Had Edith heard the same thing? The question hung, unanswered, in the damp air. My thoughts turned to Madeline, who’d also suffered the loss of a child. Children, I corrected myself. Would she hear it as well if she were here? Had I tapped into some ethereal spirit, calling on women whose emotions bled raw? Or was I letting my pain get hold of my imagination? Perhaps Colin’s concerns possessed more validity than I’d been willing to admit. Maybe I had succumbed to wallowing, had allowed myself to be consumed for too long by the tragedies of the past.
I reached for the tarnished handles on the sashes of the window-panes and pulled them in, locking the sounds away from me. The silence was almost harder to listen to than the crying and I felt as if I might crawl out of my skin. Agitated, I opened the windows again, this time only to close the shutters outside them. But as I started, my eyes caught a flash of blue.
Across the street, falling from above the height of my room, a narrow blue ribbon danced, buoyed by the wind as it drifted to the pavement below. I opened my mouth, certain I would scream, but found myself unable to make even the slightest noise. My breath shallow, my legs heavy and unmovable, I clenched my hands in tight fists. Soon the horror of moving seemed preferable to the horror of remaining where I stood, and I managed to flee the room, rushing down the steps two at a time, nearly losing my balance as the staircase curved at each landing.
Finding Cécile took no effort—I heard her laughter coming from the sitting room, where she and Madame Prier huddled, thick as thieves, gossiping about long-forgotten acquaintances. They didn’t notice me at first when I slipped through the door, standing next to it, silent. Only when I caught a lull in their conversation did I step closer to them.
“Mon dieu!” Madame Prier said. “You’re a fright!”
“What is it, Kallista?” Cécile asked.
“I—” I stopped. Every word that came to mind fell short of what I needed.
“Heavens, you’ve that same awful look Edith used to get,” Madame Prier said. “Have I cursed you by putting you in her room?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cécile said, rising and taking me by the arm. “She needs fresh air, that’s all. Her health, you know, is not at its finest.”
I gripped my friend’s hand, wishing I could stop shaking. “I’ve pushed myself too hard, that’s all,” I said.
“Come sit outside,” Cécile said, her voice firm and unwavering. “Could you send some tea out to us?”
Madame Prier agreed at once, pulling a richly embroidered bell cord. “Would you like me to give you some privacy?” she asked.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’d very much appreciate it. Please forgive me if I’ve alarmed you.”
“It’s no problem, really,” she said. “But you’re the image of poor Edith right now.”
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered as Cécile steered me to a set of tall French doors that led to the small garden behind the house.
Our hostess waved off my concerns. “Do not let it trouble you,” she said. “But you may want to consider leaving for Paris sooner than you’d planned. I don’t think Rouen is agreeing with you.”
17
“What happened?” Cécile asked, sitting close to me on a wooden bench in the Priers’ flower-filled courtyard.
“I hardly know what to say.” With a sigh, I let the whole story rattle out.
She shook her head. “I know not where we should start. Ghosts, Kallista?”
“Inconceivable, I know.”
She patted my hand. “Too much stress, that’s all it is.”
“I don’t think so.” I stood up and walked out of the garden, Cécile close on my heels. I cut through the house and onto the street where in a matter of minutes I’d searched to no avail. There was no ribbon to be found anywhere—instead, I discovered a crumpled piece of pale blue paper. Was my mind playing tricks on me?
“I’m worried about you,” Cécile said, as we walked back to the courtyard bench. “Is it a good idea that you return to London on your own? Do you want me to come with you?”
“I don’t want to go at all. Not anymore. I feel like I’m coming close to unraveling Edith’s story.”
“You promised Colin.” She brushed a stray hair out of my face. “And it may be best for you to go. This is not a good place for rest and recovery.”
“I’m physically recovered.”
“But your emotions, Kallista. Your stay here has not helped them.”
“What am I to do? Knowing what happened to Edith is important to me.”
“We will pursue answers to the questions plaguing you until the moment we must step on the train to Paris. And then we will spend at least a week in my city, shopping and buying art and drinking champagne. And by then, you’ll have forgot all about this.”
“How could I forget Edith?” I asked.
“Well, perhaps not her,” she said. “But the rest of it.”
“I want to know what happened to her.”
“We will discover what we can. All you must do is tell me where we start.”
“With Toinette, before she leaves for Yvetot. And then Dr. Girard. You’ll like him.”
“You go to the young vixen. I shall organize a carriage to take us to the good doctor first thing tomorrow morning.”
“You’re good to indulge me, Cécile,” I said.
“I’ve yet to see the time your instinct wasn’t worth pursuing,” she replied. “Furthermore, I’ve never before had the opportunity to see a madhouse.”
Toinette had retired to her bedroom, on the floor below mine, to pack for her trip. She feigned delight at finding me at her door, and invited me to come inside. “What fun to have someone with me,” she said. “You can help me decide which of my gowns will make the best impression when I’m away. Don’t you love how wide sleeves are becoming?”
“Actually, no,” I said. “I prefer something more discreet.”
