Dangerous to Know

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 heir—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.”

My mother-in-law shrugged. “She’s not as mad as her mother, but I can’t say much else. Do you not think, Emily, that it gives me concern to see a woman just your age, unable to have children, slowing driving herself mad? And here you are, in a similar situation, still smarting with grief, relentlessly pursuing a subject that can bring you nothing but further pain?”

“Our situations are entirely different.”

“Simply because you’ve only suffered one loss to date.” The sun was high and hot, the air heavy with humidity. She pulled a linen handkerchief from the lacy cuff at her wrist and dabbed her glistening brow with it, unwilling, it seemed, to wait for the next obliging breeze. “Such things can plague a mind when they’re repeated ad nauseum.”

I winced at her words, but her tone lacked any criticism, as if she’d exchanged chagrin for compassion. “We can hope that won’t happen.”

“Sometimes I forget how young you are,” she said.

“How did Madeline’s mother handle her daughter’s difficulties?” I asked, not quite ready to continue the conversation she’d begun.

“Better than I would have thought,” she said. “But of course, she’s had more trouble with her nerves than Madeline.”

“How many siblings does Madeline have?”

“None who survived to adulthood,” Mrs. Hargreaves said.

“Like me,” I said.

“The two of you have more in common than I’m comfortable admitting.”

“I need to talk to her.” Earnest with enthusiasm, I sat next to her. “Will you come with me?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, although the color in her cheeks hinted at her being less horrified at the prospect than she wanted me to think. “I don’t like prying into my neighbor’s private tragedies.”

“But you help your son?”

“He’s exceptionally persuasive,” she said. “And trying to beat you at your own game. How could I deny him assistance? You and I shall read Greek together. We shall discuss poetry. Someday, perhaps, we shall travel to Egypt with each other. But I will never, ever help you emerge victorious over my darling boy.”

“Did you know Toinette will be descending upon us soon?” I asked my husband that afternoon as we crossed on to the main road from the house’s drive on our way to visit the Markhams. Patches of dense forest divided the lush pastures and fragrant orchards surrounding us, and in the midst of the tall trees with their dappled light and cool, sweet shade, I felt homesick, reminded of England.

“She told me no fewer than twenty-seven times,” he said. “A sweet enough girl. I must tell you, though, she has suddenly changed her plans. It seems you terribly disappointed her by deciding to come back with me.”

“She has a crush on you.”

“Girls like Toinette don’t have crushes,” he said. “They have designs.”

“So she has designs on you?”

“It would seem so,” he said, grinning.

“You shouldn’t encourage her. You’re so handsome you’ll ruin her for other gentlemen. Her expectations will never be met.”

“I would never encourage her.”

“But you do enjoy her attentions,” I said.

“They’re mildly amusing. She’s entertaining and pretty and foolish.”

“I didn’t think you liked foolish,” I said.

“I don’t, Emily. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be occasionally diverted by it.”

“Diverted?” My hands, starting to sweat, slipped along my reins.

“Nothing more than that. And certainly nothing alarming.”

“I wasn’t aware that you required—” I stopped, unsure of myself. “I thought we—”

“Don’t go looking for trouble, my dear. You’ll never find any. I’m more devoted than any other husband in England.”

“We’re in France, Colin.”

“I didn’t think you’d be impressed by claims of fidelity in relation to that of the average French husband.”

“You’d better not let Cécile hear you talk like that.”

“She’d be the first to approve,” he said. I laughed and shook my head, knowing he was undoubtedly correct. He leaned towards me and put a steady hand on my arm. “You’ve no need to doubt me on that or any other count. I hope you know that.”

“I do,” I said. “You know I’d trust you to the ends of the earth. But does that mean I’m not allowed to dislike Toinette?”

He laughed. “Of course not.”

We were approaching the château, and I could hear Madeline arguing with a gardener as we crossed the bridge to the main drive. She was begging him to see the merits of keeping bees; he was making no effort even to appear interested in dealing with any stinging insects. I slid down from my horse and handed him off to a waiting groom as Colin did the same. Together we followed Madeline’s voice to a small, informal garden a short distance from the dovecote. I did not let myself look at the looming building.

“Ce n’est pas possible!” The gardener’s voice grew louder. Madeline saw us and waved.

“We’ll discuss it after the bees arrive,” she said. “Leave me to my guests.” She rushed over and embraced us both with genuine warmth. “It is so good to see you again—your absence was felt keenly. Did you enjoy Zurich?”

“We were in Rouen,” I said, hesitation in my voice.

“Rouen?” She tilted her head and frowned. “But you promised to bring me chocolate.”

“I—” I looked at Colin, unsure what to say.

“There was none even half good enough for you,” he said, stepping forward and kissing her hand. “I fear the Swiss have lowered their standards.”

“I suspected as much,” she said, laughter returning to her voice. “And am glad, then, that you won’t present me with something bound to disappoint.”

“We’d never dream of it,” I said, going along with Colin’s story. “But we do have some news I wanted to discuss with you and George. Is he here?”

“He is. I’ll summon him and we can have tea. You’ve time for a nice long visit, don’t you?”

“We’re in no hurry,” I said.

Colin shot a telling glance at me. “I suppose as long as we’re home in time for dinner.”

“I’m more interested in what will happen after dinner,” I whispered as we started for the house. He drew a sharp breath and nearly lost his footing. He recovered elegantly, though, just as George called out from behind us.

