Dangerous to Know Read online

  “It’s not for you to decide, Sebastian.”

  “And why is that? I have a good eye. I love the objects I liberate and I make sure they have good homes. What’s wrong with me correcting small injustices?”

  “I’d hardly call buttons falling into the wrong hands an injustice,” I said.

  “I shall remember your insensitivity, Kallista, and will strike you at once from the list of people to whom I would give such exquisite objects.”

  “Put them back.” I glowered at him. “And then we can go speak to Lucy’s guardian.”

  “If we can find him. I’ll need to search the rest of the house,” he said. “And can’t do that until I have some time to mourn the loss of these buttons.”

  “Return the cuff links as well.”

  “You’re a disappointment.”

  “Your kind words mean the world to me,” I said. “But you don’t need to continue the search. I’ve found everything we need.”

  “No,” he said, badly feigning breathlessness.

  “Go,” I said. “And don’t forget the cuff links.”

  “You are so horrible to me,” he said. “Yet I adore you still. And if you have indeed found what you say, I may have to recruit you to my nefarious lair of criminals.” He disappeared into the bedroom, where I doubted he was returning anything. Still, I had to at least try to make him do the proper thing.

  I flipped through Great Expectations, pausing again at the pages in the part of the book where Pip learns the identity of his benefactor. There, in the margins, someone had scrawled a name and address—Marie Sapin in a not too faraway town called Barentin—and it had to be that of Lucy’s guardian. The context was too perfect for it to be anything else.

  My deduction did not completely convince Sebastian upon his return from the bedroom, but he could not argue we had anything better to try, and agreed we should go investigate.

  “It will, however, be a fruitless expedition,” he said, clearly irritated to be without the buttons. I couldn’t decide whether his mood was for show, to make me believe he’d put them back, or whether his frustration was genuine.

  “Why else would Dr. Girard write such a thing in that precise spot in that precise book?” I asked as our carriage sped towards Barentin.

  “There are countless answers to that question, Emily,” he said. “Perhaps this Marie Sapin is a beautiful woman the doctor met while on holiday, when he was reading Great Expectations.”

  “Perhaps Marie Sapin is a patient he had to collect from her home,” I said. “Perhaps she is a nurse he wanted to interview. Or the woman he hired to look after his elderly mother—that’s the sort of name a person would certainly want to bury in a novel.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re getting into the spirit of things,” he said, tugging at his spotless gloves.

  “But you may find, Sebastian, that I’m right. My reasoning is not without logic. That does not prove it’s without flaw, but it’s a lead worth pursuing. And in this line of work, not every lead pans out.”

  “Don’t you find that tedious? You’d be much happier treasure hunting through Europe with me. I could get the Trojan gold for you—Priam’s treasure, the jewelry that cad Schleimann excavated and draped over his horrible wife. It would look far better on you. And you know, Kallista, my leads never fail to pan out.”

  It felt as if the drive to Barentin spanned centuries. The roads were bumpy, and we were jostled so hard I feared my teeth would fall out. But it was not all unpleasant. Sebastian regaled me with some excessively diverting stories about the perils and pitfalls of being a Thief of Refined Taste, and by the time we reached Madame Sapin’s modest but well cared for house, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t immediately step out of the carriage.

  Once I’d returned to a state of calm, we approached the door. We’d debated the best approach to convincing Madame Sapin that Dr. Girard condoned our expedition. Sebastian persuaded me to come around to his way of thinking which, at the time, seemed a decent option. Now that the moment was nearly upon us, my heart was pounding and our plan seemed a dismal one.

  A cheerful maid opened the door, told us her mistress was home, and led us into a small room in the front of the house. The wide planks of the wooden floor had not a speck of dust on them, and the furniture was simple and spare. I looked around, hoping to see evidence of a child’s presence, but there was none. In a matter of moments, a tall, sturdy woman came in, her broad face friendly, her cheeks bright pink.

  “How can I help you?” she asked. “The girl says Dr. Girard sent you.”

