Dangerous to Know

5

My husband leapt out of bed with inhuman speed. In a few steps he was at the window, which I’d watched him shut before we’d retired. It was still closed and the shutters locked.

“Bloody hell!” He spun around and started for the dressing room. “Light the lamps, Emily. I want to make sure he’s not hiding somewhere.” Once he left our chamber, he crept as quietly as our intrepid intruder must have, not wanting to scare him off should he still be inside. Colin’s talent for stealth was extraordinary—neither his mother nor Cécile woke when he entered their rooms. But his search was to no avail. There was no sign of Sebastian in our room, nor anywhere else in the house. Confident no one was lurking nearby, Colin tucked me into bed, but did not crawl in next to me. Instead, he perched on a chair near the window. The shadows under his eyes the next morning told me he’d not let himself sleep.

We had the sunny breakfast room to ourselves, having come down at a ridiculous hour. Not, however, too early for the excellent cook, whose warm, buttery brioche tempted me the instant I sat down. I took one from the large basket looming in the center of the table, broke it apart, and slathered more creamy butter seasoned with flakes of sea salt on the steaming halves.

“So your mother knows nothing yet?” I asked.

“No,” Colin said. “I saw no need to disturb her. There will be plenty of time for upset once she wakes. I’ll take care of everything with her—you need not trouble yourself about it.”

“At least you can assure her Sebastian is harmless.”

“We don’t know that, Emily. We’ve no idea what he’s been up to since we last encountered him.”

“Surely you don’t think he’s capable of murder?”

“You know me well enough to expect I would categorically refuse ruling out viable options until they’re proven impossible.”

Colin, who did discreet work for Buckingham Palace, was one of the best agents in the empire. He handled difficult cases, often involving matters that needed to be kept quiet, and was more spy than detective. We’d become close while I was investigating the death of my first husband, and in the subsequent years had worked together to solve three further murders. But it was only on our last case, in Constantinople, that I’d been allowed to act in an official capacity. Queen Victoria, the Palace had informed me, was pleased I’d caught the man who’d killed the daughter of an English diplomat, but horrified to learn I’d been injured in the process. She did not think it appropriate for me to place myself in the line of danger again.

Her position, no doubt, was a direct result of the influence of my own mother, who had, in her youth, served as a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty. They remained close, and neither hid her irritation when Colin and I had eloped on the Greek island of Santorini rather than taking advantage of the queen’s generous offer of the chapel at Windsor Castle for the wedding. My mother made a habit of being dissatisfied with me. She had no tolerance for any of my intellectual pursuits. She found my interest in Greek antiquities and ancient literature inappropriate for a lady, abhorred the idea that I had begun to think about the issue of women’s suffrage, and exhibited visible pain at my skills as a detective.

The detecting was, to her mind, the most offensive of my many sins. She objected in principle to anything that might be perceived as a useful occupation. A lady should lead a life of leisure, as should her husband. She did not much like Colin’s work, but the fact it was a bit mysterious and had twice led to the queen wanting to knight him (he’d refused both times) vindicated it. Nothing, however, could justify my own involvement in such things.

Colin’s mother swept into the room. “You’re looking something of a disaster today,” she said, glowering at me. She was a striking woman—tall, her hair still more dark than gray, thick and wavy like her son’s. Her taste in clothing was impeccable, every item she wore personally designed by Charles Frederick Worth, the father of haute couture and the finest dressmaker in the world. I admired her gown—the waist impossibly tiny, the skirt, a cascade of rich maroon silk, flared and full below her hips.

“I’m afraid we didn’t get much sleep,” I said.

“If it won’t pain you too much, Lady Emily, I could do without impertinence so early in the day,” she said, waving away a footman who appeared behind her with a silver dish of poached eggs and reaching instead for a plate of sliced melon.

“I meant nothing of the sort—” I began, looking to Colin for assistance. I was in no humor to apologize when I felt she ought to.

“We had a visitor last night,” my husband said.

“A visitor?” she asked.

“I’ll leave the two of you to discuss it,” I said, excusing myself as he began to recount the story. I preferred not to hear Mrs. Hargreaves’s reaction to the violation of her home. Cécile, who felt it indecent to make a habit of rising before noon, was not yet awake, so I decided to call on the Markhams, a spare footman accompanying me just in case the murderer was still in the neighborhood. I decided to walk, not wanting the clopping of a horse’s hooves to mask other, more nefarious sounds. Instead of making my way through the woods, I kept to the road, but even so I started at every snapping twig and dog’s bark. The servant was twice as nervous as I, and insisted on walking behind me, thinking it was a better position from which to offer protection. But his footsteps caused nothing but more unease. Listening to them made me wonder if Edith Prier had heard something similar as her attacker approached her.

