Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“Non,” came her response. “You will not ask first. If necessary, we will beg forgiveness, but we will not give her the opportunity to forbid us to carry out the task. And I am suddenly overcome with a suspicion that something might force us to go downstairs at any moment.” Without pausing, she stepped into the corridor and opened the door that led down to the kitchen, deposited Brutus on the steps, waited until she heard his barks fade to almost nothing, and then took my hand and led me to the domain of the servants.

“Mon dieu!” she said, her face full of apology as she scooped the little dog into her arms. It had taken us fewer than three minutes to locate him in a dark corner of the butler’s pantry. “The little cad is looking for beef, I think.”

The cook, enamored at once by the small furry creature, insisted that we follow her to the kitchen, where the staff had just finished their luncheon. She fished a hearty bone from a soup pot and showed it to Brutus, who yelped thanks and panted at the sight of it. Cécile lowered him to the ground with his treat.

“No use trying to rush him,” she said.

“None indeed.” The cook nodded with pleasure at the dog’s delight. “He’s a sweet little thing.”

Cécile shrugged. “When he wants to be. The rest of the time he’s an absolute beast devoid of all good qualities.”

“Too small to do much harm,” the cook said. A willowy maid walked by, her arms full of freshly laundered sheets. Seeing the little dog, she paused.

“He doesn’t belong to the house, does he?” she asked.

“No,” the cook said, holding out her arms to take the laundry so the maid could bend over and pet Brutus.

“Miss Edith would’ve loved him,” she said with a sigh.

“Your mistress told me Edith was excessively fond of dogs, that she liked them more than she did most people,” Cécile said. “Do you agree?”

“Oh yes,” the girl replied. “She loved them. Had three, you know. Two well-behaved, one a tyrant. Of course, she kept them in the country, not in the city.”

“Did you know her well?” I asked.

“As well as anyone, I suppose.”

“Jeanne was a lady’s maid then,” the cook said. “Took the best care of our young girl.”

“Toinette?” I asked.

“No, no,” Jeanne said, shaking her head. “She was too young for anything but a nurse. I was Mademoiselle Edith’s maid.”

“Would you tell us about her?” I asked.

“I don’t know as we should be talking about her,” Jeanne said, the cook nodding agreement behind her.

“It would help me ever so much,” I said. I glanced up and down the corridor, hoping I looked nervous. “I found her body, you see, and the image has haunted me ever since.” They all cringed when I mentioned the body, Jeanne covering her mouth with her hand. “I thought that perhaps if I knew more about her life, I could associate more pleasant memories with her name. Of course, I don’t want to trouble Madame Prier—”

“She could use some trouble if you ask me,” the cook said. “Come sit down. I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of tea?”

She went to put the kettle on while we followed Jeanne to a long, well-worn table lined with rustic chairs, mismatched, ten on each side, two each at the head and foot. She’d recovered the laundry from the cook and placed it in a large wicker basket, smoothing the sheets on top before she sat across from us.

“I miss her, you know,” she said. “We was close. She was always kind to me.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching for her hand across the table, almost surprised she let me take it. Her skin was rough, but warm, her grip strong.

“They should never have sent her away.”

“Why not?” Cécile asked. “She wasn’t well and needed help.”

“Maybe she did. But there was all that trouble with her brother.”

“Weren’t she and Laurent close?” I asked.

“Too close if you ask me.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Wasn’t natural.”

“They were twins,” I said. “And twins are frequently closer than ordinary siblings.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But he hated anyone else knowing her too well. He’s a possessive one.”

“Was someone courting her?”

“Well…” She squinted, as if measuring us up. “There was a gentleman, but once Monsieur Prier made it clear he wasn’t suitable…”

“Did she go on seeing him?” I asked.

“Monsieur Laurent wouldn’t have stood for it.”

“It couldn’t have been his decision,” Cécile said. “His father’s opinion would have been the one that mattered.”

Jeanne snorted. “Some might think that.”

“Do you know the gentleman’s name?” I asked.

“Vasseur.” Her voice softened, turned almost dreamy.

“Jules Vasseur?” I nodded, hoping she’d think I was more familiar with the man than I was. “Of course!”

“You know him?” she asked.

“Who has not heard his name?” Cécile spoke with a perfectly executed casual air.

Jeanne sighed. “I did not know him, of course. Not well. But I did, on occasion deliver messages to his house for my mistress. She loved him very much.”

“You know where he lives?” I asked; she nodded. “Could you show me? I need to talk to him.”

“He left Rouen as soon as Mademoiselle Edith was sent away,” she said. “I couldn’t tell you where he went.”

“Did you ever hear from her after she left the house?” I asked.

“No, madame. We weren’t to speak of her—it was too painful for Madame Prier. Only Laurent disregarded her wishes.”

“He was upset,” I said. “Yet you think it was he who did not approve of Monsieur Vasseur?”

“Monsieur Laurent’s scheme did not work out as he hoped. He worked too hard at making his sister seem unhinged—and in the end drove her to madness. He’d wanted the doctor to prescribe rest so that he could take her to Nice to recuperate. Instead, he was too effective and she was bound for the asylum.”

“You’re not saying her brother deliberately drove her mad?” I asked.

“Oh he did, madame,” she said. “I’m not the only one who knows it. But you’re unlikely to get many of us to talk. We seen what he’s done, you know, and don’t want it done to us.”

“How did he do it?” Cécile asked. “Surely such a thing would not be simple?”

“I can’t rightly say,” Jeanne said. “It was a gradual thing. First it all seemed small and unimportant. Until she started talking to the girl.”

“The girl?” I asked.

“The girl.” She looked away from us now. “The little dead girl.”

A shiver ran through me. “What girl?”

“Don’t know. It never made any sense,” she said. “But it scared the devil out of me. She’d talk to her—at night especially—crying and moaning.”

“Whose child was it?”

“I couldn’t say. But she wept over it until she could hardly speak. And then she started sleepwalking—fell down the stairs more than once. With all of it, I don’t see as how her father could’ve done anything but send her away.”

“Tell me more about the girl,” I said.

She nodded. “Monsieur Laurent, he told her some kind of ghost story, about a little girl who died in some sort of sad circumstance and was searching for a mother. My poor mistress, she took it to heart, she did. It ruined her.”

“Did you ever see evidence of it?”

“The ghost?” She scrunched her forehead. “No. But I can tell you mademoiselle’s bedchamber was always at least ten degrees colder when she said she saw it. I felt it myself more than once. Have you seen something funny in the room?”

“No,” I said.

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to spend much time up there. Even if there is no ghost.”