“You know, Monsieur Hargreaves, that I much admire our clever thief,” Cécile said. “But his every quality pales in comparison to you.”
“I do appreciate the vote of confidence, Cécile,” my husband said, inspecting an array of hors d’oeuvres on the table before him. Oignons blancs farcis, stuffed with herbed roast pork and Gruyère cheese, poached truffles, and a spectacular pâté de campagne. “I’m not surprised in the least, now that we know your old friend is behind this, Emily, that he should have found you. No doubt when he learned you were in France he set about manufacturing a circumstance to bring himself back to your attention. He could have easily determined that my mother is friends with George Markham—it’s reasonable to assume two expats living in such close proximity would keep company.”
“So he stole a painting to get my attention?”
“I think he stole it to ward off ennui,” Cécile said. “His life has undoubtedly become tedious since he’s stopped following Emily.”
“An excellent point,” Colin said. “But now that he—”
“Who is following Lady Emily?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked, entering the room and sitting next to her son.
“An old nemesis, mother,” Colin said. “And the man who put the painting in the Markhams’ house.”
“Sebastian is far from a nemesis,” I said. “If you remember, he turned out to be quite good.”
My mother-in-law coughed. “Sebastian? You are on a first-name basis with a thief?”
“He’s not simply a thief. In the end, he agreed to protect—” I began.
She raised a hand to silence me. “I’m afraid we haven’t time for it now, Lady Emily. I’ve come with business. Are you well enough to speak to Inspector Gaudet? I worried that perhaps this gallivanting about the countryside might have set your recovery back, so I’ve left him waiting in the corridor while I inquire.”
“I’m much better, thank you,” I said. “But I do very much appreciate your touching concern for my health.” Now it was Cécile’s turn to cough, and I caught a wicked glint in Colin’s eyes at my ironic tone. His mother disappeared only for a moment, returning with the inspector.
Gaudet nodded sharply at us as he entered the room. “I understand you believe you’ve identified our thief?”
“He’s someone familiar to me, yes,” I said.
“Has this man a history of violence?”
“No,” I said. “None at all. He’s more likely to protect someone than harm him.”
“My dear,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “I do hope you’re not operating under the misapprehension that your limited experience has rendered you capable of judging the criminal mind.”
“Emily is more than capable,” Colin said. “She knows this man—Sebastian Capet, he calls himself—as well as anyone.”
“Do you consider him dangerous, Monsieur Hargreaves?” the inspector asked.
“I would hesitate to consider him in any way until I learn where he was at the time of the murder.”
“We are searching for him now,” Gaudet said. “Although it seems a hopeless business. He’s left no clue as to his whereabouts.”
“Have you identified the murdered girl?” I asked.
“Oui,” he said. “Edith Prier. An inmate who’d escaped from an asylum outside Rouen nearly six months ago. Her family lives in the city and her father identified the body.”
Nausea swept through me at the thought. To have found the body of a stranger in such a condition was bad enough. Seeing a loved one so brutally slain would be beyond anything I could tolerate. Plagued with thoughts of the baby I’d lost, my senses all began to swim.
“Have you any leads in the case?” Colin asked.
“None. We’ve found no evidence, no suspects, no witnesses. But that’s why I’m here, Lady Emily. I need you to think carefully about finding the body. I want you to describe for me everything you can remember.”
“I’ve gone over it all more times than I can count, Inspector,” I said. “Truly, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary beyond the body itself. I’m more sorry than I can say.”
“Surely you weren’t wholly unaware of your surroundings?” my mother-in-law asked.
“I’m afraid I was, Mrs. Hargreaves,” I said, tears springing to my eyes. “I’ve rather a lot on my mind, and had not the slightest idea I was about to stumble upon a murder. I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Without another word, I rushed from the room and tore out of the house. My chest bursting with anger and grief and regret, I ran towards the tall stone gate, unsure where I planned to go, pausing only when I heard Cécile call out to me.
“Chérie! Do not make me run. It will anger me and force me to sic Caesar and Brutus on you, a situation from which no one would benefit, particularly Caesar. The food here does not much agree with him and I fear a few bites of lace would do him in entirely.”
This made me laugh, despite myself. “I’m so sorry.”
“I had to stop your husband from following you as I wanted a word on my own. But you must know he’s terribly upset and giving his mother a good scolding. Madame Hargreaves is being deliberately difficult,” Cécile said. “This was not, I fear, a good place for you to seek respite after your loss.”
Tears smarted. “So far as she’s concerned my losing the baby is just further proof of my inadequacies.”
“That unfortunate event may not have endeared you to her, but she can hardly blame you for it.”
“Of course she can,” I said, sobs coming close together now. “If I’d not been so reckless—if I’d behaved like a lady, as my own mother so politely put it—it never would have happened.”
“You saved an innocent girl from a brutal death and rushed into the face of danger without the benefit of knowing the condition in which you were.”
“I suspected it,” I said. I’d spent much of my honeymoon worried that I might be with child. And, rational or not, I could not help but think my ambivalence towards the subject led me to a disastrous end. Cécile stared at me, standing close.
