“I don’t think you’ll miss us much,” she said, placing a delicate, buttery palmier on a plate for me. “But isn’t this all somewhat outrageous? Whitechapel wasn’t evacuated during the murders. Is my son overreacting? Or is this what you truly want?”
It was the first sentence she’d spoken to me void of irony, sarcasm, or condescension. “He’s trying to protect me,” I said.
“Do you need protection, Emily?”
“Would you?” I asked, shocked that she hadn’t used my title.
She did not reply for a few moments. She stirred her tea, added more sugar, stirred again. “Probably,” she said. “But I wouldn’t admit it. There are times, I’ve found, when it’s preferable to do what one can on one’s own, without regard for the opinions of others.”
I had not expected this sort of candor from her. “Why has your manner towards me changed so completely?” I asked. “Up to now you’ve had no interest in hiding your disdain from me.”
“It is only now that I’ve begun to sympathize with you,” she said. “You’ve begun to reveal some semblance of spirit.”
“Because I’m being packed off to London?”
“No, because I saw how you fought off that dreadful man last night.”
“You were watching?” The thought horrified me. What must she think?
“You’re not so quiet as you’d like to think,” she said. “I particularly liked the way you tried to smash his head. It was the first time I’d seen you show any sort of initiative. What did my son think?”
“I was a bit vague on the details when relaying the story to him.”
“I might just come to like you, Emily. But you should never withhold details—no matter how small—from him. A marriage requires absolute honesty.”
“I agree, of course. It’s just that—”
“There can be no just thats,” she said. “Full disclosure on every subject or you’ll mire yourselves in a web of deceit. What seems insignificant today may prove essential in the future.”
I could not argue with her reasoning.
“It’s sound advice and you know it,” she continued. “So don’t play Oscar Wilde. In this case, the only thing to do is not to pass it on.”
I smiled, relieved as the tension between us dissipated. “Thank you,” I said. “I shall heed your wise words.”
“I expect you will. Now, onto the other matter much on my mind. Are you going to be able to give my son an heir?”
“I—I—” I sputtered, her words slicing through me.
“It’s a simple enough question and I have a right to know.”
She certainly did not have a right to know. “The doctor couldn’t be certain,” I said, disappointed I’d answered her at all. Too many years of social niceties had undermined me.
“Colin said as much. But what do you think? Do you feel capable of carrying a child?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to contemplate it so soon after—”
“Don’t be overly sensitive. It’s desperately unattractive. A suitable period of mourning would have been necessary had the child actually been born. But in this case, you need do nothing but continue on. It’s simple enough.”
I did not want her to see me cry, and knew the tears forming would not be kept at bay long. “Of course,” I said. “I was referring more to my own injuries and getting back my strength.” I know not how, but I managed to keep my voice steady.
She nodded. “Excellent. I shall hope for good news from you before the end of the year.”
“I’ll do all I can,” I said. “You must excuse me now, though. I can’t leave Meg to pack my things wholly undirected.” I held my composure until I’d closed the door behind me, and then ran up the stairs to my room, where I collapsed on the bed, sobbing. Did no one understand the pain of my loss? Was this grief so unusual?
No doubt it was. Because other women, like Madeline, who suffered disappointment after disappointment had no ethical ambiguities to torment them. They longed for children. I feared the ambivalence I’d felt made me different from them, as if my child had been taken because I hadn’t wanted it enough. I felt myself falling into despair, an empty coldness in my chest, my hands clammy, my eyes blurred and swollen. Would it ever stop? Could a person ever be free from this sort of guilt?
I pulled myself to my feet and staggered to the window seat across the room. I could see Colin far off in the distance, speaking to one of the gardeners. The sight of him, with his easy, affable manners, brought a further round of tears, as I counted the ways I’d disappointed him. How would he feel in five years, or ten, if we still had no child? Would the way he looked at women like Toinette Prier change? Would he be filled with regret at his choice of a wife? Would he come to resent me? Was he already thinking back on the years he’d shared with Kristiana, wishing she were still alive?
Even worse, what would he be thinking now if she hadn’t been killed? What if she were waiting in Vienna, biding her time, confident that eventually he’d become tired of me? Six months ago I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but now it seemed nothing short of inevitable. I hated the fact that she’d been murdered while trying to assist Colin, but in a way hated even more that her killer had done me a despicable and unwanted favor.
14
Plagued with these thoughts, leaving my husband for England proved no easy task. My heart felt as if it were breaking when I reached the station in Yvetot and once on board the train, I didn’t sit down until Colin’s tall figure on the platform had faded from sight. I clung to a handle near the door and leaned out, waving frantically to him, the taste of his lips still on mine. As our speed increased, the conductor bundled me into the car, where I sank, miserable, onto my seat. Burying my face in a lace-trimmed linen handkerchief, I cried, leaning my head against the window.
“Lady Emily?”
I looked up at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, surprised to see Monsieur Leblanc. I wiped my tears and gave him my hand.
“May I join you?” he asked, motioning to the empty seat across from me.
“Of course,” I murmured.
