Dangerous to Know (26 page)

“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.

Calm and focused as always, Colin paced the room, listening to our story when he returned the next day, deep lines across his forehead. His reaction appeared consistent with the myriad other times I'd seen him faced with grim news and difficult work, but something beneath the surface was different this time. His eyes did not linger on mine quite as long as they used to, and the concern with which he was treating me was identical to that he extended to his mother and Cécile—kind and compassionate, sensitive and understanding—but lacking the emotionally intimate connection we'd always shared. My stomach churned, more upset by this than the sight of poor Monsieur Vasseur's body.

“You've done good work,” he said, directing the comment to Sebastian. Monsieur Leblanc had remained behind to liaise with the police. “And accomplished more than I. We need to find the child, that's paramount now, as it's evident she's in a fair amount of danger.”

“I asked the police to send you a full report,” I said.

“Good girl,” he said, still hardly meeting my eyes. “It was a brutal day for all of you, and I think it's best we have an early night. I'll set off tomorrow for Rouen as early as possible.”

“I'm coming with you,” I said.

“We'll discuss that later,” he said. “Capet, your particular expertise may come in handy. Can I count on you?”

Sebastian rolled his head back and forth. “So long as what you'd have me do is adequately amusing I have no objection.”

“Are you going to talk to Laurent?” I asked.

“Yes,” Colin said. “And Monsieur Prier.”

“If Monsieur Myriel visited Edith regularly during the entire duration of her commitment, he can't have been Jules Vasseur,” I said. “He was in the Foreign Legion some of that time. What if Myriel had been hired to keep an eye on Edith? Her father may have wanted to ensure she wasn't in contact with Vasseur.”

“An interesting theory,” Colin said. “I'll pursue it. Now, if you ladies will excuse us, I need to speak to Mr. Capet. Emily, I'll join you upstairs shortly.”

 

Hoping for a private chat, Cécile and I had gone to my bedroom after the gentlemen left us. “It's not like him at all. He's kind, but so impersonal. I know he's furious with me.” I kept my voice low, not wanting even a hint of what I was saying to carry into the corridor. Cécile, holding her little dogs in her lap, shrugged.

“He is under great duress, Kallista, and has seen you nearly killed. Can you blame him for stepping up and taking care of you?”

“No, I can't. But it feels like more than that.”

“He's in a difficult position. Can you imagine the censure he'll face upon your return to England? The gossip that will follow him? People will say his carelessness nearly cost you your life.”

“But he did nothing wrong! I put myself in danger. He wasn't even in Constantinople at the time.”

“A husband is supposed to keep a firm hand on his wife,” she said, pulling her finger away from Brutus, who was bound and determined to bite it. “It is disgusting, of course, but can you see how him not doing that makes him appear less of a man to certain people?”

“I'd not thought of that,” I said. “But it should be the opposite—he's man enough, enlightened enough, to value my strengths, even those deemed unacceptable to society. He encourages me, spurs me on, wants me to thrive. He's not threatened by a lady's quest for independence. If anything, he's ten times the man who has to play lord and master over his wife.”

“You're right. But that's not how society views the matter. Like it or not, you can't escape the fact.” She gave a fierce glare to the still-unruly Brutus, and petted Caesar.

“Society is infuriating.”

“That may be,” she said. “Yet it's inescapable.” Brutus yipped, and I picked him up from her lap, stroking his silky fur, his tiny body warm and soft. He quieted at once. “I'm afraid he likes you, Kallista. Dreadful animal.”

“He's very sweet really,” I said.

“Don't say that within his earshot. He'll become unbearable.”

“I adore Colin,” I said, keeping hold of the little dog. “I've not meant to cause him trouble with society. But he did know when he married me I was not going to be an ordinary wife—and he swore he wouldn't want one.”

“And I'm sure that was the truth. He hadn't, however, anticipated the extent to which the situation could be complicated by including you in his work. You should think hard on it—is there a way you can satisfy your needs for intellectual stimulation and adventure without compromising his reputation?”

