Tasha Alexander: Dangerous to Know

Our pace, fueled by nerves, had increased almost to a run by the time we approached the bridge over the moat at the Markhams’. The footman did not like my French, and refused to reply to any of my attempts at conversation, and I was all too glad to part company with him when we reached the château. He ducked around to the servants’ entrance, while the butler pointed me to the garden, telling me I could find his master in the direction of the maze. Thanking him, I made my way around the house to the dovecote, where I slowed as I felt a prickly sensation moving down the back of my neck. I was being watched.

I turned on my heel, but there was no one behind me. I strained to hear anything unusual, but there was only silence. No one lurked in the willows, no one jumped from the shadow of a hedge. Still, the unnerving feeling did not go away. Instead it grew stronger. Stepping closer to the dovecote, I peered with more intensity, but saw nothing. Nothing, that is, until I looked up to a small window on the top floor. A pale face watched me from above, its wide eyes lacking any warmth. It was a child—a girl—who couldn’t have yet been five years old. A blue bow peeked out from her blonde hair, and her white dress hung too big from her narrow shoulders. I stopped and stared back, our eyes locked until I jumped when a bumblebee, too interested in the flowers on my hat, flew into my face. When I looked back, she was gone.

“Hello?” I pulled open the building’s door. The interior was dark and musty, full of dust and cobwebs, broken pieces of furniture scattered across the floor. My sole response was the rustling and squeaks that could only have been caused by some sort of unwelcome creature. A tightly curving, steep staircase rose across before me, and I started for it, stepping cautiously through the debris. “Is anyone here?”

No reply came. The flap of wings announced the arrival upstairs of what might have been the descendents of the dovecote’s original occupants. Moving tentatively, I climbed the stairs, only to find an empty, dirty room. Three pigeons roosted, taking no notice of me, but I heard more scampering from below. Not eager to make the acquaintance of a pack of rodents—if it was packs in which they traveled—I clattered down the steps and pushed through the door, bursting back out into bright sunlight. Above me, the window was still vacant. I saw nothing behind its wavy old panes of glass.

I set off for the maze, my knees wobbling, my hands shaking, the image of the sad little girl—she must have been sad—seeming to hover over me. And try though I might, I could not stop from seeing her in my mind with every step I took. As I approached my destination, I saw George, dressed in a fine linen suit and studying a heavy gold pocket watch.

“That’s fourteen minutes,” he called to someone—I assumed Madeline, though I couldn’t see her—his voice booming. He was standing on tiptoe as if he could somehow make himself tall enough to see over the yew and boxwood hedge that formed the outer wall of the maze. “You’d better hurry.” He snapped the watch closed and strode in the direction of an elaborate cast-iron bench, a bright grin on his face. He hadn’t spotted me.

“Am I disturbing you?” I asked, crossing to him, an unaccountable rush of relief flowing through me.

“Emily! What a delightful surprise!” He kissed my hand. “You’ve come at a perfect time. Madeline is in the maze—I’m timing her. I took twenty-three minutes to get through. She’s bent on beating me. Would you like to try?”

“It’s been a bit of an odd morning,” I said. “I’m not sure that losing myself in a maze is quite what I need at the moment.”

“Tell me the Norman Ripper isn’t stalking you!”

“The Norman Ripper?”

“Have you a better idea of what to call him?” he asked. I felt deep creases digging into my brow. “Oh dear. I’ve caused you further distress. I’ve a terrible habit of turning to humor when I find myself upset. Do forgive me.”

I wished I could have laughed with him, but found myself wholly unable to divert my emotions. Still frightened, I swayed on my feet. George ushered me to the bench. “It is I who should apologize,” I said. “I’m a wretched visitor.”

“Not at all. Tell me, though, has something new happened or are you suffering from the memory of that poor girl?”

“Girl?” I realized he meant the murder victim, not the apparition I’d just seen. “No, it’s not that. Your thief has called on me,” I said, and recounted for him what had transpired the night before.

He listened carefully and then paused, as if considering his reply. “And does Hargreaves think this Sebastian is our murderer?”

“He’s not willing to reject any possibilities.”

Laughter coming from the maze interrupted us. “You’ve no chance of winning.” It was Madeline, her voice a singsong full of light. George reopened his watch.

“You’re going to be disappointed,” he called to her, then turned back to me. “Is there any assistance at all that I can provide?”

“Not at present,” I said. “Inspector Gaudet plans to find Sebastian.”

“And you think that buffoon can accomplish such a thing?”

“Only if he has my husband’s help.”

“Ah. Which leaves you alone to remember gruesome sights. I’m so terribly sorry, Emily,” he said, and placed a light hand on my arm. “We can’t have you feeling morbid. I shall make it my mission to entertain and distract you.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Not at all. I accept it as my moral duty. What English gentleman could do otherwise? I shall start by insisting you take tea with me. And Madeline, of course.” His voice rose. “Who has now no chance at defeating me. Perhaps together the two of you can earn bragging rights.”

Madeline appeared, stepping out from behind the tall, carefully manicured hedge. “I’m capable of timing things too, my dear,” she said. “I bested you by three and a quarter minutes.”

George laughed. “And so you have. I knew I shouldn’t let you have a watch.” He embraced her, kissed her on both cheeks, and took her hand. “Inside. We’re all in dire need of tea.”

“Have it sent out,” Madeline said. “It’s too beautiful a day to be indoors. And I’m desperate to catch up with Adèle.”

George winced as she called me by the wrong name, but quickly pasted a smile on his face. “This is Emily, darling.”

“Of course,” she said, blinking the confusion out of her eyes.

“You’d like tea outside?” George asked. She nodded. “Your wish, madame, is, as always, my command.” With a low bow, he took his leave from us, promising to return with the genial libation and generous portions of hot beignets.

Madeline, once again herself, looped her arm through mine and led me to a soft patch of lawn between the moat and a cluster of topiary pines. “My favorite spot for a picnic,” she said, lowering herself onto a large blanket already spread on the ground, books and papers and a handful of freshly picked wildflowers happily scattered across it. I joined her, still feeling troubled, my mouth dry, my skin prickling. Disturbed though I was by the murder, at the moment, the image of the little girl was causing me more distress.

“Are there any children living on the estate?” I asked, suddenly conscious of the possibility of a simple explanation. “One of the servants’, perhaps?”

“No,” Madeline said, sighing. “George and I have faced a number of…disappointments. It might appear cold, I know, but I can’t bear to have other people’s children underfoot. After my fifth…” She stopped, bit her lip hard. “One of the under gardeners had a little girl. We gave him notice because it was too painful for me to come upon her playing on the grounds.”