Monsieur Leblanc and I parted amicably at the train station in Rouen, agreeing that he would call on me the following day at the Priers’, after I’d had a chance to speak to them about him. The family had sent a carriage to collect me, but when I arrived, I found no one at home. Madame Prier had left a note, welcoming me to the house and telling me to treat it as my own. I followed a young maid to the bedroom I was to have, on the top floor across the corridor from Laurent’s. Meg had unpacked the things I’d need for my short visit and then gone off in search of additional hairpins, convinced I didn’t have an adequate supply. I knew her well enough to suspect this was an excuse to investigate the city’s shops, and was glad to see her interested in our latest destination. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that she used to be a terrible traveler.

With the shutters and windows flung open, I had a spectacular view of the city as bright sunlight flooded around me. I dragged one of my cases from the dressing room and opened it, searching through papers and books until I’d found the copy of The Odyssey I’d begun translating from Greek more than a year ago. As I held the smooth, leather volume in my hand and flipped through its worn pages, I tried to remember why I’d abandoned the project.


Evil deeds do not prosper; the slow man catches up with the swift.


My eyes caught the sentence, and pleasure coursed through me as I found I could translate it so readily. Then I read it again, and felt as if the ancient poet was speaking the words directly to me. Some terrible man had murdered Edith Prier. I might have done nothing up to now to help solve the crime, but it wasn’t too late to start. Slow and steady, I could catch the criminal. Monsieur Leblanc’s conversation on the train inspired me, and I wanted to know more about the girl who’d lived in this house—and Jules Vasseur, the man she’d loved.

I opened a notebook and started to scratch questions on a sheet of paper, then paused at the realization I had only two days to find my answers. Gathering up a notebook and a sharp pencil, I clattered down the stairs, eager to discreetly speak to the servants about the romantic elements of Edith’s life. Maids, I knew, were generally better informed and more observant than anyone in the families for whom they worked. Halfway down, I slammed into Laurent, who steadied himself with the banister. Not so fortunate, I tripped, my papers fluttering around me.

“Do forgive me,” I said, picking myself up and straightening my dress before gathering my scattered belongings.

“What are you doing up here?” he asked.

“I’m to stay a few days. Your mother put me in the red room on the top floor.”

“That was my sister’s. Do you feel good sleeping in a dead woman’s bed?” Without waiting for my answer, he continued up the stairs, stopping to pick up a piece of paper that had fallen out of my notebook. “What is this? What do you know about Vasseur?”

“Nothing yet,” I said. “Is there something I should know?”

“Only that he’s responsible for my sister’s death.” He turned back around and stormed up the steps.

“Wait!” I rushed to follow him. “You have reason to believe he killed her?”

“I am not discussing this with you.” He kept walking, increasing his speed. I caught up to him quickly, but was stopped at his room when he slammed the door before I could come inside.

“I want to help you,” I said, knocking on the door. “Please let me in.”

He did not reply.

Moving as quietly as possible, I turned the knob. With a sharp jab he pushed open the door, nearly hitting me in the face.

“Do not consider, even for an instant, disturbing me.” Again the door slammed. This time, I heard a latch click into place. I went back into my own room to sharpen my pencil, whose point had snapped on its trip down the stairs. As I fumbled through my bags in search of a penknife, I heard angry strains of music coming from what had to be Laurent’s room, but it sounded as if it were next to me, not across the hall. I stepped back into the corridor. Two other doors stood between mine and the rear of the house, but they were both locked. I returned to my chamber and pressed my ear against the back wall. There was no question the music was louder here.

Curious, I moved along the wall, listening, the sound at its loudest near a heavy armoire, two-thirds of the way down its length. I strained trying to move it, but could not make it budge. Then, inspired by I know not what, I pulled it open. Inside I found three lovely but dated gowns—cut to be worn with a bustle—and a pair of satin dancing slippers. Chills ran through me as I gently touched them, trying to imagine the occasions on which Edith must have worn them. Images flashed through my head—visions first of a beautiful young girl at a ball and then of the mutilated body I’d found in the field. Terror consumed me and the room felt chilled, as if something unnatural had entered the space. I was about to close the wardrobe and run downstairs to beg for another room when I noticed a thin stream of light at the back of the cabinet. Now fear succumbed to intrigue, and I carefully slid the gowns to one side and lowered myself to my knees, coming level with a large panel, nearly half the height of the armoire, with a small leather strap attached to it.

