“Would you come take a look at this?” he asked.
“Do you need a second set of eyes?” I liked that he was seeking my help. Maybe this new arrangement wasn’t so abysmal as I’d originally feared.
“We’re going to need more than that. But you’re an excellent observer, Emily. If you can stand the sight, I’d like your thoughts.”
I took the blanket to George, who had the nurse well in hand and had summoned an orderly to bring her tea. Colin stopped me as I was about to enter Dr. Girard’s office.
“You’re sure?” he asked. “It’s gruesome.”
“Of course I am,” I said. “It can’t be worse than Edith.”
Worse was perhaps not the best choice of word. The doctor sat, sprawled in his desk chair, one arm dangling at his side, the other resting in his lap, a sharp surgeon’s scalpel in his hand. Blood had pooled below each wrist, leaving a shiny, coagulating puddle on the floor and a dark, viscous stain on his shirt and waistcoat. I tasted bile and held my breath, unsure if I wanted to see more.
“Why would he do this?” I asked.
“He didn’t,” Colin said. “There are scratches on his hands. He was fighting with someone. I’ve no doubt the coroner will find more signs of a struggle. And there’s blood on the windowsill.”
I crossed to the window, not seeing anything at first. But then, as I scrutinized every inch of the wood, I spotted it—a small speck of dark red smeared on the edge of the sill. “He couldn’t have got that here without bleeding everywhere else in between,” I said.
“Precisely,” Colin said.
“Is there a suicide note? Or something purporting to be one?”
“I’ve not found it yet. Care to help?”
“Of course,” I said. “If I’m allowed.”
“Don’t tease now. I need to summon the police. Will you be all right in here alone if I leave the door open? I’m only going to call to George and ask for his assistance.”
I nodded and could hear him speaking to George as I began my search of the room. Surely a suicide note would be left someplace obvious, but the surface of the desk, the bookshelves, and the tables revealed nothing. Someone had closed the doctor’s eyes, and for this I was grateful. I was uncomfortable enough rooting through a dead man’s belongings. Feeling his vacant stare following me would not improve things. I circled the space again, and this time opened the desk drawers, but to no avail. Their contents were perfectly ordinary.
Turning, I looked at the poor doctor’s body. And then I saw it—a corner of folded paper tucked into his jacket pocket. Delicately, so as not to disturb the body, I pulled it out and opened it. The page had been torn from a lined notebook.
He that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.
Below that, a line had been drawn, with another sentence following:
I should never have let her go.
It gave me chills to read it. Chills made worse as I studied the blood that had soaked through Dr. Girard’s clothing and stained the note. The handwriting was familiar, but I couldn’t be sure, and thought about how I could get back into Laurent Prier’s room to check my suspicions. All of a sudden, Colin touched my shoulder, and I jumped; I’d not heard him reenter the room.
“Success?” he asked. I handed the sheet to him.
“Hamlet, I believe,” I said. “With the addition of a more personal sentiment. I found it in his pocket.”
“You’re quick and efficient,” he said, flashing me a smile before looking over the words.
“I don’t believe for a second he wrote it.”
“Why is that?”
“Who puts a suicide note in his pocket?” I asked. “I realize I have limited experience—but I do have some.” Less than a year before, I’d found the body of the person who’d murdered Lord Basil Fortescue—the crime for which my friend’s husband had been accused. The true culprit, after being found out, committed suicide. “Suicides want their final words to be seen. They don’t hide them. And they don’t forget to take them out of their pocket.”
“Possibly,” he said. “But what if this wasn’t intended for others? What if this was simply for himself?”
“You don’t believe he killed himself—you already said so.”
“Quite right. But he might have been murdered and still written these words.”
“He feels guilty about Edith,” I said. “Or do you think he’s referring to the child?”
“The child. He didn’t let Edith go. She escaped.”
“He didn’t let Lucy go either—he sent her away.”
“Is it a significant difference?” Colin asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Well it’s worth considering,” he said. “I’m finished in here. Shall we interview as much of the staff as possible before the police arrive and take over?”
As we both expected, there was little information to be had from the staff. Colin surmised the doctor had been dead since the middle of the night, when it would have been unlikely anyone would have heard a disturbance. His office stood far from the patient wards, and the orderly who made rounds at night admitted to having fallen asleep around three in the morning, only to wake up after six o’clock. Dr. Girard frequently worked late, so to see his office light on wouldn’t have been unusual.
George had remained on the bench near the main entrance to the building, waiting for us to finish. He’d done an excellent job comforting the nurse who’d found the body, and, explaining that he’d trained as a physician, offered to check on any patients who seemed in need of immediate medical attention. In the end his services weren’t required, as Dr. Girard’s partner arrived soon after the police, ready to take over for his colleague.
“Why don’t you sit with George while I handle the police?” Colin said, placing a gentle hand on my arm.
“How exactly are you planning to handle them?” I asked.
“I want to witness their interrogations, to see their assessment of the crime scene.”
“Can I join you?”
“It will be difficult enough to persuade them to allow me to accompany them, even with my credentials,” he said. “Both of us would be too much to hope for.”
