“He was upset,” I said. “Yet you think it was he who did not approve of Monsieur Vasseur?”
“Monsieur Laurent’s scheme did not work out as he hoped. He worked too hard at making his sister seem unhinged—and in the end drove her to madness. He’d wanted the doctor to prescribe rest so that he could take her to Nice to recuperate. Instead, he was too effective and she was bound for the asylum.”
“You’re not saying her brother deliberately drove her mad?” I asked.
“Oh he did, madame,” she said. “I’m not the only one who knows it. But you’re unlikely to get many of us to talk. We seen what he’s done, you know, and don’t want it done to us.”
“How did he do it?” Cécile asked. “Surely such a thing would not be simple?”
“I can’t rightly say,” Jeanne said. “It was a gradual thing. First it all seemed small and unimportant. Until she started talking to the girl.”
“The girl?” I asked.
“The girl.” She looked away from us now. “The little dead girl.”
A shiver ran through me. “What girl?”
“Don’t know. It never made any sense,” she said. “But it scared the devil out of me. She’d talk to her—at night especially—crying and moaning.”
“Whose child was it?”
“I couldn’t say. But she wept over it until she could hardly speak. And then she started sleepwalking—fell down the stairs more than once. With all of it, I don’t see as how her father could’ve done anything but send her away.”
“Tell me more about the girl,” I said.
She nodded. “Monsieur Laurent, he told her some kind of ghost story, about a little girl who died in some sort of sad circumstance and was searching for a mother. My poor mistress, she took it to heart, she did. It ruined her.”
“Did you ever see evidence of it?”
“The ghost?” She scrunched her forehead. “No. But I can tell you mademoiselle’s bedchamber was always at least ten degrees colder when she said she saw it. I felt it myself more than once. Have you seen something funny in the room?”
“No,” I said.
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to spend much time up there. Even if there is no ghost.”
Soon after Cécile and I emerged from below stairs, Monsieur Leblanc arrived to call on me as we’d planned. But rather than allow him to come inside and speak with the Priers, I intercepted him at the door and dragged him away from the house.
“Do ghosts travel?” I asked him.
“Ghosts? How on earth should I know?”
“You’re a journalist. I expect you to have leads on any topic I throw at you,” I said.
“You are a funny lady,” he said. “I already told you my ghost story. And she does travel, the little ghost.”
“Yes, but does she ever follow the same person to more than one place?”
“You’re not serious?”
“I am.”
“I can’t say I’ve heard it said she’s latched on to anyone in particular.”
“I just wondered if she’d ever found a single person she thought might end her wandering,” I said. He was looking at me as if I’d lost my mind. “How far away is the asylum where they sent Edith?”
“Ghosts, asylums, you’re full of surprises today, Lady Emily.” He adjusted his hat. “It’s outside the city, perhaps fifteen miles or so. Lovely setting near the river.”
“Can we go?”
“Now?” Surprise registered on his face, but a glimmer of excited delight crept into his eyes.
“Would it be possible?”
“I—” He paused, looked around. “We could hire a carriage.” I set him to the task at once, and within a quarter of an hour we’d bundled ourselves into a comfortable hackney and were speeding along dusty country roads.
“Have you a plan for when we arrive?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.
“Fear not,” I said. “I’ll have hatched something by then.”
The drive took longer than we’d anticipated due to the condition of the roads, which were dotted with potholes and washboarded from frequent rain. We passed through numerous small villages, the spires of stone churches rising from amongst thatched roofs; bright red, blue, and green market carts gathered in town squares; women sweeping their front steps with brooms fashioned from twigs. And then, the buildings would suddenly disappear, giving way to great expanses of fields—tall wheat and bending barley—their edges lined with crimson poppies. The occasional farm wagon, piled high with hay, slowed us further as it clattered along the way beneath the overstuffed white clouds dotting the sky.
We turned onto a smaller road and crossed the river. I leaned out my window, marveling at the ruins of a Norman abbey, its roofless chapel standing as if at guard near a much better preserved chapter house. Turning again to parallel the water, we drove on only a bit farther and then traversed another bridge, this one leading to a narrow island. The heavy foliage of old-growth trees hid all but glimpses of a reddish brick building buried in their midst, branches hanging so low they scraped the top of our carriage. The drive widened slightly as we approached the entrance.
The asylum had been built to mimic a castle—or perhaps it had once been a stately home. The reddish color and shape of the towers reminded me of a smaller Hampton Court Palace. The structure itself was well tended, with gleaming windows and pristine marble steps. After Monsieur Leblanc spoke to the driver, arranging for him to wait while we were inside, we went to the door and lifted a heavy brass knocker shaped as the head of a lion. In short order, a crisply uniformed nurse greeted us with a warm and welcoming tone in her soothing voice. She assumed we’d come to visit a patient, but showed no sign of surprise when Monsieur Leblanc asked to see Dr. Girard, the man whom, he’d told me on our way, had attended to Edith during her illness.
The nurse led us through wide corridors whose whitewashed walls stood bright and clean. The ceiling retained its ornate plaster moldings that must have been original to the building, and the parquet floors showed signs of the wear that comes from frequent, vigorous scrubbing. She tapped on a door at the back of the building and then, without waiting for a response, opened it. After motioning for us to enter the room, which was fitted up as a medical library and office, she disappeared, closing the door behind her.
“How may I help you?” A not unattractive man of average height and build rose from his chair at the large desk that commandeered the center of the room while bookcases filled with thick, well-worn volumes lined the walls. He was younger than I’d expected—in the prime of life—well-dressed, with an elegance to the way he moved. “I’m afraid we’ve not any openings for new patients at the moment, but—oh, do forgive me. I should have introduced myself.”
“You require no introduction, Dr. Girard,” Monsieur Leblanc said, offering the man his hand and giving him our names. “I know your reputation well. We have come to inquire on behalf of friends of the Prier family.”
“A terrible tragedy,” he said. “I did not think that many friends knew of the poor girl’s plight.”
“Not of her illness, perhaps,” I said. “But the news of her death—”
“Of course. It horrified the entire region,” the doctor interrupted. “Please, sit.”
We did as he asked and he lowered himself onto his chair. The surface of his desk was clear except for two neat piles of papers and a copy of a medical journal carefully lined up on the upper left hand corner, an inkwell with two pens perfectly centered, and an ancient but polished clock to the right of the chair.
“I’m the one who found Mademoiselle Prier’s body,” I said. “And feel, as a result, a vested interest in her murder.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Dr. Girard said. “I read the autopsy report and do not envy you what you saw. I understand, however, that the police have a suspect in mind?”
“They may,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “But what concerns us is the victim. I am a writer, you see, and want to do a piece about her, so that her life is not forgotten.”
“I can’t imagine the family would welcome such a thing,” the doctor said. “They’re extremely private people.
