She didn’t reply, or say anything as we followed her inside. The corridor looked no different from when I’d seen it last, but everything felt off-kilter. The nurse’s uniform was a mess, full of wrinkles, and large rust-colored stains covered her apron.

“What has happened here?” I asked, alarm in my voice.

“Dr. Girard is dead,” she said, more tears streaming down her cheeks. “In his office…”

Colin waited for nothing further. He raced towards the closed door at the end of the hallway. I started to follow, but he motioned for me to stop. I sat down on a long wooden bench next to George, feeling frustrated, then bit my lip and turned to the nurse.

“Is that blood on your apron?” I asked.

She nodded.

“His?”

Another nod.

“What happened?” I asked. “Has there been an accident?”

“No,” she said. “There was a knife…” Her tears morphed into consuming sobs.

“Who was with him?” I asked.

“No one, not at the end. I found him there this morning when I arrived.”

“Who on the staff was here last night? Did anyone hear anything?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Where was he stabbed?” I asked.

George shot me a stern look. “Is this necessary? The poor woman’s upset. Can we not comfort her now and leave questioning to the police?”

“Oh we won’t need police, sir,” she said. “He did it to himself. The blade was in his hand.” Her face was gray, her skin cold. I looked around for something to wrap around her, and found a blanket in a cupboard partway down the corridor. Colin stepped out of the office and looked at me.

“Would you come take a look at this?” he asked.

“Do you need a second set of eyes?” I liked that he was seeking my help. Maybe this new arrangement wasn’t so abysmal as I’d originally feared.

“We’re going to need more than that. But you’re an excellent observer, Emily. If you can stand the sight, I’d like your thoughts.”

I took the blanket to George, who had the nurse well in hand and had summoned an orderly to bring her tea. Colin stopped me as I was about to enter Dr. Girard’s office.

“You’re sure?” he asked. “It’s gruesome.”

“Of course I am,” I said. “It can’t be worse than Edith.”

Worse was perhaps not the best choice of word. The doctor sat, sprawled in his desk chair, one arm dangling at his side, the other resting in his lap, a sharp surgeon’s scalpel in his hand. Blood had pooled below each wrist, leaving a shiny, coagulating puddle on the floor and a dark, viscous stain on his shirt and waistcoat. I tasted bile and held my breath, unsure if I wanted to see more.

“Why would he do this?” I asked.

“He didn’t,” Colin said. “There are scratches on his hands. He was fighting with someone. I’ve no doubt the coroner will find more signs of a struggle. And there’s blood on the windowsill.”

I crossed to the window, not seeing anything at first. But then, as I scrutinized every inch of the wood, I spotted it—a small speck of dark red smeared on the edge of the sill. “He couldn’t have got that here without bleeding everywhere else in between,” I said.

“Precisely,” Colin said.

“Is there a suicide note? Or something purporting to be one?”

“I’ve not found it yet. Care to help?”

“Of course,” I said. “If I’m allowed.”

“Don’t tease now. I need to summon the police. Will you be all right in here alone if I leave the door open? I’m only going to call to George and ask for his assistance.”

I nodded and could hear him speaking to George as I began my search of the room. Surely a suicide note would be left someplace obvious, but the surface of the desk, the bookshelves, and the tables revealed nothing. Someone had closed the doctor’s eyes, and for this I was grateful. I was uncomfortable enough rooting through a dead man’s belongings. Feeling his vacant stare following me would not improve things. I circled the space again, and this time opened the desk drawers, but to no avail. Their contents were perfectly ordinary.

Turning, I looked at the poor doctor’s body. And then I saw it—a corner of folded paper tucked into his jacket pocket. Delicately, so as not to disturb the body, I pulled it out and opened it. The page had been torn from a lined notebook.


He that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.


Below that, a line had been drawn, with another sentence following:


I should never have let her go.


It gave me chills to read it. Chills made worse as I studied the blood that had soaked through Dr. Girard’s clothing and stained the note. The handwriting was familiar, but I couldn’t be sure, and thought about how I could get back into Laurent Prier’s room to check my suspicions. All of a sudden, Colin touched my shoulder, and I jumped; I’d not heard him reenter the room.

