Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“Who puts a suicide note in his pocket?” I asked. “I realize I have limited experience—but I do have some.” Less than a year before, I’d found the body of the person who’d murdered Lord Basil Fortescue—the crime for which my friend’s husband had been accused. The true culprit, after being found out, committed suicide. “Suicides want their final words to be seen. They don’t hide them. And they don’t forget to take them out of their pocket.”

“Possibly,” he said. “But what if this wasn’t intended for others? What if this was simply for himself?”

“You don’t believe he killed himself—you already said so.”

“Quite right. But he might have been murdered and still written these words.”

“He feels guilty about Edith,” I said. “Or do you think he’s referring to the child?”

“The child. He didn’t let Edith go. She escaped.”

“He didn’t let Lucy go either—he sent her away.”

“Is it a significant difference?” Colin asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Well it’s worth considering,” he said. “I’m finished in here. Shall we interview as much of the staff as possible before the police arrive and take over?”

As we both expected, there was little information to be had from the staff. Colin surmised the doctor had been dead since the middle of the night, when it would have been unlikely anyone would have heard a disturbance. His office stood far from the patient wards, and the orderly who made rounds at night admitted to having fallen asleep around three in the morning, only to wake up after six o’clock. Dr. Girard frequently worked late, so to see his office light on wouldn’t have been unusual.

George had remained on the bench near the main entrance to the building, waiting for us to finish. He’d done an excellent job comforting the nurse who’d found the body, and, explaining that he’d trained as a physician, offered to check on any patients who seemed in need of immediate medical attention. In the end his services weren’t required, as Dr. Girard’s partner arrived soon after the police, ready to take over for his colleague.

“Why don’t you sit with George while I handle the police?” Colin said, placing a gentle hand on my arm.

“How exactly are you planning to handle them?” I asked.

“I want to witness their interrogations, to see their assessment of the crime scene.”

“Can I join you?”

“It will be difficult enough to persuade them to allow me to accompany them, even with my credentials,” he said. “Both of us would be too much to hope for.”

Resigned, I took the place next to George. “I imagine this is not how you expected to spend your day,” he said.

“Far from it. And while I realize this may sound slightly inappropriate, I’m more than sorry you didn’t get to speak to Dr. Girard. I so wanted him to be able to help stave off Madeline’s condition.”

He shook his head. “That was unlikely regardless. I was foolish to even let myself hope. I should know better.” He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a slim silver case. “What was it like in there? A nightmare?”

“Yes,” I said.

He lit a cigarette, drew deep, and blew a thin stream of smoke into the air. “I don’t think I could bear to see it. If he was wounded, fine. I spent enough time in the military to handle that—but when a situation’s hopeless, when it’s nothing but gore…I can’t stand that kind of brutality. Even sifting through a battlefield you’ve got a chance of finding someone you can save. Do you think if we’d arrived earlier…”

“No,” I said. “He’s been dead since the middle of the night.”

“Would you object to continuing on to Rouen after this? I’d like to call on the Priers unless, of course, you’re too upset after what you’ve seen.”

“I find soldiering on preferable to wallowing.” My statement was true, but wanting to see the reactions of the Priers to the news of the doctor’s death also motivated me.

“I want to express my condolences, of course,” he said. “But if you don’t think it’s too crass, I’d like to ask them about Edith’s treatment, see if they think it helped her. If they did, it might be worth going back to the asylum and talking to anyone else who worked on her case.”

“If she were my daughter, it would give me comfort if anything gleaned from her condition could stop someone else’s suffering.”

“Another reason to like you,” he said. “You’ve a wonderful spirit, Emily. Reminds me of my darling Madeline.”

“I’m flattered,” I said, not sure what else to say. “I know how you adore her.”

“She centers me. Accepts me. Doesn’t pressure me to devote my life to only one pursuit. I don’t think many women would tolerate the way I change my passions like overcoats.”

“But not when it comes to her, I hope.”

“Absolutely not. There could never be another woman for me. I was designed for Madeline. I think you feel similarly about your husband?”

“I do,” I said, blushing.

“Excellent.” He puffed on his cigarette. “Makes for a much happier existence if you can be married to someone you actually like.”

The sentiment seemed obvious, but I knew how frequently it was disregarded. “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. We sat in companionable silence for some time. “What will you do if she does succumb to her mother’s condition?”

“I shall treat her as I always have and take care of her for the rest of her life. And when she’s gone…” He shook his head. “I’ll live alone, regretting every moment that I’m not with her.”

Within an hour, Colin had finished with the police, and felt he’d seen all the evidence likely to be gathered from the hospital. The murderer had entered and exited through the office window. A struggle had ensued, and it was unclear whether the vicious criminal had come upon Dr. Girard already in his chair and subdued him there, or if they’d fought and he’d forced him into the seat. If it was the latter, the intruder had tidied up all signs of the altercation before leaving the scene. The doctor had suffered a blow to the head that had likely knocked him unconscious, after which his murderer slit his wrists, planted the suicide note, and made his escape.

“Cretinous,” George said as we settled back into our carriage. “What sort of person does such a thing?”

“The patients are the most obvious place to start,” Colin said. “But none of them has any marks that suggest having been involved.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “It’s hideous to think someone he was trying to help would lash out at him in such violent fashion.”

“But isn’t it more frightening to think it’s someone of sound mind?” George asked. “Someone who’s not confined to an asylum?”

“Are any murderers of sound mind?” I asked.

“No excellent soul is exempt from a mixture of madness,” Colin said. “Aristotle, I believe.”

“It all comes back to the Greeks, doesn’t it, my dear?” I asked. In a short while, we’d entered the city of Rouen and were settled in the Priers’ sitting room, I next to Cécile, who rejoiced at seeing us. Madame Prier greeted us alone, and put on a good show, welcoming us as if our presence ranked somewhere near the second coming of Christ. Until, that is, we introduced George.

“Oh dear,” she said, giving him her one hand to kiss while she flung the other over her forehead. “Monsieur Markham, do forgive me, but I wish I could have saved you from this association with my dreadful relatives.”

“I can assure you, madame, that Madeline is all delightful charm. There’s not a lady on earth with qualities superior to hers, and should you have the pleasure of making her acquaintance you would never again consider her branch of the family dreadful.”