I wished I had Colin’s identification papers.
“If your friend is missing, madame,” said the officer condescending to speak to us, “you may file a report.”
“You know of the murder of Edith Prier, I’m sure,” I said. “This is her…her lover, or possibly her husband—”
“You were her friend yet you don’t know if she was married? I’m afraid I cannot help you.”
Sebastian stood back, rigid and quiet. I don’t think he enjoyed being in a police station.
“I’m disappointed in you,” I said, as we left the building. “I thought you’d be able to brilliantly manipulate the men who uphold the law.”
“I don’t like to draw attention to myself,” he said. “I prefer to go completely unnoticed.”
“I’d do the opposite,” I said. “I’d befriend them. Maybe join them. Know thy enemy, Sebastian. Keep them close and they’ll never suspect you.”
“I’m impressed, Kallista.”
“It’s an excellent idea,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “Imagine a master criminal who, while in disguise, convinces the police to hire him to search for himself. You should write fiction, Lady Emily.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t carry it off,” I said.
“I believe you could,” Cécile said. “But what is our plan now? Shall we go door to door in search of Vasseur?”
“That would take too long,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “Let’s think about what he would have needed when they came—somewhere to stay—we can check the hotels—”
“Have you any idea how many there are in a resort like this?” Sebastian said.
“It’s not a large town,” I said, refusing to be daunted. “And we can see if there are any houses for rent, or houses that have recently been rented. And we can talk to the physician in town, who might have been aware of the child.”
“Shall we divide and conquer?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.
“No,” I said. “Whoever murdered Edith and Dr. Girard wouldn’t hesitate to put a stop to what we’re doing. We’ll be safer together.”
“Have you any suggestions, Monsieur Leblanc?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked. “You do, after all, live here. To whom would you refer friends in search of lodgings?”
“It’s difficult to say. Holidaymakers are one thing—there are plenty of hotels for them,” he said. “But if Vasseur was looking for a home, he could have wound up anywhere.”
“So you’ve no way to narrow the field?” she asked, looking at him with a critical eye.
He could not, he apologized, offer any further ideas. So we set off, ready to interview the entire town if necessary. In the course of the afternoon, we spoke to more people than I could count, most of them friendly and helpful, but all, sadly, without information that aided our search. One woman did remember seeing a girl of Lucy’s description, walking on the cliff path with her mother, but her recollection was not clear, and she never saw the child again.
After several hours of this, Cécile demanded a break, and we stopped at a café housed in a rambling fifteenth-century mass of timber and plaster, full of elaborate wooden carvings of animals and figures and ordered cold glasses of good Norman cider. Mrs. Hargreaves was particularly taken with the image of a salamander, while Cécile preferred some sort of bird. As Sebastian and Monsieur Leblanc started to add their opinions, frustration filled me.
“Maybe coming here was a mistake,” I said.
“Étretat is never a mistake,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “We can walk on the cliff path.”
“I need to find Lucy,” I said. “We don’t have time to play tourist. I’m sorry—I don’t mean to sound snappish, but I’m deeply concerned about her.”
“Of course you are,” she said. “But think on it. A child who’d been brought here would want to play on the beach. Perhaps some of the vendors on the boardwalk will remember her.”
“An excellent idea,” I said. We set off as soon as we’d paid the bill. The day was a brilliant one, the sunlight scattering over the choppy waves of the sea, the sky crisp, the air warm. The beach was only a few blocks from the café, and Mrs. Hargreaves’s suggestion was an excellent one—lines of carts and stands filled the area nearby, their owners hawking ices, crêpes, creamy caramels, and every other sort of sweet imaginable.
Lucy, it seemed, had little interest in ice cream. Or caramels. But when we reached our fifth crêpe stand, operated by a short gentleman in a striped sailor-type shirt and a jaunty beret, hope filled my heart.
“A girl you say?” he asked.
“Yes, about six years old. Her mother’s about my size and build, with similar hair? Lucy’s blond. Her father used to be in the Foreign Legion and has bright blue eyes.”
“The Legion? Yes, I think I remember them. He was in Indochina, wasn’t he? New to the area, renting a ramshackle house on the hill.” He gestured at the cliff behind us. “Don’t remember anything striking about his eyes, though. The little girl had ones like that, bluer than anything I’d ever seen. She liked lemon on her crêpes, with butter and sugar.”
“Do you know which house?” I asked.
“Not sure, madame, sorry,” he said. “Talk to the owner of the Hôtel La Résidence. He assists nearly everyone in town looking for a long-term stay.”
We thanked him and darted to the Hôtel, where we quickly found the proprietor.
“Oh, yes, the Myriels, bien sûr,” he said. “They were in the Guerlot Cottage. I can give you directions if you wish, but I’ve not seen them for months. Madame’s health was not so good and her husband wanted to take her back to Paris.”
His map, though hastily drawn, proved easy to follow, and soon we stood in front of the small house in which Edith and Jules had tried to make a home with their daughter. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. Not wasting any time, Sebastian started to work on the lock, and it clicked open almost at once.
“The place has undoubtedly been rented to someone else,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “So let’s proceed with caution. We could be discovered at any moment.”
He was correct. The rooms were full of evidence that the cottage was occupied by a family visiting the seaside: postcards strewn on a table waited to be addressed, the kitchen was stocked with food, and the bedroom wardrobes were full of clothing.
Sebastian darted through the rooms, his eyes sharp and bright. Mrs. Hargreaves and Cécile, both uneasy at the thought of being discovered, stayed near the front door, watching as the rest of us searched, not knowing what to look for. I started to move more methodically than I had done on first entering the place, carefully looking over every inch of the rooms. Then, in the corridor between the bedrooms, something struck me, and I called for Sebastian.
“Something’s wrong here,” I said.
He pressed his hands along the plaster, which I’d noticed was a slightly different color from that in the rest of the hallway. “It’s newer,” he said. “Shall we look inside?”
I hesitated, unsure if destroying the wall was a good idea. Monsieur Leblanc arrived on the scene, quickly followed by Mrs. Hargreaves and Cécile. My mother-in-law, her eyes narrowed and focused analyzed the situation in an instant.
“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 pu
lled 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.
30
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.”
Dangerous to Know Page 25
