Dangerous to Know

by Tasha Alexander

  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 anyon
e.”

  “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.

  6

  The situation began to deteriorate from the moment we awoke the next morning. A gnawing feeling in my stomach disturbed me soon after the sun rose, far earlier than I would have liked. I pulled on a soft dressing gown, threw open the shutters covering our bedroom windows, and watched a fine mist begin to lose its struggle with the light making its way through rapidly thinning clouds. Colin, who’d got up before me, stalked out of his dressing room almost as soon as he’d entered it. He was holding a note, from Sebastian, of course. It had been placed on top of the shoes he’d worn the day before and contained a brief message:

  So sorry we couldn’t chat this evening.

  I understand you’re looking for me.

  My husband, usually all calmness and composure, turned ever so slightly red as he pressed the paper into my hand. “He was here again last night.”

  I sighed. “It’s so very Sebastian.”

  “He needs to stop.” I started to speak but he did not allow it. “Not, Emily, because I’m jealous or because I believe he’s a murderer. But he’s a person of interest in this investigation, and the sooner he presents himself with an alibi, the less chance he’ll have of being guillotined for the crime.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “I don’t mean to be harsh, my dear, but Sebastian’s games are not of use to anyone right now—particularly himself.”

  “What can we do?” I asked.

  “Eventually we shall have to find him.” He tucked a small notebook into his jacket packet, smoothed his lapels, and ran a hand through his thick hair. “He’s unlikely to have gone far. He doesn’t want to be away from you.”

  “How do we begin?”

  “We don’t. Not now anyway. I’ve got to meet Gaudet. Scotland Yard have asked for some details pertaining to the murder. If it’s the Ripper, clues from this crime might be instrumental in catching him.”

  “What’s your opinion?”

  “I would have expected him to keep to cities, given his methods so far. If—and it’s a big if—we’re dealing with the perpetrator of the Whitechapel murders, I’d be stunned if he’d chosen to stake out new territory in the countryside.”

  “Is there anything at all I can do to help?” I asked.

  “No. You’ve nothing to worry about today beyond amusing yourself.” Kissing me hard on the mouth, he said good-bye and headed down the stairs. I followed and watched from the landing above. His mother was calling to him, but he didn’t stop to reply; the front door thudded closed before the footman had time to realize he should have been there to open it in the first place.

  Not wanting to draw my mother-in-law’s attention, I slipped back into the bedroom and rang for Meg to help me into a riding habit. I had no intention of staying in the house on my own until Cécile had awoken. After my maid was finished, I adjusted the smart tie and smoothed the snug jacket—single-breasted and cut like a gentleman’s—then tugged at my collar. I was nearly ready to go when Mrs. Hargreaves appeared in my dressing room without so much as knocking.

  “Planning to escape, are you?” Her tone suggested a joke, but her eyes were severe. “A man purporting to be an acquaintance of yours is here. Maurice Leblanc? You’d best deal with him before you leave.”

  “Of course,” I said, my voice low.

  “He’s an attractive man.” Judgment dripped from her voice. “Extremely young. Can’t be much older than you.”

  Anger bubbled in my chest and my face flushed hot. I bit my lip, holding back a sharp retort. But then I felt a calm come over me. I narrowed my eyes and returned her stare. “What are you suggesting, Belle-mère?” I’d still not found a comfortable way to address her directly. The French term for mother-in-law popped into my head and seemed, in my current state, an excellent, if ironic, choice.

  For the first time, she met my gaze with an evenness, a look of respect. A look that disappeared almost as soon as her face started to relax into it. She closed her eyes, pulled her shoulders back, and drew herself to her full height. “I don’t deign to make suggestions.”

  “Then I suppose all I can do is thank you for alerting me to Monsieur Leblanc’s arrival.” I swished past her, my heart pounding. I half expected her to eject me from the house. My eyes burned and my throat stung as I fought back tears, not wanting her to see the frailty of my straining emotions. And then, all at once, the calmness returned. “You’re welcome to join us in the sitting room,” I said, looking back to throw her a smooth smile. “He’s quite a delightful gentleman.”