Resigned, I took the place next to George. “I imagine this is not how you expected to spend your day,” he said.
“Far from it. And while I realize this may sound slightly inappropriate, I’m more than sorry you didn’t get to speak to Dr. Girard. I so wanted him to be able to help stave off Madeline’s condition.”
He shook his head. “That was unlikely regardless. I was foolish to even let myself hope. I should know better.” He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a slim silver case. “What was it like in there? A nightmare?”
“Yes,” I said.
He lit a cigarette, drew deep, and blew a thin stream of smoke into the air. “I don’t think I could bear to see it. If he was wounded, fine. I spent enough time in the military to handle that—but when a situation’s hopeless, when it’s nothing but gore…I can’t stand that kind of brutality. Even sifting through a battlefield you’ve got a chance of finding someone you can save. Do you think if we’d arrived earlier…”
“No,” I said. “He’s been dead since the middle of the night.”
“Would you object to continuing on to Rouen after this? I’d like to call on the Priers unless, of course, you’re too upset after what you’ve seen.”
“I find soldiering on preferable to wallowing.” My statement was true, but wanting to see the reactions of the Priers to the news of the doctor’s death also motivated me.
“I want to express my condolences, of course,” he said. “But if you don’t think it’s too crass, I’d like to ask them about Edith’s treatment, see if they think it helped her. If they did, it might be worth going back to the asylum and talking to anyone else who worked on her case.”
“If she were my daughter, it would give me comfort if anything gleaned from her condition could stop someone else�
�s suffering.”
“Another reason to like you,” he said. “You’ve a wonderful spirit, Emily. Reminds me of my darling Madeline.”
“I’m flattered,” I said, not sure what else to say. “I know how you adore her.”
“She centers me. Accepts me. Doesn’t pressure me to devote my life to only one pursuit. I don’t think many women would tolerate the way I change my passions like overcoats.”
“But not when it comes to her, I hope.”
“Absolutely not. There could never be another woman for me. I was designed for Madeline. I think you feel similarly about your husband?”
“I do,” I said, blushing.
“Excellent.” He puffed on his cigarette. “Makes for a much happier existence if you can be married to someone you actually like.”
The sentiment seemed obvious, but I knew how frequently it was disregarded. “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. We sat in companionable silence for some time. “What will you do if she does succumb to her mother’s condition?”
“I shall treat her as I always have and take care of her for the rest of her life. And when she’s gone…” He shook his head. “I’ll live alone, regretting every moment that I’m not with her.”
25
Within an hour, Colin had finished with the police, and felt he’d seen all the evidence likely to be gathered from the hospital. The murderer had entered and exited through the office window. A struggle had ensued, and it was unclear whether the vicious criminal had come upon Dr. Girard already in his chair and subdued him there, or if they’d fought and he’d forced him into the seat. If it was the latter, the intruder had tidied up all signs of the altercation before leaving the scene. The doctor had suffered a blow to the head that had likely knocked him unconscious, after which his murderer slit his wrists, planted the suicide note, and made his escape.
“Cretinous,” George said as we settled back into our carriage. “What sort of person does such a thing?”
“The patients are the most obvious place to start,” Colin said. “But none of them has any marks that suggest having been involved.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “It’s hideous to think someone he was trying to help would lash out at him in such violent fashion.”
“But isn’t it more frightening to think it’s someone of sound mind?” George asked. “Someone who’s not confined to an asylum?”
“Are any murderers of sound mind?” I asked.
“No excellent soul is exempt from a mixture of madness,” Colin said. “Aristotle, I believe.”
“It all comes back to the Greeks, doesn’t it, my dear?” I asked. In a short while, we’d entered the city of Rouen and were settled in the Priers’ sitting room, I next to Cécile, who rejoiced at seeing us. Madame Prier greeted us alone, and put on a good show, welcoming us as if our presence ranked somewhere near the second coming of Christ. Until, that is, we introduced George.
“Oh dear,” she said, giving him her one hand to kiss while she flung the other over her forehead. “Monsieur Markham, do forgive me, but I wish I could have saved you from this association with my dreadful relatives.”
“I can assure you, madame, that Madeline is all delightful charm. There’s not a lady on earth with qualities superior to hers, and should you have the pleasure of making her acquaintance you would never again consider her branch of the family dreadful.”
“I’d expect no other opinion from such a clearly devoted husband,” she said. “But the madness that consumes them is not to be taken lightly—it is that I consider dreadful. Apologies if my meaning wasn’t clear. I shall pray your wife escapes even a touch of it.”
“I understand your side of the family, revered though it may be, suffers from the same affliction,” George said, his voice affable, his smile wide.
“So you know our secret, of course you do,” Madame Prier said.
“I hope I haven’t offended you,” George said. “I had hoped you could perhaps offer me some insight into your daughter’s treatment—tell me if anything in particular helped her.”
“I wish I could, but unfortunately nothing seemed to make a difference.” Her face was hard as she talked about Edith, but softened as she turned to Colin. “Monsieur Hargreaves, Toinette will be beyond disappointed to have missed you. She’s calling on a friend.”
