Discomfort prickled in the air, as each of us looked away from the rest. Each of us childless. Each of us carrying the small heartbreak of tiny losses.
None of us spoke again for the duration of the journey.
26
I was pleased, when we returned to Mrs. Hargreaves’s house, to find a letter waiting from Monsieur Leblanc. His update primarily served to inform me he’d learned nothing new, but he also asked if he could call soon, saying that he needed my assistance on a matter, but that it could wait until after the questions of Edith Prier’s death had been answered. The thought of someone needing me was more than a little flattering. Colin allowed me to assist him on occasion, but would have had no trouble carrying on in my absence.
A hot fire burned in the sitting room’s enormous stone fireplace, the three of us snugly fortified against the damp, each hard at work. Normandy was giving us days that felt more like autumn than summer, but the cool weather wasn’t oppressive, not given the bright sun that managed to cut through the clouds often enough to remind us it was July. Mrs. Hargreaves and I had spent no small amount of time on Homer after dinner, and I was more enamored by the poet’s work than ever. I’d never before filled the role of teacher, and found that I learned as much while assisting my mother-in-law as I did studying on my own. More, perhaps, as the understanding it took to explain to her the rules of Greek grammar or to help her analyze of passages of the poem required more active and thorough thought than it took to study by myself. I adored every minute of it.
“Ah!” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “I have it now—‘The wine urges me on, the bewitching wine, which sets even a wise man to singing and to laughing gently and rouses him up to dance and bring forth words which were better unspoken.’ I do like this, Emily.”
“I’m glad,” I said.
“What we need, Mother, is port,” Colin said. “It’s appropriate to what you’ve just read, and it’s Emily’s favorite.”
“I’m afraid I have none,” she said. “You’ll have to settle for cognac.” This may have been the first time a lady had not balked at my preference for drinking port, traditionally considered a gentleman’s beverage. My respect for my mother-in-law was increasing exponentially.
“I’ll expect you to have filled the hole in your cellar before our next visit,” Colin said, filling glasses for each of us as our conversation returned to the Priers.
“Laurent’s feelings for his sister go deeper than perhaps they ought,” I said. “Could he have crossed an unspeakable line? Could he have been jealous of Vasseur, and furious when he found out Edith had given birth to the child?”
“And killed her?” Colin asked. I nodded. “How would he have found out about the baby? Girard didn’t tell him.”
“He did seem surprised when we told him Lucy was alive,” I said. “But he may very well be an excellent actor. As soon as Edith went missing, he would have started to search for her. And that search may have uncovered the truth about the girl.”
“Wouldn’t it also have uncovered the girl?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked.
“Possibly,” Colin said. “But not necessarily.”
“Would he have been so angry that he’d actually kill the sister he loved? And in such violent fashion?” I frowned.
“He’s the only one in the family who kept visiting her,” Colin said. “He might have felt doubly betrayed—first that she took a lover, second, that she lied to him about the baby.”
“Did he not see her during her confinement?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked. “Surely even an ignorant man would take note of her condition.”
“It wouldn’t have been too difficult to hide,” Colin said. “She was in bed, and could have had a mountain of blankets over her. Laurent might have never noticed.”
“Which would have angered him all the more once he realized the doctor’s real game,” I said. “The note in Dr. Girard’s pocket is in Laurent’s handwriting. That’s solid evidence.”
“It
“Yes,” I said. “But I’d stake my life on it. The police will confirm it.”
“We need more proof than just the note,” Colin said. “Even if Laurent did write it, someone else could have slipped it in the doctor’s pocket.”
“There’s also Vasseur,” I said. “We must find him.”
“I’ve persuaded the office of the Foreign Legion to give me the two addresses he’d given them,” Colin said. “But my subsequent inquiries turned up nothing, so it’s time for a personal visit.”
“Why don’t we go there tomorrow?” I asked.
“That won’t be necessary. You stay here and deal with Sebastian. We do have a bet, you know.”
“A murder is more significant,” I said.
“I’m not trying to give you useless tasks,” he said. “You know me better than to think that. I’m convinced your old friend has more of a connection to all this than we’ve figured out so far. He took Monet’s painting to and from the Markhams’—good fun for Sebastian, but I’m beginning to suspect he wasn’t in the neighborhood simply to follow you.”
“I wonder—” I stopped. I didn’t want to say more out loud. I wondered if Sebastian had Lucy. I wondered if he were Jules Vasseur. “How long do you think you can pacify me in this way?”
“Undoubtedly not long enough,” he said. The teasing rhythm of his words combined with the warm intensity in his eyes tugged at me deep inside. I wanted to lean forward and kiss him, to feel his arms around me, to hear him murmur soft words against my neck.
“I shouldn’t be gone more than a few days,” he continued.
“Perhaps when you come home you can buy me a pony if I’ve been a good girl,” I said, teasing him back.
“Don’t forget, Emily, I know you’re intellectually at least as capable as I am. I’m protecting you from nothing but physical weakness.”
His mother coughed. “‘It is tedious to tell again tales already plainly told,’” she read. “Simple sentence. Obvious truth. I’m glad you’ve brought me back to Homer, Emily.”
“So I’m to contact Sebastian?” I asked Colin after we’d retired to our room and he was helping me undo the long row of tiny buttons down the back of my dress, slipping them through their silk loops.
“I’m confident you’ll find him easily enough.” He kissed the back of my neck. “Buy something you think he’d like to steal.”
