Dangerous to Know

15

“Have I heard right? Are you leaving for Paris in only two days?” Toinette asked, popping a piece of pain au chocolate into her rosy mouth as we all convened for breakfast the next day in a small but charming room in the back of the house. Bright tiles covered the floor, painted with a floral design, and a large bay window faced the garden.

“Yes,” I said, spearing a bite of oeufs pochés à la lyonnaise—savory poached eggs with onions and a simple white sauce topped with browned Gruyère cheese. “On the morning train.”

“It’s so unfair!” she said. “I’ve just decided to head off to Yvetot tomorrow and had so wanted to call on you. I understand your belle-mère lives not too terribly far away.”

“You can still visit Madame Hargreaves, darling,” her mother said. I felt the beginnings of a headache, no doubt related to the thought of Toinette machinating an opportunity to flirt with my husband.

“I’ve a friend from school who lives nearby, you see,” Toinette said. “I’m going to spend a whole week with her and we’re bound to be bored out of our minds. I’m hoping she might host a dance. Apparently—” she paused for another bite, “her father opposes the idea, but I’m bound and determined to change his mind.”

“You must invite Madame Hargreaves and her son,” Madame Prier said.

“And the Markhams. May I have more chocolate, Maman?” She gulped from the cup the instant her mother had filled it. “I can’t think of anyone else.”

“Oh the Markhams. Yes, I suppose you must, although they’re bound to be tedious.”

“You don’t like them?” I asked. “We found them pleasant company.”

“George is all charm,” Cécile said. “And Madeline as well. Eccentric in her way, but a very sweet girl.”

“I never liked her mother when she was young,” Madame Prier said. “And I’m quite certain she’s beyond intolerable now.”

“She’s ill,” I said.

Madame Prier nodded. “Precisely. Now, Toinette, what else do you need to prepare for your visit?”

I watched as she and her daughter prattled on about clothes and other details of the journey, surprised that she would dismiss Madame Breton with such contempt. Given the struggles with nerves faced by her own daughter, I should have thought she’d be more sympathetic.

But Edith’s illness and death were topics garnering no interest in the household that day. Madame Prier snapped at me when I brought up the subject, and I feared my pursuit of further information might prove awkward, particularly as I felt uneasy at the thought of questioning the staff without the family’s express permission. I asked Cécile’s advice about addressing her friend on the subject.

“Non,” came her response. “You will not ask first. If necessary, we will beg forgiveness, but we will not give her the opportunity to forbid us to carry out the task. And I am suddenly overcome with a suspicion that something might force us to go downstairs at any moment.” Without pausing, she stepped into the corridor and opened the door that led down to the kitchen, deposited Brutus on the steps, waited until she heard his barks fade to almost nothing, and then took my hand and led me to the domain of the servants.

“Mon dieu!” she said, her face full of apology as she scooped the little dog into her arms. It had taken us fewer than three minutes to locate him in a dark corner of the butler’s pantry. “The little cad is looking for beef, I think.”

The cook, enamored at once by the small furry creature, insisted that we follow her to the kitchen, where the staff had just finished their luncheon. She fished a hearty bone from a soup pot and showed it to Brutus, who yelped thanks and panted at the sight of it. Cécile lowered him to the ground with his treat.

“No use trying to rush him,” she said.

“None indeed.” The cook nodded with pleasure at the dog’s delight. “He’s a sweet little thing.”

Cécile shrugged. “When he wants to be. The rest of the time he’s an absolute beast devoid of all good qualities.”

“Too small to do much harm,” the cook said. A willowy maid walked by, her arms full of freshly laundered sheets. Seeing the little dog, she paused.

“He doesn’t belong to the house, does he?” she asked.

“No,” the cook said, holding out her arms to take the laundry so the maid could bend over and pet Brutus.

“Miss Edith would’ve loved him,” she said with a sigh.

“Your mistress told me Edith was excessively fond of dogs, that she liked them more than she did most people,” Cécile said. “Do you agree?”

“Oh yes,” the girl replied. “She loved them. Had three, you know. Two well-behaved, one a tyrant. Of course, she kept them in the country, not in the city.”

“Did you know her well?” I asked.

“As well as anyone, I suppose.”

“Jeanne was a lady’s maid then,” the cook said. “Took the best care of our young girl.”