“It’s such a shame she didn’t come to the country,” I said, my smile a masterpiece of the disingenuous. Cécile, who was sitting next to me on the horsehair settee stifled ironic laughter. “I could have thrown a little party for her.”
“That would have been lovely,” Madame Prier said. “You’re so kind to think of her.”
“You know how fond we are of her,” Colin said. I resisted the urge to kick him. “I’m afraid, however, we’ve come bearing no glad tidings. Dr. Girard was murdered last night.”
“Dr. Girard?” Confusion filled her wide eyes. “Are we acquainted with him?”
“He’s the one who treated Edith, Maman.” Whether Laurent had been lurking in the background from the time we had arrived or whether he’d snuck in, all stealth and quiet, was unclear. But when he stepped out from the shadows, his voice bellowing, it was as if all the heat had been sucked from the room. “How could you forget such a thing?”
“Why would you expect me to remember the horrid man’s name?” Madame Prier said. “He did nothing useful for her.”
“He did more than you.”
“Laurent, have you not yet grown tired of embarrassing yourself in front of guests?”
“Not in the slightest. I take after my dear mother.”
I sighed with an almost romantic delight as he stalked across the room and slammed the door. Laurent half terrified, half amused me. I appreciated the drama he could lend to a situation; it reminded me of a sensational novel. As the conversation restarted around me, I wondered what, exactly, he thought of Dr. Girard, and whom he blamed for Edith’s escape from the hospital. Most of all, I wanted to see his handwriting. “Can we follow him?” I whispered to Cécile.
Cécile paused for a moment, clasped her hands together, and tapped one thumb against the other. She looked at Madame Prier, then at the door, and then slumped against me.
“Mon dieu!” she said. “I’ve come over all dizzy. Kallista, will you take me to my room?”
Her ploy, while perhaps inelegant for her self-imposed standards, served its purpose. Colin clearly saw through it at once—he watched as I guided her to the stairs, any hint of concern absent from his face. He could not, however, hide his amusement from me.
“I’m impressed with your instant reaction,” I said, as we climbed the stairs. “You hardly hesitated at all.”
“I don’t like to waste time,” Cécile said. “And the conversation was putting a terrible strain on my ability to feign attentiveness. It’s a shame I’m not in the room you had—we could descend on Laurent unannounced.”
As it was, we made our way to the top floor of the house and knocked on Laurent’s closed door, which he opened without making us wait. Then, leaving it open, he turned around and walked back to his piano.
“You were quite right, Kallista,” Cécile said, following him in and gingerly stepping around piles of sheet music. “He has the cluttered mind of a genius. Or at least the cluttered room.”
“Why are you here?” he asked, crossing his arms and scowling at Cécile.
“Your sister’s doctor is dead. Murder made to look like suicide. Badly done, wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Not a professional,” I said.
“A professional murderer?” Laurent laughed. “I can’t decide whether to despise you or pity you, Lady Emily.”
“We’ve no time at present for you to do either,” Cécile said. “Where were you last night?”
“Me? Are you suggesting I killed Dr. Girard?”
She shrugged. “It’s possible, is it not?”
“Aside from the fact I had no reason to want him dead, it’s not possible. I was here all night.”
“
Alone?” I asked.
“Of course alone. Do you think I bring lovers to my mother’s house?”
“You like to think you shock me, don’t you?” I asked.
“Don’t be tiresome, Laurent. Can your family verify you were here?” Cécile asked, then turned to me. “I think, Kallista, that I would perhaps make an exceedingly fine detective. I rather excel at questioning persons of interest. Do you think there’s a special sort of gown I should adopt for the profession?”
Laurent sighed as if he was irritated, but his eyes betrayed him. Laughter danced in them. “Much as I’d like to see the result of you imposing haute couture on the art of investigation, I’m afraid I’ve not time for any of this nonsense.”
“Are you not interested in what happened to Dr. Girard?” I asked. “His killer might lead us to your sister’s.”
“That’s fascinating, I’m sure, but what have I to do with any of it? I was here last night and certainly wouldn’t have killed my own sister.”
“Who would have wanted him dead?” I asked. “Does anyone in your family blame him for what happened to Edith?”
“By the time Edith escaped from the asylum, no one in this house—myself excluded—had the slightest concern for what she was going through. You’ve spoken to my mother. She’s relieved her daughter is dead. It’s a wonder Edith didn’t take her own life the way she was treated.”
“I can’t imagine your mother killed Dr. Girard,” Cécile said. “It would have taken too much effort in directions she would not find interesting.”
“You do know her well, don’t you?” Laurent asked.
“Well enough.”
“What about your father?” I asked. “Was he happy with Edith’s progress? With her doctor?”
“He was pleased at having her out of the house.”
“Laurent, I think it’s desperately important that we try to locate your sister’s child. Whom, you should remember, is your niece,” I said. “Chances are Edith tried to find her, and this poor little girl is still with the man who killed her mother. Surely you’re not willing to let such a situation go unchecked?”
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