“You must be getting too old to appreciate fashion.”
I swallowed the biting remark that sprung instantly to mind. “I was hoping, Toinette, not to discuss your wardrobe but to have you tell me more about your sister. She must have confided in you from time to time.”
Toinette snorted. “Far from it. She treated me like a baby. Hardly talked to me.”
“Did you notice changes in her before she was sent away?”
“Do you mean other than her incoherent ramblings?”
“What did she talk about?”
“Nothing that made even a piece of sense. It was boring, really.” She held up a bright pink dress. “Do you like this on me?”
“The color brings out the rose in your cheeks,” I said. “Did you ever meet Monsieur Vasseur?”
“Not officially. But I saw him once, waiting for her outside.”
“Did she sneak away to see him often?”
“Oh yes. It was the only bit of her character that I really liked,” she said. “She was so moody and dull—and jealous of my high spirits. Was always tattling on me, getting me in trouble with Maman. But I admired her flair for romance.”
“Is he handsome, Monsieur Vasseur?”
“Not at all. But he looks strong, and has decent hair, I suppose. Nice blue eyes. He was wounded in some tedious battle and limped in a most embarrassing fashion. Can’t imagine he could dance. Probably would be best if he didn’t try.”
Her complete lack of sympathy grated on my nerves. “Did she plan to run away with him?”
“She absolutely did. I read all the letters planning the elopement.”
“You read them?”
“Maman keeps all the interesting books away from me. I’ve grown most proficient in steaming open envelopes.”
“What did you learn?”
“She wanted him to take her to Portugal—heaven knows why—and get married. I think she’d got herself in a spot of trouble.”
“Did your parents know about this?”
“My mother has perfected the art of ignoring anything unpleasant. My father is
confident no one would disobey his orders. So no, they suspected nothing.”
“And what did your brother think of all this?”
“Laurent? He wanted to kill Monsieur Vasseur. Especially when he heard the man had left the Foreign Legion.”
“And you know this how?” I recalled Laurent’s surprise when I told him Vasseur had given up his life in uniform.
“He’d hired a detective to follow Monsieur Vasseur. I read all the reports.”
“What else did they say?”
“Unfortunately, not much of interest. He left Indochina or some other dreadful malaria-ridden place and showed up in Marseilles. That was the last dispatch from the detective. Disappointing, I thought.”
“Did your sister ever ask for your help?”
“Never. All she did was scold me.”
“Tell me about her descent into madness.”
“We’re a decent family, Lady Emily. We fall apart behind closed doors. When she refused to accept that my father would not let her marry Monsieur Vasseur, she was exiled to her room. She wasn’t permitted downstairs even to dine.”
“How long did this go on?”
“Several months until she was sent away.”
“Do you have any idea if she saw Monsieur Vasseur during this time?”
“Do you really think my dear parents let me interact with her once she’d become so…undesirable? I wasn’t even allowed to speak to her,” she said. “I couldn’t go near her room.”
“I find it hard to believe that stopped you,” I said. “You don’t seem a person who’s easily daunted.”
“The compliment is much appreciated. But the truth is, I had no interest in talking to her. Reading the letters she sent was diverting enough, but Laurent was the only one of us who could tolerate her once she got dotty.”
“Tell me about their relationship.”
“They were inseparable until Monsieur Vasseur came on the scene. Laurent didn’t like losing his dearest friend to a man he viewed as unworthy.”
“Did you have any contact with Edith while she was under Dr. Girard’s care?”
“None. My father wouldn’t have stood for it. I think he was afraid her condition might be contagious, spread even through letters.”
“Did this trouble you?”
“As I said, we were never close, Lady Emily. I can’t say that I missed her at all. And frankly it was a relief to not have to hear her ramblings. Does that sound cruel?”
“Perhaps, but it’s honest.”
“Madness is at first tragic for those who love the victim, but it soon turns into a burden. My sister was lost to me long before she was sent away. And once she was gone, my life opened up. I wasn’t allowed to be out at the same time as her, you see. My parents wanted her married first.”
“It must have disappointed you when your father deemed Monsieur Vasseur an unsuitable suitor.”
“I wasn’t happy about it.”
“Did you ever consider helping your sister to be with him?”
“And go against my parents’ wishes?” Toinette’s expression lacked any hint of being genuine. “I’d never dream of such a thing.”
The next morning, Cécile and I skipped breakfast in favor of an early start. The drive to the asylum had been uneventful, and the nurse I’d seen before again greeted us at the door and led us to the office at the end of the corridor.
“I feel no surprise at seeing you again,” the doctor said, standing as we entered the room. “I know I did not send you away yesterday satisfied.”
I introduced Cécile. “I am most impressed with your facility,” she said. “As a dear friend of Madame Prier’s, I know it must have given her comfort to know her daughter was so well looked after while she was here.”
“I’m only sorry Edith didn’t stay with us,” he said.
“Did you have any reason to believe she’d try to escape?” I asked.