“Toinette?” I asked.

“No, no,” Jeanne said, shaking her head. “She was too young for anything but a nurse. I was Mademoiselle Edith’s maid.”

“Would you tell us about her?” I asked.

“I don’t know as we should be talking about her,” Jeanne said, the cook nodding agreement behind her.

“It would help me ever so much,” I said. I glanced up and down the corridor, hoping I looked nervous. “I found her body, you see, and the image has haunted me ever since.” They all cringed when I mentioned the body, Jeanne covering her mouth with her hand. “I thought that perhaps if I knew more about her life, I could associate more pleasant memories with her name. Of course, I don’t want to trouble Madame Prier—”

“She could use some trouble if you ask me,” the cook said. “Come sit down. I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of tea?”

She went to put the kettle on while we followed Jeanne to a long, well-worn table lined with rustic chairs, mismatched, ten on each side, two each at the head and foot. She’d recovered the laundry from the cook and placed it in a large wicker basket, smoothing the sheets on top before she sat across from us.

“I miss her, you know,” she said. “We was close. She was always kind to me.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching for her hand across the table, almost surprised she let me take it. Her skin was rough, but warm, her grip strong.

“They should never have sent her away.”

“Why not?” Cécile asked. “She wasn’t well and needed help.”

“Maybe she did. But there was all that trouble with her brother.”

“Weren’t she and Laurent close?” I asked.

“Too close if you ask me.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Wasn’t natural.”

“They were twins,” I said. “And twins are frequently closer than ordinary siblings.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But he hated anyone else knowing her too well. He’s a possessive one.”

“Was someone courting her?”

“Well…” She squinted, as if measuring us up. “There was a gentleman, but once Monsieur Prier made it clear he wasn’t suitable…”

“Did she go on seeing him?” I asked.

“Monsieur Laurent wouldn’t have stood for it.”

“It couldn’t have been his decision,” Cécile said. “His father’s opinion would have been the one that mattered.”

Jeanne snorted. “Some might think that.”

“Do you know the gentleman’s name?” I asked.

“Vasseur.” Her voice softened, turned almost dreamy.

“Jules Vasseur?” I nodded, hoping she’d think I was more familiar with the man than I was. “Of course!”

“You know him?” she asked.

“Who has not heard his name?” Cécile spoke with a perfectly executed casual air.

Jeanne sighed. “I did not know him, of course. Not well. But I did, on occasion deliver messages to his house for my mistress. She loved him very much.”

“You know where he lives?” I asked; she nodded. “Could you show me? I need to talk to him.”

“He left Rouen as soon as Mademoiselle Edith was sent away,” she said. “I couldn’t tell you where he went.”

“Did you ever hear from her after she left the house?” I asked.

“No, madame. We weren’t to speak of her—it was too painful for Madame Prier. Only Laurent disregarded her wishes.”

“He was upset,” I said. “Yet you think it was he who did not approve of Monsieur Vasseur?”

“Monsieur Laurent’s scheme did not work out as he hoped. He worked too hard at making his sister seem unhinged—and in the end drove her to madness. He’d wanted the doctor to prescribe rest so that he could take her to Nice to recuperate. Instead, he was too effective and she was bound for the asylum.”

“You’re not saying her brother deliberately drove her mad?” I asked.

“Oh he did, madame,” she said. “I’m not the only one who knows it. But you’re unlikely to get many of us to talk. We seen what he’s done, you know, and don’t want it done to us.”

“How did he do it?” Cécile asked. “Surely such a thing would not be simple?”

“I can’t rightly say,” Jeanne said. “It was a gradual thing. First it all seemed small and unimportant. Until she started talking to the girl.”

“The girl?” I asked.

“The girl.” She looked away from us now. “The little dead girl.”

A shiver ran through me. “What girl?”

“Don’t know. It never made any sense,” she said. “But it scared the devil out of me. She’d talk to her—at night especially—crying and moaning.”

“Whose child was it?”

“I couldn’t say. But she wept over it until she could hardly speak. And then she started sleepwalking—fell down the stairs more than once. With all of it, I don’t see as how her father could’ve done anything but send her away.”

“Tell me more about the girl,” I said.

She nodded. “Monsieur Laurent, he told her some kind of ghost story, about a little girl who died in some sort of sad circumstance and was searching for a mother. My poor mistress, she took it to heart, she did. It ruined her.”

