Dangerous to Know (11 page)

Colin put a gentle hand on my arm. “Don't make him speak of these things in front of other people. It's too awful.” I searched his eyes for sympathy to my plight. He touched my cheek.

“It's just that—”

“Go, Emily,” he said. “It's the right thing to do.”

Hardly aware of anything beyond the thumping of my heart, I followed Laurent. Even before he'd closed the door behind us, Toinette's laughter filled the room.

Laurent balled his hand into a hard fist. “He should have taken her instead.”

 

We walked along a small corridor and up three flights of a square turning staircase to a dim, wood-paneled room, whose wide windows afforded a glimpse of the top of the cathedral. In one corner stood a pianoforte, its case covered with haphazard stacks of paper similar to the ones scattered over a long table pushed against the wall. A glossy puddle of black had ruined the pile nearest an overturned inkwell, and the only chair in the room lay tipped on the floor.

“Did she suffer?”

“I—I—” How could I answer such a question? He grabbed my arms and shook me.

“Tell me what you saw. Did she suffer?”

“I didn't witness the crime,” I said. My heart pounded and my stomach lurched, my breath catching in my throat.

“But you saw her. You saw what he did. I must know.” His eyes, wild and fierce, scared me.

“Yes, she did suffer.” Tears spilled from my eyes as I remembered her face and the unnatural angle of her head. “Unimaginable horrors.”

“I must know everything.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“What did she look like?” he asked.

“Brutalized.”

“She was strangled first?”

“I don't know!” I said, summoning the strength to push him away from me. “You will not force me to live it again.”

“I have to know.”

“Why?” I asked. “Do you wish to never sleep again? To be haunted by a ghastly and inhuman image?”

“No one possessed more humanity than she. Even in death she couldn't have lost that.”

“You misunderstand,” I said, my voice now firm. “I speak of the crime.”

“Did you see her eyes?” he asked, clutching my arm in his strong hand.

“Her eyes?”

“Yes.”

“I—” I closed my own and remembered hers. “They were vacant. Dark and empty.”

He dropped my arm and turned away. “Then he did take her soul.”

“No one's eyes look natural after death,” Colin said. We'd returned from Rouen without Cécile, who had stayed behind to attend Madame Prier's concert. More, she assured us, out of a desire to observe the family's behavior than an interest in music. At the time of our departure, going home appeared a more appealing option, but after another painful evening with my mother-in-law, I was beginning to question the wisdom of the decision.

“There was something to the way he said it.” I felt all knotted up inside. “The idea that the murderer took her very soul…”

“You're upsetting yourself unnecessarily.”

“When, exactly, did I lose your sympathy?” I asked, pouring tea from the tray we'd had sent to our room.

“You haven't, my dear. But we cannot go on forever concerned with nothing but this business.”

“Forgive me. I wasn't aware of a prescribed time for recovering after stumbling upon a ghastly murder scene.”

“You know that's not what I'm suggesting. But—and do forgive me, Emily—you haven't seemed yourself for so long. I'm worried that you're…”

“That I'm what?”

“I don't know. That you're allowing these events—all of them—to consume you.”

“All of them?” Shock did not begin to describe what I felt. It was as if the floor had crumbled beneath my feet. “Surely you don't include the baby?”

“I do,” he said, not meeting my eyes. The sound of blood rushing loud in my ears, I took his face in my hands and turned it, roughly, forcing him to look at me.

“How dare you?”

“I don't want to lose you, too,” he said. “What are you letting yourself become? You haven't looked at your Greek since we left Constantinople. You've made no mention of any of the myriad projects that used to matter to you. I can't even remember the last time you picked up a book to read without me prodding you first.”

Studying Greek after the death of my first husband had catalyzed in me an intellectual awakening and transformed me from a typical society girl into a person I hoped was more interesting and open-minded. For months I'd dedicated myself to translating Homer's
Odyssey
into English, pausing only to focus on the task of cataloging the ancient art tucked away in country houses so scholars might know where to find significant pieces. The work was satisfying and challenging, and meant a great deal to me. It hadn't come as a surprise that I'd abandoned it during my honeymoon, but during the months thereafter, while I recovered from my injuries, I'd not returned to a state of productivity.

“I'm reading
Madame Bovary,
” I said.

“Which my mother gave to you. You've not even browsed in the library here once.”

“I don't feel welcome in this house.”

“When has that ever stopped you before?”

“I've not had to deal with an unruly mother-in-law before.”

“You surprised her, that's all,” he said. “She expected to find you much different.”

“How so?”