  “He did, Madame Sapin,” I said, my hand shaking as I gave her the letter Sebastian had forged before we left the doctor’s house. “He’s concerned about Lucy, you see.”

  She shook her head and crinkled her nose. “I’m afraid I can’t read.”

  “I—I can read it for you if you’d like,” I said.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said.

  I cleared my throat, nervous:

  Dear Madame Sapin,

  I hope this letter finds you well. As I’m sure you’re aware, the recent murder of our poor Lucy’s mother has put my mind in a state of great unease. As a result, I’ve asked two friends of mine to assist you with the child: Lady Emily Hargreaves, a friend of the Prier family, and Sir Bradley Soane, a gentleman of both impeccable taste and absolute dependability. Please do not hesitate to allow them to assist you in any way possible.

  I am, as always, grateful for the kind service you’ve done for the child.

  Girard

  “But he knows she’s not here,” Madame Sapin said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Well of course,” Sebastian said, rising and crossing to her. “But he’s well aware of the bond between you and Lucy, and knows that if anyone could—” He stopped. “It’s all been so difficult, hasn’t it?”

  “Oh, sir, it has,” she said. She dropped her head as her eyes showed the faintest signs of tears.

  “Shall I call for some tea?” he asked. “You’re upset.”

  “No, I’ll be able to carry on,” she said. “I thought it was the right thing to let Lucy go to her mother. Near broke my heart, it did, but how could I deny Madame Vasseur?”

  Vasseur? Had Edith married her lover?

  “I’m afraid we’ve more bad news,” I said. “Dr. Girard has been murdered as well, and there’s speculation the killer might be looking for Lucy.”

  “Oh this is too, too awful,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I’ve never known such a kind man.”

  “Could you tell me—” I took her hands. “—I know it’s difficult. But the more you can tell me about Lucy and the doctor and Madame Vasseur, the more likely it is that we can help the child.”

  “Dr. Girard never mentioned either of you,” she said. “I don’t know—”

  “Have you other letters from him?” Sebastian asked. “Did he write to you?”

  “He knew I couldn’t read.”

  “But he must have occasionally sent you instructions, or information?” I asked.

  “He did.”

  “Who read it for you?”

  “My girl. She’s educated, you see. Her mother’s blind and likes to hear stories. And the doctor didn’t want anyone out of the household to know the truth about Lucy’s parentage. You know how these aristocratic types are. My apologies, madame.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Where are the letters now? Did you keep them?”

  “Dr. Girard told me to burn them all once they’d been read.”

  “And did you?” Sebastian asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “Shouldn’t I have?”

  “I just thought that if you had one, you could look at it next to the one we’ve brought and see the handwriting’s the same,” he said. “So that you’d feel more at ease with us.”

  “I suppose I could have my girl look at them,” she said, her voice hesitant.

  “That’s an excellent idea,” I said, worried that I was forcing too much e
nthusiasm into my voice.

  The maid was produced, and her reaction reassured me. She nodded her head vigorously as soon as she saw the letter. “Oh yes, madame, this is from the doctor. I’d recognize his hand anywhere. Would you like me to read it?”

  Sebastian could not have been more pleased with her reaction to his forgery.

  “Yes, I would,” Madame Sapin said, kicking my nerves up again. She must not have trusted me to read it accurately. But when the servant spoke the words precisely as I had (she was in possession of a beautiful reading voice), our hostess let her shoulders drop and visibly relaxed, returning to the open, friendly mode in which she’d greeted us. She sent the maid away.

  “Please excuse my uncertainty,” she said. “Dr. Girard told me discretion was absolutely necessary in this situation, and I have grave worries about dear Lucy. I’ve heard nothing of her since her parents took her away.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Six months ago, I suppose.”

  “Did you speak to her mother?”

  “No, only her father. He was on his way to collect his wife from the hospital and wanted to bring their daughter to surprise her.”

