Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“How dare you?” He grabbed the paper from my hand.

“I thought I recognized the handwriting from when I was last in your room. So why did you kill him? Did he keep Edith’s baby? Did she fall in love with him? Were you jealous?”

He slapped me, hard, right across the mouth.

I stumbled as Cécile gasped and stepped towards him. Without hesitating, I stopped her, came forward myself, smacked him back, and watched a deep red mark develop on his cheek. He said nothing, but raised his hand to the spot. I resisted the urge to touch what I knew must be its twin on my own face.

“The paper was ripped out of a notebook, like the one lying there,” I said, pointing to a slim volume resting on top of the piano.

“Don’t touch that.” He stepped in front of me, blocking any progress I might try to make in pursuit of the object in question.

“Why are you so concerned if you’ve nothing to hide?” I asked.

“What did the note say?”

“It was a quotation from Hamlet . And a comment.”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t near the asylum last night.”

“Did you write the note?” I asked.

“I’m not in the habit of depositing my writing with the possessions of dead men.”

“Then explain to me how Dr. Girard got it?”

“There’s nothing to explain. You can’t prove I wrote it—you don’t have it in your possession. If the police care to query me on the matter, I shall welcome them with open arms. They’ll find nothing.”

Something in his tone indicated with supreme strength the truth of his final statement. The police would find nothing, but only because Laurent would destroy anything that might be of use before they even thought to contact him. I was desperate to look in his notebook, but knew he wouldn’t let me. His handwriting could be identified by the police in any number of ways—but I didn’t need anything further to convince me who wrote the false suicide note. I wanted to read more, to find out why someone would do such a thing.

And why, after we’d learned the truth about Edith’s baby, her doctor—quite possibly the only person who knew the story in its entirety—had been killed. Had our investigation catalyzed more violence?

“Lucy is all that matters, Laurent,” I said. “We have to find her.”

“I’ve done nothing but try since you told me she’s alive,” he said, his voice low and rumbling. “All I know is that there was a man called Myriel who visited her.”

“What did you find out about him?” I asked.

“What do you know?” His eyes narrowed and darkened.

“We’re in possession of the belongings he left in his rooms near the asylum,” I said. “They’re remarkably interesting.”

“I need to speak to my father,” he said. “Forgive me for walking out on such an invigorating conversation, but I’ve nothing further to say to either of you.”

Cécile, intent on liberating Laurent’s notebook from its rightful owner, refused to return to the country with us. Colin forbade her to touch the book, but agreed that keeping her in the Priers’ house was a rational decision—she might observe something significant in the family’s behavior. He knew perfectly well, however, that she would be in possession of the journal the next time we saw her. George had managed to forge some sort of connection to Madame Prier by the time we left the house—she implored him to return for tea, but did not include Madeline in the invitation.

“She’s so like Madeline’s mother,” he said as we drove away from Rouen. “At least the way she was before we were married. Eccentric, yes, but charming all the same. How fortunate that she escaped my mother-in-law’s fate.”

“Was she able to offer you any useful insight?” I asked.

“Not a shred,” he said. “I do wish I could have met Monsieur Prier. He must be a character of his own. Where does he keep himself hidden?”

“Cozied up with his mistress much of the time,” Colin said.

“And their daughter.”

“Another daughter?” George asked.

“This one much younger than Edith and Toinette,” I said. Colin subtly jabbed my side. “Not that it’s any of our business, of course.”

“No, of course not,” George said, laughing softly as he turned to look out the window. “Must be something to have so many children.”

Discomfort prickled in the air, as each of us looked away from the rest. Each of us childless. Each of us carrying the small heartbreak of tiny losses.

None of us spoke again for the duration of the journey.

21 July 1892

Emily’s questions about the daughter of the Markhams’ gardener spurned me to inquire about the matter. The servants wouldn’t tell me a thing—no surprise there—but a visit to the boulangerie in Fréville resulted not only in a spectacular baguette stuffed with ham and Gruyère cheese, but also the story that circulated at the time. The child, it seems, did die on the property, and the good citizens of our village are convinced she haunts the area.

Ridiculous, of course. I’ve no time for wailing cries and misty apparitions. And ribbons, according to the story. The ghost, you see, has a propensity for dropping them wherever she goes. No doubt they’re supplied by every bored adolescent in the area.

Now that I think on it, I saw a ribbon crumpled on the ground when I was out riding some days ago. Blue, though I’m not sure the color is of any significance. I have a vague memory of Emily asking about ribbons in conjunction with the child. I do hope no one has polluted her mind with such nonsense. My opinion of her is much improved, but she’s still more vulnerable than I would like.

No one, however, could argue she is not a good teacher.

I was pleased, when we returned to Mrs. Hargreaves’s house, to find a letter waiting from Monsieur Leblanc. His update primarily served to inform me he’d learned nothing new, but he also asked if he could call soon, saying that he needed my assistance on a matter, but that it could wait until after the questions of Edith Prier’s death had been answered. The thought of someone needing me was more than a little flattering. Colin allowed me to assist him on occasion, but would have had no trouble carrying on in my absence.

Allowed . How I hated that word.

A hot fire burned in the sitting room’s enormous stone fireplace, the three of us snugly fortified against the damp, each hard at work. Normandy was giving us days that felt more like autumn than summer, but the cool weather wasn’t oppressive, not given the bright sun that managed to cut through the clouds often enough to remind us it was July. Mrs. Hargreaves and I had spent no small amount of time on Homer after dinner, and I was more enamored by the poet’s work than ever. I’d never before filled the role of teacher, and found that I learned as much while assisting my mother-in-law as I did studying on my own. More, perhaps, as the understanding it took to explain to her the rules of Greek grammar or to help her analyze of passages of the poem required more active and thorough thought than it took to study by myself. I adored every minute of it.

“Ah!” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “I have it now—‘The wine urges me on, the bewitching wine, which sets even a wise man to singing and to laughing gently and rouses him up to dance and bring forth words which were better unspoken.’ I do like this, Emily.”

“I’m glad,” I said.

“What we need, Mother, is port,” Colin said. “It’s appropriate to what you’ve just read, and it’s Emily’s favorite.”

“I’m afraid I have none,” she said. “You’ll have to settle for cognac.” This may have been the first time a lady had not balked at my preference for drinking port, traditionally considered a gentleman’s beverage. My respect for my mother-in-law was increasing exponentially.