Dangerous to Know

3

I woke up early the next morning, the first day since we’d arrived in Normandy that I’d come downstairs before luncheon. The combination of my injuries and my mother-in-law’s scorn did little to inspire me to action. But today Cécile and I were to visit George and Madeline and examine the note left by their mysterious visitor, and the prospect filled me with excitement. We rode to their château accompanied by a protective footman, following winding roads that meandered through golden fields and into a small, dense wood opening onto a moat whose water was so clear I could see the rocks settled on its bottom. Branches hung heavy from weeping willows along the bank, and on the far side of the water stood a round stone tower with a pointed roof. It could, I suppose, be described as crumbling.

To say the same about the rest of the château wouldn’t be entirely correct; George, it seemed, was prone to exaggeration. This was not the refined type of building found in the Loire Valley or at Versailles. It was more fortress than Palace, a true Norman castle, with an imposing keep. We looped around the water and over a rough bridge, then followed the drive along a tall gatehouse fashioned from blocks of stone and golden red bricks, its windows long and narrow. Defensive walls had once enclosed the perimeter, but now all that remained of them were bits and pieces of varying heights, few much taller even than I, most of them covered with a thick growth of ivy or dwarfed by hydrangea bushes. Long rows of boxwoods lined gravel paths in the formal garden, and the flowers, organized neatly in pristine beds, must have been chosen for their scents, as the air was sweet and fragrant.

“The garden is much nicer than the house,” George said, rising from a stone bench and coming towards us, a gentleman with a large, dark moustache at his side. “You’d be wise to stay outside. I can have tea sent to us here.”

“You’re doing nothing, sir, but increasing my curiosity about the interior,” I said. “The exterior is lovely.”

“Very medieval,” Cécile said, tipping her black straw hat forward to better shade her eyes from the sun.

“If only I had a catapult,” George said. “We might have some real fun. May I present my friend, Maurice Leblanc from Étretat?”

The other man bowed gracefully. “It is a pleasure,” he said as George introduced us.

“Maurice is a writer—does stories for every magazine you can think of. Excellent bloke.”

“If you can overlook my failure to complete law school,” Monsieur Leblanc said.

“What sort of things do you write?” I asked.

“I’ve just finished a piece on France’s favorite ghost,” he said.

“Ghost?” I asked.

“I’d hardly be inclined to call any ghost a favorite,” George said.

“But this one isn’t full of menace,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “She’s sad, lonely, searching for a better mother than the one she had.”

“Do tell,” I said.

“Years ago, early in the century, there lived, in the small port of Grandcamp-les-Bains here in Normandy, a young mother notorious for neglecting her daughter. She let the girl wander through the village at all hours of day and night, didn’t send her to school, could hardly be bothered to take care of her.”

“I have heard this story, Monsieur Leblanc,” Cécile said. “And find it hard to believe any woman would treat her own daughter in such a manner.”

“It wasn’t always that way,” he said. “But after the woman’s husband, a sailor, died in a shipwreck not far from the coast, she could hardly stand the sight of the child. She looked too much like her father, you see, and the grieving mother could not cope. One day, when the girl had begged and begged to be taken on a picnic, they went to Pointe du Hoc, a promontory with spectacular views high above the sea.”

“And of course the mother wasn’t watching the girl,” George said.

“Correct,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “And while she was playing, too close to the edge of the cliffs, she slipped and fell to her death. And ever after, there have been stories of people—women—all through France seeing her. She wanders the country in search of a better mother, one who would look after her properly.”

“Ridiculous,” Cécile said.

George laughed. “Madeline thought she saw her once. Beware, Emily, she may come for you next.”

“I’ll keep up my guard,” I said. “But why does she limit her search to France? Are there no decent mothers to be found elsewhere?”

“There might be, but the food wouldn’t be nearly so good,” Monsieur Leblanc said, and we all laughed.