  She did not respond. I considered this a small victory in what was bound to be a most protracted battle. Which was unfortunate. It seemed, perhaps, that mothers and I simply did not get on. It took me several tries before I located the sitting room in which my friend waited. No servants stepped forward to assist me, and I wasn’t about to ask for more details from my mother-in-law.

  Monsieur Leblanc was on his feet the instant he saw me. I motioned for him to sit, and took a place across from him, a low, marble-topped table between his chair and my settee.

  “I’ve become morbidly obsessed with this murder of yours,” he said.

  “Please don’t call it mine.”

  “Edith Prier has a fascinating history. She wasn’t some pauper left to rot in an asylum. She came from a well-respected and wealthy family.”

  “Should that make her more or less interesting to me?” I asked.

  “More, I think. Given that her family had her committed and then all but forgot her.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “There are scores of odd rumors about her brother. Her twin brother.” He frowned. “Something is rotten in all this.”

  I laughed. “You, monsieur, are obviously an excellent writer of fiction. Perhaps you could combine this crime with our gentleman thief and concoct a truly superb story.”

  “You’re not interested at all?”

  “On the contrary, I am. But I’ve promised my husband…” The words trailed.

  “I do hope, monsieur, you are not setting up a romantic assignation.” Cécile, looking radiant and extremely well rested, glided into the room, Caesar and Brutus trailing behind her. She stood in front of our guest, who had risen to kiss her hand.

  “Far from it, I assure you.” His eyes lingered on her just long enough to prove his statement true. “But if I may be so bold as to compliment your own beauty and grace—”

  “You may not,” she said, patting his arm and sitting next to me.

  “I shall content myself to admiring you from a distance, then.”

  “C’est
bien,” Cécile said. “I anticipate it with great pleasure. But do realize, sir, that I have firm policies, and am absolutely set in my belief that no man below the age of forty can be anything that even begins to approach fascinating.”

  “I wouldn’t dare presume…” he began, but she waved him off.

  “Enough,” she said. “Tell me what you’ve been discussing.” In a few sleek sentences, he described for her his interest in Edith Prier.

  “Gaudet said her family is near here,” I said. “Do you know them?”

  Monsieur Leblanc shook his head. “Not personally, no. Their manor is one of the finest houses in Normandy, and their wealth is enormous. They’ve also a house in Rouen, and that’s where they are now. Madame Prier was the toast of Paris before her husband brought her to the country, and she’s done much to bring culture to what she calls la nature sauvage. Hires musicians and actors from Paris to perform for her.”

  “This sounds far too familiar. Is she called Dominique Prier? Née Moreau?” Cécile asked.

  “The same.”

  “I remember her. We came into society at the same time and were fast friends in that fleeting way girls are before they’re married. She was charming, if more than a little eccentric. I’d completely lost track of her. I shall have to call and offer condolences.”

  “I suppose that asking why the family didn’t visit Edith in the asylum would not be appropriate on such an occasion?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.

  “Non, monsieur, it would not be.” Cécile shot him the firm sort of look she reserved for unsuitable suitors, but the glint in her eyes suggested she was not wholly uninterested. Encouraged, he pressed on, flirting with her shamelessly.

  When Mrs. Hargreaves joined us a few minutes later, the conversation moved to a discussion of household staff, and I took the first opportunity to excuse myself and go off in search of my favorite horse. I didn’t want to ride outside the bounds of the estate, so kept within the walls, but the exercise was nonetheless refreshing. The misty rain had stopped, but the air retained a heavy coolness, making it feel more like early spring than summer when I dipped beneath shady trees. I’d then emerge in sunlight again and bask in its warmth. I continued in this manner, tracing the circumference of the stone walls, until I spotted something out of place.