“Notebook?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked, greeting Cécile in turn.

“You two have made peace,” Cécile said, watching the dynamic between my mother-in-law and myself. “And you’ve collected my favorite criminal mind. I should never have stayed in Rouen for so long.”

“My dear Madame du Lac,” Sebastian said, rising to kiss her hand. “Your charms are so great you ought never to leave my presence.”

“You do have a flair for the dramatic, Monsieur Capet,” Cécile said. “I should like to have a lengthy discussion with you on the topic of my country’s revolution. Not today, however. There’s too much else to talk about now.”

It took nearly an hour for us all to catch up on each other’s stories, the deliciously nervous energy in the room quickly approaching a feverish frenzy.

“Do you think Lucy’s safe?” Cécile asked. “And what happened to Vasseur? Why has he disappeared? And what more of this Myriel? Have you learned anything?”

“Myriel?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked. “The bishop in Les Miserables?”

“Les Miserables? The book was in Myriel’s room,” I said.

“Should I care?” Sebastian asked. “It’s a painfully unoriginal way to come up with a nom de plume.”

“That’s true,” I said. “But there could be a significance to it. Let’s not forget it’s what Monsieur Prier has been reading. As for Lucy, Cécile, I’ve no idea. I pray she’s come to no harm.”

“We can only hope her father has spirited her away somewhere safe,” Mrs. Hargreaves said.

I retired to my room relatively early, wanting to read every word of Laurent’s notebook before we boarded the train the next morning. I was missing Colin keenly, and wished he’d given me some indication of whether his own work was proving productive. I pulled his pillow on top of mine, fluffed them both, and settled into bed.

Laurent’s writing was devoid of the self-indulgent angst-filled ramblings I’d come to expect from him. Some pages contained sketches, and he wasn’t a bad artist. His occasional forays into poetry impressed me, and the bars of music in the volume proved him a competent composer. A Renaissance man. The book did not, however, contain any references to his sister. The only potential clue lay close to the volume’s binding: a page had been cut, probably with a razor, in as straight a line as possible. There could be no doubt the edges would match perfectly with the purported suicide note I’d found in Dr. Girard’s pocket.

I scrutinized the pages that preceded and followed the missing one. Before it was music. After, a sketch of a bridge that reminded me of the Pont de la Concorde in Paris. Nothing to suggest a connection to Lucy, the doctor, or Edith. Still, I felt as if we were making progress—that Étretat would prove a turning point in the case. But as I pulled the blankets to my neck in defense against the damp night air, anxiety began to tug at me, anxiety with no discernible source. Sleep seemed impossible, and the room grew colder. The sounds of the house assaulted my ears as I listened for anything of significance.

There was nothing. Nothing, that is, until I heard a thin wail below my window, a sound all too familiar. Terror seized me, killing even my curiosity. I didn’t get out of bed, didn’t look to see who stood in the garden beneath me. I knew exactly what I’d find, and was unequal to the task of facing it. The hideous sound grew louder and sadder until I could no longer hide from it. But as soon as I’d risen to seek the source of the cries, they stopped as suddenly as they’d started.

The next morning, when I opened my shutters, I looked for a blue ribbon, but saw nothing. Perhaps my mind was tricking me. Perhaps my imagination had got the better of me. I’d begun to feel silly, and was in high spirits by breakfast. Less so, however, after we’d piled into the carriage and were en route to the train station. Sebastian leaned close to me and whispered while Cécile and Mrs. Hargreaves were engrossed in conversation.

“I must speak to you, Kallista,” he said. “I heard crying last night. By your window. And when I went outside to investigate, I saw nothing, but the sound didn’t stop. Something evil is lurking here, and the sooner we’re done with this nasty business the better.”


We reached Étretat before lunchtime, and the charming seaside town was teeming with visitors. Half-timbered buildings lined streets leading to the water, edged by a pebble-strewn beach. Most impressive, however, were the towering cliffs on either side of the town’s cove. Tall and dramatic, their white rock reminded me of Dover, with vast green fields covering the land above them. Unlike Dover, there were dramatic stone arches here, dominating the view, stretching out over the churning water, their jagged tops slicing up into the sky.

