Dangerous to Know (4 page)

“Where have you put Sebastian's bounty?” I asked.

“It's just across the corridor,” Madeline said. “We'll show you when George returns.”

Sitting on a tall, rigid chair, I accepted a cup from Madeline. She must have poured it before we'd arrived—there was no teapot in sight, and the drink had gone cold. Cécile raised an eyebrow as she tasted hers, but said nothing and abandoned the beverage for the
douillon
on her plate. Flaky, butter-filled pastry surrounded a whole pear sweet with cinnamon and sugar, all drowning in crème fraîche. It more than made up for the inadequate tea.

“Have you heard anything further about the murdered girl?” Madeline asked. “Does anyone know who she is?”

“We've been told nothing,” I said. “But I would imagine they've identified her by now.”

“It is horrifying. Here I am worried about someone breaking in to give us a painting and some poor girl was killed not two miles from me,” she said. “It doesn't seem possible. And it's made our intruder all the more frightening. No one in this neighborhood could have done such an awful thing, so this stranger must be the guilty party. And what if he'd gone into a murderous rage while he was in our house?”

“I'm confident Sebastian would never do such a thing—” I began, only to be interrupted.

“I'm so sorry, Adèle,” Madeline said, addressing me directly, her eyes open so wide they looked strained, an odd, unfocused expression coming over her as she began to speak. “I did try to contact you about our change of plans, but I'm afraid you didn't receive my note. Would you very much mind if our excursion is only to Yvetot, not Rouen? I've not yet had the pleasure of meeting your friend, Sebastian, but he's more than welcome to join our party.”

“I—I'm afraid I don't understand,” I said, confused and a bit frightened, unsure what to say or do.

“You know how it is when you're having trouble with household staff. I shall make sure Marie is disciplined firmly,” she continued. “She must have neglected to send my note.”

Cécile and I exchanged baffled glances while Monsieur Leblanc stared at his plate.

“You must, however, give me the name of your newfound dressmaker,” Madeline continued, her voice light and happy. “You did promise and I can't have you keeping secrets from me.”

George entered the room, his mother-in-law conspicuously absent, and the moment Madeline saw him, her manner changed. But it wasn't simply her manner—the light in her eyes altered conspicuously. “Apologies,” he said. “In the end I thought it best Madame Breton not join us.”

“Should I go to her?” Madeline asked, her pretty lips pressed together, her face pale. The transformation unnerved me. She looked entirely different than she had just moments ago and showed no sign of being aware of what had happened.

“She's settled, but I'm sure would enjoy some company,” George said. “I was afraid talk of an intruder might upset her.”

“Of course,” Madeline said. “You're so considerate, my dear. Will you excuse me? I'll go sit with her.”

When she'd gone, George took her untouched
douillon
and scooped up an enormous bite. “It's terrible, this trouble with her mother. She's been ill for as long as I've known her, but it's got much worse in the past few years. It used to be she was just a bit batty, but her forgetfulness was almost entertaining. Now, though, it's as if the charming, refined woman she used to be is disappearing entirely.”

“How dreadful,” I said, wondering if it would be appropriate to mention his wife's apparent lapse in sanity. “And there's nothing to be done?”

“Apparently not.” He swallowed another bite of pastry. “I've researched the matter thoroughly. It's wrenching to watch her. Would break the heart of the strongest man.”

“Je suis desolée,”
Cécile said.

“You're very kind,” he said. “We did not, however, bring you here to earn your pity.
Maman
's condition is something we must bear, but expending too much focus on it will serve to do nothing but depress us. Have you finished your tea? I want to show you the painting.”

“Monsieur,” Cécile said. “Unless I am drinking champagne, I am always finished.”

“An admirable policy. I think I should adopt it myself.” He ushered us out of the room and down a long corridor. “As you can see, this part of the château is much more livable than the rest. It's almost modern.” We entered a grand hall, this one done in shades of green, from the darkest forest to pale lime. In the center, standing on an easel, was Monet's painting.

“Rouen,” Cécile said. “One of my favorite cathedrals.” Golden tan hues dominated the canvas, the building seeming to soar from the street, the brushstrokes easy and loose.

“I'm afraid I couldn't tell whether it was Notre Dame de Paris or Notre Dame de Rouen. Churches aren't my specialty,” George said, continuing forward, a curious look on his face. “This was not here before.” He picked up an envelope resting against the canvas, glanced at it, frowned, and handed it to me. My name was scrawled across the front. With shaking hands, I opened it and pulled out the note it contained:

 

It is good of you to come back to me.

Sebastian's arrival excited me more than a little. He amused me, and I rejoiced at having something other than all things tragic to think about. Colin's response, on the other hand, might be less than rhapsodically enthusiastic, and this caused me no small measure of concern. As soon as Cécile and I had returned to his mother's house, I gave the envelope to him. His dark eyes danced when he read Sebastian's missive. “I knew it,” he said. “Am I to have a rival, Emily?”

“Far from it,” I said, taking the note back from him. The afternoon had turned chill as a bracing rain began, and we gathered in a timbered sitting room in front of a hulking stone chimneypiece to take champagne tea, a concept introduced by Cécile and embraced at once by my husband. He had opened for us a bottle of Moët, and Cécile was inspecting the bubbles in her glass.

“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: