“I’m flattered,” I said, not sure what else to say. “I know how you adore her.”

“She centers me. Accepts me. Doesn’t pressure me to devote my life to only one pursuit. I don’t think many women would tolerate the way I change my passions like overcoats.”

“But not when it comes to her, I hope.”

“Absolutely not. There could never be another woman for me. I was designed for Madeline. I think you feel similarly about your husband?”

“I do,” I said, blushing.

“Excellent.” He puffed on his cigarette. “Makes for a much happier existence if you can be married to someone you actually like.”

The sentiment seemed obvious, but I knew how frequently it was disregarded. “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. We sat in companionable silence for some time. “What will you do if she does succumb to her mother’s condition?”

“I shall treat her as I always have and take care of her for the rest of her life. And when she’s gone…” He shook his head. “I’ll live alone, regretting every moment that I’m not with her.”

25

Within an hour, Colin had finished with the police, and felt he’d seen all the evidence likely to be gathered from the hospital. The murderer had entered and exited through the office window. A struggle had ensued, and it was unclear whether the vicious criminal had come upon Dr. Girard already in his chair and subdued him there, or if they’d fought and he’d forced him into the seat. If it was the latter, the intruder had tidied up all signs of the altercation before leaving the scene. The doctor had suffered a blow to the head that had likely knocked him unconscious, after which his murderer slit his wrists, planted the suicide note, and made his escape.

“Cretinous,” George said as we settled back into our carriage. “What sort of person does such a thing?”

“The patients are the most obvious place to start,” Colin said. “But none of them has any marks that suggest having been involved.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “It’s hideous to think someone he was trying to help would lash out at him in such violent fashion.”

“But isn’t it more frightening to think it’s someone of sound mind?” George asked. “Someone who’s not confined to an asylum?”

“Are any murderers of sound mind?” I asked.

“No excellent soul is exempt from a mixture of madness,” Colin said. “Aristotle, I believe.”

“It all comes back to the Greeks, doesn’t it, my dear?” I asked. In a short while, we’d entered the city of Rouen and were settled in the Priers’ sitting room, I next to Cécile, who rejoiced at seeing us. Madame Prier greeted us alone, and put on a good show, welcoming us as if our presence ranked somewhere near the second coming of Christ. Until, that is, we introduced George.

“Oh dear,” she said, giving him her one hand to kiss while she flung the other over her forehead. “Monsieur Markham, do forgive me, but I wish I could have saved you from this association with my dreadful relatives.”

“I can assure you, madame, that Madeline is all delightful charm. There’s not a lady on earth with qualities superior to hers, and should you have the pleasure of making her acquaintance you would never again consider her branch of the family dreadful.”

“I’d expect no other opinion from such a clearly devoted husband,” she said. “But the madness that consumes them is not to be taken lightly—it is that I consider dreadful. Apologies if my meaning wasn’t clear. I shall pray your wife escapes even a touch of it.”

“I understand your side of the family, revered though it may be, suffers from the same affliction,” George said, his voice affable, his smile wide.

“So you know our secret, of course you do,” Madame Prier said.

“I hope I haven’t offended you,” George said. “I had hoped you could perhaps offer me some insight into your daughter’s treatment—tell me if anything in particular helped her.”

“I wish I could, but unfortunately nothing seemed to make a difference.” Her face was hard as she talked about Edith, but softened as she turned to Colin. “Monsieur Hargreaves, Toinette will be beyond disappointed to have missed you. She’s calling on a friend.”

“It’s such a shame she didn’t come to the country,” I said, my smile a masterpiece of the disingenuous. Cécile, who was sitting next to me on the horsehair settee stifled ironic laughter. “I could have thrown a little party for her.”

“That would have been lovely,” Madame Prier said. “You’re so kind to think of her.”

“You know how fond we are of her,” Colin said. I resisted the urge to kick him. “I’m afraid, however, we’ve come bearing no glad tidings. Dr. Girard was murdered last night.”

“Dr. Girard?” Confusion filled her wide eyes. “Are we acquainted with him?”

“He’s the one who treated Edith, Maman.” Whether Laurent had been lurking in the background from the time we had arrived or whether he’d snuck in, all stealth and quiet, was unclear. But when he stepped out from the shadows, his voice bellowing, it was as if all the heat had been sucked from the room. “How could you forget such a thing?”

