Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“You are too quick to dismiss the notion,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “Perhaps you admire him more than you want to admit?”

“I make no secret of admiring much about Sebastian, but can assure you it does not taint my evaluation of his character. He’s a profligate and a thief, but he’s not a murderer.” I watched fields of barley flash past the window. “Have there been any other dramatic crimes in the neighborhood?”

“No,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “We’ve had our share of tragic deaths and the gossip that follows, but nothing criminal.”

“What sort of gossip?”

“I don’t remember particulars. There was a young girl who died on the Markhams’ estate—never did hear what killed her. But there was a general commotion on the property and all kinds of speculation about what happened and where she was buried.”

“On the Markhams’ estate? How dreadful,” I said, wondering why Madeline hadn’t shared this when confiding in me the day of our ill-fated visit to the dovecote.

“It was a terrible thing. I could never persuade Markham to tell me the details. I think Madeline insisted on nursing the girl instead of sending for the doctor when she fell ill. Most likely wouldn’t have made the slightest difference, not with something that killed her so quickly. The poor woman was consumed with guilt, though. George has done his best to protect her—and done a good job of it, too. I’ve never heard anyone speculate regarding his wife’s involvement. He worried, I imagine, that her…mental lapses could have spurred rumors.”

“So what do the neighbors gossip about?”

“That the girl didn’t receive a decent burial. Which, as you can well imagine, has led to her restless spirit haunting the countryside.”

“Another ghost story?”

“Mais oui,” he said.

“Where was she buried?”

“I never did figure that out. Markham won’t discuss it.” He pulled out a notebook and scrawled in it. “But enough of this morose topic—it’s a much more mundane story than the previous ghost we discussed. Too much reality here, I suppose. What was it you said Sebastian wrote on his calling card?”

Monsieur Leblanc and I parted amicably at the train station in Rouen, agreeing that he would call on me the following day at the Priers’, after I’d had a chance to speak to them about him. The family had sent a carriage to collect me, but when I arrived, I found no one at home. Madame Prier had left a note, welcoming me to the house and telling me to treat it as my own. I followed a young maid to the bedroom I was to have, on the top floor across the corridor from Laurent’s. Meg had unpacked the things I’d need for my short visit and then gone off in search of additional hairpins, convinced I didn’t have an adequate supply. I knew her well enough to suspect this was an excuse to investigate the city’s shops, and was glad to see her interested in our latest destination. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that she used to be a terrible traveler.

With the shutters and windows flung open, I had a spectacular view of the city as bright sunlight flooded around me. I dragged one of my cases from the dressing room and opened it, searching through papers and books until I’d found the copy of The Odyssey I’d begun translating from Greek more than a year ago. As I held the smooth, leather volume in my hand and flipped through its worn pages, I tried to remember why I’d abandoned the project.

Evil deeds do not prosper; the slow man catches up with the swift.

My eyes caught the sentence, and pleasure coursed through me as I found I could translate it so readily. Then I read it again, and felt as if the ancient poet was speaking the words directly to me. Some terrible man had murdered Edith Prier. I might have done nothing up to now to help solve the crime, but it wasn’t too late to start. Slow and steady, I could catch the criminal. Monsieur Leblanc’s conversation on the train inspired me, and I wanted to know more about the girl who’d lived in this house—and Jules Vasseur, the man she’d loved.

I opened a notebook and started to scratch questions on a sheet of paper, then paused at the realization I had only two days to find my answers. Gathering up a notebook and a sharp pencil, I clattered down the stairs, eager to discreetly speak to the servants about the romantic elements of Edith’s life. Maids, I knew, were generally better informed and more observant than anyone in the families for whom they worked. Halfway down, I slammed into Laurent, who steadied himself with the banister. Not so fortunate, I tripped, my papers fluttering around me.

“Do forgive me,” I said, picking myself up and straightening my dress before gathering my scattered belongings.

“What are you doing up here?” he asked.

“I’m to stay a few days. Your mother put me in the red room on the top floor.”

“That was my sister’s. Do you feel good sleeping in a dead woman’s bed?” Without waiting for my answer, he continued up the stairs, stopping to pick up a piece of paper that had fallen out of my notebook. “What is this? What do you know about Vasseur?”

“Nothing yet,” I said. “Is there something I should know?”

“Only that he’s responsible for my sister’s death.” He turned back around and stormed up the steps.

“Wait!” I rushed to follow him. “You have reason to believe he killed her?”

“I am not discussing this with you.” He kept walking, increasing his speed. I caught up to him quickly, but was stopped at his room when he slammed the door before I could come inside.

“I want to help you,” I said, knocking on the door. “Please let me in.”

He did not reply.

Moving as quietly as possible, I turned the knob. With a sharp jab he pushed open the door, nearly hitting me in the face.

“Do not consider, even for an instant, disturbing me.” Again the door slammed. This time, I heard a latch click into place. I went back into my own room to sharpen my pencil, whose point had snapped on its trip down the stairs. As I fumbled through my bags in search of a penknife, I heard angry strains of music coming from what had to be Laurent’s room, but it sounded as if it were next to me, not across the hall. I stepped back into the corridor. Two other doors stood between mine and the rear of the house, but they were both locked. I returned to my chamber and pressed my ear against the back wall. There was no question the music was louder here.

Curious, I moved along the wall, listening, the sound at its loudest near a heavy armoire, two-thirds of the way down its length. I strained trying to move it, but could not make it budge. Then, inspired by I know not what, I pulled it open. Inside I found three lovely but dated gowns—cut to be worn with a bustle—and a pair of satin dancing slippers. Chills ran through me as I gently touched them, trying to imagine the occasions on which Edith must have worn them. Images flashed through my head—visions first of a beautiful young girl at a ball and then of the mutilated body I’d found in the field. Terror consumed me and the room felt chilled, as if something unnatural had entered the space. I was about to close the wardrobe and run downstairs to beg for another room when I noticed a thin stream of light at the back of the cabinet. Now fear succumbed to intrigue, and I carefully slid the gowns to one side and lowered myself to my knees, coming level with a large panel, nearly half the height of the armoire, with a small leather strap attached to it.

I tugged at the strap and the panel started to move, gliding smoothly along a narrow track. As it opened, the music was louder, and I had a clear view into a room that had to be connected to Laurent’s. It must have run the full length of the corridor we shared, but turned at the end, reaching all the way to mine. I stuck my head through the opening, craning my neck to see more. Stretching too far, I toppled over, landing with a crash on the floor.