Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“You just admitted that you were concerned about the possible violence of his reaction,” I said.

“I should, perhaps, have chosen my words more carefully. Violent is what I think of it. Monsieur Prier is an extremely forceful man—and his daughter’s mental condition disturbed him greatly. According to her brother, when she first exhibited signs of illness at home, he scolded her vehemently, as if she could control her behavior if only she chose to. His yelling and bullying did not have the desired effect, of course. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have used similar tactics on her again if he disapproved of her…condition. Given my own study and beliefs, I thought any such exhibit of temper could cause her a significant setback.”

“What did you think of her relationship with her brother?” I asked.

“Laurent Prier presents a fascinating case of his own,” Dr. Girard said. “He was obsessively close to his sister, and she to him.”

“Is that uncommon with twins?” Colin asked.

“Not entirely,” the doctor said. “But these two took it rather to an extreme.”

“Toinette, Edith’s younger sister, insists that Laurent deliberately drove Edith mad,” I said.

Dr. Girard laughed. “It may have seemed like that to Toinette. His compulsive jealousy and desire to protect her at all costs certainly did not improve Edith’s nervous state. But I wasn’t in the house with them and cannot vouch for what went on there. I only know that Laurent showed deep concern for his sister’s health, stability, and reputation.”

“Did you consider their relationship inappropriate?” Colin asked.

“I did, but I cannot say precisely why or how. Something in the way they interacted unsettled me. He did once after a visit leave behind a journal he keeps, and I admit—with no pride in my actions—that I read it. There was nothing enlightening, I’m afraid. Myriel was here the next day and offered to leave it at the tavern for him. They used to run into each other on occasion. But I didn’t feel comfortable giving it to him.”

“What did you do with it?” I asked.

“I left it with Edith, in her room and her brother collected it on his next visit.” He pushed his hands against his desk. “I do wish I could be of more use to you. I should, I suppose, have put in place a system for better identifying my patients’ visitors, so I might have been better prepared for foiling their murderers.”

His comment—an obvious attempt at humor—did not sit well with me.

“We appreciate what help you have given us,” Colin said, rising. I didn’t feel quite ready to leave, but had no clear idea of what I wanted to do instead. So I stood as well and took my husband’s arm. We thanked Dr. Girard and walked down the long, brightly clean corridor in silence. Only when we stepped outside and were once again alone did I turn to Colin and speak.

“We should go to the village,” I said. “Any visitor to the asylum would have to pass through and someone there must be interested enough in gossip to have noticed a regular gentleman caller. There’s not much else going on around here.”

Colin nodded. “An excellent suggestion.”

“If you tell me you believe in nuns in Gibraltar happily waiting for abandoned babies, I’m never speaking to you again.” I thought carefully about all I knew of Dr. Girard. He seemed a kind man, decent, but had his relationship with Edith grown inappropriate, as her brother’s had? What did he stand to lose if the truth about her child ever came to light? Did he have a motive for wanting her dead?

My husband wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. “I could not love you more.” He kissed me and his lips felt warm and safe and tender. I kissed him back and took his hand, wondering if this was what settling into contentment felt like. We stepped into our waiting carriage and in a few short minutes arrived in the village, which consisted of a single road containing a bakery, a butcher shop, and a tavern.

“Tavern,” we both said, simultaneously, and laughed.

Settling into contentment, I thought, might not be all bad.

I caught myself before I tripped on the wide, uneven floorboards of Le Clos des Roses, a name I hoped was meant to be ironic. The walls, with patches of crumbling plaster, seemed poised to collapse on the rough tables filling the poorly lit room, and the only decoration to be seen was the stuffed and mounted head of a wild boar. Great chunks of the unfortunate beast’s fur had gone missing along with one of the tusks. Hanging from the one that remained was a dingy rag, whipped down by a skeletal serving girl to wipe the table in front of us.

“Would you like the plat du jour?” she asked, scrubbing vigorously, her rough accent making it hard for me to understand her French. “Chicken with tarragon sauce and potatoes.”

I wasn’t particularly hungry, but Colin instructed her to bring the special to both of us. “Gives an excuse to be here longer,” he said after she’d disappeared into the kitchen.

“I fear for our health,” I said. “But we are in France, so there’s a distinct possibility that rather than poisoning us, this will be the single most spectacular meal we’ve ever eaten.”

“Let’s just hope our poor poulet was better treated than the boar,” he said. He patted my hand. “I’ll be right back.” He walked up to the bar and spoke to the surly looking man standing behind it. From a distance, their exchange appeared congenial enough, and a few minutes later my husband returned carrying two glasses of tart cider. “I told the bartender that your cousin—your French cousin—was engaged to a girl who wound up here, and that he visited her constantly despite his parents forbidding it. When his father, despot that he is, tried to interfere, your cousin left home and disappeared. We, of course, are here in search of him.”

“So what did he say?” I asked.

The girl returned with our food before he could answer. She dropped the plates in front of us, uninterested in preserving the cook’s unexpectedly beautiful presentation. “You’re looking for a man?” she asked.

“We are,” I said. “My cousin.”

“He told me,” she said, tossing her head in the direction of the bar. “We’ve a gent who used to come in here. Sounds like it could be him, but he ain’t been around for the last couple of months. Thing is, he always said he was visiting his mother, not his fiancée.”

“He wouldn’t have wanted to draw any attention to what he was really doing, lest his family discovered the attachment was still very much alive.” Fiction, it seemed, came easily to me. “Can you remember when you last saw him?”

“Springtime, I think. That was the last time he came regular, at least. Seems like he was here once more, just a few weeks ago, but I didn’t talk to him and can’t be sure.”

“Did you usually speak to him?” Colin asked.

“He was very chatty,” she said.

“Did he ever say where he lived?” I asked.

“He kept a room at Madame Renaldi’s. The house across from the church?”

Colin thanked her and dug into his chicken as soon as she’d left us to our food. “This,” he said, “is extraordinary. Have you tasted it?”

The sauce was tangy perfection, the meat moist and flavorful. But I was still unnerved, still unsure as to what to think about this new turn in our relationship. I didn’t like being an unequal partner—or equal but different, whatever that meant—and I didn’t like the fact that it was distracting me from the work at hand. I took one more bite, but found I could stomach no more. Colin, unperturbed, traded his empty plate for my nearly full one and polished off my meal.

“I know this is hard, Emily,” he said. “But it’s for the best. I’m not going to keep you from a fulfilling life. I hope you know that. Trust me, my dear. Together, we’ll find our way through this.” He folded his napkin into a crisp rectangle and placed it on the table. “Are you willing to miss dessert in favor of Madame Renaldi?”