“You are not well?”
“Sad to be going away, that’s all,” I said.
“Ah. Is your husband afraid you might fall victim to the Norman Ripper should you remain here?”
“The Norman Ripper?” I asked. “I see you’ve spoken to George.”
He shrugged. “It’s not good, I know, but works better than anything I’ve come up with.”
“I’m going to see Madame du Lac in Rouen,” I said, not wanting to get into the details of why I was leaving.
“Ah,” he said. “I’m off to Rouen as well. I’ve been commissioned to write a piece about Edith Prier’s murder and want to see what I can learn about her.”
“I’m staying with the Priers.”
“Are you? I don’t suppose…”
“I shall ask them if they’d be willing to speak with you, but can promise nothing.”
“Merci bien,” he said. “She had a lover you know, who wanted desperately to marry her. Jules Vasseur. Do you know him?”
“No.” I paused at the name. Was it not that by which Madame Breton had addressed Sebastian?
“I only thought you might if you’re a friend of the family. But then, I suppose they didn’t want anyone to know about him.”
“Why not?”
“Monsieur Prier is the sort of man who doesn’t seem to understand aristocrats are no longer running the country. Didn’t think a commoner like Vasseur was good enough for his daughter.”
“What happened?” I asked, imagining Sebastian collecting lovers while assuming false identities. More fake identities, I should say, as I doubted I knew his real name.
“I’m still researching, of course, but it looks as if her involvement with Vasseur contributed in no small way to her committal.”
“But she was ill, wasn’t she?”
“Not anymore, according to her brother,” he said.
“Laurent?�
�
“You know him?”
“A little, yes,” I said.
“You can’t believe much of what he says, but on some topics I’m inclined to listen to his opinions. This is one of them. He thought it was time she came home, but his parents refused. It seems as if he would have done anything to free her.”
Piqued did not begin to describe my curiosity, and for the first time in months, I started to feel like myself. “So you’re saying the family sent her away to avoid an embarrassing match?”
“Sent her away, yes,” he said. “But did they also have her killed?”
“Why would they have done such a thing? She couldn’t have given much trouble from the asylum.”
Monsieur Leblanc looked at me, scrutinizing, and nodded. “I like that you do not balk at the idea they might have killed her.”
“I’m no stranger to murders. I’ve solved four of them, you know.”
“I had no idea you were so accomplished,” he said. “I’m more used to ladies who brag about their linguistic skills or musical abilities.”
“I’m afraid I’m painfully lacking on both counts. My German is appalling and I never even tried to be proficient in music. Pray that you never hear me sing.”
“Your French is excellent,” he said. “But tell me more about these murders.”
“Should I start with my first husband?” I asked, enjoying the conversation.
“Killed him, did you?”
“No! But one of his closest friends did.” The story of Philip’s death brought us nearly to Rouen. Monsieur Leblanc was more interested, however, in Sebastian’s role in the second crime I solved.
“This man fascinates me,” he said.
“You’d like his latest venture,” I said, and related to him the thief’s visit to Inspector Gaudet.
Monsieur Leblanc laughed until tears streamed down his face. “I like this man more than I can tell you. But what do you make of his appearing here so close to the time of the murder? And what of the fact that the victim looked so much like you? Are you sure he’s not targeting you?”
“Sebastian?” I asked. “Never.” But as I leaned back against the seat, I considered the rough way he’d handled me the previous night. And I remembered the sound of the child’s cry. No one but Sebastian could have collected her ribbon from the road. Had he dropped it there in the first place, just to scare me, so that he might find me in a vulnerable state? My imagination began to run wild as I racked my brain, trying to determine whether he could have overheard any conversation in which I’d made mention of the apparition in the dovecote and her hair style, but it was impossible. I caught hold of myself and nearly laughed at how ridiculous it all seemed. Colin was right—it was time I returned to my studies. Idle hands indeed proved the devil’s tools.
“You are too quick to dismiss the notion,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “Perhaps you admire him more than you want to admit?”
“I make no secret of admiring much about Sebastian, but can assure you it does not taint my evaluation of his character. He’s a profligate and a thief, but he’s not a murderer.” I watched fields of barley flash past the window. “Have there been any other dramatic crimes in the neighborhood?”
“No,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “We’ve had our share of tragic deaths and the gossip that follows, but nothing criminal.”
“What sort of gossip?”
“I don’t remember particulars. There was a young girl who died on the Markhams’ estate—never did hear what killed her. But there was a general commotion on the property and all kinds of speculation about what happened and where she was buried.”
“On the Markhams’ estate? How dreadful,” I said, wondering why Madeline hadn’t shared this when confiding in me the day of our ill-fated visit to the dovecote.
“It was a terrible thing. I could never persuade Markham to tell me the details. I think Madeline insisted on nursing the girl instead of sending for the doctor when she fell ill. Most likely wouldn’t have made the slightest difference, not with something that killed her so quickly. The poor woman was consumed with guilt, though. George has done his best to protect her—and done a good job of it, too. I’ve never heard anyone speculate regarding his wife’s involvement. He worried, I imagine, that her…mental lapses could have spurred rumors.”