A groom appeared from the direction of the barns standing on the opposite side of the grounds from the central building, close to a heavy dovecote built in the style of the nearby tower, all stone, no brick. He took our horses from us as our host led us inside, where Madeline greeted us at the thick, wooden door.

“It’s so good of you to come,” she said, kissing us both on the cheeks. “I’ve asked Cook to make a special fish course. We’ve mussels, as well, and I—”

“They’ve not come for dinner, darling,” George said, stepping forward and taking his wife’s hand. “Just tea, remember? And you asked for douillons.”

“Of course,” she said. She spoke with steady resolve, but looked confused.

“No one makes pastry finer than your cook,” Monsieur Leblanc said, his voice firm. “I am full of eager anticipation.”

“Let’s go to the library before we eat.” George’s words tumbled rapidly from his mouth, as if to redirect the conversation away from his wife’s blunder as quickly as possible. “I want to show you the note left by that dreadful man.”

“You are confident it’s from a man?” Cécile asked. “Do you not believe a woman might be equally devious?”

“I’d like to believe a woman wouldn’t be able to climb into my locked house with a painting on her back. Not, mind you, because I consider the fairer sex incompetent or lacking a propensity for crime. But surely a lady with the strength to accomplish such a thing would look awful in evening dress, don’t you think?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I think she’d be elegant beyond measure, and deceive you completely in the ballroom.”

“And would make a most excellent villain. Perhaps I should write about her.” Monsieur Leblanc tilted his head and looked into the distance, as if deep in thought. “Only think of the adventures on which she might embark.”

“I shall not argue with any of you,” George said, leading us through the door into the keep’s cavernous hall, its arched ceiling supported by wide columns. The room was overfull of furniture. Around a sturdy table that might have comfortably seated a dozen, eighteen chairs had been set, too close together. Six suits of armor were on display, three separate sitting areas contained settees and more chairs, and on the walls hung a series of tapestries, finely embroidered with scenes of a hunt, the work as fine as that displayed on The Lady and the Unicorn set I’d seen in the Cluny museum in Paris.

“How beautiful,” I said, standing close to the first panel.

“They’ve been in the château since the fifteenth century,” Madeline said. “We think some long-ago grandmother of mine worked on them.”

“This was the center of the original castle,” George said. “Twelfth century. And as you can see, no owner has parted with even a shred of furnishing in the ensuing seven hundred years. The room above this serves as our library, but other than that, we don’t use the space for much but storage. A manor house was built later, and I’ve constructed a passage to connect the two buildings. Will you follow me upstairs?

He led us up a flight of hard stone steps to a much smaller room lined with bookcases. The windows were nearly nonexistent, better suited for shooting a crossbow than looking at the view of the garden below.

“It’s a horrible space, I know,” he said. “Terrible light. But then, there are those who say books should be protected from the sun.”

“Magnifique,” Cécile said. “Functional rather than beautiful. And impenetrable by enemies, I imagine.”

“Which was, no doubt, significant to the original builders. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I myself don’t feel in imminent danger of being under siege,” George said. Madeline laughed and kissed him, blushing when she realized we had all seen her.

“You must forgive me,” she said. “I do adore my husband.”

“Something for which you should never apologize,” I said.

Monsieur Leblanc blinked rapidly and shifted his feet in awkward embarrassment. “This would make an excellent writing space. Few distractions.”

“You’re welcome to use it any time.” Our host riffled through the drawers of an imposing desk fashioned from heavy ebony, pulled out a note, and handed it to me. “For your reading pleasure.”

I recognized the handwriting in an instant. There could be no doubt Sebastian had penned it. My Greek, which I’d been studying for nearly three years, was much better now than it had been when I last encountered the clever thief, and I translated the brief phrase at the bottom of the paper:

The passage had to be from the Greek Anthology, a collection of ancient epigrams. Sebastian quoted from it frequently in the earlier missives he’d sent me.

“I have missed Monsieur Capet,” Cécile said with a sigh. “He’s such a rare breed of gentleman. Refined and focused, clever, but with the sort of dry wit I admire so much. Although after the success of the haystacks, he really ought to consider Monet popular.”