“Success?” he asked. I handed the sheet to him.

“Hamlet, I believe,” I said. “With the addition of a more personal sentiment. I found it in his pocket.”

“You’re quick and efficient,” he said, flashing me a smile before looking over the words.

“I don’t believe for a second he wrote it.”

“Why is that?”

“Who puts a suicide note in his pocket?” I asked. “I realize I have limited experience—but I do have some.” Less than a year before, I’d found the body of the person who’d murdered Lord Basil Fortescue—the crime for which my friend’s husband had been accused. The true culprit, after being found out, committed suicide. “Suicides want their final words to be seen. They don’t hide them. And they don’t forget to take them out of their pocket.”

“Possibly,” he said. “But what if this wasn’t intended for others? What if this was simply for himself?”

“You don’t believe he killed himself—you already said so.”

“Quite right. But he might have been murdered and still written these words.”

“He feels guilty about Edith,” I said. “Or do you think he’s referring to the child?”

“The child. He didn’t let Edith go. She escaped.”

“He didn’t let Lucy go either—he sent her away.”

“Is it a significant difference?” Colin asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Well it’s worth considering,” he said. “I’m finished in here. Shall we interview as much of the staff as possible before the police arrive and take over?”


As we both expected, there was little information to be had from the staff. Colin surmised the doctor had been dead since the middle of the night, when it would have been unlikely anyone would have heard a disturbance. His office stood far from the patient wards, and the orderly who made rounds at night admitted to having fallen asleep around three in the morning, only to wake up after six o’clock. Dr. Girard frequently worked late, so to see his office light on wouldn’t have been unusual.

George had remained on the bench near the main entrance to the building, waiting for us to finish. He’d done an excellent job comforting the nurse who’d found the body, and, explaining that he’d trained as a physician, offered to check on any patients who seemed in need of immediate medical attention. In the end his services weren’t required, as Dr. Girard’s partner arrived soon after the police, ready to take over for his colleague.

“Why don’t you sit with George while I handle the police?” Colin said, placing a gentle hand on my arm.

“How exactly are you planning to handle them?” I asked.

“I want to witness their interrogations, to see their assessment of the crime scene.”

“Can I join you?”

“It will be difficult enough to persuade them to allow me to accompany them, even with my credentials,” he said. “Both of us would be too much to hope for.”

Resigned, I took the place next to George. “I imagine this is not how you expected to spend your day,” he said.

“Far from it. And while I realize this may sound slightly inappropriate, I’m more than sorry you didn’t get to speak to Dr. Girard. I so wanted him to be able to help stave off Madeline’s condition.”

He shook his head. “That was unlikely regardless. I was foolish to even let myself hope. I should know better.” He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a slim silver case. “What was it like in there? A nightmare?”

“Yes,” I said.

He lit a cigarette, drew deep, and blew a thin stream of smoke into the air. “I don’t think I could bear to see it. If he was wounded, fine. I spent enough time in the military to handle that—but when a situation’s hopeless, when it’s nothing but gore…I can’t stand that kind of brutality. Even sifting through a battlefield you’ve got a chance of finding someone you can save. Do you think if we’d arrived earlier…”

“No,” I said. “He’s been dead since the middle of the night.”

“Would you object to continuing on to Rouen after this? I’d like to call on the Priers unless, of course, you’re too upset after what you’ve seen.”

“I find soldiering on preferable to wallowing.” My statement was true, but wanting to see the reactions of the Priers to the news of the doctor’s death also motivated me.

“I want to express my condolences, of course,” he said. “But if you don’t think it’s too crass, I’d like to ask them about Edith’s treatment, see if they think it helped her. If they did, it might be worth going back to the asylum and talking to anyone else who worked on her case.”

“If she were my daughter, it would give me comfort if anything gleaned from her condition could stop someone else’s suffering.”

“Another reason to like you,” he said. “You’ve a wonderful spirit, Emily. Reminds me of my darling Madeline.”