He laughed. “I suppose you always identify the killer before the end of Sherlock Holmes novels.”
“Yes, but that’s hardly the point. I caught the man who murdered my first husband; I cleared erroneous charges against a dear friend, and have solved two other crimes. I’m certainly more qualified than you to figure out what happened to your sister—although I can’t vouch for you being capable of anything beyond brooding and playing Beethoven.”
“I don’t like you.”
“I don’t care. All that matters now is where your sister spent the last six months of her life.”
He turned away from me and stomped across the room to a window, which he flung open. “Can you doubt he killed her?”
“Vasseur?” I asked. “I know nothing about him except that it appears he was romantically involved with Edith. The fact that you were jealous of their relationship is hardly cause to suspect him of murder. It’s more likely to make me wonder about you.”
“You accuse me?” He whirled around.
“No. But you give me nothing—not even the slimmest reason to doubt this man’s feelings for your sister.”
“He got her with child,” he said, stepping towards me, his eyes full of menace. “And then left her to deal with the consequences on her own.”
“But he wanted to marry her?”
“My father had forbidden his suit, but he continued to pursue her. Because they couldn’t meet openly, he arranged clandestine meetings. And once he was able to be alone with her, away from all decent company, without any limits, he took advantage of her.”
“She must have been devastated,” I said.
“She wasn’t.” He sank onto his piano bench and dropped his head into his hands. “She was ecstatic. She wanted to marry him. Thought they would elope.”
“Was he unwilling?”
“I wasn’t about to leave her in the hands of a man who would behave so dishonorably.”
“And the baby?”
“She lost it,” he said. “Which was the best thing that could happen in such a situation.”
“Did your parents know?”
“Of course not. Only Dr. Girard, who cared for her.”
“So she’d already been sent away?”
“I was able to persuade her that she needed rest.”
“I’ve heard stories that you drove her mad.”
“It hurt her to hear the things I said. No one likes to be told her lover is a useless wretch. She was heartbroken, yes, but not mad.”
“But she was with child when she went to the asylum?”
“Yes.”
“And then she lost it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s awfully convenient,” I said.
“Sometimes nature needs only a little help.”
I trembled and felt the room go cold. A stiff wind blew through the window, rattling the glass, and all I wanted to do was run. Edith had suffered abominably at the hands of men, and more than once. I looked at Laurent, whose eyes turned hard. He stepped forward and reached for me. I stepped back, avoiding his touch.
“You are not to discuss this with anyone,” he said. “These events have nothing whatsoever to do with her death.”
“Does Vasseur know you arranged this?” I asked.
“No. Only Girard. Everything we did was hidden from Vasseur. It was not his concern.”
“How can you believe a man’s child is not his concern?”
“When a man is a worthless profligate, nothing is his concern.”
“I agree that his behavior was appalling,” I said. “But you’ve told me nothing to suggest he would want to see Edith dead.”
“She lost his child. He despised weakness.”
“A thin argument at best. Do you know for certain he was aware of the pregnancy?”
“She told him in a letter. I read it before she sent it.”
“She shared her correspondence with you?”
“No,” he said. “I opened and resealed it. Edith believed he was going to come for her, that they would elope.”
“And you wouldn’t let that happen.”
“She was the dearest part of my heart,” he said. “I could not let her come to such inglorious ruin.”
“So instead you had her committed and labeled insane? Forgive me if I don’t see the kindness in your strategy.”
“How could I have known the events would drive her irrevocably mad?”
“Of course. Who would consider that the loss of both the man she wanted to marry and her child would have a deep impact on her mental condition?”
“You need not be sarcastic. I saved her from a worse fate. Girard’s asylum is no Bedlam. I intended for her to recuperate in comfort and then come home. For her to have kept the child was unthinkable—she would have been ostracized.”
“You have no appreciation for the grief you caused her,” I said. “You destroyed her. If you hadn’t manipulated the situation she’d still be alive.”
He took me fiercely by the arm and leaned in close to my face. “I loved my sister like no one else. Our family did not understand her. I alone knew what was best for her, and I saw to it that she got it. Do not dare accuse me of bringing her to harm unless you should like to suffer a worse fate than she did.” He pushed me away, and I fell against the wall, my heart pounding, unable to move until the sound of his footsteps disappeared down the stairs. Then, stepping tentatively, I went to my own room and collapsed on my bed, scared and horrified, but unable to cry.
I didn’t want to believe what Laurent had told me; it was too awful, unthinkable. I couldn’t believe that a man like Dr. Girard would participate in such an odious endeavor. I pressed the heel of my palm against my forehead, felt a rush of sadness tear through me, and lamented that Edith had suffered such a loss in circumstances worse than my own. Or were they? Could one compare grief? Could solace be found in doing so? I raised my head, resting my chin on my left hand, tugging at the duvet with my right, listening to the sounds of Rouen lumber through my open window. It differed little from what one would hear in any city—carriages clattering over cobbled streets, the chatter of business, laughter and gossip, the tinkling bells that announced the opening of shop doors, the thud of them closing.
But something familiar strained to be heard over the clamor: a thin sound, reedy and sharp, growing louder and more rhythmic. I froze and closed my eyes, concentrating, eager to disprove what I suspected. Shaking, I rose from the bed and stepped to the window, leaning out when I reached it. Lost in the din, it was barely discernible, but still recognizable. The voice I’d heard in the country had followed me to Rouen, its lonely weeping twisted by the breeze fluttering the lacy curtains in my room.
Had Edith heard the same thing? The question hung, unanswered, in the damp air. My thoughts turned to Madeline, who’d also suffered the loss of a child. Children, I corrected myself. Would she hear it as well if she were here? Had I tapped into some ethereal spirit, calling on women whose emotions bled raw? Or was I letting my pain get hold of my imagination? Perhaps Colin’s concerns possessed more validity than I’d been willing to admit. Maybe I had succumbed to wallowing, had allowed myself to be consumed for too long by the tragedies of the past.
I reached for the tarnished handles on the sashes of the window-panes and pulled them in, locking the sounds away from me. The silence was almost harder to listen to than the crying and I felt as if I might crawl out of my skin. Agitated, I opened the windows again, this time only to close the shutters outside them. But as I started, my eyes caught a flash of blue.
Across the street, falling from above the height of my room, a narrow blue ribbon danced, buoyed by the wind
