“A girl you say?” he asked.

“Yes, about six years old. Her mother’s about my size and build, with similar hair? Lucy’s blond. Her father used to be in the Foreign Legion and has bright blue eyes.”

“The Legion? Yes, I think I remember them. He was in Indochina, wasn’t he? New to the area, renting a ramshackle house on the hill.” He gestured at the cliff behind us. “Don’t remember anything striking about his eyes, though. The little girl had ones like that, bluer than anything I’d ever seen. She liked lemon on her crêpes, with butter and sugar.”

“Do you know which house?” I asked.

“Not sure, madame, sorry,” he said. “Talk to the owner of the Hôtel La Résidence. He assists nearly everyone in town looking for a long-term stay.”

We thanked him and darted to the Hôtel, where we quickly found the proprietor.

“Oh, yes, the Myriels, bien sûr,” he said. “They were in the Guerlot Cottage. I can give you directions if you wish, but I’ve not seen them for months. Madame’s health was not so good and her husband wanted to take her back to Paris.”

His map, though hastily drawn, proved easy to follow, and soon we stood in front of the small house in which Edith and Jules had tried to make a home with their daughter. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. Not wasting any time, Sebastian started to work on the lock, and it clicked open almost at once.

“The place has undoubtedly been rented to someone else,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “So let’s proceed with caution. We could be discovered at any moment.”

He was correct. The rooms were full of evidence that the cottage was occupied by a family visiting the seaside: postcards strewn on a table waited to be addressed, the kitchen was stocked with food, and the bedroom wardrobes were full of clothing.

Sebastian darted through the rooms, his eyes sharp and bright. Mrs. Hargreaves and Cécile, both uneasy at the thought of being discovered, stayed near the front door, watching as the rest of us searched, not knowing what to look for. I started to move more methodically than I had done on first entering the place, carefully looking over every inch of the rooms. Then, in the corridor between the bedrooms, something struck me, and I called for Sebastian.

“Something’s wrong here,” I said.

He pressed his hands along the plaster, which I’d noticed was a slightly different color from that in the rest of the hallway. “It’s newer,” he said. “Shall we look inside?”

I hesitated, unsure if destroying the wall was a good idea. Monsieur Leblanc arrived on the scene, quickly followed by Mrs. Hargreaves and Cécile. My mother-in-law, her eyes narrowed and focused analyzed the situation in an instant.

“Take it down,” she said.

Sebastian did not require further encouragement. He removed from his jacket a metal blade that he used to cut through the plaster, tracing the line of the lighter color. When he reached the end, he pushed it in farther, jiggled the blade, and started to pull out a bit of the now crumbling wall. It came down in easy pieces, and as he removed them, a smell of decay—not overwhelming, but not insignificant—assaulted our senses.

Behind the wall was a body, badly decayed, certainly beyond the point where anyone could recognize him, but I could not doubt it was Monsieur Vasseur. None of us was prepared for the sight of sinewy bones and missing flesh. I ran into the garden where Cécile held my hair back while I was sick. My mother-in-law, however, stayed with Sebastian and Monsieur Leblanc, helping him to lay out the body on the floor, while I, having pulled myself together, summoned the police. Mrs. Hargreaves didn’t fall apart until we reached home, where we found Colin waiting, ready to shoulder the burden for all of us.


22 July 1892

Never again do I want to see what I did today. I’m writing on the train, as it seems the only way to escape the insanity of what we witnessed, of the horror one man will inflict upon another.

I’d not given it much consideration before—and was, no doubt, far too harsh in my judgment of Emily after she’d found poor Edith Prier. The fresh wounds must have been even worse.

Monsieur Vasseur reminded me more of the mummies in the British Museum than of a man recently dead. The police said he’d been stabbed. I’ve not the slightest idea how they could tell, but certainly didn’t want any further detail on the subject.

Emily was sick. I did the only thing possible for me: assist Mr. Capet in taking down the body. Being useful and facing the reality of what we’d found seemed preferable to standing outside and wondering how bad it was. The imagination, I always find, often weaves a more frightening picture than the truth.

Colin will not be pleased with what we’ve done.