Our pace, fueled by nerves, had increased almost to a run by the time we approached the bridge over the moat at the Markhams’. The footman did not like my French, and refused to reply to any of my attempts at conversation, and I was all too glad to part company with him when we reached the château. He ducked around to the servants’ entrance, while the butler pointed me to the garden, telling me I could find his master in the direction of the maze. Thanking him, I made my way around the house to the dovecote, where I slowed as I felt a prickly sensation moving down the back of my neck. I was being watched.

I turned on my heel, but there was no one behind me. I strained to hear anything unusual, but there was only silence. No one lurked in the willows, no one jumped from the shadow of a hedge. Still, the unnerving feeling did not go away. Instead it grew stronger. Stepping closer to the dovecote, I peered with more intensity, but saw nothing. Nothing, that is, until I looked up to a small window on the top floor. A pale face watched me from above, its wide eyes lacking any warmth. It was a child—a girl—who couldn’t have yet been five years old. A blue bow peeked out from her blonde hair, and her white dress hung too big from her narrow shoulders. I stopped and stared back, our eyes locked until I jumped when a bumblebee, too interested in the flowers on my hat, flew into my face. When I looked back, she was gone.

“Hello?” I pulled open the building’s door. The interior was dark and musty, full of dust and cobwebs, broken pieces of furniture scattered across the floor. My sole response was the rustling and squeaks that could only have been caused by some sort of unwelcome creature. A tightly curving, steep staircase rose across before me, and I started for it, stepping cautiously through the debris. “Is anyone here?”

No reply came. The flap of wings announced the arrival upstairs of what might have been the descendents of the dovecote’s original occupants. Moving tentatively, I climbed the stairs, only to find an empty, dirty room. Three pigeons roosted, taking no notice of me, but I heard more scampering from below. Not eager to make the acquaintance of a pack of rodents—if it was packs in which they traveled—I clattered down the steps and pushed through the door, bursting back out into bright sunlight. Above me, the window was still vacant. I saw nothing behind its wavy old panes of glass.

I set off for the maze, my knees wobbling, my hands shaking, the image of the sad little girl—she must have been sad—seeming to hover over me. And try though I might, I could not stop from seeing her in my mind with every step I took. As I approached my destination, I saw George, dressed in a fine linen suit and studying a heavy gold pocket watch.

“That’s fourteen minutes,” he called to someone—I assumed Madeline, though I couldn’t see her—his voice booming. He was standing on tiptoe as if he could somehow make himself tall enough to see over the yew and boxwood hedge that formed the outer wall of the maze. “You’d better hurry.” He snapped the watch closed and strode in the direction of an elaborate cast-iron bench, a bright grin on his face. He hadn’t spotted me.

“Am I disturbing you?” I asked, crossing to him, an unaccountable rush of relief flowing through me.

“Emily! What a delightful surprise!” He kissed my hand. “You’ve come at a perfect time. Madeline is in the maze—I’m timing her. I took twenty-three minutes to get through. She’s bent on beating me. Would you like to try?”

“It’s been a bit of an odd morning,” I said. “I’m not sure that losing myself in a maze is quite what I need at the moment.”

“Tell me the Norman Ripper isn’t stalking you!”

“The Norman Ripper?”

“Have you a better idea of what to call him?” he asked. I felt deep creases digging into my brow. “Oh dear. I’ve caused you further distress. I’ve a terrible habit of turning to humor when I find myself upset. Do forgive me.”

I wished I could have laughed with him, but found myself wholly unable to divert my emotions. Still frightened, I swayed on my feet. George ushered me to the bench. “It is I who should apologize,” I said. “I’m a wretched visitor.”

“Not at all. Tell me, though, has something new happened or are you suffering from the memory of that poor girl?”

“Girl?” I realized he meant the murder victim, not the apparition I’d just seen. “No, it’s not that. Your thief has called on me,” I said, and recounted for him what had transpired the night before.

He listened carefully and then paused, as if considering his reply. “And does Hargreaves think this Sebastian is our murderer?”

“He’s not willing to reject any possibilities.”

Laughter coming from the maze interrupted us. “You’ve no chance of winning.” It was Madeline, her voice a singsong full of light. George reopened his watch.

“You’re going to be disappointed,” he called to her, then turned back to me. “Is there any assistance at all that I can provide?”

“Not at present,” I said. “Inspector Gaudet plans to find Sebastian.”

“And you think that buffoon can accomplish such a thing?”

“Only if he has my husband’s help.”

“Ah. Which leaves you alone to remember gruesome sights. I’m so terribly sorry, Emily,” he said, and placed a light hand on my arm. “We can’t have you feeling morbid. I shall make it my mission to entertain and distract you.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Not at all. I accept it as my moral duty. What English gentleman could do otherwise? I shall start by insisting you take tea with me. And Madeline, of course.” His voice rose. “Who has now no chance at defeating me. Perhaps together the two of you can earn bragging rights.”