“You know this man who is causing our troubles?” Madeline asked. “Is he dangerous?”

“Dangerous? No, not at all,” I said. “Sebastian might steal everything valuable you own, but he’d never harm you.”

“He’d be more discerning than that,” Cécile said. “He’d only take a selection of your best items.”

This drew a deep laugh from George. “I’ve half a mind to invite him back, if only I knew how to contact him. We’ve far too much crammed in most of these rooms, and the attics are a complete disaster. Would he be interested in furniture, do you think?”

“Darling, you know we can’t get rid of anything while Maman is still alive,” Madeline said. “It would disturb her too much.”

“You shouldn’t talk about me as if I’m not here.” All of us but Madeline started at the sound of the voice. An elderly woman stood near the doorway, leaning against the wall. I had no idea where she’d come from or how long she’d been standing there. Her gown was of a rich burgundy silk, beautifully designed, an odd contrast to her coiffure—her white hair hung long and wild down her back—and the strained expression on her face.

“Are you the one they’ve sent to stop her? She’s come again, you know. My daughter’s seen her, too,” she said, crossing to George. “We should, I suppose, be introduced.”

Not hesitating in the slightest, George kissed her hand. “George Markham, Madame Breton. I’m Madeline’s husband.”

A shadow darkened her face for an instant. “Bien sûr.” Her eyelids fluttered. “It’s this dark room. Impossible to see anyone until you’re directly in front of them. Who is Madeline? Should I be introduced to her?”

“Madeline is your daughter,” George said.

“It’s all right, Maman,” Madeline said, taking the old woman’s hand. “Would you like to have tea with us?”

“Tea?”

George put an arm firmly around her shoulders. “It’s time for something to eat. We’ve douillons, and I know how you love pears. Come sit with us. I can read to you after we’re done.”

“She doesn’t like the books,” she said. “She’s crying again and won’t stop.”

“Who’s crying?” I asked.

George caught my eye and subtly shook his head before leaning in close to her. “We’ll go for a little walk and you’ll feel better. Then we’ll have tea.”

“I can’t stand the crying,” she said. “Someone has to make it stop.”

“I’m so sorry,” Madeline said, turning to us as her husband led the old woman from the room. “My mother’s not been well for some time. It’s nerves—they plagued my grand-mère, too. The doctor tells us there’s nothing to be done, and George agrees. He trained as a physician in London, you know, but hasn’t had much occasion or need to work. He’s the only one able to help her when she has a spell.”

“She’s fortunate to have him,” I said. “But how dreadful for her to suffer so.”

“I don’t think she has any awareness at all of her condition,” Madeline said. “Sometimes she’s lucid, and when she is, she has no idea that she’s ever not. Eventually she’ll remember nothing. By the time my grandmother died, she didn’t recognize any of us. But, come, now, I don’t want you all to feel awkward. Let’s start our tea.”

Monsieur Leblanc offered her his arm, and we followed them into a narrow corridor lined with tall windows that ran from the keep to a seventeenth-century manor. Stepping into this newer section of the structure was like entering a contemporary Parisian house. Bright yellow silk covered the walls on which stunning paintings hung at regular intervals. There could be no question of the Markhams’ love for art—their collection ranged from Old Masters to Impressionists, grouped by color rather than style. It was a fascinating method of organization, unlike any I’d before seen. A Fragonard beside a Manet, the two Monet haystacks across from a Vermeer portrait.

“Where have you put Sebastian’s bounty?” I asked.

“It’s just across the corridor,” Madeline said. “We’ll show you when George returns.”

Sitting on a tall, rigid chair, I accepted a cup from Madeline. She must have poured it before we’d arrived—there was no teapot in sight, and the drink had gone cold. Cécile raised an eyebrow as she tasted hers, but said nothing and abandoned the beverage for the douillon on her plate. Flaky, butter-filled pastry surrounded a whole pear sweet with cinnamon and sugar, all drowning in crème fraîche. It more than made up for the inadequate tea.