“His reputation shouldn't be compromised!”

“
Shouldn't
is irrelevant,” she said. “We are sadly forced to deal with the reality of the shortcomings of the fools who surround us. Unless, of course, you want to go completely eccentric and reject all of them. I'm afraid that would end up tedious. More trouble than it's probably worth.”

“Trouble?” Colin peeked through the door and then entered the room. “What sort?”

“Only the best kind, my dear Monsieur Hargreaves,” she said. “Nothing to give you the slightest concern.” She took Brutus from me, and he immediately began snapping at Caesar in her other hand. “I'll be off with these wretched creatures and shall see you both at breakfast.”

After he closed the door behind her, Colin leaned against it and crossed his arms close across his chest. “What were you thinking going to Étretat?”

“I thought Lucy might be there and couldn't let her—”

“She wasn't there, Emily, and you might have stumbled upon something far worse than another dead body. Where is the regard for your safety?”

“Sebastian was with me—”

“Yes, Sebastian. Just the sort of man I'd choose to protect you.”

“Monsieur Leblanc was there as well.”

“What a comfort. He might have been able to write you out of any predicament.”

“I wasn't in need of protection, Colin.”

“You couldn't possibly have known that before you knocked on Vasseur's door.”

“We'd been told he was living there with his family!”

“Yes, but then his lover was murdered and his daughter abducted. And you choose to go recklessly to the scene of another crime.”

“There was nothing reckless in my behavior.” Anger welled up inside me. He was not being reasonable—I'd taken precautions, I'd not gone alone. I'd involved the police.

“What you believe about the situation is irrelevant. I shan't have it repeated. From now on, your involvement in this investigation is to be limited to the discussion of evidence. No more gallivanting about.”

I was so stunned I couldn't speak, couldn't cry, couldn't even tremble. How could he speak to me like this?

“Do you understand?” he asked, after I'd sat in silence for some minutes.

“How dare you question me as if you were my father—”

“I am your husband, Emily. And I will be obeyed.”

Nothing could have wounded me more deeply than his words.

“I'm sorry to upset you, my dear,” he said, coming to me and sitting on the bed. “I love you and I'm doing my best to reconcile the conflicting emotions racing through my brain. I realize I had not expressly told you not to follow any leads you uncovered. But I'd hoped that our previous conversation would have made you give more careful consideration to what you were doing. It's not fair, perhaps, to have expected such a thing. So I shall make an effort to be more clear in the future. For now, though, we must get to the end of this case. I'm going to Rouen, and you are going to the Markhams'. They're expecting Cécile as well, if she'd like to come.”

“The Markhams'? Why on earth would you send me there?”

“I need Capet with me and I want you to have some sort of protection.”

“I'm sure your mother's house is perfectly safe.”

“Capet told me he was followed here the night he arrived to meet you. We've no idea who was pursuing him or why. And no idea, in fact, if he was the person's target. You may be, my dear. Can I risk that?”

I swallowed and shook my head.

“I do understand,” I said, my voice weak. “But it feels as if you are crushing my spirit, rejecting the very essence of me.”

“I'm not, Emily, I swear to you. I love the woman you are. We will figure our way through this, but we need to do it in circumstances less heated than those in which we're presently embroiled. When we're back in England—and we will go there, together, the instant this business is finished—we'll talk it all through, and I promise you will not be forced into a position where your talents will go unused.”

He lifted my chin so that I was looking at him.

“Truly, no woman has ever been loved as I love you,” he said. “There's nothing I wouldn't give up for you. Please trust me.”

“Of course,” I said, tears spilling down my cheeks. He kissed me, gently at first, then with an increasing urgency and heat that was irresistible. I put my arms around him and pulled him closer. His embrace enveloped me.

“Do not lose faith in me,” he whispered. “I could not bear it.”