“You did not cause this. The dreadful man who shot you did. I shall let you torment yourself for precisely three minutes, but thereafter you will lay the blame on him and him alone.”
She gave me closer to twenty minutes before she marched me to a secluded spot in the garden and sat beside me on the grassy bank of a sparkling pond. “I’m so sorry…” I began.
“Stop at once,” Cécile said. “We’ll have no more of it. I’ll not have you driving yourself mad like poor Madeline.”
“It was distressing, wasn’t it, when she changed so radically as we spoke to her? But she was lucid nearly all the rest of the time. Do you really think she’s mad?”
“She’s on her way. There were small things as well as the screeching insanity of that conversation. That tea was undrinkable, and she thought we’d come round for dinner.”
“I noticed that as well,” I said. “Will she turn out like her mother?”
“I’m afraid so. You, Kallista, have a husband who loves you and friends who would do anything for you. You’ve suffered a terrible loss, and we’re all here for you while you grieve. But do not deliberately make it worse than it is. What married woman do you know who hasn’t lost a child? You’ve got the terrible occasion out of the way early.”
“I—”
“And don’t act horrified that I’d speak so openly about such things. We both know it’s true.”
She was right, but it brought me no comfort. I had to let myself feel the responsibility for my actions. Given the same circumstances, given what I knew at the time, I’d make the same decisions again. Regret was not precisely what I felt. Instead, I was struggling to accept and understand that in some ways I was less capable than my peers. I might be able to read Greek and converse on any number of cultural topics, but I had neither the inclination nor the ability to do what was expected of every woman. And it was this lack of inclination that troubled me the most.
“My mother sent this up for you,” Colin said, handing me a book. “If nothing else, it should amuse you.” After Cécile and I had come inside, I’d retired early, not staying downstairs long after dinner, preferring the comfort of our curtained, four-poster bed to having to further contend with my mother-in-law. Cécile promised to try to tame her on my behalf, but I had no desire to watch her attempt.
I sat up, took the volume from him, and tried to choke back my laughter. “Madame Bovary?”
“She knows it’s one of my favorites,” he said. “And Flaubert did, after all, live in Normandy.”
“Perhaps she hopes it will inspire me to behave as badly as its heroine so that you might be left alone.”
“I believe she meant it as a peace offering. And I can think of something better to inspire you.” He kissed me. First on the lips, then on the neck. “I can’t risk having you sitting around being unremittingly grim all the time.”
“You think Madame Bovary might make me grim?”
“More like make me grim.” He kissed me again, and I knew when his hand deftly unfastened the pearl button at the top of my nightgown it would be a long time before I slept. Even then, although he’d sent me off to sleep in the most pleasant fashion, I tossed fitfully, tormented by my dreams, hideous scenes of the cistern in Constantinople haunting me, each more terrifying than the reality through which I’d lived. I’d be trapped underwater, feeling my lungs fill, or I’d be clawing at the wooden door, unable to open it before rough hands gripped my neck. I struggled, tangling myself in the sheets, and then screamed when the sensations became too real—something had pricked my neck and drawn blood.
And then Colin’s arms were firm around me, his voice calm and soothing as he covered my face with gentle kisses.
“It’s all right, my love. You’re awake now,” he said.
“It’s more than a dream,” I said, tilting my head back and feeling for what I was certain was an actual wound. I took his hand and placed it on the torn skin.
“That’s no small scratch,” he said, lighting the lamp on our bedside table. “What have you done to yourself?”
I reached for the floor to collect a pillow I must have flung from the bed while I was dreaming, but instead of picking it up I gasped, my heart pounding and my eyes throbbing as I looked at something just out of my reach: a single rose with a small piece of paper wrapped around its stem. I touched the scrape on my neck and knew the instrument of the injury was a thorn. Colin, reaching from behind me, scooped up the offending flower.
“This best not be from your admirer.”
“Sebastian? Who else do you suspect would creep into my bedroom? He does have a history of doing just that.”
“Our bedroom.” He handed me the paper without looking at it. “What does it say?”
I read aloud:
5
My husband leapt out of bed with inhuman speed. In a few steps he was at the window, which I’d watched him shut before we’d retired. It was still closed and the shutters locked.
“Bloody hell!” He spun around and started for the dressing room. “Light the lamps, Emily. I want to make sure he’s not hiding somewhere.” Once he left our chamber, he crept as quietly as our intrepid intruder must have, not wanting to scare him off should he still be inside. Colin’s talent for stealth was extraordinary—neither his mother nor Cécile woke when he entered their rooms. But his search was to no avail. There was no sign of Sebastian in our room, nor anywhere else in the house. Confident no one was lurking nearby, Colin tucked me into bed, but did not crawl in next to me. Instead, he perched on a chair near the window. The shadows under his eyes the next morning told me he’d not let himself sleep.
We had the sunny breakfast room to ourselves, having come down at a ridiculous hour. Not, however, too early for the excellent cook, whose warm, buttery brioche tempted me the instant I sat down. I took one from the large basket looming in the center of the table, broke it apart, and slathered more creamy butter seasoned with flakes of sea salt on the steaming halves.
