Dangerous to Know

“Put them back.” I glowered at him. “And then we can go speak to Lucy’s guardian.”

“If we can find him. I’ll need to search the rest of the house,” he said. “And can’t do that until I have some time to mourn the loss of these buttons.”

“Return the cuff links as well.”

“You’re a disappointment.”

“Your kind words mean the world to me,” I said. “But you don’t need to continue the search. I’ve found everything we need.”

“No,” he said, badly feigning breathlessness.

“Go,” I said. “And don’t forget the cuff links.”

“You are so horrible to me,” he said. “Yet I adore you still. And if you have indeed found what you say, I may have to recruit you to my nefarious lair of criminals.” He disappeared into the bedroom, where I doubted he was returning anything. Still, I had to at least try to make him do the proper thing.

I flipped through Great Expectations, pausing again at the pages in the part of the book where Pip learns the identity of his benefactor. There, in the margins, someone had scrawled a name and address—Marie Sapin in a not too faraway town called Barentin—and it had to be that of Lucy’s guardian. The context was too perfect for it to be anything else.

My deduction did not completely convince Sebastian upon his return from the bedroom, but he could not argue we had anything better to try, and agreed we should go investigate.

“It will, however, be a fruitless expedition,” he said, clearly irritated to be without the buttons. I couldn’t decide whether his mood was for show, to make me believe he’d put them back, or whether his frustration was genuine.

“Why else would Dr. Girard write such a thing in that precise spot in that precise book?” I asked as our carriage sped towards Barentin.

“There are countless answers to that question, Emily,” he said. “Perhaps this Marie Sapin is a beautiful woman the doctor met while on holiday, when he was reading Great Expectations.”

“Perhaps Marie Sapin is a patient he had to collect from her home,” I said. “Perhaps she is a nurse he wanted to interview. Or the woman he hired to look after his elderly mother—that’s the sort of name a person would certainly want to bury in a novel.”

“I’m glad to see you’re getting into the spirit of things,” he said, tugging at his spotless gloves.

“But you may find, Sebastian, that I’m right. My reasoning is not without logic. That does not prove it’s without flaw, but it’s a lead worth pursuing. And in this line of work, not every lead pans out.”

“Don’t you find that tedious? You’d be much happier treasure hunting through Europe with me. I could get the Trojan gold for you—Priam’s treasure, the jewelry that cad Schleimann excavated and draped over his horrible wife. It would look far better on you. And you know, Kallista, my leads never fail to pan out.”

It felt as if the drive to Barentin spanned centuries. The roads were bumpy, and we were jostled so hard I feared my teeth would fall out. But it was not all unpleasant. Sebastian regaled me with some excessively diverting stories about the perils and pitfalls of being a Thief of Refined Taste, and by the time we reached Madame Sapin’s modest but well cared for house, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t immediately step out of the carriage.

Once I’d returned to a state of calm, we approached the door. We’d debated the best approach to convincing Madame Sapin that Dr. Girard condoned our expedition. Sebastian persuaded me to come around to his way of thinking which, at the time, seemed a decent option. Now that the moment was nearly upon us, my heart was pounding and our plan seemed a dismal one.

A cheerful maid opened the door, told us her mistress was home, and led us into a small room in the front of the house. The wide planks of the wooden floor had not a speck of dust on them, and the furniture was simple and spare. I looked around, hoping to see evidence of a child’s presence, but there was none. In a matter of moments, a tall, sturdy woman came in, her broad face friendly, her cheeks bright pink.

“How can I help you?” she asked. “The girl says Dr. Girard sent you.”

“He did, Madame Sapin,” I said, my hand shaking as I gave her the letter Sebastian had forged before we left the doctor’s house. “He’s concerned about Lucy, you see.”

She shook her head and crinkled her nose. “I’m afraid I can’t read.”

“I—I can read it for you if you’d like,” I said.

“If you don’t mind,” she said.

I cleared my throat, nervous:

Dear Madame Sapin,

I hope this letter finds you well. As I’m sure you’re aware, the recent murder of our poor Lucy’s mother has put my mind in a state of great unease. As a result, I’ve asked two friends of mine to assist you with the child: Lady Emily Hargreaves, a friend of the Prier family, and Sir Bradley Soane, a gentleman of both impeccable taste and absolute dependability. Please do not hesitate to allow them to assist you in any way possible. I am, as always, grateful for the kind service you’ve done for the child.

Girard

“But he knows she’s not here,” Madame Sapin said. “I don’t understand.”

“Well of course,” Sebastian said, rising and crossing to her. “But he’s well aware of the bond between you and Lucy, and knows that if anyone could—” He stopped. “It’s all been so difficult, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, sir, it has,” she said. She dropped her head as her eyes showed the faintest signs of tears.

“Shall I call for some tea?” he asked. “You’re upset.”

“No, I’ll be able to carry on,” she said. “I thought it was the right thing to let Lucy go to her mother. Near broke my heart, it did, but how could I deny Madame Vasseur?”

Vasseur? Had Edith married her lover?

“I’m afraid we’ve more bad news,” I said. “Dr. Girard has been murdered as well, and there’s speculation the killer might be looking for Lucy.”

“Oh this is too, too awful,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I’ve never known such a kind man.”

“Could you tell me—” I took her hands. “—I know it’s difficult. But the more you can tell me about Lucy and the doctor and Madame Vasseur, the more likely it is that we can help the child.”

“Dr. Girard never mentioned either of you,” she said. “I don’t know—”

“Have you other letters from him?” Sebastian asked. “Did he write to you?”

“He knew I couldn’t read.”

“But he must have occasionally sent you instructions, or information?” I asked.

“He did.”

“Who read it for you?”

“My girl. She’s educated, you see. Her mother’s blind and likes to hear stories. And the doctor didn’t want anyone out of the household to know the truth about Lucy’s parentage. You know how these aristocratic types are. My apologies, madame.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Where are the letters now? Did you keep them?”

“Dr. Girard told me to burn them all once they’d been read.”

“And did you?” Sebastian asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Shouldn’t I have?”

“I just thought that if you had one, you could look at it next to the one we’ve brought and see the handwriting’s the same,” he said. “So that you’d feel more at ease with us.”

“I suppose I could have my girl look at them,” she said, her voice hesitant.

“That’s an excellent idea,” I said, worried that I was forcing too much enthusiasm into my voice.

The maid was produced, and her reaction reassured me. She nodded her head vigorously as soon as she saw the letter. “Oh yes, madame, this is from the doctor. I’d recognize his hand anywhere. Would you like me to read it?”

Sebastian could not have been more pleased with her reaction to his forgery.

“Yes, I would,” Madame Sapin said, kicking my nerves up again. She must not have trusted me to read it