  “Had he any proof of his identity?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. Army papers or something of the sort,” she said. “Foreign Legion. Yes, that’s what it was. My girl read them to me. He looked all shaken up—couldn’t believe how big Lucy was. She’s a beautiful girl, you know. The image of her mother, Dr. Girard always said.”

  “Did you not expect the doctor to have alerted you to Lucy’s mother’s release?” I asked.

  “He sent a letter, just as he did with you,” she said.

  And I knew it must have been just as authentic as ours.

  “Do you have any idea where they went?” I asked.

  “They were setting up house near the sea. Lucy clapped her little hands when her father told her. She’s always wanted to build sand castles.”

  “Was she afraid to leave with him? He was a stranger to her,” I said.

  “Not at first. I don’t think she realized she was really going away. But I heard her crying in the carriage. And she clung to me something fierce when I put her in it.”

  “It must have been dreadful.”

  “It was,” she said, her face turning ruddier. “But it’s the right thing, isn’t it, for a child to be with her parents?”

  “Of course,” I said, hoping the girl was all right. “Have you any idea where on the seaside they were headed?”

  “Étretat,” she said. “But I don’t know more than that.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been more than helpful.”

  “You will let me know if you find Lucy?”

  “Of course.”

  “I can still look after her, you know. She was happy here.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” I said. “This is an extremely welcoming and warm home. A perfect place for a child to feel loved. I’ll keep you informed of all developments.”

  We thanked her again and she showed us to the door. Before we’d reached our carriage, I turned to Sebastian. “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “Put it back.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “The book,” I said. “Go take it back. Now.”

  “She can’t read,” he said, his voice teeming with indignation. “And it’s Les Trois Mousquetaires. A prime first edition. One of my favorite books.”

  “I’m not arguing about this, Sebastian.”

  Resigned, he went back to the house while I discussed with our driver the possibility of heading straight for Étretat, the town where, I remembered, Monsieur Leblanc resided.

  29

  Étretat lay too far from Barentin for us to comfortably reach that day, so we returned to Mrs. Hargreaves’s house, where a telegram from my husband waited for me.

  “In youth and beauty, wisdom is but rare.” How glad I am to have a wife of such rare variety. Homer would sing your praises.

  This set what felt like a permanent grin on my face, and I was ready to find Lucy, vanquish the killer, and recruit Sebastian to the service of the Crown. Woe be to the person who tried to stop me!

  We’d managed, over crêpes topped with apples, butter, crème fraîche, and sugar, then doused with calvados—Normandy’s famous apple brandy—and flamed, to do a decent job recounting the day’s events to my mother-in-law, so that she was excited rather than horrified by our exploits. I should have expected nothing less from her, but the experience of my own mother’s reactions to my work had taught me to brace myself for constant censure. But instead of criticizing, Mrs. Hargreaves offered to accompany us to Étretat.

  “I’m not sure it would do, Emily, for you to go so far away without me. Mr. Capet is an unmarried man of dubious character. It might harm your reputation. If I come, his presence will seem unremarkable.”

  “You’re very kind,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Who is going where?” Cécile burst into the room. I leaped up and embraced her, delighted to see her.

  “Do you have the notebook?” I asked.

  “Did you doubt for a moment I would?” She kissed my cheeks. “I am disappointed in you, Kallista.” Frantic yipping in the hallway announced the return of Caesar and Brutus.

  “Notebook?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked, greeting Cécile in turn.

  “You two have made peace,” Cécile said, watching the dynamic between my mother-in-law and myself. “And you’ve collected my favorite criminal mind. I should never have stayed in Rouen for so long.”

  “My dear Madame du Lac,” Sebastian said, rising to kiss her hand. “Your charms are so great you ought never to leave my presence.”

  “You do have a flair for the dramatic, Monsieur Capet,” Cécile said. “I should like to have a lengthy discussion with you on the topic of my country’s revolution. Not today, however. There’s too much else to talk about now.”

  It took nearly an hour for us all to catch up on each other’s stories, the deliciously nervous energy in the room quickly approaching a feverish frenzy.

