Dangerous to Know

29

Étretat lay too far from Barentin for us to comfortably reach that day, so we returned to Mrs. Hargreaves’s house, where a telegram from my husband waited for me.

“In youth and beauty, wisdom is but rare.” How glad I am to have a wife of such rare variety. Homer would sing your praises.

This set what felt like a permanent grin on my face, and I was ready to find Lucy, vanquish the killer, and recruit Sebastian to the service of the Crown. Woe be to the person who tried to stop me!

We’d managed, over crêpes topped with apples, butter, crème fraîche, and sugar, then doused with calvados—Normandy’s famous apple brandy—and flamed, to do a decent job recounting the day’s events to my mother-in-law, so that she was excited rather than horrified by our exploits. I should have expected nothing less from her, but the experience of my own mother’s reactions to my work had taught me to brace myself for constant censure. But instead of criticizing, Mrs. Hargreaves offered to accompany us to Étretat.

“I’m not sure it would do, Emily, for you to go so far away without me. Mr. Capet is an unmarried man of dubious character. It might harm your reputation. If I come, his presence will seem unremarkable.”

“You’re very kind,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Who is going where?” Cécile burst into the room. I leaped up and embraced her, delighted to see her.

“Do you have the notebook?” I asked.

“Did you doubt for a moment I would?” She kissed my cheeks. “I am disappointed in you, Kallista.” Frantic yipping in the hallway announced the return of Caesar and Brutus.

“Notebook?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked, greeting Cécile in turn.

“You two have made peace,” Cécile said, watching the dynamic between my mother-in-law and myself. “And you’ve collected my favorite criminal mind. I should never have stayed in Rouen for so long.”

“My dear Madame du Lac,” Sebastian said, rising to kiss her hand. “Your charms are so great you ought never to leave my presence.”

“You do have a flair for the dramatic, Monsieur Capet,” Cécile said. “I should like to have a lengthy discussion with you on the topic of my country’s revolution. Not today, however. There’s too much else to talk about now.”

It took nearly an hour for us all to catch up on each other’s stories, the deliciously nervous energy in the room quickly approaching a feverish frenzy.

“Do you think Lucy’s safe?” Cécile asked. “And what happened to Vasseur? Why has he disappeared? And what more of this Myriel? Have you learned anything?”

“Myriel?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked. “The bishop in Les Miserables?”

“Les Miserables? The book was in Myriel’s room,” I said.

“Should I care?” Sebastian asked. “It’s a painfully unoriginal way to come up with a nom de plume.”

“That’s true,” I said. “But there could be a significance to it. Let’s not forget it’s what Monsieur Prier has been reading. As for Lucy, Cécile, I’ve no idea. I pray she’s come to no harm.”

“We can only hope her father has spirited her away somewhere safe,” Mrs. Hargreaves said.

I retired to my room relatively early, wanting to read every word of Laurent’s notebook before we boarded the train the next morning. I was missing Colin keenly, and wished he’d given me some indication of whether his own work was proving productive. I pulled his pillow on top of mine, fluffed them both, and settled into bed.

Laurent’s writing was devoid of the self-indulgent angst-filled ramblings I’d come to expect from him. Some pages contained sketches, and he wasn’t a bad artist. His occasional forays into poetry impressed me, and the bars of music in the volume proved him a competent composer. A Renaissance man. The book did not, however, contain any references to his sister. The only potential clue lay close to the volume’s binding: a page had been cut, probably with a razor, in as straight a line as possible. There could be no doubt the edges would match perfectly with the purported suicide note I’d found in Dr. Girard’s pocket.

I scrutinized the pages that preceded and followed the missing one. Before it was music. After, a sketch of a bridge that reminded me of the Pont de la Concorde in Paris. Nothing to suggest a connection to Lucy, the doctor, or Edith. Still, I felt as if we were making progress—that Étretat would prove a turning point in the case. But as I pulled the blankets to my neck in defense against the damp night air, anxiety began to tug at me, anxiety with no discernible source. Sleep seemed impossible, and the room grew colder. The sounds of the house assaulted my ears as I listened for anything of significance.

There was nothing. Nothing, that is, until I heard a thin wail below my window, a sound all too familiar. Terror seized me, killing even my curiosity. I didn’t get out of bed, didn’t look to see who stood in the garden beneath me. I knew exactly what I’d find, and was unequal to the task of facing it. The hideous sound grew louder and sadder until I could no longer hide from it. But as soon as I’d risen to seek the source of the cries, they stopped as suddenly as they’d started.