“Did you ever see evidence of it?”

“The ghost?” She scrunched her forehead. “No. But I can tell you mademoiselle’s bedchamber was always at least ten degrees colder when she said she saw it. I felt it myself more than once. Have you seen something funny in the room?”

“No,” I said.

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to spend much time up there. Even if there is no ghost.”

Soon after Cécile and I emerged from below stairs, Monsieur Leblanc arrived to call on me as we’d planned. But rather than allow him to come inside and speak with the Priers, I intercepted him at the door and dragged him away from the house.

“Do ghosts travel?” I asked him.

“Ghosts? How on earth should I know?”

“You’re a journalist. I expect you to have leads on any topic I throw at you,” I said.

“You are a funny lady,” he said. “I already told you my ghost story. And she does travel, the little ghost.”

“Yes, but does she ever follow the same person to more than one place?”

“You’re not serious?”

“I am.”

“I can’t say I’ve heard it said she’s latched on to anyone in particular.”

“I just wondered if she’d ever found a single person she thought might end her wandering,” I said. He was looking at me as if I’d lost my mind. “How far away is the asylum where they sent Edith?”

“Ghosts, asylums, you’re full of surprises today, Lady Emily.” He adjusted his hat. “It’s outside the city, perhaps fifteen miles or so. Lovely setting near the river.”

“Can we go?”

“Now?” Surprise registered on his face, but a glimmer of excited delight crept into his eyes.

“Would it be possible?”

“I—” He paused, looked around. “We could hire a carriage.” I set him to the task at once, and within a quarter of an hour we’d bundled ourselves into a comfortable hackney and were speeding along dusty country roads.

“Have you a plan for when we arrive?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.

“Fear not,” I said. “I’ll have hatched something by then.”

The drive took longer than we’d anticipated due to the condition of the roads, which were dotted with potholes and washboarded from frequent rain. We passed through numerous small villages, the spires of stone churches rising from amongst thatched roofs; bright red, blue, and green market carts gathered in town squares; women sweeping their front steps with brooms fashioned from twigs. And then, the buildings would suddenly disappear, giving way to great expanses of fields—tall wheat and bending barley—their edges lined with crimson poppies. The occasional farm wagon, piled high with hay, slowed us further as it clattered along the way beneath the overstuffed white clouds dotting the sky.

We turned onto a smaller road and crossed the river. I leaned out my window, marveling at the ruins of a Norman abbey, its roofless chapel standing as if at guard near a much better preserved chapter house. Turning again to parallel the water, we drove on only a bit farther and then traversed another bridge, this one leading to a narrow island. The heavy foliage of old-growth trees hid all but glimpses of a reddish brick building buried in their midst, branches hanging so low they scraped the top of our carriage. The drive widened slightly as we approached the entrance.

The asylum had been built to mimic a castle—or perhaps it had once been a stately home. The reddish color and shape of the towers reminded me of a smaller Hampton Court Palace. The structure itself was well tended, with gleaming windows and pristine marble steps. After Monsieur Leblanc spoke to the driver, arranging for him to wait while we were inside, we went to the door and lifted a heavy brass knocker shaped as the head of a lion. In short order, a crisply uniformed nurse greeted us with a warm and welcoming tone in her soothing voice. She assumed we’d come to visit a patient, but showed no sign of surprise when Monsieur Leblanc asked to see Dr. Girard, the man whom, he’d told me on our way, had attended to Edith during her illness.

The nurse led us through wide corridors whose whitewashed walls stood bright and clean. The ceiling retained its ornate plaster moldings that must have been original to the building, and the parquet floors showed signs of the wear that comes from frequent, vigorous scrubbing. She tapped on a door at the back of the building and then, without waiting for a response, opened it. After motioning for us to enter the room, which was fitted up as a medical library and office, she disappeared, closing the door behind her.

“How may I help you?” A not unattractive man of average height and build rose from his chair at the large desk that commandeered the center of the room while bookcases filled with thick, well-worn volumes lined the walls. He was younger than I’d expected—in the prime of life—well-dressed, with an elegance to the way he moved. “I’m afraid we’ve not any openings for new patients at the moment, but—oh, do forgive me. I should have introduced myself.”