“So your mother knows nothing yet?” I asked.
“No,” Colin said. “I saw no need to disturb her. There will be plenty of time for upset once she wakes. I’ll take care of everything with her—you need not trouble yourself about it.”
“At least you can assure her Sebastian is harmless.”
“We don’t know that, Emily. We’ve no idea what he’s been up to since we last encountered him.”
“Surely you don’t think he’s capable of murder?”
“You know me well enough to expect I would categorically refuse ruling out viable options until they’re proven impossible.”
Colin, who did discreet work for Buckingham Palace, was one of the best agents in the empire. He handled difficult cases, often involving matters that needed to be kept quiet, and was more spy than detective. We’d become close while I was investigating the death of my first husband, and in the subsequent years had worked together to solve three further murders. But it was only on our last case, in Constantinople, that I’d been allowed to act in an official capacity. Queen Victoria, the Palace had informed me, was pleased I’d caught the man who’d killed the daughter of an English diplomat, but horrified to learn I’d been injured in the process. She did not think it appropriate for me to place myself in the line of danger again.
Her position, no doubt, was a direct result of the influence of my own mother, who had, in her youth, served as a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty. They remained close, and neither hid her irritation when Colin and I had eloped on the Greek island of Santorini rather than taking advantage of the queen’s generous offer of the chapel at Windsor Castle for the wedding. My mother made a habit of being dissatisfied with me. She had no tolerance for any of my intellectual pursuits. She found my interest in Greek antiquities and ancient literature inappropriate for a lady, abhorred the idea that I had begun to think about the issue of women’s suffrage, and exhibited visible pain at my skills as a detective.
The detecting was, to her mind, the most offensive of my many sins. She objected in principle to anything that might be perceived as a useful occupation. A lady should lead a life of leisure, as should her husband. She did not much like Colin’s work, but the fact it was a bit mysterious and had twice led to the queen wanting to knight him (he’d refused both times) vindicated it. Nothing, however, could justify my own involvement in such things.
Colin’s mother swept into the room. “You’re looking something of a disaster today,” she said, glowering at me. She was a striking woman—tall, her hair still more dark than gray, thick and wavy like her son’s. Her taste in clothing was impeccable, every item she wore personally designed by Charles Frederick Worth, the father of haute couture and the finest dressmaker in the world. I admired her gown—the waist impossibly tiny, the skirt, a cascade of rich maroon silk, flared and full below her hips.
“I’m afraid we didn’t get much sleep,” I said.
“If it won’t pain you too much, Lady Emily, I could do without impertinence so early in the day,” she said, waving away a footman who appeared behind her with a silver dish of poached eggs and reaching instead for a plate of sliced melon.
“I meant nothing of the sort—” I began, looking to Colin for assistance. I was in no humor to apologize when I felt she ought to.
“We had a visitor last night,” my husband said.
“A visitor?” she asked.
“I’ll leave the two of you to discuss it,” I said, excusing myself as he began to recount the story. I preferred not to hear Mrs. Hargreaves’s reaction to the violation of her home. Cécile, who felt it indecent to make a habit of rising before noon, was not yet awake, so I decided to call on the Markhams, a spare footman accompanying me just in case the murderer was still in the neighborhood. I decided to walk, not wanting the clopping of a horse’s hooves to mask other, more nefarious sounds. Instead of making my way through the woods, I kept to the road, but even so I started at every snapping twig an
d dog’s bark. The servant was twice as nervous as I, and insisted on walking behind me, thinking it was a better position from which to offer protection. But his footsteps caused nothing but more unease. Listening to them made me wonder if Edith Prier had heard something similar as her attacker approached her.
Our pace, fueled by nerves, had increased almost to a run by the time we approached the bridge over the moat at the Markhams’. The footman did not like my French, and refused to reply to any of my attempts at conversation, and I was all too glad to part company with him when we reached the château. He ducked around to the servants’ entrance, while the butler pointed me to the garden, telling me I could find his master in the direction of the maze. Thanking him, I made my way around the house to the dovecote, where I slowed as I felt a prickly sensation moving down the back of my neck. I was being watched.
I turned on my heel, but there was no one behind me. I strained to hear anything unusual, but there was only silence. No one lurked in the willows, no one jumped from the shadow of a hedge. Still, the unnerving feeling did not go away. Instead it grew stronger. Stepping closer to the dovecote, I peered with more intensity, but saw nothing. Nothing, that is, until I looked up to a small window on the top floor. A pale face watched me from above, its wide eyes lacking any warmth. It was a child—a girl—who couldn’t have yet been five years old. A blue bow peeked out from her blonde hair, and her white dress hung too big from her narrow shoulders. I stopped and stared back, our eyes locked until I jumped when a bumblebee, too interested in the flowers on my hat, flew into my face. When I looked back, she was gone.
“Hello?” I pulled open the building’s door. The interior was dark and musty, full of dust and cobwebs, broken pieces of furniture scattered across the floor. My sole response was the rustling and squeaks that could only have been caused by some sort of unwelcome creature. A tightly curving, steep staircase rose across before me, and I started for it, stepping cautiously through the debris. “Is anyone here?”
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