“Why would you expect me to remember the horrid man’s name?” Madame Prier said. “He did nothing useful for her.”

“He did more than you.”

“Laurent, have you not yet grown tired of embarrassing yourself in front of guests?”

“Not in the slightest. I take after my dear mother.”

I sighed with an almost romantic delight as he stalked across the room and slammed the door. Laurent half terrified, half amused me. I appreciated the drama he could lend to a situation; it reminded me of a sensational novel. As the conversation restarted around me, I wondered what, exactly, he thought of Dr. Girard, and whom he blamed for Edith’s escape from the hospital. Most of all, I wanted to see his handwriting. “Can we follow him?” I whispered to Cécile.

Cécile paused for a moment, clasped her hands together, and tapped one thumb against the other. She looked at Madame Prier, then at the door, and then slumped against me.

“Mon dieu!” she said. “I’ve come over all dizzy. Kallista, will you take me to my room?”

Her ploy, while perhaps inelegant for her self-imposed standards, served its purpose. Colin clearly saw through it at once—he watched as I guided her to the stairs, any hint of concern absent from his face. He could not, however, hide his amusement from me.

“I’m impressed with your instant reaction,” I said, as we climbed the stairs. “You hardly hesitated at all.”

“I don’t like to waste time,” Cécile said. “And the conversation was putting a terrible strain on my ability to feign attentiveness. It’s a shame I’m not in the room you had—we could descend on Laurent unannounced.”

As it was, we made our way to the top floor of the house and knocked on Laurent’s closed door, which he opened without making us wait. Then, leaving it open, he turned around and walked back to his piano.

“You were quite right, Kallista,” Cécile said, following him in and gingerly stepping around piles of sheet music. “He has the cluttered mind of a genius. Or at least the cluttered room.”

“Why are you here?” he asked, crossing his arms and scowling at Cécile.

“Your sister’s doctor is dead. Murder made to look like suicide. Badly done, wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Not a professional,” I said.

“A professional murderer?” Laurent laughed. “I can’t decide whether to despise you or pity you, Lady Emily.”

“We’ve no time at present for you to do either,” Cécile said. “Where were you last night?”

“Me? Are you suggesting I killed Dr. Girard?”

She shrugged. “It’s possible, is it not?”

“Aside from the fact I had no reason to want him dead, it’s not possible. I was here all night.”

“Alone?” I asked.

“Of course alone. Do you think I bring lovers to my mother’s house?”

“You like to think you shock me, don’t you?” I asked.

“Don’t be tiresome, Laurent. Can your family verify you were here?” Cécile asked, then turned to me. “I think, Kallista, that I would perhaps make an exceedingly fine detective. I rather excel at questioning persons of interest. Do you think there’s a special sort of gown I should adopt for the profession?”

Laurent sighed as if he was irritated, but his eyes betrayed him. Laughter danced in them. “Much as I’d like to see the result of you imposing haute couture on the art of investigation, I’m afraid I’ve not time for any of this nonsense.”

“Are you not interested in what happened to Dr. Girard?” I asked. “His killer might lead us to your sister’s.”

“That’s fascinating, I’m sure, but what have I to do with any of it? I was here last night and certainly wouldn’t have killed my own sister.”

“Who would have wanted him dead?” I asked. “Does anyone in your family blame him for what happened to Edith?”

“By the time Edith escaped from the asylum, no one in this house—myself excluded—had the slightest concern for what she was going through. You’ve spoken to my mother. She’s relieved her daughter is dead. It’s a wonder Edith didn’t take her own life the way she was treated.”

“I can’t imagine your mother killed Dr. Girard,” Cécile said. “It would have taken too much effort in directions she would not find interesting.”

“You do know her well, don’t you?” Laurent asked.

“Well enough.”

“What about your father?” I asked. “Was he happy with Edith’s progress? With her doctor?”

“He was pleased at having her out of the house.”

“Laurent, I think it’s desperately important that we try to locate your sister’s child. Whom, you should remember, is your niece,” I said. “Chances are Edith tried to find her, and this poor little girl is still with the man who killed her mother. Surely you’re not willing to let such a situation go unchecked?”