“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?”

24

The next day, I was happily settled in the library next to my mother-in-law, working on our Greek. But I was unable to purge George’s story from my head. It made the shadowy figure of the girl I’d seen there all the more frightening. I closed my eyes, not moving until Mrs. Hargreaves’s voice pulled me back to the present moment.

“There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep,” she said. “Is this meant to be a commentary on my company?”

“Not at all,” I said, laughter on my lips. “It’s just a sentence from Homer I’ve always liked. Are you ready for more?”

“No time for that, I’m afraid,” Colin said, entering the room. “If we’re to see Girard before lunch we need to leave now.”

The previous day, Madeline had reacted with almost no visible emotion to being told about Edith’s child. This didn’t surprise me—she would be upset, of that there was no doubt. Most likely, though, the story would affect her most when she was alone, and had the privacy to react in whatever way she wanted to. Hearing Edith was a relative, however, inspired in her nothing but a sigh. “This branch of the family has no interest in the Priers, I can assure you,” she had said. George, however, still wanted to call on them, and suggested doing so after we were to see Dr. Girard. He discussed neither plan in front of his wife.

“I feel almost as if I’m betraying her,” he said, as our carriage clattered along the road towards Radepont and the asylum. “Her mind can be so fragile—if I tell her I’m consulting with yet another physician it might send her reeling again. And odds are despite having treated Edith, he’ll have little to suggest that we’ve not already tried.”

“If Edith’s condition was more advanced than Madeline’s, it’s conceivable he’ll know more about the later stages of the disease.”

“I’ve done all I can for Madeline’s mother, and she’s bound, given her age, to be worse off than Edith ever was.” He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. “Apologies. I don’t mean to deflate every possibility. But I feel I must prepare myself for disappointment. I’ve been let down more times than I can count.”

I leaned forward and patted his hand. “Absolutely understandable.”

“Girard’s innovative and sharp,” Colin said. “I have faith he will be able to offer you something.” We passed the ruined abbey and continued along the Seine to the hospital, serene in its setting, silent except for the sound of the river. Everything was as it had been on my previous visits except that no nurse immediately greeted us at the door. Colin banged the heavy knocker against the hard wood, and we waited. After a few minutes passed, he knocked again, still soliciting no response.

He walked to the edge of the stairs and tipped his head to try to look into the window. “Can’t see anything,” he said, and set off to investigate the other windows on the front of the building while George took over knocking duties. When at last the door swung open, we saw a disheveled woman, tears staining her face, a crushed nurse’s cap in her hand. I barely recognized her as the same person who’d welcomed me on my previous visits. In a few long strides, Colin was back with us, stepping in front of George.

“How can I help?” he asked, pulling out papers that identified him as an agent of the British Crown. Not something I should have thought would inspire confidence in the French, but clearly enough to satisfy the sad figure before us that it would be all right to usher us inside.

“I remember you from before,” she said to me, her voice shaking. “Dr. Girard liked you.” She looked at George. “Have we met?”

“Unfortunately not,” he said, his voice grave. “I’ve come to speak to the doctor about my wife. Is this not a good time?”