Dangerous to Know

by Tasha Alexander

  “Nor did I and I am filled with dread and horror.”

  “You must tell me what happened!”

  “First, Dominique is exhibiting behavior most alarming. She told me that she’s growing concerned about you—that you remind her so much of her daughter in the days before she fell ill.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me!”

  “Bien sûr,” Cécile said. “Any fool can see that. But she’s decided that your interest in Edith’s death is indicative of you losing your mind. She admitted to having tracked your whereabouts in the house these past days, and that she’s asked Laurent to spy on you.”

  “Why on earth would she do such a thing? Even if she did have reason to think I was going mad?”

  “It’s a ruse, chérie. Perhaps there’s something in this house she doesn’t want you to uncover. I’m not sure, but it’s unsettling me. Edith is dead and will stay that way no matter what you learn.”

  “Madame Prier can’t hurt me, even if she’d like Laurent to scare me off.” I told her what had happened in the attic.

  “Ridiculous,” she said. “But you must have been terrified. Don’t try to deny it—you’re still pale. What do you hope to find here?”

  “Anything Edith’s written,” I said. “Diaries, letters, whatever there is.”

  “Those won’t lead us to the child. I think it’s time to enlist the further help of Monsieur Leblanc. He may have journalistic contacts who could offer assistance.”

  I nodded. “An excellent suggestion, Cécile. But I must ask if you’d be so keen to reconnect with him if he weren’t so handsome?”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t say handsome. Dashing, perhaps. But he is, without question, far too young to be intriguing.”

  “I shall get in touch with him first thing tomorrow morning,” I said as the door swung open and Colin strode into the room.

  “How pleasant to find you both here,” he said. He kissed Cécile’s hand and my cheek. “Reminds me of long-ago afternoons in your library at Berkeley Square.” The house where I’d lived with my first husband proved an excellent place for me in the years following his death, and Colin and I had spent many happy hours in the library there.

  “Those were lovely days,” I said.

  “Idyllic,” he said.

  “Did you find Monsieur Prier?” I asked.

  “I did indeed,” Colin said. He pulled a flask of whisky from his jacket and poured a single finger into both of the glasses on the table near our fireplace. Cécile relieved him of one of them at once and he took a swig from the other before handing it to me. “He spends his evenings happily ensconced with his mistress and her daughter. They live not half a mile from this house.”

  “How old is the daughter?” I asked.

  “Just the right age to be the child whose presence has tormented you.”

  “Did you confront the father?”

  “The doting father,” he said. “I did and he was entirely nonplussed to find me shocked by the situation.”

  “It is not, Monsieur Hargreaves, uncommon to find men in such situations,” Cécile said. “Do tell me you’re not naïve enough to believe otherwise.”

  “No, no,” Colin said, sipping quickly from his flask. “It was his brazen attitude that surprised me. His wife knows about the child.”

  “And what does she think?” I asked.

  “She ignores the situation except at Christmas when she sends a heap of presents to the girl.”

  “Extraordinary behavior for a spurned wife.” I drained my whisky, cringing as it stung my throat.

  “Not extraordinary in the least for a doting grand-mère,” Cécile said.

  I dropped my head into my hands, almost laughing. “No—”

  “It’s possible,” Colin said.

  “Et tu?” I asked. “You’re supposed to be my pillar of reason!”

  “Think on it, Emily—the doctor would have felt no compunction whatsoever at turning the baby over to Prier.”

  “It’s far too convenient,” I said.

  “Not every question has a complicated, interesting solution,” he said.

  “Kallista, you’re coming over all rational,” Cécile said. “I’m not sure I like it.”

  “I wish I could say I’d always been rational, but you both seem amused enough already. I have, however, learned something in these past years. The answer might not be complicated or interesting or even seemingly significant, but it’s almost never so easy. Can we interview the mistress? Her friends? It’s a pity there’s no way to prove whether she’s the baby’s mother.”

  “Diverting though this speculation is, I must confess to having tested Monsieur Prier’s knowledge of Edith’s condition as obliquely as I could,” Colin said. “He didn’t say anything extraordinary, and certainly nothing that suggested he was aware of being a grandfather. I think we must assume the mistress’s child is, in fact, his.”

  I couldn’t argue, but it felt all wrong. I had to find out what happened to Edith’s daughter.

  The following morning, long before Cécile was awake, Colin and I set off to see Monsieur Leblanc, who had taken a room at a nearby tavern. Cécile, perhaps bent on proving she had no interest in the writer, had decided the night before not to join us. The tavern was a lively place, crowded from the moment it opened, its patrons friendly and open, engaged in each other’s lives. We inquired after our friend, and were directed to a pretty serving girl who went upstairs to alert him of our arrival.

  “I have been productive, mes amis,” he said, shaking Colin’s hand with youthful vigor as he joined us at our table. “The Priers are a bizarre family whose reach goes beyond Rouen. Lesser branches inhabit nearly every corner of Normandy and half of Brittany. Their poorest relations, however, are our own friends—your mother’s neighbors.”

  “The Markhams?” I asked; he nodded and sat next to my husband.