The next morning, when I opened my shutters, I looked for a blue ribbon, but saw nothing. Perhaps my mind was tricking me. Perhaps my imagination had got the better of me. I’d begun to feel silly, and was in high spirits by breakfast. Less so, however, after we’d piled into the carriage and were en route to the train station. Sebastian leaned close to me and whispered while Cécile and Mrs. Hargreaves were engrossed in conversation.

“I must speak to you, Kallista,” he said. “I heard crying last night. By your window. And when I went outside to investigate, I saw nothing, but the sound didn’t stop. Something evil is lurking here, and the sooner we’re done with this nasty business the better.”

We reached Étretat before lunchtime, and the charming seaside town was teeming with visitors. Half-timbered buildings lined streets leading to the water, edged by a pebble-strewn beach. Most impressive, however, were the towering cliffs on either side of the town’s cove. Tall and dramatic, their white rock reminded me of Dover, with vast green fields covering the land above them. Unlike Dover, there were dramatic stone arches here, dominating the view, stretching out over the churning water, their jagged tops slicing up into the sky.

I’d sent a wire to Monsieur Leblanc, alerting him to our arrival, and he was waiting for us, as I suggested, in front of the seaside boardwalk. Gathering our forces, we began our search in the Marie—the Town Hall—where we pored over marriage records, but found none pertinent. The clerks to whom we spoke did not recognize our description of the couple, nor of Lucy, and had no recollection of the name Vasseur. From there, we went to the police, who were more than a little ambivalent about giving us any information.

I wished I had Colin’s identification papers.

“If your friend is missing, madame,” said the officer condescending to speak to us, “you may file a report.”

“You know of the murder of Edith Prier, I’m sure,” I said. “This is her…her lover, or possibly her husband—”

“You were her friend yet you don’t know if she was married? I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

Sebastian stood back, rigid and quiet. I don’t think he enjoyed being in a police station.

“I’m disappointed in you,” I said, as we left the building. “I thought you’d be able to brilliantly manipulate the men who uphold the law.”

“I don’t like to draw attention to myself,” he said. “I prefer to go completely unnoticed.”

“I’d do the opposite,” I said. “I’d befriend them. Maybe join them. Know thy enemy, Sebastian. Keep them close and they’ll never suspect you.”

“I’m impressed, Kallista.”

“It’s an excellent idea,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “Imagine a master criminal who, while in disguise, convinces the police to hire him to search for himself. You should write fiction, Lady Emily.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t carry it off,” I said.

“I believe you could,” Cécile said. “But what is our plan now? Shall we go door to door in search of Vasseur?”

“That would take too long,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “Let’s think about what he would have needed when they came—somewhere to stay—we can check the hotels—”

“Have you any idea how many there are in a resort like this?” Sebastian said.

“It’s not a large town,” I said, refusing to be daunted. “And we can see if there are any houses for rent, or houses that have recently been rented. And we can talk to the physician in town, who might have been aware of the child.”

“Shall we divide and conquer?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.

“No,” I said. “Whoever murdered Edith and Dr. Girard wouldn’t hesitate to put a stop to what we’re doing. We’ll be safer together.”

“Have you any suggestions, Monsieur Leblanc?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked. “You do, after all, live here. To whom would you refer friends in search of lodgings?”

“It’s difficult to say. Holidaymakers are one thing—there are plenty of hotels for them,” he said. “But if Vasseur was looking for a home, he could have wound up anywhere.”

“So you’ve no way to narrow the field?” she asked, looking at him with a critical eye.

He could not, he apologized, offer any further ideas. So we set off, ready to interview the entire town if necessary. In the course of the afternoon, we spoke to more people than I could count, most of them friendly and helpful, but all, sadly, without information that aided our search. One woman did remember seeing a girl of Lucy’s description, walking on the cliff path with her mother, but her recollection was not clear, and she never saw the child again.

After several hours of this, Cécile demanded a break, and we stopped at a café housed in a rambling fifteenth-century mass of timber and plaster, full of elaborate wooden carvings of animals and figures and ordered cold glasses of good Norman cider. Mrs. Hargreaves was particularly taken with the image of a salamander, while Cécile preferred some sort of bird. As Sebastian and Monsieur Leblanc started to add their opinions, frustration filled me.

“Maybe coming here was a mistake,” I said.

“Étretat is never a mistake,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “We can walk on the cliff path.”

“I need to find Lucy,” I said. “We don’t have time to play tourist. I’m sorry—I don’t mean to sound snappish, but I’m deeply concerned about her.”

“Of course you are,” she said. “But think on it. A child who’d been brought here would want to play on the beach. Perhaps some of the vendors on the boardwalk will remember her.”