“She expected the lady I'd described in my letters. Someone independent and forward-thinking, someone in pursuit of an intellectual life.”

“Forgive me if being shot, losing our child, and seeing the mutilated body of a girl who looked like me threw me into a state of agitation!”

“Of course I forgive you,” he said. “I'm just asking that you come back, that you stop lingering in a sea of malaise.”

“You
forgive
me?” Now outrage kicked in. “Forgive
me
?”

“Did you not just ask me to?”

“I was being facetious!” I shouted and turned on my heel to storm into the dressing room. The door slammed with a satisfactory thud. I sat in front of my vanity and waited for him to follow me. Ten minutes passed without a sound coming from the bedroom. Then a latch clicked.

But not the one to the dressing room. I heard his footsteps, faint, going down the stairs. Trembling, I dropped my head into my hands and wept.

 

Colin and I did not argue. Very few issues caused even a slight disagreement between us; he'd always been the most sympathetic and generous person I knew. How could the troubles we'd suffered alienate him so thoroughly? I thought of Toinette, petite and lovely, and wondered if he'd been much affected by her. Something about her—her confidence, perhaps—reminded me of Kristiana, the woman he'd loved long before he met me.

Kristiana was sophisticated and elegant, and in possession of a sharp intelligence. They'd met in Vienna, where she lived and worked as an undercover agent. Their relationship, deep and passionate, had gone on for years. Colin had even proposed to her, but she'd refused him, telling him she preferred to remain lovers and colleagues.

She was dedicated to her work, and someone on whom he could always depend. Although he'd never described the details, he had told me enough that I knew she'd faced a host of terrifying and dangerous situations without disappointing him.

And I knew—knew from what had disappeared from his eyes—that my inability to maintain calm and carry on in the face of trouble had disappointed him. I had not lived up to his expectations. Expectations formed by another woman, more strong and capable than myself. Kristiana had died in the line of duty. I'd survived, but only as a member of the walking wounded, a ghost of my former self. Colin had never wanted a weak, simpering wife.

Kristiana should have said yes all those years ago when he proposed to her.

When Meg appeared, ready to dress me for dinner, I refused, sending her downstairs for a tray. I'd hoped Colin would come with it, but he did not. Meg reported that he was sitting with his mother in the parlor. Too upset to touch my food, I asked her to help me get ready for bed. She unlaced my corset without her usual witty commentary on life below stairs. Her face was strained and she hardly spoke as she handed me a soft, cotton nightdress. I'm sure she had no idea what to say.

For the first time in our admittedly short marriage, I went not to the room Colin and I shared, but to the bedroom that connected to the other side of the dressing room. Four hours had passed since I'd stormed away from him, and in that time, he had sent no message, had not enquired as to my well-being, had not tried to persuade me to come downstairs. I crawled into bed before the sun had set, without even
Madame Bovary
to read. I'd left it in the other room. So I waited, my pillow wet from tears, until I heard my husband's footsteps in the dressing room. I held my breath, wondering if he would come to me, straining to listen as he readied himself for sleep: the rustle of his clothes, water splashing in the basin. My heart raced when he fell silent. I could feel his presence on the other side of the door and wanted more than anything for him to fling it open and take me in his arms.

Instead, I once again heard the click of a latch, this time followed by the creak of our bed in the other room as he lowered himself into it, alone. His parents had never spent a night apart after their marriage. Yet another way I'd fallen short of his mother.

I could not sleep, so I paced in front of the window, considering what Colin had said. I could not deny I'd lost all focus, virtually abandoning my intellectual pursuits since the tragedy that ended our honeymoon. I wanted to be the sort of person who rallied, who moved through adversity with grace and purpose, never daunted, always strong, but I'd failed.

I wished I'd stayed in Rouen with Cécile, wished I was back in London with my friends, wished I were anywhere but here. With a sigh, I leaned out the window, breathing in the cool night air. The moon hung heavy in the sky, silvery clouds blurring its edges, but not dulling the light it sent slicing through the night. The room Colin and I shared overlooked the back garden, but this one faced front, and I could see all the way down the drive to the gate. A rush of movement caught my eye in the lane beyond it—a flash of white fabric and a flicker of dark shadow. No sound accompanied what I saw, no crunch of gravel, no measured footstep. I leaned farther out, hoping to hear something, but my attention was met only by silence. Even the trees stood still and quiet, no wind rustling their leaves. Then, just as I started to pull my head back inside, a small cry cut through the night. It might have been an animal, the sound almost like a mew, until it changed to an obvious sob, gulping and hoarse, the voice thin and youthful.