“Ho! Can you wait for me?” he asked, whipping the straw boater from his head and sprinting towards us.

“Don’t make it easy for him,” Madeline cried, giggling. She grabbed Colin’s arm and set off at a fierce pace, pulling him with her while she held onto the brim of her black straw hat to keep it from flying away. Having no desire to run, I waited for the master of the house.

“She’s a beast, that wife of mine,” George said, out of breath when he reached me. “But bloody good fun. Apart from this new obsession of hers, beekeeping.”

“You’ll have excellent honey,” I said.

He laughed. “I suppose so. Have you come about the robbery?”

“Robbery?”

“Have you not heard? We were burgled two nights ago—the Monet is gone.”

“No! Dare I ask if Inspector Gaudet is on the case?”

“He is, my friend, he is. And eager as ever to fight for justice. Unless, of course, it interferes with a meal. Or a party. Or a walk on the beach.”

“Are there any leads?”

“I’m afraid only one that points to your old friend, Sebastian.”

My heart sank. “Why would he take the painting back after having gone to such lengths to get it to you in the first place?” Much though I would have liked to believe Sebastian would stand by the promise he made to Monet about not taking any more of his paintings, I knew him too well to think he’d be true to his word.

“We found another note—this one questioning our taste. Further analysis must have suggested to him our unworthiness as collectors.”

I would need to see the letter, but couldn’t imagine who, other than Sebastian, would pen such a thing. “I’m so sorry. He can be such a troublemaker.”

“It wouldn’t bother me so much if I hadn’t become particularly attached to that painting. A fine specimen.” His gaze softened. “I’ll miss it.”

“We will recover it, one way or another.”

“I do admire your spirit, Emily,” he said. “But tell me now. If you knew nothing of the robbery, what brought you to us?”

“Edith Prier,” I said. “There’s more to the story of her death than we’d anticipated, and we wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“You don’t think the murderer still poses a threat?” he asked, blanching. “I admit I’ve been uncomfortable about letting Madeline out of the house alone. We’ve someone looking out for her all the time.”

“Which is wise,” I said. “Although it does seem there’s no specific threat at the moment.”

“So tell me what more you’ve learned.”

“Did you know Edith is related to your wife?”

“To Madeline?” he asked. “The Priers? That can’t be.”

“From what I understand it’s a distant connection. They’re cousins of some sort.”

“I’m shocked.” He stopped walking and searched my face, confusion written all over his.

“Obviously there was no reason for you to have known this,” I said. “But because Edith suffered from a condition similar to that plaguing your mother-in-law, I thought you should know. Particularly as your wife…” My words trailed.

“Yes, of course you’ve noticed.” He closed his eyes. “I fear what will happen to her. It’s beyond devastating.”

“Edith’s family put her in an asylum not far from Rouen because of her illness.”

He cringed. “I can’t do that to my wife.”

“I’m not suggesting you should,” I said. “Although it might not be a terrible idea to speak with the doctor there—he’s more enlightened than I would have expected. It’s possible he would have some ideas about treatments—something that might help—”

“Of course. I’m sorry if I reacted badly. It’s just that when I think of what my darling girl faces—what I shall be forced to face eventually…” He sighed. “It shatters me.”

“It’s I who should apologize. I sprung this on you with no preamble.”

“No, it’s an excellent suggestion.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe Edith and Madeline…related. It’s stunning news.”

“There’s one more thing. I tell you this in confidence and must ask for your absolute discretion. Edith had a child—a girl—who went missing sometime before her mother’s death. The story’s bound to get out eventually, and I thought it might upset Madeline given her experience with children. Hearing it through gossip might prove painful.”

“You’re very kind to think of her, and absolutely right. She doesn’t do well with children. There’ve been none here since our long-ago unfortunate gardener left. Terrible story, you know. I still can’t stand to go in the dovecote,” he said. “The little girl died there, you see. She fell down the steps. Madeline had been in there playing with her. She doted on the child. Can’t bear to talk about it now, of course.”

“How awful,” I said, a dull pain in my chest.

“Madeline blamed herself. It was a bad choice of a place to play, and she shouldn’t have let her run on the stairs. There wasn’t a thing anyone could say to ease her guilt. Her mind was not the same afterwards.”

“Poor Madeline,” I said. “Why did you not tell me this before?”

“It’s not the sort of thing one likes to share with the neighbors. We kept things as quiet as possible and let everyone assume the gardener was sent away because Madeline couldn’t bear to have the girl around. I don’t think she could have survived gossip on the subject.”

“Of course not.” I hesitated. “She told me a somewhat different version of the story.”

“Yes, I’m afraid her brain morphed it into another miscarriage,” he said. “It’s as if she forgot about the actual child altogether.”

“I’m sorry to have brought up such a painful topic.”

“You couldn’t have known,” he said. “And I’m glad to learn of the familial relation. No doubt Madeline will want to call on the family to pay her respects.”

“Have you met any of the Priers?”

“I spoke to the son once at the opera in Paris, years ago. Laurent, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes.”

“Bit of a cad, I thought. Not sure I particularly like my wife being related to him,” he said. We’d reached the house, where I could hear Madeline’s laughter bouncing through the corridors. He stopped walking and turned to me, his expression measured and serious. “I am interested in speaking to this Girard. Could your husband introduce me?”