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?”