Dangerous to Know

“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?”

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“Did you really know nothing about Lucy?”

“Not a thing. If I had, I would have put her somewhere safe myself. And now this useless doctor is dead, I’ve less of a chance than ever of finding the child—who should, I must point out, be raised by me.”

“You?” Cécile was all skepticism. “A bachelor? Living with his parents? You are fit for raising a little girl? Who, for all you know, is already happily settled in a comfortable home? Hubris, my dear Laurent. Hubris.”

He replied to her, but I did not hear the words. My attention was focused on the pile of manuscripts nearest to me, on the words scrawled at the tops of the pages and the marginalia on the sides. All written in the same handwriting I’d seen only hours before on Dr. Girard’s supposed suicide note. My heart thumping in my chest, I bent down and picked up the sheet.

“Written any suicide notes lately, Laurent?” I asked.

“How dare you?” He grabbed the paper from my hand.

“I thought I recognized the handwriting from when I was last in your room. So why did you kill him? Did he keep Edith’s baby? Did she fall in love with him? Were you jealous?”

He slapped me, hard, right across the mouth.

I stumbled as Cécile gasped and stepped towards him. Without hesitating, I stopped her, came forward myself, smacked him back, and watched a deep red mark develop on his cheek. He said nothing, but raised his hand to the spot. I resisted the urge to touch what I knew must be its twin on my own face.

“The paper was ripped out of a notebook, like the one lying there,” I said, pointing to a slim volume resting on top of the piano.

“Don’t touch that.” He stepped in front of me, blocking any progress I might try to make in pursuit of the object in question.

“Why are you so concerned if you’ve nothing to hide?” I asked.

“What did the note say?”

“It was a quotation from Hamlet. And a comment.”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t near the asylum last night.”

“Did you write the note?” I asked.

“I’m not in the habit of depositing my writing with the possessions of dead men.”

“Then explain to me how Dr. Girard got it?”

“There’s nothing to explain. You can’t prove I wrote it—you don’t have it in your possession. If the police care to query me on the matter, I shall welcome them with open arms. They’ll find nothing.”

Something in his tone indicated with supreme strength the truth of his final statement. The police would find nothing, but only because Laurent would destroy anything that might be of use before they even thought to contact him. I was desperate to look in his notebook, but knew he wouldn’t let me. His handwriting could be identified by the police in any number of ways—but I didn’t need anything further to convince me who wrote the false suicide note. I wanted to read more, to find out why someone would do such a thing.

And why, after we’d learned the truth about Edith’s baby, her doctor—quite possibly the only person who knew the story in its entirety—had been killed. Had our investigation catalyzed more violence?

“Lucy is all that matters, Laurent,” I said. “We have to find her.”

“I’ve done nothing but try since you told me she’s alive,” he said, his voice low and rumbling. “All I know is that there was a man called Myriel who visited her.”

“What did you find out about him?” I asked.

“What do you know?” His eyes narrowed and darkened.

“We’re in possession of the belongings he left in his rooms near the asylum,” I said. “They’re remarkably interesting.”

“I need to speak to my father,” he said. “Forgive me for walking out on such an invigorating conversation, but I’ve nothing further to say to either of you.”

Cécile, intent on liberating Laurent’s notebook from its rightful owner, refused to return to the country with us. Colin forbade her to touch the book, but agreed that keeping her in the Priers’ house was a rational decision—she might observe something significant in the family’s behavior. He knew perfectly well, however, that she would be in possession of the journal the next time we saw her. George had managed to forge some sort of connection to Madame Prier by the time we left the house—she implored him to return for tea, but did not include Madeline in the invitation.

“She’s so like Madeline’s mother,” he said as we drove away from Rouen. “At least the way she was before we were married. Eccentric, yes, but charming all the same. How fortunate that she escaped my mother-in-law’s fate.”

“Was she able to offer you any useful insight?” I asked.

“Not a shred,” he said. “I do wish I could have met Monsieur Prier. He must be a character of his own. Where does he keep himself hidden?”

“Cozied up with his mistress much of the time,” Colin said.

“And their daughter.”

“Another daughter?” George asked.

“This one much younger than Edith and Toinette,” I said. Colin subtly jabbed my side. “Not that it’s any of our business, of course.”

“No, of course not,” George said, laughing softly as he turned to look out the window. “Must be something to have so many children.”