had been Edith’s bed in the small, spare hospital room, reading words so tender and sweet and true they brought tears to my eyes. Sebastian, however, was unmoved.

  “He’s a maudlin sense about him,” he said. “Not nearly romantic enough. I did much better by you.”

  I shot him what I hoped he would recognize as a disapproving glare. “Jules. That’s Vasseur,” I said. “So he knew she was here. But no one called that ever visited her?”

  The nurse shook her head. “You saw me check the records again just a minute ago. No one admitting to be him was ever here.”

  Sebastian sighed. “Isn’t it obvious he’s your mysterious Monsieur Myriel?”

  “It doesn’t fit with the time he was away in the Foreign Legion,” I said. “And furthermore, if he was so close, wouldn’t he have spirited her away soon after she…” I didn’t want to mention the baby in front of the nurse. “As soon as he realized she was here? Why would he have left her here?”

  “She needed treatment, madame,” the nurse said. “There was no question. Some days she hardly knew where she was.”

  “So he took rooms nearby, under an assumed name, so he could visit without drawing her family’s attention. It became clear to him the doctor was at least trying to help her, so he didn’t press her to leave immediately,” Sebastian suggested.

  “Did her condition improve at all during her stay here?” I asked.

  “I can’t rightly say,” the nurse said. “Mademoiselle Prier was one of those patients whose condition changed constantly. Some days she was as normal as you, the next she was seeing ghosts. She couldn’t have gone home.”

  “But Monsieur Vasseur—Monsieur Myriel—might have thought otherwise,” I said. “Or perhaps…” Again I stopped myself and reset my focus. “Do you know where Dr. Girard lived? I’m wondering if he had any personal correspondence with Monsieur Myriel.”

  “Wouldn’t the police have found it?” she asked.

  “Only if they knew to look,” I said. “Surely it would be all right for you to help us find the house? It’s not as if we’d be disturbing him.”

  “I suppose not,” she said, twisting the ends of her apron in her hand. “He can’t be hurt any more than he’s already been.”

  Soon, we were banging on the door of a quaint single floor cottage, a quarter of an hour’s drive down a narrow, unpaved road from Dr. Girard’s asylum. Shoots of green peeked from the top of the thatched roof, and the half-timbered walls gleamed from recent whitewashing. A neat pavement of smooth, round stones led the way from the road, and as with nearly every country house I’d seen in Normandy, hydrangeas filled the garden to bursting.

  As we expected, no one answered our knocks. I looked to Sebastian, confident there was not a door in the Western Hemisphere that would not bend to his will.

  “You wouldn’t rather wriggle through a window, then?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Such a shame,” he said. With a sigh, he pulled something out of his jacket—a thin metal strip—and within seconds the door flung open. He gestured flamboyantly, waving his arm with the grace of a courtier, and bowed. “After you, dear lady.”

  Nerves filled me as I stepped into the house. What we were doing wasn’t strictly unethical—although Sebastian had picked the lock, I rationalized our actions, telling myself looking for clues to find Lucy was working for the greater good. A small entryway opened into a comfortable sitting room filled with books and papers and watercolors of the Norman countryside. I started for the desk in the far left corner, but Sebastian grabbed my arm.

  “Allow me, Kallista,” he said. “This is my territory.” Moving silently, he glided through the room, examining every object, every paper, every square inch of the floor, walls, and ceiling. But when I followed him as he moved into the doctor’s bedroom, he stopped me.

  “No,” he said. “I will help you, Kallista, but you can’t expect access to the secret methods of my success. You might decide to turn to a life of crime and steal everything good that I want.”

  “Sebastian—”

  “No.” He silenced me with a firm hand over my mouth. “I will not have it. You’re welcome to search after I’m done, but I’d be more than surprised if you turned up anythi
ng the police didn’t.”

  “The police weren’t looking for information about Lucy.”

  “Be my guest,” he said, taking an extravagant bow. “But if you do make a mess, I’m not going to follow and correct your mistakes.”

  “There’s no arguing with you, is there?” I asked.

  “You can argue for days if you’d like,” he said. “But it will get you exactly nowhere. I’m implacable.”

  “And proud of it.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll wait for you here.”

  He closed the bedroom door behind him while I managed to stifle a sigh. Sebastian was a handful, but an amusing handful, and not without his charms. While I waited for him, I perused Dr. Girard’s books. Most of them pertained to medicine. There was also a copy of John James Audubon’s Birds of America, a Bible in Latin, and a small collection of fiction. Nearly all the novels were French. I glanced through the titles and pulled down one of the few in English, Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations. I selected it not because it was in my native tongue, but for another reason altogether: it was the story of a young orphan with a mysterious benefactor.

  A perfect place to hide information about Lucy’s guardian.

  By the time Sebastian came out of the bedroom, I’d read nearly three chapters of the book.

  “I’m glad you’re amusing yourself,” he said. “There’s nothing of particular interest here. Not, that is, anything that would interest you.”

  “What did you take?”

  “Moi?”

  “Sebastian.” I gave him a severe look.

  “Some cuff links. No one will miss them.”

  I closed the book and crossed my arms. “And?”

  “You can’t possibly think his paintings are worth my notice. They’re pedestrian.”

  “What else?”

  “He has some fantastic eighteenth-century brass buttons.”

  “Put them back,” I said.

  “For what? So they can be sold to some unappreciative fool who’s as likely to put them on doll’s clothing as to use them for something reasonable?”