Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“I feel almost as if I’m betraying her,” he said, as our carriage clattered along the road towards Radepont and the asylum. “Her mind can be so fragile—if I tell her I’m consulting with yet another physician it might send her reeling again. And odds are despite having treated Edith, he’ll have little to suggest that we’ve not already tried.”

“If Edith’s condition was more advanced than Madeline’s, it’s conceivable he’ll know more about the later stages of the disease.”

“I’ve done all I can for Madeline’s mother, and she’s bound, given her age, to be worse off than Edith ever was.” He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. “Apologies. I don’t mean to deflate every possibility. But I feel I must prepare myself for disappointment. I’ve been let down more times than I can count.”

I leaned forward and patted his hand. “Absolutely understandable.”

“Girard’s innovative and sharp,” Colin said. “I have faith he will be able to offer you something.” We passed the ruined abbey and continued along the Seine to the hospital, serene in its setting, silent except for the sound of the river. Everything was as it had been on my previous visits except that no nurse immediately greeted us at the door. Colin banged the heavy knocker against the hard wood, and we waited. After a few minutes passed, he knocked again, still soliciting no response.

He walked to the edge of the stairs and tipped his head to try to look into the window. “Can’t see anything,” he said, and set off to investigate the other windows on the front of the building while George took over knocking duties. When at last the door swung open, we saw a disheveled woman, tears staining her face, a crushed nurse’s cap in her hand. I barely recognized her as the same person who’d welcomed me on my previous visits. In a few long strides, Colin was back with us, stepping in front of George.

“How can I help?” he asked, pulling out papers that identified him as an agent of the British Crown. Not something I should have thought would inspire confidence in the French, but clearly enough to satisfy the sad figure before us that it would be all right to usher us inside.

“I remember you from before,” she said to me, her voice shaking. “Dr. Girard liked you.” She looked at George. “Have we met?”

“Unfortunately not,” he said, his voice grave. “I’ve come to speak to the doctor about my wife. Is this not a good time?”

She didn’t reply, or say anything as we followed her inside. The corridor looked no different from when I’d seen it last, but everything felt off-kilter. The nurse’s uniform was a mess, full of wrinkles, and large rust-colored stains covered her apron.

“What has happened here?” I asked, alarm in my voice.

“Dr. Girard is dead,” she said, more tears streaming down her cheeks. “In his office…”

Colin waited for nothing further. He raced towards the closed door at the end of the hallway. I started to follow, but he motioned for me to stop. I sat down on a long wooden bench next to George, feeling frustrated, then bit my lip and turned to the nurse.

“Is that blood on your apron?” I asked.

She nodded.

“His?”

Another nod.

“What happened?” I asked. “Has there been an accident?”

“No,” she said. “There was a knife…” Her tears morphed into consuming sobs.

“Who was with him?” I asked.

“No one, not at the end. I found him there this morning when I arrived.”

“Who on the staff was here last night? Did anyone hear anything?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Where was he stabbed?” I asked.

George shot me a stern look. “Is this necessary? The poor woman’s upset. Can we not comfort her now and leave questioning to the police?”

“Oh we won’t need police, sir,” she said. “He did it to himself. The blade was in his hand.” Her face was gray, her skin cold. I looked around for something to wrap around her, and found a blanket in a cupboard partway down the corridor. Colin stepped out of the office and looked at me.

“Would you come take a look at this?” he asked.

“Do you need a second set of eyes?” I liked that he was seeking my help. Maybe this new arrangement wasn’t so abysmal as I’d originally feared.

“We’re going to need more than that. But you’re an excellent observer, Emily. If you can stand the sight, I’d like your thoughts.”

I took the blanket to George, who had the nurse well in hand and had summoned an orderly to bring her tea. Colin stopped me as I was about to enter Dr. Girard’s office.

“You’re sure?” he asked. “It’s gruesome.”

“Of course I am,” I said. “It can’t be worse than Edith.”

Worse was perhaps not the best choice of word. The doctor sat, sprawled in his desk chair, one arm dangling at his side, the other resting in his lap, a sharp surgeon’s scalpel in his hand. Blood had pooled below each wrist, leaving a shiny, coagulating puddle on the floor and a dark, viscous stain on his shirt and waistcoat. I tasted bile and held my breath, unsure if I wanted to see more.

“Why would he do this?” I asked.

“He didn’t,” Colin said. “There are scratches on his hands. He was fighting with someone. I’ve no doubt the coroner will find more signs of a struggle. And there’s blood on the windowsill.”

I crossed to the window, not seeing anything at first. But then, as I scrutinized every inch of the wood, I spotted it—a small speck of dark red smeared on the edge of the sill. “He couldn’t have got that here without bleeding everywhere else in between,” I said.

“Precisely,” Colin said.

“Is there a suicide note? Or something purporting to be one?”

“I’ve not found it yet. Care to help?”

“Of course,” I said. “If I’m allowed.”

“Don’t tease now. I need to summon the police. Will you be all right in here alone if I leave the door open? I’m only going to call to George and ask for his assistance.”

I nodded and could hear him speaking to George as I began my search of the room. Surely a suicide note would be left someplace obvious, but the surface of the desk, the bookshelves, and the tables revealed nothing. Someone had closed the doctor’s eyes, and for this I was grateful. I was uncomfortable enough rooting through a dead man’s belongings. Feeling his vacant stare following me would not improve things. I circled the space again, and this time opened the desk drawers, but to no avail. Their contents were perfectly ordinary.

Turning, I looked at the poor doctor’s body. And then I saw it—a corner of folded paper tucked into his jacket pocket. Delicately, so as not to disturb the body, I pulled it out and opened it. The page had been torn from a lined notebook.

He that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

Below that, a line had been drawn, with another sentence following:

I should never have let her go.

It gave me chills to read it. Chills made worse as I studied the blood that had soaked through Dr. Girard’s clothing and stained the note. The handwriting was familiar, but I couldn’t be sure, and thought about how I could get back into Laurent Prier’s room to check my suspicions. All of a sudden, Colin touched my shoulder, and I jumped; I’d not heard him reenter the room.

“Success?” he asked. I handed the sheet to him.

“ Hamlet , I believe,” I said. “With the addition of a more personal sentiment. I found it in his pocket.”

“You’re quick and efficient,” he said, flashing me a smile before looking over the words.

“I don’t believe for a second he wrote it.”

“Why is that?”