I tugged at the strap and the panel started to move, gliding smoothly along a narrow track. As it opened, the music was louder, and I had a clear view into a room that had to be connected to Laurent’s. It must have run the full length of the corridor we shared, but turned at the end, reaching all the way to mine. I stuck my head through the opening, craning my neck to see more. Stretching too far, I toppled over, landing with a crash on the floor.

In an instant, Laurent was standing above me, glowering.

“So sorry,” I said, rising to my feet. “I had no idea your room came this far.”

“That is what you’re sorry for? Not for disturbing my privacy? Not for manhandling my sister’s possessions?”

“There’s no need for so much tension, Laurent,” I said, hoping he couldn’t discern how difficult it was for me to keep my voice from shaking. “I’m not trying to torment you.”

“Leave my room.”

“What’s the piece you were playing?” I asked. “I loved the emotion of it. Is it Beethoven?”

“Are you simple-minded? Do you not understand the most basic commands?”

“I understand them perfectly well. But I’ve always had a problem following them.” He did not respond. “My mother insists it’s deliberate, but I think it’s innate to my personality.”

He stalked across the room, back to his piano. I followed him.

“I want to know more about Edith,” I said. “I have a friend, a writer, who’s just begun investigating her murder. He’s convinced there’s more to it than the police believe.”

“And this is meant, what? To impress me?”

“I’m not sure I care what effect it has on you.” He’d started playing again, the music crashing against the dark paneled walls of the room. “But I do want to know what happened to your sister.”

“What interest can it be of yours?”

“I found her, Laurent. And doing so forged something between us. I didn’t recognize it until today because I’ve been distracted with tragedy of my own. I—”

“I’ve no interest in your tragedy,” he said.

“And I’ve no interest in sharing it with you. But I will find out why Edith died the way she did. You can choose to offer whatever meager assistance you can, or you can sit back and brood and help no one, yourself included. It’s immaterial to me.”

“If it makes no difference to you, why would I put myself out?”

“It might speed the process,” I said. “I had the impression that you were close to your sister. That you might have some insight into her life.” I watched him as he played. He did not look at the keys. His gaze, focused and intense, was fixed out the window, even as his head moved with his body, the music seeming to flow through him.

I walked back to the opening through which I’d tumbled. On Laurent’s side, the door appeared to be part of the room’s design, blending enough into the paneled wall so as to be hardly visible. Without a word, I stepped through and slid the cover back into place. I shuddered as I inadvertently brushed against Edith’s clothes, and was happy to emerge in what had been her bedroom, a much brighter space than that of her brother’s. I would not harass him. My work could commence without him, and when he realized I’d begun, he would want to know what I’d learned. And then I could make him first tell me what he knew.

A grating sound came from the back of the room as the hidden panel slid open.

“It was Beethoven,” Laurent said, pushing the door to the armoire open. “You were right.” He disappeared, closing the door.

Pleased, I set back down the stairs, ready to speak to the servants.


16 July 1892

In all the years I’ve stayed in France, I never felt lonely until now. Colin is the same gentleman he ever was—he already was a gentleman at five years old—and nothing could ever alter him. Not even his father was so assured in his character, or knew so early what he wanted from life. Much as I adore my William, this mother will admit to playing favorites amongst her sons, and Colin was always that.

It is not reasonable, of course, to think our relationship wouldn’t change after his marriage. I would be displeased if it didn’t—it would mean he didn’t love his wife enough. And on that count he clearly does not fall short. What I didn’t expect, however, was to lose him to someone whom I’d find disappointing. After meeting her, I decided the time I would most enjoy with my son in the future would be those moments when his wife was not with him. But her presence is immediate even when she’s not here. He thinks of her all the time.