Dangerous to Know

“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 have reason to believe he killed her?”