  “Do you think Lucy’s safe?” Cécile asked. “And what happened to Vasseur? Why has he disappeared? And what more of this Myriel? Have you learned anything?”

  “Myriel?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked. “The bishop in Les Miserables?”

  “Les Miserables? The book was in Myriel’s room,” I said.

  “Should I care?” Sebastian asked. “It’s a painfully unoriginal way to come up with a nom de plume.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “But there could be a significance to it. Let’s not forget it’s what Monsieur Prier has been reading. As for Lucy, Cécile, I’ve no idea. I pray she’s come to no harm.”

  “We can only hope her father has spirited her away somewhere safe,” Mrs. Hargreaves said.

  I retired to my room relatively early, wanting to read every word of Laurent’s notebook before we boarded the train the next morning. I was missing Colin keenly, and wished he’d given me some indication of whether his own work was proving productive. I pulled his pillow on top of mine, fluffed them both, and settled into bed.

  Laurent’s writing was devoid of the self-indulgent angst-filled ramblings I’d come to expect from him. Some pages contained sketches, and he wasn’t a bad artist. His occasional forays into poetry impressed me, and the bars of music in the volume proved him a competent composer. A Renaissance man. The book did not, however, contain any references to his sister. The only potential clue lay close to the volume’s binding: a page had been cut, probably with a razor, in as straight a line as possible. There could be no doubt the edges would match perfectly with the purported suicide note I’d found in Dr. Girard’s pocket.

  I scrutinized the pages that preceded and followed the missing one. Before it was music. After, a sketch of a bridge that reminded me of the Pont de la Concorde in Paris. Nothing to suggest a connection to Lucy, the doctor, or Edith. Still, I felt as if we were making progress—that Étretat would prove a turning poi
nt in the case. But as I pulled the blankets to my neck in defense against the damp night air, anxiety began to tug at me, anxiety with no discernible source. Sleep seemed impossible, and the room grew colder. The sounds of the house assaulted my ears as I listened for anything of significance.

  There was nothing. Nothing, that is, until I heard a thin wail below my window, a sound all too familiar. Terror seized me, killing even my curiosity. I didn’t get out of bed, didn’t look to see who stood in the garden beneath me. I knew exactly what I’d find, and was unequal to the task of facing it. The hideous sound grew louder and sadder until I could no longer hide from it. But as soon as I’d risen to seek the source of the cries, they stopped as suddenly as they’d started.

  The next morning, when I opened my shutters, I looked for a blue ribbon, but saw nothing. Perhaps my mind was tricking me. Perhaps my imagination had got the better of me. I’d begun to feel silly, and was in high spirits by breakfast. Less so, however, after we’d piled into the carriage and were en route to the train station. Sebastian leaned close to me and whispered while Cécile and Mrs. Hargreaves were engrossed in conversation.

  “I must speak to you, Kallista,” he said. “I heard crying last night. By your window. And when I went outside to investigate, I saw nothing, but the sound didn’t stop. Something evil is lurking here, and the sooner we’re done with this nasty business the better.”

  We reached Étretat before lunchtime, and the charming seaside town was teeming with visitors. Half-timbered buildings lined streets leading to the water, edged by a pebble-strewn beach. Most impressive, however, were the towering cliffs on either side of the town’s cove. Tall and dramatic, their white rock reminded me of Dover, with vast green fields covering the land above them. Unlike Dover, there were dramatic stone arches here, dominating the view, stretching out over the churning water, their jagged tops slicing up into the sky.

  I’d sent a wire to Monsieur Leblanc, alerting him to our arrival, and he was waiting for us, as I suggested, in front of the seaside boardwalk. Gathering our forces, we began our search in the Marie—the Town Hall—where we pored over marriage records, but found none pertinent. The clerks to whom we spoke did not recognize our description of the couple, nor of Lucy, and had no recollection of the name Vasseur. From there, we went to the police, who were more than a little ambivalent about giving us any information.