  “Madame Prier is of the same generation as Madeline’s mother,” he said. “They’re faraway cousins.”

  “Which makes Madeline and Edith…” I stumbled over the genealogy.

  “Some manner of relative not quite distant enough for Madame Prier,” he said. “It’s not entirely shocking when you consider the madness that plagues both branches of the family.”

  “But the Markhams aren’t poor,” I said.

  “The money is all George’s. Madeline’s great-great-grandfather was worse than a prodigal child. Gambled away what little money he had, but married decently because of his parents’ reputation. Eventually, his antics became notorious—illegitimate children, unpaid debts, a spectacularly undistinguished career in the army that resulted in him accidentally killing one of his friends. At last his father had enough and disowned him. Without the allowance to which he’d become accustomed, the château gradually fell into disrepair.”

  “So how did Madeline’s mother come to be in the family seat?” I asked.

  “No one else wanted it after two more generations of neglect. When she married Breton, a complete reprobate, they needed somewhere to live and had little choice but the old house. He treated her abominably until he was killed in a duel two months before their daughter was born. It’s not surprising the woman’s unbalanced,” he said.

  “It’s more than that,” I said. “It’s hereditary—Madeline’s showing symptoms as well. And if Madame Prier knew of the family history—which, according to Dr. Girard, she did—she would have been horrified to see signs of the disease in Edith.”

  “Do the families know of the connection?” Colin asked.

  “Madame Prier didn’t admit to the relation when Cécile and I spoke to her about the Markhams. All she did was make it clear she disliked Madeline’s mother.”

  “So far as I can tell, there’s been no interaction between them at all,” Monsieur Leblanc said.

  “That’s not necessarily unusual,” Colin said. “Relatives are not obligated to like each other.”

  “Bien sûr,” he said.

  “But the murder
,” I said. “Edith. Neither Madeline nor George showed any signs of recognition at her name.”

  “It’s entirely possible they never knew her,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “Madame Prier, certainly, had no interest in pursuing any sort of acquaintance. I found the obituary written when her father died. It includes an exhaustive list of surviving family members—more cousins than I could count—but there’s no mention of Madeline’s mother.”

  “Have you had any thoughts as to Monsieur Myriel’s identity?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately not,” he said. “You did an excellent job querying the villagers. I don’t see what more we can do. Myriel is a dead end.” This struck me as an odd comment from a journalist—surely he would have faced equally difficult searches before and not backed down so quickly. “I don’t mean to frustrate you, of course, but it might be more profitable to try to locate Vasseur.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Colin said. “You will, of course, make us aware of anything you learn?”

  “Of course,” Monsieur Leblanc said.

  “I don’t think it’s wise to entirely abandon our search for Myriel,” I said. “But I do want to learn more about the familial connection between the Markhams and the Priers. Brace yourself, my dear husband. I’ve a sudden and mad desire to return to your mother’s house.”

  18 July 1892

  Colin left for Rouen with Inspector Gaudet on business, and subsequently wired to say he was staying over with his wife who is no longer being shipped back to England. Well done, Emily, I say. I can’t say I approve of the idea of husbands packing their wives off whenever situations grow difficult.

  She’s sharper than I thought. I’m duly impressed with this Greek work of hers and would like to assist in furthering her intellectual development. There’s a flair to her translation—she clearly has an ear for poetry and storytelling. I wonder if she would be suitable for introduction to my friends in the Women’s Liberal Federation. We’ve never discussed politics.

  Heaven help me if she turns out to be a Tory.

  23

  Colin and I took the earliest possible train back to Yvetot. Cécile, who needed additional time to pack and organize her affairs, planned to join us as soon as she could in the next day or so. When we appeared on her doorstep, Mrs. Hargreaves’s face betrayed little emotion. She gave her son a perfunctory embrace and nodded at me before continuing on her way into the garden, where, judging from the basket she held, she planned to pick raspberries or whatever other fruit she might find her bushes laden with. Undaunted, I pressed my reticule into Colin’s hand.

  “Take this upstairs for me, would you?” I asked. “I’ve some questions for your mother.”

  “Would you like me to come with you?”

  “No,” I said. “But thank you. It’s time I faced her on my own. I can’t let her run roughshod over me forever.”

  “I love you,” he said and gave me a kiss before sending me off in the direction of a brambly sort of patch where the lady of the house was hard at work. She snapped to attention as I stepped near her, and scowled as I began picking the swollen raspberries and depositing them in her ready basket. I said nothing for several minutes, occasionally popping a berry into my mouth and delighting in its sweetness.

  “Are they always this good?” I asked.

  “I would tolerate nothing less,” she said.

  “I’m sorry you find me so disappointing,” I said. “But at the moment, I must beg you to put aside your disdain and help me.”

  She didn’t look at me, only continued her work. “You should finish your translation of The Odyssey.”

  This stopped me dead.

  “Homer?”

  “Don’t be daft,” she said. “Of course Homer.”

  “Homer?”

  “How long do you plan to stand there repeating yourself?” She pulled the fruit too forcefully from a branch, and, seeing it was smashed, flung it to the ground. “Colin gave me what you’ve done so far thinking I might want to read it, and I was impressed—although I will admit my Greek is not what it should be.”