“An excellent idea,” I said. We set off as soon as we’d paid the bill. The day was a brilliant one, the sunlight scattering over the choppy waves of the sea, the sky crisp, the air warm. The beach was only a few blocks from the café, and Mrs. Hargreaves’s suggestion was an excellent one—lines of carts and stands filled the area nearby, their owners hawking ices, crêpes, creamy caramels, and every other sort of sweet imaginable.

Lucy, it seemed, had little interest in ice cream. Or caramels. But when we reached our fifth crêpe stand, operated by a short gentleman in a striped sailor-type shirt and a jaunty beret, hope filled my heart.

“A girl you say?” he asked.

“Yes, about six years old. Her mother’s about my size and build, with similar hair? Lucy’s blond. Her father used to be in the Foreign Legion and has bright blue eyes.”

“The Legion? Yes, I think I remember them. He was in Indochina, wasn’t he? New to the area, renting a ramshackle house on the hill.” He gestured at the cliff behind us. “Don’t remember anything striking about his eyes, though. The little girl had ones like that, bluer than anything I’d ever seen. She liked lemon on her crêpes, with butter and sugar.”

“Do you know which house?” I asked.

“Not sure, madame, sorry,” he said. “Talk to the owner of the Hôtel La Résidence. He assists nearly everyone in town looking for a long-term stay.”

We thanked him and darted to the Hôtel, where we quickly found the proprietor.

“Oh, yes, the Myriels, bien sûr,” he said. “They were in the Guerlot Cottage. I can give you directions if you wish, but I’ve not seen them for months. Madame’s health was not so good and her husband wanted to take her back to Paris.”

His map, though hastily drawn, proved easy to follow, and soon we stood in front of the small house in which Edith and Jules had tried to make a home with their daughter. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. Not wasting any time, Sebastian started to work on the lock, and it clicked open almost at once.

“The place has undoubtedly been rented to someone else,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “So let’s proceed with caution. We could be discovered at any moment.”

He was correct. The rooms were full of evidence that the cottage was occupied by a family visiting the seaside: postcards strewn on a table waited to be addressed, the kitchen was stocked with food, and the bedroom wardrobes were full of clothing.

Sebastian darted through the rooms, his eyes sharp and bright. Mrs. Hargreaves and Cécile, both uneasy at the thought of being discovered, stayed near the front door, watching as the rest of us searched, not knowing what to look for. I started to move more methodically than I had done on first entering the place, carefully looking over every inch of the rooms. Then, in the corridor between the bedrooms, something struck me, and I called for Sebastian.

“Something’s wrong here,” I said.

He pressed his hands along the plaster, which I’d noticed was a slightly different color from that in the rest of the hallway. “It’s newer,” he said. “Shall we look inside?”

I hesitated, unsure if destroying the wall was a good idea. Monsieur Leblanc arrived on the scene, quickly followed by Mrs. Hargreaves and Cécile. My mother-in-law, her eyes narrowed and focused analyzed the situation in an instant.

“Take it down,” she said.

Sebastian did not require further encouragement. He removed from his jacket a metal blade that he used to cut through the plaster, tracing the line of the lighter color. When he reached the end, he pushed it in farther, jiggled the blade, and started to pull out a bit of the now crumbling wall. It came down in easy pieces, and as he removed them, a smell of decay—not overwhelming, but not insignificant—assaulted our senses.

Behind the wall was a body, badly decayed, certainly beyond the point where anyone could recognize him, but I could not doubt it was Monsieur Vasseur. None of us was prepared for the sight of sinewy bones and missing flesh. I ran into the garden where Cécile held my hair back while I was sick. My mother-in-law, however, stayed with Sebastian and Monsieur Leblanc, helping him to lay out the body on the floor, while I, having pulled myself together, summoned the police. Mrs. Hargreaves didn’t fall apart until we reached home, where we found Colin waiting, ready to shoulder the burden for all of us.

22 July 1892

Never again do I want to see what I did today. I’m writing on the train, as it seems the only way to escape the insanity of what we witnessed, of the horror one man will inflict upon another.

I’d not given it much consideration before—and was, no doubt, far too harsh in my judgment of Emily after she’d found poor Edith Prier. The fresh wounds must have been even worse.

Monsieur Vasseur reminded me more of the mummies in the British Museum than of a man recently dead. The police said he’d been stabbed. I’ve not the slightest idea how they could tell, but certainly didn’t want any further detail on the subject.

Emily was sick. I did the only thing possible for me: assist Mr. Capet in taking down the body. Being useful and facing the reality of what we’d found seemed preferable to standing outside and wondering how bad it was. The imagination, I always find, often weaves a more frightening picture than the truth.

Colin will not be pleased with what we’ve done.