30

Calm and focused as always, Colin paced the room, listening to our story when he returned the next day, deep lines across his forehead. His reaction appeared consistent with the myriad other times I’d seen him faced with grim news and difficult work, but something beneath the surface was different this time. His eyes did not linger on mine quite as long as they used to, and the concern with which he was treating me was identical to that he extended to his mother and Cécile—kind and compassionate, sensitive and understanding—but lacking the emotionally intimate connection we’d always shared. My stomach churned, more upset by this than the sight of poor Monsieur Vasseur’s body.

“You’ve done good work,” he said, directing the comment to Sebastian. Monsieur Leblanc had remained behind to liaise with the police. “And accomplished more than I. We need to find the child, that’s paramount now, as it’s evident she’s in a fair amount of danger.”

“I asked the police to send you a full report,” I said.

“Good girl,” he said, still hardly meeting my eyes. “It was a brutal day for all of you, and I think it’s best we have an early night. I’ll set off tomorrow for Rouen as early as possible.”

“I’m coming with you,” I said.

“We’ll discuss that later,” he said. “Capet, your particular expertise may come in handy. Can I count on you?”

Sebastian rolled his head back and forth. “So long as what you’d have me do is adequately amusing I have no objection.”

“Are you going to talk to Laurent?” I asked.

“Yes,” Colin said. “And Monsieur Prier.”

“If Monsieur Myriel visited Edith regularly during the entire duration of her commitment, he can’t have been Jules Vasseur,” I said. “He was in the Foreign Legion some of that time. What if Myriel had been hired to keep an eye on Edith? Her father may have wanted to ensure she wasn’t in contact with Vasseur.”

“An interesting theory,” Colin said. “I’ll pursue it. Now, if you ladies will excuse us, I need to speak to Mr. Capet. Emily, I’ll join you upstairs shortly.”


Hoping for a private chat, Cécile and I had gone to my bedroom after the gentlemen left us. “It’s not like him at all. He’s kind, but so impersonal. I know he’s furious with me.” I kept my voice low, not wanting even a hint of what I was saying to carry into the corridor. Cécile, holding her little dogs in her lap, shrugged.

“He is under great duress, Kallista, and has seen you nearly killed. Can you blame him for stepping up and taking care of you?”

“No, I can’t. But it feels like more than that.”

“He’s in a difficult position. Can you imagine the censure he’ll face upon your return to England? The gossip that will follow him? People will say his carelessness nearly cost you your life.”

“But he did nothing wrong! I put myself in danger. He wasn’t even in Constantinople at the time.”

“A husband is supposed to keep a firm hand on his wife,” she said, pulling her finger away from Brutus, who was bound and determined to bite it. “It is disgusting, of course, but can you see how him not doing that makes him appear less of a man to certain people?”

“I’d not thought of that,” I said. “But it should be the opposite—he’s man enough, enlightened enough, to value my strengths, even those deemed unacceptable to society. He encourages me, spurs me on, wants me to thrive. He’s not threatened by a lady’s quest for independence. If anything, he’s ten times the man who has to play lord and master over his wife.”

“You’re right. But that’s not how society views the matter. Like it or not, you can’t escape the fact.” She gave a fierce glare to the still-unruly Brutus, and petted Caesar.

“Society is infuriating.”

“That may be,” she said. “Yet it’s inescapable.” Brutus yipped, and I picked him up from her lap, stroking his silky fur, his tiny body warm and soft. He quieted at once. “I’m afraid he likes you, Kallista. Dreadful animal.”

“He’s very sweet really,” I said.

“Don’t say that within his earshot. He’ll become unbearable.”

“I adore Colin,” I said, keeping hold of the little dog. “I’ve not meant to cause him trouble with society. But he did know when he married me I was not going to be an ordinary wife—and he swore he wouldn’t want one.”

“And I’m sure that was the truth. He hadn’t, however, anticipated the extent to which the situation could be complicated by including you in his work. You should think hard on it—is there a way you can satisfy your needs for intellectual stimulation and adventure without compromising his reputation?”

“His reputation shouldn’t be compromised!”

“Shouldn’t is irrelevant,” she said. “We are sadly forced to deal with the reality of the shortcomings of the fools who surround us. Unless, of course, you want to go completely eccentric and reject all of them. I’m afraid that would end up tedious. More trouble than it’s probably worth.”