bridge that reminded me of the Pont de la Concorde in Paris. Nothing to suggest a connection to Lucy, the doctor, or Edith. Still, I felt as if we were making progress—that Étretat would prove a turning point in the case. But as I pulled the blankets to my neck in defense against the damp night air, anxiety began to tug at me, anxiety with no discernible source. Sleep seemed impossible, and the room grew colder. The sounds of the house assaulted my ears as I listened for anything of significance.
There was nothing. Nothing, that is, until I heard a thin wail below my window, a sound all too familiar. Terror seized me, killing even my curiosity. I didn’t get out of bed, didn’t look to see who stood in the garden beneath me. I knew exactly what I’d find, and was unequal to the task of facing it. The hideous sound grew louder and sadder until I could no longer hide from it. But as soon as I’d risen to seek the source of the cries, they stopped as suddenly as they’d started.
The next morning, when I opened my shutters, I looked for a blue ribbon, but saw nothing. Perhaps my mind was tricking me. Perhaps my imagination had got the better of me. I’d begun to feel silly, and was in high spirits by breakfast. Less so, however, after we’d piled into the carriage and were en route to the train station. Sebastian leaned close to me and whispered while Cécile and Mrs. Hargreaves were engrossed in conversation.
“I must speak to you, Kallista,” he said. “I heard crying last night. By your window. And when I went outside to investigate, I saw nothing, but the sound didn’t stop. Something evil is lurking here, and the sooner we’re done with this nasty business the better.”
We reached Étretat before lunchtime, and the charming seaside town was teeming with visitors. Half- timbered buildings lined streets leading to the water, edged by a pebble-strewn beach. Most impressive, however, were the towering cliffs on either side of the town’s cove. Tall and dramatic, their white rock reminded me of Dover, with vast green fields covering the land above them. Unlike Dover, there were dramatic stone arches here, dominating the view, stretching out over the churning water, their jagged tops slicing up into the sky.
I’d sent a wire to Monsieur Leblanc, alerting him to our arrival, and he was waiting for us, as I suggested, in front of the seaside boardwalk. Gathering our forces, we began our search in the
I wished I had Colin’s identification papers.
“If your friend is missing, madame,” said the officer condescending to speak to us, “you may file a report.”
“You know of the murder of Edith Prier, I’m sure,” I said. “This is her…her lover, or possibly her husband —”
“You were her friend yet you don’t know if she was married? I’m afraid I cannot help you.”
Sebastian stood back, rigid and quiet. I don’t think he enjoyed being in a police station.
“I’m disappointed in you,” I said, as we left the building. “I thought you’d be able to brilliantly manipulate the men who uphold the law.”
“I don’t like to draw attention to myself,” he said. “I prefer to go completely unnoticed.”
“I’d do the opposite,” I said. “I’d befriend them. Maybe join them. Know thy enemy, Sebastian. Keep them close and they’ll never suspect you.”
“I’m impressed, Kallista.”
“It’s an excellent idea,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “Imagine a master criminal who, while in disguise, convinces the police to hire him to search for himself. You should write fiction, Lady Emily.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t carry it off,” I said.
“I believe you could,” Cécile said. “But what is our plan now? Shall we go door to door in search of Vasseur?”
“That would take too long,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “Let’s think about what he would have needed when they came—somewhere to stay—we can check the hotels—”
“Have you any idea how many there are in a resort like this?” Sebastian said.
“It’s not a large town,” I said, refusing to be daunted. “And we can see if there are any houses for rent, or houses that have recently been rented. And we can talk to the physician in town, who might have been aware of the child.”
“Shall we divide and conquer?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.
“No,” I said. “Whoever murdered Edith and Dr. Girard wouldn’t hesitate to put a stop to what we’re doing. We’ll be safer together.”
“Have you any suggestions, Monsieur Leblanc?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked. “You do, after all, live here. To whom would you refer friends in search of lodgings?”
“It’s difficult to say. Holidaymakers are one thing—there are plenty of hotels for them,” he said. “But if Vasseur was looking for a home, he could have wound up anywhere.”
“So you’ve no way to narrow the field?” she asked, looking at him with a critical eye.
He could not, he apologized, offer any further ideas. So we set off, ready to interview the entire town if necessary. In the course of the afternoon, we spoke to more people than I could count, most of them friendly and helpful, but all, sadly, without information that aided our search. One woman did remember seeing a girl of Lucy’s description, walking on the cliff path with her mother, but her recollection was not clear, and she never saw the child again.
After several hours of this, Cécile demanded a break, and we stopped at a café housed in a rambling fifteenth-century mass of timber and plaster, full of elaborate wooden carvings of animals and figures and ordered cold glasses of good Norman cider. Mrs. Hargreaves was particularly taken with the image of a salamander, while Cécile preferred some sort of bird. As Sebastian and Monsieur Leblanc started to add their opinions, frustration filled me.
“Maybe coming here was a mistake,” I said.
“Étretat is never a mistake,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “We can walk on the cliff path.”
“I need to find Lucy,” I said. “We don’t have time to play tourist. I’m sorry—I don’t mean to sound snappish, but I’m deeply concerned about her.”
“Of course you are,” she said. “But think on it. A child who’d been brought here would want to play on the beach. Perhaps some of the vendors on the boardwalk will remember her.”
“An excellent idea,” I said. We set off as soon as we’d paid the bill. The day was a brilliant one, the sunlight scattering over the choppy waves of the sea, the sky crisp, the air warm. The beach was only a few blocks from the café, and Mrs. Hargreaves’s suggestion was an excellent one—lines of carts and stands filled the area nearby, their owners hawking ices, crêpes, creamy caramels, and every other sort of sweet imaginable.
Lucy, it seemed, had little interest in ice cream. Or caramels. But when we reached our fifth crêpe stand, operated by a short gentleman in a striped sailor-type shirt and a jaunty beret, hope filled my heart.
“A girl you say?” he asked.
“Yes, about six years old. Her mother’s about my size and build, with similar hair? Lucy’s blond. Her father used to be in the Foreign Legion and has bright blue eyes.”
“The Legion? Yes, I think I remember them. He was in Indochina, wasn’t he? New to the area, renting a ramshackle house on the hill.” He gestured at the cliff behind us. “Don’t remember anything striking about his eyes, though. The little girl had ones like that, bluer than anything I’d ever seen. She liked lemon on her crêpes, with butter and sugar.”
“Do you know which house?” I asked.
“Not sure, madame, sorry,” he said. “Talk to the owner of the Hôtel La Résidence. He assists nearly everyone in town looking for a long-term stay.”
We thanked him and darted to the Hôtel, where we quickly found the proprietor.
“Oh, yes, the Myriels,
His map, though hastily drawn, proved easy to follow, and soon we stood in front of the small house in which Edith and Jules had tried to make a home with their daughter. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. Not wasting any time, Sebastian started to work on the lock, and it clicked open almost at once.