“So what do the neighbors gossip about?”
“That the girl didn’t receive a decent burial. Which, as you can well imagine, has led to her restless spirit haunting the countryside.”
“Another ghost story?”
“Mais oui,” he said.
“Where was she buried?”
“I never did figure that out. Markham won’t discuss it.” He pulled out a notebook and scrawled in it. “But enough of this morose topic—it’s a much more mundane story than the previous ghost we discussed. Too much reality here, I suppose. What was it you said Sebastian wrote on his calling card?”
Monsieur Leblanc and I parted amicably at the train station in Rouen, agreeing that he would call on me the following day at the Priers’, after I’d had a chance to speak to them about him. The family had sent a carriage to collect me, but when I arrived, I found no one at home. Madame Prier had left a note, welcoming me to the house and telling me to treat it as my own. I followed a young maid to the bedroom I was to have, on the top floor across the corridor from Laurent’s. Meg had unpacked the things I’d need for my short visit and then gone off in search of additional hairpins, convinced I didn’t have an adequate supply. I knew her well enough to suspect this was an excuse to investigate the city’s shops, and was glad to see her interested in our latest destination. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that she used to be a terrible traveler.
With the shutters and windows flung open, I had a spectacular view of the city as bright sunlight flooded around me. I dragged one of my cases from the dressing room and opened it, searching through papers and books until I’d found the copy of The Odyssey I’d begun translating from Greek more than a year ago. As I held the smooth, leather volume in my hand and flipped through its worn pages, I tried to remember why I’d abandoned the project.
Evil deeds do not prosper; the slow man catches up with the swift.
My eyes caught the sentence, and pleasure coursed through me as I found I could translate it so readily. Then I read it again, and felt as if the ancient poet was speaking the words directly to me. Some terrible man had murdered Edith Prier. I might have done nothing up to now to help solve the crime, but it wasn’t too late to start. Slow and steady, I could catch the criminal. Monsieur Leblanc’s conversation on the train inspired me, and I wanted to know more about the girl who’d lived in this house—and Jules Vasseur, the man she’d loved.
I opened a notebook and started to scratch questions on a sheet of paper, then paused at the realization I had only two days to find my answers. Gathering up a notebook and a sharp pencil, I clattered down the stairs, eager to discreetly speak to the servants about the romantic elements of Edith’s life. Maids, I knew, were generally better informed and more observant than anyone in the families for whom they worked. Halfway down, I slammed into Laurent, who steadied himself with the banister. Not so fortunate, I tripped, my papers fluttering around me.
“Do forgive me,” I said, picking myself up and straightening my dress before gathering my scattered belongings.
“What are you doing up here?” he asked.
“I’m to stay a few days. Your mother put me in the red room on the top floor.”
“That was my sister’s. Do you feel good sleeping in a dead woman’s bed?” Without waiting for my answer, he continued up the stairs, stopping to pick up a piece of paper that had fallen out of my notebook. “What is this? What do you know about Vasseur?”
“Nothing yet,” I said. “Is there something I should know?”
“Only that he’s responsible for my sister’s death.” He turned back around and stormed up the steps.
“Wait!” I rushed to follow him. “You ha
ve reason to believe he killed her?”
“I am not discussing this with you.” He kept walking, increasing his speed. I caught up to him quickly, but was stopped at his room when he slammed the door before I could come inside.
“I want to help you,” I said, knocking on the door. “Please let me in.”
He did not reply.
Moving as quietly as possible, I turned the knob. With a sharp jab he pushed open the door, nearly hitting me in the face.
“Do not consider, even for an instant, disturbing me.” Again the door slammed. This time, I heard a latch click into place. I went back into my own room to sharpen my pencil, whose point had snapped on its trip down the stairs. As I fumbled through my bags in search of a penknife, I heard angry strains of music coming from what had to be Laurent’s room, but it sounded as if it were next to me, not across the hall. I stepped back into the corridor. Two other doors stood between mine and the rear of the house, but they were both locked. I returned to my chamber and pressed my ear against the back wall. There was no question the music was louder here.
Curious, I moved along the wall, listening, the sound at its loudest near a heavy armoire, two-thirds of the way down its length. I strained trying to move it, but could not make it budge. Then, inspired by I know not what, I pulled it open. Inside I found three lovely but dated gowns—cut to be worn with a bustle—and a pair of satin dancing slippers. Chills ran through me as I gently touched them, trying to imagine the occasions on which Edith must have worn them. Images flashed through my head—visions first of a beautiful young girl at a ball and then of the mutilated body I’d found in the field. Terror consumed me and the room felt chilled, as if something unnatural had entered the space. I was about to close the wardrobe and run downstairs to beg for another room when I noticed a thin stream of light at the back of the cabinet. Now fear succumbed to intrigue, and I carefully slid the gowns to one side and lowered myself to my knees, coming level with a large panel, nearly half the height of the armoire, with a small leather strap attached to it.
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