She went back up to the nursery then, and she was surprised when she ran into her husband. He was standing in Teddy's room, looking stricken as he touched the child's toys, and let a hand drift across his pillow. It brought tears to Marielle's eyes again when she saw him. She felt guilty for their sharp exchange downstairs. They were both under a terrible strain. As she looked around the room, it tore at her heart again. She remembered stroking his little cheek as he lay there in the red pajamas Miss Griffin had made, with the embroidery on the collar. There were tiny little trains sewn all around in Miss Griffin's careful blue stitching.

“It's impossible to believe that a child can just vanish into thin air, isn't it?” Malcolm said mournfully, and she nodded. He looked at her so sorrowfully, and he sounded gentler than he had an hour before. Here, in this room, you could be sad, but not angry. He sank slowly into the rocking chair near the bed, and stared at where his son had lain for the last time before they took him. “I keep thinking of the train downstairs, waiting for him.” There were tears in his eyes when he spoke, and Marielle turned away so he wouldn't see her own, and then he reached out and touched her hand. “I'm sorry about this morning. I'm afraid I was overwrought. And yesterday too…it's just such a nightmare all this, Marielle. What are we going to do?” It was the first time she had ever seen him at a loss, and suddenly she felt sorry for him. He seemed suddenly so broken.

We're going to pray that he comes home soon.” She tried to say it calmly as she squeezed his hand. And a few minutes later, Haverford came to find him to tell him that Brigitte was waiting for him in his office at the house. He was still struggling to maintain his work load, and Brigitte had been enormously helpful and deeply sympathetic. She had cried for hours when she heard the news, and she still couldn't believe it.

Marielle followed him downstairs when he left for his office and then went back to her bedroom. At least they had made peace, after a fashion. She exchanged a few words with Brigitte, when she saw her. Both women cried, and Brigitte hugged her warmly, unable to speak for a moment, before she went off to work with Malcolm. Marielle had always known how Brigitte adored Teddy.

It was late that afternoon when John Taylor finished interviewing the help for the second time, and asked to see Malcolm. He wasn't surprised by what he'd heard till then, because she'd warned him, but he still didn't like it. They painted a portrait of a woman who was different from the one he'd seen the night of the kidnapping. A woman who was weak and indulged and frightened and always hiding. Miss Griffin had said that Mrs. Patterson was too nervous, too anxious, and that it wasn't healthy for the boy. In fact, she was so nervous sometimes, she didn't even want to see him, and it had taken her quite a long time to adjust to him in the beginning. At first, she had hardly shown any interest in him at all, as though she wasn't even sure if she wanted him. And it was only lately that she'd been spending time with him, “in between her headaches.”

And when he'd last spoken to Edith she had called her a spoiled brat, and intimated that she could have said worse, that she spent so much on clothes it was a wonder she didn't ruin her husband. She said she spent all her time napping or resting, and didn't spend any time running the house, which was just as well, because no one would have listened. They all worked for Mister Patterson, she made very clear, and had since before “shed” been there. And she even blamed the loss of her job now on Marielle and not Malcolm.

The housekeeper said almost nothing, and said she knew very little of Mrs. Patterson's habits. She made it equally clear that Mrs. Patterson herself was of no interest. Only Mister Patterson mattered.

Only Betty had a few kind things to say. And Haverford seemed to feel sorry for her, although he wouldn't say why, and he refused to open up to John Taylor. And of course, when they last interviewed him, Patrick the driver continued his tale about her “boyfriend,” which Taylor suggested he keep to himself, as there was more to it than he knew and he could very easily find himself a material witness, which, for a moment at least, seemed to frighten him into silence.

But the picture Taylor got was one of a woman who was universally disliked for reasons he couldn't fathom. She was the outcast she had described herself to be, in her own house, and very few of the people who supposedly worked for her seemed to know or like her. He got the feeling that she was withdrawn from all of them, and he suspected correctly that she was very lonely. It was still puzzling him when he walked into the library to see Malcolm, and he mentioned it while Haverford brought them each a cup of coffee.