  “You read the bits I’ve translated?” My mouth hung open stupidly.

  “You’ve a decent mind, Emily, and you’re wasting it playing detective.”

  “But I like it,” I said before I could stop myself.

  “The pursuit of relentless hedonism rarely leads to anything good,” she said. I dropped another handful of raspberries into her basket. “My son does tell me you’re good at it. Detecting, that is, not hedonism.”

  “He’s far too generous with his praise—”

  “Don’t play with me, child. I’ve no interest in false modesty. I holed myself up here because I couldn’t cope with my husband’s death. It was inevitable, I knew, from the day I met him. Until we married, I lived as you do—following whatever interested me at the moment. It becomes more difficult when you’re a wife, harder still when the children start coming.”

  I swallowed, bracing myself for what I knew must come next, but she shook her head.

  “There’s a way in which I’m jealous of you, Emily. Your tragedy has given you time,” she said. “Time with my son, time for your intellectual pursuits. I was perhaps too quick to dismiss your accomplishments. Your first husband raved to me about your incomparable beauty, and I confess I had not expected to find much in you beyond that, whatever Colin said.”

  “Philip barely knew me,” I said.

  “And here you have another chance…” her voice trailed. “I cannot imagine such a thing. Do not squander it by running about in search of mystery. Study Greek. Write. Read poetry.”

  “Those are all things you could do, too,” I said. “I cannot imagine how much you miss your—”

  “That’s correct, you can’t,” she said, her voice momentarily sharp. “Don’t bother to try.”

  I bit my tongue, sorry to have upset her, and redirected the conversation. “You said your Greek’s not what it could be. Let me help you—I’m no expert, but I know enough to guide us through. We could study together.”

  “Together?”

  “I’ll give you a passage to work on tonight.”

  “Tonight?” She paused for a moment, looking at me quizzically. “I’m not sure about this, but I’m willing to try.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “You don’t have to like me, Mrs. Hargreaves, but we do need to at least come to a point where we can tolerate each other.”

  “Tolerate?” She laughed. “We’ll see about that. But I do find your idea worth some consideration. Get me a passage, and we’ll see where it takes us.” She stood, quiet and still, until a stiff breeze blew the ribbons fastening her bonnet up to her face. “I don’t think you followed me out here to clasp my hand in friendship. What brings you back to me?”

  “Given the terror I’ve typically felt in your presence, you know it must be important.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “Impress me.”

  “Madeline Markham is related to Edith Prier. Did you know that?”

  “No, although I had heard rumors that Madeline’s mother wasn’t the only one in the family to lose her mind.”

  “How much do you know of Madeline’s madness?”

  “Only what I’ve observed and what Colin’s told me. He and I frequently discuss his work. He misses obvious clues sometimes, you know.”

  “Does he?” I blinked. “Do tell.”

  “You’ll have to discover his flaws on your own,” she said.

  “Fair enough,” I said, smiling. “But have you heard any further rumors about the family? About Madeline’s…inability to have a child?”

  “Ah, she told you, did she? Terrible for George, of course. No doubt he wishes he’d made a better choice of bride, though he does love her, heaven help him.”

  “What do people say about them?” I strained to ignore my own feelings of inadequacy.

  “The whole village knows her mother’s feebleminded,” she said. “And it’s no secret that Madeline can’t produce an hei
r—and that this failing of hers has taken its toll on her soul. She ran off one of their gardeners because she couldn’t stand the sight of his daughter.”

  “I’ve heard the story,” I said. “What can you tell me about the girl? Did you ever see her?”

  “Oh yes. She was a beautiful child. Long silvery hair, the color of moonlight, always with a ribbon in it.”

  “Blue?” I asked.

  “Blue? I suppose sometimes. I can’t say I paid much attention. I used to see her when I drove through the village. She liked to play near the boulangerie.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I think she fell ill. Her father passes through once in a while—has an aunt in service at another house in the neighborhood. But he never brings the child.”

  “Were there ever any stories that she’d died?”

  “Died?” Her basket was nearly full. She stopped picking and sat on a stone bench a few feet from the berry patch. “I don’t think so. It’s possible, of course. You know how delicate children can be. But other than Madeline wanting desperately for the girl to be gone, there wasn’t any interesting gossip wafting about. At least not that I’ve heard.”

  “How well do you know Madeline?”

  “She’s charming when she’s herself. A predictable sort, but affable enough. When she’s in the midst of one of her spells…well. It’s disconcerting.”

  “How desperate is she to have a child? Did she ever speak to you about it?”

  “People don’t discuss such things.”

  “They do when they’re lonely and afraid and have no one but a kind neighbor in whom they can confide.”

  “Not here, they don’t. Nor anywhere I’ve ever lived. There’s no question Madeline was crushed after all her disappointments. Who wouldn’t be? There were times I feared she would succumb to a more rapid decline than her mother’s journey into illness.”

  “Don’t you think she has?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “But her periods of lucidity are still sharp and frequent enough for me to hope she’ll have a better outcome.”

  “Please tell me the truth.”