My heart racing, I pulled on my dressing gown and slippers, cracked the door, and stepped into the corridor. My calves tightened as I tiptoed down the stairs and sneaked to the front door, doing my best to avoid a spot on the floor I remembered to be creaky. Soon I was in the garden, moving carefully along the stone path slick with dew. The clouds had disappeared, but the increase in light did nothing to alleviate the eerie sensation swirling around me. Watching for shadows in the trees and beyond the end of the walk, I continued forward to the road. There, in front of me, only a few paces from the gate, rested a tangled blue ribbon, the color of a summer sky, identical to the one I'd seen tied in the hair of the little girl in the Markhams' dovecote.

I crouched down and stretched my arm through the balusters, but my fingers could not quite reach the dirt-stained satin. Even if they had, I wouldn't have been able to grab it given the force with which my limbs were shaking. I gripped the cold railing and pulled myself up, then swung around against the stone pillars connecting the gate to the wall. My breath coming hard and ragged, I closed my eyes and counted to ten in Greek. Then to twenty. I'd forgot how readily the ancient language soothed me. When I reached thirty I began to wonder if there had been some wisdom in what Colin had said. I needed to go back to my studies, needed to reclaim the things important to me.

This was not, however, the time for such contemplation. I surveyed the scene before me, looking for anything else out of place. The gate was firmly latched and locked, the garden quiet, yet something felt wrong. I stood completely still, my senses alert, my back pressed against the wall, so no one could creep up behind me. Ahead, the path to the house was clear. But on either side I faced mountainous hydrangea bushes and low-hanging willow trees. The distance to the door had grown enormous.

And the eerie cry again cut through the night.

Firmly in the grip of fear, grief and guilt lost their hold on me, and I did not miss them, my companions of these past months. The simple state of being scared was a pleasure in comparison—terror having buried in it a sort of thrill superior to hopeless sadness and a deadening sense of fault. Strengthened by this, I began to walk towards the house, planning to collect the key to the gate so that I might retrieve the ribbon.

I had taken no more than three steps when I heard a soft sound behind me and felt a firm grip around my waist, holding my arms tight, as a hand covered my mouth. I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream. All that was left to me was my legs, and I began thrashing at once, stomping down as hard as I could on my assailant's foot before I kicked backwards, smashing into his shin. Then, with a flash of inspiration, I dipped my head forward and crashed it back into his.

That is, it would have crashed into his had he not released me and stepped neatly aside at just the right moment. I spun around and stared into Sebastian's blue eyes.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Thought I'd pop in to remind you there's a killer on the loose, Kallista darling.” His grin was maddening. “Where is that husband of yours? Surely he can't approve of you wandering about in the middle of the night in what I must say is a rather shocking state of dress?”

“How long have you been here?” I asked, pulling my dressing gown closer around my neck.

“Just passing by on an evening tour of the neighborhood.” He brushed lint from his otherwise spotless tweed jacket. “Your friend Monet has thrown a spanner in too many of my plans. I've had to find other ways to amuse myself.”

“How dreadful for you.” I made no effort to disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Is harassing ladies of your acquaintance the only other option you could conjure?”

“Not in the least, I assure you. Just this morning I called on your friend, Maurice Leblanc. Fascinating man,” he said. “He ought to abandon journalism for something with more panache. Crime fiction, perhaps. It seems to me all he lacks is the necessary inspiration.”

“And I suppose you think you could provide it?”

“I might.”

“How did you get over the wall?” I asked.

He laughed. “I could scale that asleep and in chains. If you had any concern for my emotional well-being you'd at least make an effort at challenging me.”

“Sebastian—” I began; he interrupted at once.

“How good it is to hear my name on your lips.” He leaned close, as if he would kiss me, then pulled back. “If only I'd met you before that wretched Hargreaves got you in his clutches.”

“You're not even a decent parody,” I said. “But in all seriousness, I need your help. Did you see anyone else on the road?”

“At this time of night in the middle of the countryside? What would a person be doing? Pursuing some sort of nocturnal beast?”

I ignored his ridiculous question. “Did you hear anything?”

“Just you trying to sneak about,” he said. “You really ought to work on your technique, Kallista. You're not completely without hope, but someone needs to guide you. There's much I could teach you, you know.”

“Much though I appreciate what I'm sure is a remarkably generous offer, I'm afraid I must decline. There are others, however, who could benefit from your expertise.”

His eyes widened and his mouth slipped into a crooked grin. “Who would that be?”

“Your queen and country,” I said.

He sighed. “Don't bore me with such drivel.”

“Wouldn't you like to work on the right side of the law for a change?”