“Why is it,” he put a spoonful of sugar in and left it black as he glanced up at Malcolm, “that so many of your servants seem to dislike her?” He saw Haverford watching him, but the old butler said nothing.

Malcolm let out a long sigh and stared out the window. “She's not a strong person, you know…she's weak, and frightened, and perhaps they sense it. She's had,” he seemed to hesitate, “ahh…mental problems, shall we say… in the past…and she still suffers from terrible headaches.”

“That's no reason to hate her.” They all seemed to have so little regard for Marielle as a person, as though she didn't count, as though she didn't exist, as though they worked for him and not for her and wanted everyone to know it. And John Taylor couldn't help wondering if Malcolm had set it up that way, to keep her powerless in her own house. She seemed to have absolutely no control over anyone, not her child, or her staff, and certainly not her husband. Even Miss Griffin had admitted that she'd never followed Mrs. Patterson's orders. She took her orders, as she put it, from the boy's father. But when he asked her why, she couldn't explain it, except to say that Marielle was weak and didn't know her own mind, but that didn't make sense to him. She didn't seem weak when he talked to her. She made sense, she was intelligent, and polite, and even if she had headaches, that didn't make her crazy. But that was the feeling he was getting now, that they all thought she was a little “off,” as though her mind and her judgment couldn't be trusted. And he couldn't help wondering what had made them think that.

“I don't think anyone hates her here. What a terrible thing to say.” Malcolm smiled benignly, but then he looked at him almost sadly. “She's not a strong girl, and she's had terrible problems. Who's to say that she will even be able to endure the shock of all this? This could be the last straw in an already very tenuous picture.”

“Is that what you think?” Taylor knew he was onto something, but he wasn't sure what. And there was something else he wanted to know. But he was saving that for later. “Is that what you're telling me?” Taylor pressed. “That she's crazy?”

“Of course not.” Malcolm looked outraged at the insult to his wife. “I'm telling you she's fragile.”

“Isn't that the same thing? Aren't you telling me she could crack because Teddy's been kidnapped? Has that been the implication in this house for all these years, that she's 'fragile,' as you put it, and not someone to take seriously? Have you told them that, or have they just guessed it?”

“I've told them that they should deal with me, and not trouble her.” He looked annoyed. “But I see absolutely no connection between that and my son's kidnapping,” he snapped.

“Sometimes the whole picture is very important.”

“The whole picture here is that she's a delicate girl with a terrible history, as you know yourself, and I just found out. Two years in a mental hospital, and nine years of imaginary headaches.” He sounded hard as nails and Taylor didn't like what he was saying. It was as though he was trying to discard her as a person, and somehow he had conveyed it to everyone who worked near them. Taylor suspected that only Haverford felt differently about her.

“Are you saying her headaches are imaginary?”

“I'm saying that she's neurotic.” He had gone further than he wanted to and was suddenly very irritated at John Taylor.

“Neurotic enough to be involved with Charles Delauney in the kidnapping of her own child?”

Malcolm looked shocked but for a long moment he didn't answer. “I never thought of it. But I suppose it's possible. Maybe anything is. I don't know. Have you asked her?”

“I'm asking you. Do you think she would do a thing like that? Do you think she's still in love with him?” Taylor was wondering how far Malcolm would go in condemning his own wife, and he didn't like the answer.

“I have no idea, Inspector. You'll have to discover that for yourself.”

John Taylor nodded. “And you, Mr. Patterson, how involved are you with Miss Brigitte Sanders?” It was a question he'd been saving for him, and to which he wanted an answer. And he loved the expression on Malcolm's face when he asked him.

“I beg your pardon.” Malcolm looked outraged. “Miss Sanders has been my secretary for the past six years, as I'm sure you know, and I'm not in the habit of becoming involved with my secretarial assistants.”

John Taylor looked amused at that. “I believe you married your last one.”

Malcolm flushed a deep purple and did not look amused. “Miss Sanders has a character of the highest order.”

“That's impressive certainly.” Taylor looked unflustered, and was secretly amused. In fact, he loved it. “But the two of you travel together a great deal, even to Europe. And I notice that even on the ships you take, your cabins are always adjacent to each other.” He had researched it carefully, even with deck plans.