“You require no introduction, Dr. Girard,” Monsieur Leblanc said, offering the man his hand and giving him our names. “I know your reputation well. We have come to inquire on behalf of friends of the Prier family.”

“A terrible tragedy,” he said. “I did not think that many friends knew of the poor girl’s plight.”

“Not of her illness, perhaps,” I said. “But the news of her death—”

“Of course. It horrified the entire region,” the doctor interrupted. “Please, sit.”

We did as he asked and he lowered himself onto his chair. The surface of his desk was clear except for two neat piles of papers and a copy of a medical journal carefully lined up on the upper left hand corner, an inkwell with two pens perfectly centered, and an ancient but polished clock to the right of the chair.

“I’m the one who found Mademoiselle Prier’s body,” I said. “And feel, as a result, a vested interest in her murder.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Dr. Girard said. “I read the autopsy report and do not envy you what you saw. I understand, however, that the police have a suspect in mind?”

“They may,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “But what concerns us is the victim. I am a writer, you see, and want to do a piece about her, so that her life is not forgotten.”

“I can’t imagine the family would welcome such a thing,” the doctor said. “They’re extremely private people. At least when it concerned the health of their daughter.”

“Was she very ill?” I asked.

“Her condition deteriorated markedly in the time I treated her. When she arrived, her thoughts were scattered and she was consumed with anxiety. Her parents were concerned that she suffered from the same troubles that led to the death of her mother’s second cousin. Madness running in the family can be terrifying.”

“How long was Edith here?” I asked.

“Nearly five years. She disappeared—escaped, I should say, about six months ago.”

“What was done to try to find her?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.

“Not much, truth be told,” Dr. Girard said. “Her family, particularly her father, found her lack of progress frustrating.”

“Did they expect her to be cured?” I asked.

“Initially, yes, they believed she would stay with us only temporarily.”

“Despite the fact that they’d seen another relative die from a similar condition?” Monsieur Leblanc frowned.

“The symptoms of mental illness are not what kill those who suffer from it. The patient’s inability to cope with her hallucinations and dementia can lead to despair, which often results in suicide. The Priers thought that a course of treatment might relieve Edith’s symptoms. Unfortunately, however, her condition did not improve from anything I tried.”

“Are your treatments successful?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.

“Sometimes. I consider my work more art than science. Some patients respond with remarkable results. Others…well, for them all I can do is offer comfortable surroundings. You’ll see that we’ve cleared from this facility all the clutter and filth found in most asylums. The deranged mind is not aided by overstimulation, I think.”

“What treatments did you prescribe for Mademoiselle Prier?” I asked.

“I agree with the principles of Philippe Pinel, who established the idea of moral treatment. No beatings, no shackles. Patients should be treated with respect. There are some medicines that can help restore a person’s vital force, but I found they did little for Edith. I set her to work—having time strictly organized can help a troubled mind. She made clothing for dolls that we sent to church charities. I talked to her, tried to ease her pain. But she slipped further and further away from reality.”

“Was she still able to work as her condition worsened?” I asked.

“Yes. Oddly enough, although she would forget where she was, forget those around her, her sewing grew more and more proficient. You could tell, however, that her mind was fixed in unusual ways. Every outfit she made included a blue satin ribbon. She was obsessed with them.”

Swallowing hard, I pictured the ribbon in the road in front of Colin’s mother’s house, pictured it tied in the hair of the girl who stood in the window of the Markhams’ dovecote, and wondered what, precisely, I’d seen. Trying to remain calm, I drew a deep breath. “Where do you think she went when she escaped?”

“The only member of her family who visited her was her brother. Initially, he was happy she was here, but eventually, he started pleading with me to release her. In the end, I think he came to realize that she could not live in an ordinary way. Her father asked for regular updates on her condition, but even when he came to speak to me in person refused to see her. Her mother never came at all, only sent letters at infrequent intervals.”

“Did anyone else visit her?” I asked.

“One gentleman,” the doctor said. “A family friend. Or so I thought. After she’d gone, I tried to get in touch with him and found it impossible to track him down. So far as I can tell the identity he’d presented to me—that of a Monsieur Myriel—was false.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Only that he was extraordinarily kind to Edith, and that she enjoyed seeing him. I do hope someone’s told him of her death. I was as thorough as possible in attempting to find him—I’m afraid he’s disappeared.”