Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“I’d expect no other opinion from such a clearly devoted husband,” she said. “But the madness that consumes them is not to be taken lightly—it is that I consider dreadful. Apologies if my meaning wasn’t clear. I shall pray your wife escapes even a touch of it.”

“I understand your side of the family, revered though it may be, suffers from the same affliction,” George said, his voice affable, his smile wide.

“So you know our secret, of course you do,” Madame Prier said.

“I hope I haven’t offended you,” George said. “I had hoped you could perhaps offer me some insight into your daughter’s treatment—tell me if anything in particular helped her.”

“I wish I could, but unfortunately nothing seemed to make a difference.” Her face was hard as she talked about Edith, but softened as she turned to Colin. “Monsieur Hargreaves, Toinette will be beyond disappointed to have missed you. She’s calling on a friend.”

“It’s such a shame she didn’t come to the country,” I said, my smile a masterpiece of the disingenuous. Cécile, who was sitting next to me on the horsehair settee stifled ironic laughter. “I could have thrown a little party for her.”

“That would have been lovely,” Madame Prier said. “You’re so kind to think of her.”

“You know how fond we are of her,” Colin said. I resisted the urge to kick him. “I’m afraid, however, we’ve come bearing no glad tidings. Dr. Girard was murdered last night.”

“Dr. Girard?” Confusion filled her wide eyes. “Are we acquainted with him?”

“He’s the one who treated Edith, Maman. ” Whether Laurent had been lurking in the background from the time we had arrived or whether he’d snuck in, all stealth and quiet, was unclear. But when he stepped out from the shadows, his voice bellowing, it was as if all the heat had been sucked from the room. “How could you forget such a thing?”

“Why would you expect me to remember the horrid man’s name?” Madame Prier said. “He did nothing useful for her.”

“He did more than you.”

“Laurent, have you not yet grown tired of embarrassing yourself in front of guests?”

“Not in the slightest. I take after my dear mother.”

I sighed with an almost romantic delight as he stalked across the room and slammed the door. Laurent half terrified, half amused me. I appreciated the drama he could lend to a situation; it reminded me of a sensational novel. As the conversation restarted around me, I wondered what, exactly, he thought of Dr. Girard, and whom he blamed for Edith’s escape from the hospital. Most of all, I wanted to see his handwriting. “Can we follow him?” I whispered to Cécile.

Cécile paused for a moment, clasped her hands together, and tapped one thumb against the other. She looked at Madame Prier, then at the door, and then slumped against me.

“Mon dieu!” she said. “I’ve come over all dizzy. Kallista, will you take me to my room?”

Her ploy, while perhaps inelegant for her self-imposed standards, served its purpose. Colin clearly saw through it at once—he watched as I guided her to the stairs, any hint of concern absent from his face. He could not, however, hide his amusement from me.

“I’m impressed with your instant reaction,” I said, as we climbed the stairs. “You hardly hesitated at all.”

“I don’t like to waste time,” Cécile said. “And the conversation was putting a terrible strain on my ability to feign attentiveness. It’s a shame I’m not in the room you had—we could descend on Laurent unannounced.”

As it was, we made our way to the top floor of the house and knocked on Laurent’s closed door, which he opened without making us wait. Then, leaving it open, he turned around and walked back to his piano.

“You were quite right, Kallista,” Cécile said, following him in and gingerly stepping around piles of sheet music. “He has the cluttered mind of a genius. Or at least the cluttered room.”

“Why are you here?” he asked, crossing his arms and scowling at Cécile.

“Your sister’s doctor is dead. Murder made to look like suicide. Badly done, wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Not a professional,” I said.

“A professional murderer?” Laurent laughed. “I can’t decide whether to despise you or pity you, Lady Emily.”

“We’ve no time at present for you to do either,” Cécile said. “Where were you last night?”

“Me? Are you suggesting I killed Dr. Girard?”

She shrugged. “It’s possible, is it not?”

“Aside from the fact I had no reason to want him dead, it’s not possible. I was here all night.”

“Alone?” I asked.

“Of course alone. Do you think I bring lovers to my mother’s house?”

“You like to think you shock me, don’t you?” I asked.

“Don’t be tiresome, Laurent. Can your family verify you were here?” Cécile asked, then turned to me. “I think, Kallista, that I would perhaps make an exceedingly fine detective. I rather excel at questioning persons of interest. Do you think there’s a special sort of gown I should adopt for the profession?”

Laurent sighed as if he was irritated, but his eyes betrayed him. Laughter danced in them. “Much as I’d like to see the result of you imposing haute couture on the art of investigation, I’m afraid I’ve not time for any of this nonsense.”

“Are you not interested in what happened to Dr. Girard?” I asked. “His killer might lead us to your sister’s.”

“That’s fascinating, I’m sure, but what have I to do with any of it? I was here last night and certainly wouldn’t have killed my own sister.”

“Who would have wanted him dead?” I asked. “Does anyone in your family blame him for what happened to Edith?”

“By the time Edith escaped from the asylum, no one in this house—myself excluded—had the slightest concern for what she was going through. You’ve spoken to my mother. She’s relieved her daughter is dead. It’s a wonder Edith didn’t take her own life the way she was treated.”

“I can’t imagine your mother killed Dr. Girard,” Cécile said. “It would have taken too much effort in directions she would not find interesting.”

“You do know her well, don’t you?” Laurent asked.

“Well enough.”

“What about your father?” I asked. “Was he happy with Edith’s progress? With her doctor?”

“He was pleased at having her out of the house.”

“Laurent, I think it’s desperately important that we try to locate your sister’s child. Whom, you should remember, is your niece,” I said. “Chances are Edith tried to find her, and this poor little girl is still with the man who killed her mother. Surely you’re not willing to let such a situation go unchecked?”

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“Did you really know nothing about Lucy?”

“Not a thing. If I had, I would have put her somewhere safe myself. And now this useless doctor is dead, I’ve less of a chance than ever of finding the child—who should, I must point out, be raised by me.”

“You?” Cécile was all skepticism. “A bachelor? Living with his parents? You are fit for raising a little girl? Who, for all you know, is already happily settled in a comfortable home? Hubris, my dear Laurent. Hubris.”

He replied to her, but I did not hear the words. My attention was focused on the pile of manuscripts nearest to me, on the words scrawled at the tops of the pages and the marginalia on the sides. All written in the same handwriting I’d seen only hours before on Dr. Girard’s supposed suicide note. My heart thumping in my chest, I bent down and picked up the sheet.

“Written any suicide notes lately, Laurent?” I asked.