I’d sent a wire to Monsieur Leblanc, alerting him to our arrival, and he was waiting for us, as I suggested, in front of the seaside boardwalk. Gathering our forces, we began our search in the Marie—the Town Hall—where we pored over marriage records, but found none pertinent. The clerks to whom we spoke did not recognize our description of the couple, nor of Lucy, and had no recollection of the name Vasseur. From there, we went to the police, who were more than a little ambivalent about giving us any information.

I wished I had Colin’s identification papers.

“If your friend is missing, madame,” said the officer condescending to speak to us, “you may file a report.”

“You know of the murder of Edith Prier, I’m sure,” I said. “This is her…her lover, or possibly her husband—”

“You were her friend yet you don’t know if she was married? I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

Sebastian stood back, rigid and quiet. I don’t think he enjoyed being in a police station.

“I’m disappointed in you,” I said, as we left the building. “I thought you’d be able to brilliantly manipulate the men who uphold the law.”

“I don’t like to draw attention to myself,” he said. “I prefer to go completely unnoticed.”

“I’d do the opposite,” I said. “I’d befriend them. Maybe join them. Know thy enemy, Sebastian. Keep them close and they’ll never suspect you.”

“I’m impressed, Kallista.”

“It’s an excellent idea,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “Imagine a master criminal who, while in disguise, convinces the police to hire him to search for himself. You should write fiction, Lady Emily.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t carry it off,” I said.

“I believe you could,” Cécile said. “But what is our plan now? Shall we go door to door in search of Vasseur?”

“That would take too long,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “Let’s think about what he would have needed when they came—somewhere to stay—we can check the hotels—”

“Have you any idea how many there are in a resort like this?” Sebastian said.

“It’s not a large town,” I said, refusing to be daunted. “And we can see if there are any houses for rent, or houses that have recently been rented. And we can talk to the physician in town, who might have been aware of the child.”

“Shall we divide and conquer?” Monsieur Leblanc asked.

“No,” I said. “Whoever murdered Edith and Dr. Girard wouldn’t hesitate to put a stop to what we’re doing. We’ll be safer together.”

“Have you any suggestions, Monsieur Leblanc?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked. “You do, after all, live here. To whom would you refer friends in search of lodgings?”

“It’s difficult to say. Holidaymakers are one thing—there are plenty of hotels for them,” he said. “But if Vasseur was looking for a home, he could have wound up anywhere.”

“So you’ve no way to narrow the field?” she asked, looking at him with a critical eye.

He could not, he apologized, offer any further ideas. So we set off, ready to interview the entire town if necessary. In the course of the afternoon, we spoke to more people than I could count, most of them friendly and helpful, but all, sadly, without information that aided our search. One woman did remember seeing a girl of Lucy’s description, walking on the cliff path with her mother, but her recollection was not clear, and she never saw the child again.

After several hours of this, Cécile demanded a break, and we stopped at a café housed in a rambling fifteenth-century mass of timber and plaster, full of elaborate wooden carvings of animals and figures and ordered cold glasses of good Norman cider. Mrs. Hargreaves was particularly taken with the image of a salamander, while Cécile preferred some sort of bird. As Sebastian and Monsieur Leblanc started to add their opinions, frustration filled me.

“Maybe coming here was a mistake,” I said.

“Étretat is never a mistake,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “We can walk on the cliff path.”

“I need to find Lucy,” I said. “We don’t have time to play tourist. I’m sorry—I don’t mean to sound snappish, but I’m deeply concerned about her.”

“Of course you are,” she said. “But think on it. A child who’d been brought here would want to play on the beach. Perhaps some of the vendors on the boardwalk will remember her.”

“An excellent idea,” I said. We set off as soon as we’d paid the bill. The day was a brilliant one, the sunlight scattering over the choppy waves of the sea, the sky crisp, the air warm. The beach was only a few blocks from the café, and Mrs. Hargreaves’s suggestion was an excellent one—lines of carts and stands filled the area nearby, their owners hawking ices, crêpes, creamy caramels, and every other sort of sweet imaginable.

Lucy, it seemed, had little interest in ice cream. Or caramels. But when we reached our fifth crêpe stand, operated by a short gentleman in a striped sailor-type shirt and a jaunty beret, hope filled my heart.