Madeline appeared, stepping out from behind the tall, carefully manicured hedge. “I’m capable of timing things too, my dear,” she said. “I bested you by three and a quarter minutes.”

George laughed. “And so you have. I knew I shouldn’t let you have a watch.” He embraced her, kissed her on both cheeks, and took her hand. “Inside. We’re all in dire need of tea.”

“Have it sent out,” Madeline said. “It’s too beautiful a day to be indoors. And I’m desperate to catch up with Adèle.”

George winced as she called me by the wrong name, but quickly pasted a smile on his face. “This is Emily, darling.”

“Of course,” she said, blinking the confusion out of her eyes.

“You’d like tea outside?” George asked. She nodded. “Your wish, madame, is, as always, my command.” With a low bow, he took his leave from us, promising to return with the genial libation and generous portions of hot beignets.

Madeline, once again herself, looped her arm through mine and led me to a soft patch of lawn between the moat and a cluster of topiary pines. “My favorite spot for a picnic,” she said, lowering herself onto a large blanket already spread on the ground, books and papers and a handful of freshly picked wildflowers happily scattered across it. I joined her, still feeling troubled, my mouth dry, my skin prickling. Disturbed though I was by the murder, at the moment, the image of the little girl was causing me more distress.

“Are there any children living on the estate?” I asked, suddenly conscious of the possibility of a simple explanation. “One of the servants’, perhaps?”

“No,” Madeline said, sighing. “George and I have faced a number of…disappointments. It might appear cold, I know, but I can’t bear to have other people’s children underfoot. After my fifth…” She stopped, bit her lip hard. “One of the under gardeners had a little girl. We gave him notice because it was too painful for me to come upon her playing on the grounds.”

“I understand all too well,” I said. She asked no questions, required no explanation, but took my hand and squeezed it. “How old was she?”

“The gardener’s girl?” she asked. I nodded. “Three, maybe four.”

“Where do they live now?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We gave him an excellent reference. I’ve no doubt he easily found another position.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Ages ago,” she said. “At least six years.”

Which meant, clearly, that the little girl in the window could not have been the gardener’s daughter. I remembered what Monsieur Leblanc had told us about the ghostly child searching for a mother and shuddered, unsure why I wasn’t able to immediately dismiss what I’d seen as a silly offshoot of a ridiculous tale. But something in me, deep and instinctual, screamed to me there was more to the story.

“Gaudet has officially asked me to help him find Capet.” Colin’s dark eyes flashed serious. It was late and we were snuggled in bed, both of us reading as rain pounded the glass beyond our shutters. I was finding Madame Bovary a different book than I remembered, and credited my happy marriage with the change in my opinion. Instead of sympathizing with Emma, I found myself despising her husband and caring nothing for her. I closed the book.

“Have you lost faith in him?” I asked.

“He was on the verge of declaring the search a failure.”

“So soon?”

“He’s interviewed everyone in the village and no one admits to seeing anything suspicious. Which means, in his mind, that your friend the thief has vanished—he assumes to Paris—never to be seen again.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time Sebastian has successfully eluded the authorities. Has Gaudet contacted his counterparts in Paris?”

“Only in the most perfunctory way. He’s ready to write the whole matter off as unsolved.”

“And what about you?” I asked.

“I want to interview Capet before I start throwing around accusations,” he said. “I do hope your indefatigable friend can offer a reasonable alibi.”

“Sebastian would never kill anyone.”

“I hope you’re right. But whoever did this is not to be trifled with. He’s a brutal, twisted individual,” he said. “This is not the first time there have been rumors of the Ripper striking in France. Until I’m confident Capet is not our man, I want you to be cautious in the extreme.”

“You think there will be more murders?” I asked.

“I can’t promise you there won’t be,” he said. His words scared me. I deposited my book on the bedside table and curled up next to my husband, grateful for the safety of his arms. I didn’t believe for a second that Sebastian was capable of such brutality, but nonetheless was unsettled, and I didn’t like the feeling in the least.

7 July 1892

I can’t say I much like being scolded by my son. He was quite firm with me yesterday over this business with his wife. I ought to expect it—it’s not fair of me to test his loyalty or push him to choose me over her. I’m well aware of that. But juvenile emotions do, on occasion, get the best of all of us. I sent him off with a copy of Madame Bovary for her. As she’s spent so much time traipsing about the countryside she’s bound to recognize the setting of the book, and I hope that by choosing what might be considered a controversial title she’ll recognize I’m attempting to consider her a woman of superior intellect and modern sensibilities. Whether she deserves such accolades remains to be seen. I long to be surprised by her.

She does not eat sweetbreads.