accurately. But when the servant spoke the words precisely as I had (she was in possession of a beautiful reading voice), our hostess let her shoulders drop and visibly relaxed, returning to the open, friendly mode in which she’d greeted us. She sent the maid away.
“Please excuse my uncertainty,” she said. “Dr. Girard told me discretion was absolutely necessary in this situation, and I have grave worries about dear Lucy. I’ve heard nothing of her since her parents took her away.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“Six months ago, I suppose.”
“Did you speak to her mother?”
“No, only her father. He was on his way to collect his wife from the hospital and wanted to bring their daughter to surprise her.”
“Had he any proof of his identity?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Army papers or something of the sort,” she said. “Foreign Legion. Yes, that’s what it was. My girl read them to me. He looked all shaken up—couldn’t believe how big Lucy was. She’s a beautiful girl, you know. The image of her mother, Dr. Girard always said.”
“Did you not expect the doctor to have alerted you to Lucy’s mother’s release?” I asked.
“He sent a letter, just as he did with you,” she said.
And I knew it must have been just as authentic as ours.
“Do you have any idea where they went?” I asked.
“They were setting up house near the sea. Lucy clapped her little hands when her father told her. She’s always wanted to build sand castles.”
“Was she afraid to leave with him? He was a stranger to her,” I said.
“Not at first. I don’t think she realized she was really going away. But I heard her crying in the carriage. And she clung to me something fierce when I put her in it.”
“It must have been dreadful.”
“It was,” she said, her face turning ruddier. “But it’s the right thing, isn’t it, for a child to be with her parents?”
“Of course,” I said, hoping the girl was all right. “Have you any idea where on the seaside they were headed?”
“Étretat,” she said. “But I don’t know more than that.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been more than helpful.”
“You will let me know if you find Lucy?”
“Of course.”
“I can still look after her, you know. She was happy here.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “This is an extremely welcoming and warm home. A perfect place for a child to feel loved. I’ll keep you informed of all developments.”
We thanked her again and she showed us to the door. Before we’d reached our carriage, I turned to Sebastian. “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “Put it back.”
“What?” he asked.
“The book,” I said. “Go take it back. Now.”
“She can’t read,” he said, his voice teeming with indignation. “And it’s
“I’m not arguing about this, Sebastian.”
Resigned, he went back to the house while I discussed with our driver the possibility of heading straight for Étretat, the town where, I remembered, Monsieur Leblanc resided.
29
Étretat lay too far from Barentin for us to comfortably reach that day, so we returned to Mrs. Hargreaves’s house, where a telegram from my husband waited for me.
This set what felt like a permanent grin on my face, and I was ready to find Lucy, vanquish the killer, and recruit Sebastian to the service of the Crown. Woe be to the person who tried to stop me!
We’d managed, over crêpes topped with apples, butter, crème fraîche, and sugar, then doused with calvados—Normandy’s famous apple brandy—and flamed, to do a decent job recounting the day’s events to my mother-in-law, so that she was excited rather than horrified by our exploits. I should have expected nothing less from her, but the experience of my own mother’s reactions to my work had taught me to brace myself for constant censure. But instead of criticizing, Mrs. Hargreaves offered to accompany us to Étretat.
“I’m not sure it would do, Emily, for you to go so far away without me. Mr. Capet is an unmarried man of dubious character. It might harm your reputation. If I come, his presence will seem unremarkable.”
“You’re very kind,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Who is going where?” Cécile burst into the room. I leaped up and embraced her, delighted to see her.
“Do you have the notebook?” I asked.
“Did you doubt for a moment I would?” She kissed my cheeks. “I am disappointed in you, Kallista.” Frantic yipping in the hallway announced the return of Caesar and Brutus.
“Notebook?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked, greeting Cécile in turn.
“You two have made peace,” Cécile said, watching the dynamic between my mother-in-law and myself. “And you’ve collected my favorite criminal mind. I should never have stayed in Rouen for so long.”
“My dear Madame du Lac,” Sebastian said, rising to kiss her hand. “Your charms are so great you ought never to leave my presence.”
“You do have a flair for the dramatic, Monsieur Capet,” Cécile said. “I should like to have a lengthy discussion with you on the topic of my country’s revolution. Not today, however. There’s too much else to talk about now.”
It took nearly an hour for us all to catch up on each other’s stories, the deliciously nervous energy in the room quickly approaching a feverish frenzy.
“Do you think Lucy’s safe?” Cécile asked. “And what happened to Vasseur? Why has he disappeared? And what more of this Myriel? Have you learned anything?”
“Myriel?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked. “The bishop in
“
“Should I care?” Sebastian asked. “It’s a painfully unoriginal way to come up with a nom de plume.”
“That’s true,” I said. “But there could be a significance to it. Let’s not forget it’s what Monsieur Prier has been reading. As for Lucy, Cécile, I’ve no idea. I pray she’s come to no harm.”
“We can only hope her father has spirited her away somewhere safe,” Mrs. Hargreaves said.
I retired to my room relatively early, wanting to read every word of Laurent’s notebook before we boarded the train the next morning. I was missing Colin keenly, and wished he’d given me some indication of whether his own work was proving productive. I pulled his pillow on top of mine, fluffed them both, and settled into bed.
Laurent’s writing was devoid of the self-indulgent angst-filled ramblings I’d come to expect from him. Some pages contained sketches, and he wasn’t a bad artist. His occasional forays into poetry impressed me, and the bars of music in the volume proved him a competent composer. A Renaissance man. The book did not, however, contain any references to his sister. The only potential clue lay close to the volume’s binding: a page had been cut, probably with a razor, in as straight a line as possible. There could be no doubt the edges would match perfectly with the purported suicide note I’d found in Dr. Girard’s pocket.
I scrutinized the pages that preceded and followed the missing one. Before it was music. After, a sketch of a