 

I woke alone the next morning. Colin had slipped out, not wanting to disturb my sleep, leaving me with two lines of poetry on a sheet of paper placed on his pillow:

Despite the difficulties of the night, he'd managed to make me smile. I rang for Meg and directed her to begin packing my belongings as soon as she'd helped me dress. Cécile and Mrs. Hargreaves were already seated at the breakfast table when I arrived downstairs. I sank into a chair, accepted a cup of steaming tea, and put a still-warm croissant on my plate.

“I confess, Emily, to feeling a certain sadness that my household is being so disrupted by all this tragedy,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “It's a dreadful thing not to feel one's own home offers adequate protection for guests.”

“It's no fault of yours,” I said. “There's nothing more to be done. What of you, Cécile? Will you join me in exile?”

“Much as I hate to abandon you, Anne,” Cécile said. “I don't want to leave Emily with only Madeline for company.”

My mother-in-law nodded. “She's a dear girl, but not, perhaps, the best of companions given all that you've recently suffered.” I did like Madeline, but Sebastian's suggestion that she'd pushed the gardener's daughter to her death still haunted me, and I wondered if it could be true. I hated the thought of returning to the place where I'd seen the eerie specter in the dovecote, but preferred that to being shipped home by myself in what might be viewed by society as disgrace. “And at any rate,” Mrs. Hargreaves continued. “You shan't be abandoning me. I'm to come with you as well. Colin doesn't want any of us unprotected in this house.”

It was nearly four o'clock before we set off for our friends' estate, where we were greeted with great exuberance from George and Madeline. I was happy to find Madeline in a lucid state of mind, free from any hint of madness, and wished there were some way to keep her from slipping again into its bonds.

“It's a bloody disaster what's going on,” George said, crossing to us and leaving his wife to direct the servants' handling of our luggage. “But we're so pleased to have you all here. It will be an unending party. I've set up Japanese lanterns in the garden and thought we could have midnight wanderings through the maze if it's not too chilly.”

“An excellent plan,” I said. I was torn. On the one hand, I hated being cut out of the remainder of Colin's investigation. On the other, so long as I was cut out, I felt tempted to throw myself with wild abandon into vacuous pleasures. If I couldn't be useful, I might as well take full advantage of the entertainments presented to me.

“I think we should make this as extravagant as Carnival in Venice,” Cécile said. “The sooner we can push the hideous events of the past weeks from our minds the better. How much champagne do you have on hand, sir? And where is your butler? I would have him send a telegram to Moët for me.”

Before long we were all settled in pleasantly decorated bedrooms in the renovated section of the château. Cécile's and mine were adjoining, which would make for excellent late-night consultation. Mrs. Hargreaves's stood across the corridor, two doors down from that occupied by George and Madeline. Despite the size of the house, we were nestled in a cozy and friendly group.

Madeline had planned an exquisite menu for dinner, and when we were all stuffed with
côtes de veau vallée d'Auge
—the most tender veal cutlets I'd ever tasted, cooked in sweet Norman butter and doused with a creamy cider sauce—we retired to the sitting room where there was still a space on the wall for the missing Monet.

“Can't you persuade Sebastian to bring it back?” George asked. “I can't bear the room without it.”

“And I'm affronted that he no longer appreciates our taste,” Madeline said. She was happy and well-balanced, no signs of her illness tainting any facet of her personality. Her mother, however, had not joined us. She, George had told me, was in the midst of a bad spell, and was keeping to her room, where a nurse tried to calm her by reading aloud.

“I promise I shall ask him about it when next I see him,” I said. “He's off with Colin now.”

“Saving the world,” George said. “And thank heavens someone will do it. I'm not capable, but I am tired of feeling as if our little slice of paradise is tainted by these murders.”

“It's deeply unsettling,” Mrs. Hargreaves said.

“But we're not going to think about it tonight!” Madeline said. “Let's play cards until it's dark enough to light the lanterns. I've had enough of worry and misery, and now want only to enjoy the company of good friends. Do you like bezique?”