“I’m not sure ‘escape’ is even the proper word. She wasn’t locked up or restrained. I wouldn’t have encouraged her to walk out the front door if I’d seen her try, but it’s not as if she was a prisoner.”
“Why do you think she wanted to leave?”
“I couldn’t possibly say.” He didn’t look at me as he replied.
“You told us she had a gentleman who visited her regularly. Was she romantically involved with him?”
“I’m terribly sorry, Lady Emily. But unless her family has specifically instructed me to reveal the details of Mademoiselle Prier’s case, I cannot tell you anything more.”
Cécile and I had come prepared. She passed the doctor a letter from Madame Prier—she’d convinced her to write it while I had talked to Toinette. He read it, folded it, creasing the edges with care, and rubbed his eyes. “I can assure you there was nothing romantic between Edith and the man who called himself Myriel.”
“We know Edith was with child,” I said, leaning forward.
He sat, motionless.
“Laurent Prier told us the whole story.”
No reply.
“Did Edith Prier flee because of what you did to her?” I asked.
Now he moaned. “She ran because of what I did, yes, but it’s not what you think. Not if you’ve talked to Laurent.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t do what he asked of me. I couldn’t bring myself to harm the child. But all of that is irrelevant now. And it doesn’t pertain to Edith’s case, not so far as her family is concerned. I know what I’ve done, and it’s something from which I won’t be able to escape for the rest of my life. But it isn’t any concern of yours.”
“It is if what you did directly or indirectly led to Edith’s murder,” I said.
“I’m in the business of saving lives, not ending them, Lady Emily. Understand that and you’ll know my guilt, though heavy, is not what Laurent told you.”
18
I mulled over Dr. Girard’s words as our carriage wound its way back along the river towards the bustle of Rouen. If his business was saving lives, and he hadn’t done what Laurent asked, what had become of the child he claimed not to have harmed? My head was throbbing with questions by the time we reached the Priers’. I looked at Cécile and sighed as we alighted from the carriage.
“I’m not looking forward to this evening.”
“I could not agree more,” she said. “But perhaps tonight will be better than the others we’ve spent here. We may even be able to convince Toinette to stop talking.”
And so laughter flowed from me as we entered the sitting room. Laughter that turned to ebullient joy when I saw my darling husband waiting for me. He rushed over and scooped me up in his arms.
“I came here with Gaudet this morning to follow up on a lead and couldn’t resist seeing you before you leave for Paris,” he said.
“I’m so pleased,” I said, kissing his cheek. Cécile, giving me a knowing look, exited in search of Madame Prier.
“I missed you,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have sent me away.”
“How are you enjoying Rouen?”
“It’s been beyond fascinating,” I said, and briefed him on all I’d learned about Edith. I did not, however, go into the details of my own ghostly tinglings.
“Girard must have let Edith have the baby and then sent it somewhere. It’s no surprise a man of medicine wouldn’t want to have helped things along, as Laurent told you.” Colin tapped his fingers on his knee. “Who would have taken the child?”
“You agree the baby’s still alive?”
“I do. Think on it. Edith discovers she’s with child. Her brother wants her sent away so the situation can be dealt with, one way or another. The good doctor isn’t willing to do what Laurent wants, but knows he can hide the birth—Laurent was the only one visiting—and send the baby somewhere safe.”
“Of course.” I looked at him. “We have to find the baby.”
“It could be anywhere—years have passed.”
“Edith escaped because she
wanted to find it. She must have got in contact with Vasseur somehow. He left the Foreign Legion, came for her, and they went in search of their child. And the mission led to her brutal death.”
“It makes more sense than a random killing,” Colin said.
“Does it make more sense than thinking the Ripper’s come to France?”
“At the moment I’m inclined to say yes. Random violence is rare, and although the manner of Edith’s death is reminiscent of the Whitechapel murders, it may be that whoever killed her was deliberately copying his more famous colleague to set the police on the wrong track.”
“A theory not originally your own, if I recall.” I smiled. “So what will you do?”
“We can’t discount the possibility the murderer has come over from England. But this information of yours makes me want to change tactics.”
“New tactics that perhaps don’t require shipping me off to London?”
“So long as there’s no evidence of a madman marauding through Normandy in search of prey, I think I should be able to keep you safe. But are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go home? Or to Paris with Cécile?”
“It’s as if you don’t know me at all,” I said. “Can you possibly believe I’d rather be anywhere than with you? I’d be so happy I wouldn’t even object to you keeping me safe.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Shall I convince you?” I asked. After a brief and extremely pleasant pause, we returned to the matter at hand. “Do you think Edith knew where the child had been sent?”
“We’re going to have to question Girard again. My guess would be that she didn’t—there would be too great a risk of her trying to get in contact. But it’s possible the baby hadn’t been sent far.”
“He could have easily sent it out of the country.”
“True, but let’s suppose someone—perhaps this man who visited her—told Edith where the child was. She escaped and wound up dead within a reasonable drive of Rouen.”
“So you draw the conclusion that she’d gone as far as she needed to find the child?” I asked. “She might have only just begun her journey.”
Dangerous to Know Page 15