“Have you heard anything further about the murdered girl?” Madeline asked. “Does anyone know who she is?”

“We’ve been told nothing,” I said. “But I would imagine they’ve identified her by now.”

“It is horrifying. Here I am worried about someone breaking in to give us a painting and some poor girl was killed not two miles from me,” she said. “It doesn’t seem possible. And it’s made our intruder all the more frightening. No one in this neighborhood could have done such an awful thing, so this stranger must be the guilty party. And what if he’d gone into a murderous rage while he was in our house?”

“I’m confident Sebastian would never do such a thing—” I began, only to be interrupted.

“I’m so sorry, Adèle,” Madeline said, addressing me directly, her eyes open so wide they looked strained, an odd, unfocused expression coming over her as she began to speak. “I did try to contact you about our change of plans, but I’m afraid you didn’t receive my note. Would you very much mind if our excursion is only to Yvetot, not Rouen? I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting your friend, Sebastian, but he’s more than welcome to join our party.”

“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said, confused and a bit frightened, unsure what to say or do.

“You know how it is when you’re having trouble with household staff. I shall make sure Marie is disciplined firmly,” she continued. “She must have neglected to send my note.”

Cécile and I exchanged baffled glances while Monsieur Leblanc stared at his plate.

“You must, however, give me the name of your newfound dressmaker,” Madeline continued, her voice light and happy. “You did promise and I can’t have you keeping secrets from me.”

George entered the room, his mother-in-law conspicuously absent, and the moment Madeline saw him, her manner changed. But it wasn’t simply her manner—the light in her eyes altered conspicuously. “Apologies,” he said. “In the end I thought it best Madame Breton not join us.”

“Should I go to her?” Madeline asked, her pretty lips pressed together, her face pale. The transformation unnerved me. She looked entirely different than she had just moments ago and showed no sign of being aware of what had happened.

“She’s settled, but I’m sure would enjoy some company,” George said. “I was afraid talk of an intruder might upset her.”

“Of course,” Madeline said. “You’re so considerate, my dear. Will you excuse me? I’ll go sit with her.”

When she’d gone, George took her untouched douillon and scooped up an enormous bite. “It’s terrible, this trouble with her mother. She’s been ill for as long as I’ve known her, but it’s got much worse in the past few years. It used to be she was just a bit batty, but her forgetfulness was almost entertaining. Now, though, it’s as if the charming, refined woman she used to be is disappearing entirely.”

“How dreadful,” I said, wondering if it would be appropriate to mention his wife’s apparent lapse in sanity. “And there’s nothing to be done?”

“Apparently not.” He swallowed another bite of pastry. “I’ve researched the matter thoroughly. It’s wrenching to watch her. Would break the heart of the strongest man.”

“Je suis desolée,” Cécile said.

“You’re very kind,” he said. “We did not, however, bring you here to earn your pity. Maman’s condition is something we must bear, but expending too much focus on it will serve to do nothing but depress us. Have you finished your tea? I want to show you the painting.”

“Monsieur,” Cécile said. “Unless I am drinking champagne, I am always finished.”

“An admirable policy. I think I should adopt it myself.” He ushered us out of the room and down a long corridor. “As you can see, this part of the château is much more livable than the rest. It’s almost modern.” We entered a grand hall, this one done in shades of green, from the darkest forest to pale lime. In the center, standing on an easel, was Monet’s painting.

“Rouen,” Cécile said. “One of my favorite cathedrals.” Golden tan hues dominated the canvas, the building seeming to soar from the street, the brushstrokes easy and loose.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell whether it was Notre Dame de Paris or Notre Dame de Rouen. Churches aren’t my specialty,” George said, continuing forward, a curious look on his face. “This was not here before.” He picked up an envelope resting against the canvas, glanced at it, frowned, and handed it to me. My name was scrawled across the front. With shaking hands, I opened it and pulled out the note it contained:

It is good of you to come back to me.