“My love, it’s not all that bad,” she said. “Structurally you have nothing to fear. Aside from the tower, that is. But that hardly matters. What concerns me is our recent visitor.”

“Visitor?” I asked.

“Intruder, more like. We’ve received a rather unusual gift,” he said. “A painting.”

“And how is that unusual, Mr. Markham? Are you known to despise art?”

“Quite the contrary,” he said. “And you must call me George. There’s no use in adopting airs of formality this far in the middle of the country. We’re all stuck together and may as well declare ourselves fast friends at once.”

“A lovely sentiment,” I said. “Do please call me Emily. But why do you disparage Normandy? I can’t remember when I’ve been to such a charming place.”

“It is too far from civilization,” he said.

“Which is why, perhaps, a kind friend thinks you need art brought to you,” I said. “After all, there are no galleries nearby.” This drew laughter from them both, and their happiness was unexpectedly contagious.

“What makes it strange, though, is that it was more like a theft than a gift,” Madeline said.

“A reverse theft,” her husband corrected.

“How so?” I asked, intrigued.

“The painting was delivered in the middle of the night and its bearer left evidence of neither his entry nor exit. He set it on an easel—which he’d also brought—in the middle of a sitting room.”

“With a note,” Madeline continued. “That read: ‘This should belong to someone who will adequately appreciate it.’”

“And this, you see, is why I have no confidence in Gaudet,” George said. “He’s been utterly useless in getting to the bottom of the matter.”

“What sort of painting is it?” I asked.

“A building, some cathedral. Signed by Monet.”

“And what has the industrious inspector done on your behalf?”

“He questioned my servants, none of whom could afford to buy a pencil sketch from a schoolgirl, after which he declared himself sympathetic to my lack of enthusiasm for the canvas.”

“You do not like Impressionism?”

“No, Gaudet is simply incapable of reading a chap correctly. I adore Impressionism,” he said. “We have seventeen works in that style. I bought two of Monet’s haystack series last year.”

“So the thief knows your taste?” I asked.

“Evidently.”

“We’ve no objection to the painting,” Madeline said. “But how am I to sleep when an intruder has made such easy entry into our home?”

“You’ve every right to be unsettled,” I said. “What is the inspector’s plan?”

“He’s concluded that there’s no harm done and no point in looking for the culprit.”

“Madame du Lac is great friends with Monet. She could perhaps find out from him who previously owned the work. You may find you’ve been the victim of nothing more than a practical joke at the hands of well-meaning friends.” We called her over at once and relayed the story to her.

“Mon dieu!” she said. “I know this painting well. It was stolen from Monet’s studio at Giverny not three days ago—he wired to tell me as soon as it happened. He’d only just finished with the canvas. The paint was barely dry and the police have no leads.”

I would not have believed, a quarter of an hour ago, that anything could have distracted me from the memory of the brutalized body beneath the tree, but suddenly my mind was racing. “Was there anything else in the note?” I asked.

“Some odd letters,” Madeline said. “They made no sense.”

“It was Greek, my darling. But I didn’t pay enough attention in school to be able to read it.”

My heartbeat quickened with a combination of anxiety and unworthy delight. It could only be Sebastian.


“Your imagination is running away with you entirely,” Colin said as he untied his cravat and pulled it from his starched collar. The Markhams hadn’t stayed late, and Colin and I had retired to our room soon after their departure, while his mother and Cécile opened another bottle of champagne. “Although that’s not a bad thing in the current circumstances.”

“How can you not see something so obvious?” I asked, brushing my hair, a nightly ritual in which I’d found much comfort from the time I was a little girl. “This screams Sebastian!”

The previous year, during the season, an infamous and clever burglar who called himself Sebastian Capet had plagued London and never been caught by the police. He moved in and out of house after house in search of a most specific bounty: objects previously owned by Marie Antoinette. When he broke into my former home in Berkeley Square, he liberated from Cécile’s jewelry case a pair of diamond earrings worn by the ill-fated queen when she was arrested during the revolution. But he left untouched Cécile’s hoard of even more valuable pieces. The following morning I had received a note, written in Greek, from the thief. Later, swathed in the robes of a Bedouin, the devious man imposed upon me at a fancy dress ball to confess he’d been taken with me from the moment he climbed in my window and saw me asleep with a copy of Homer’s Odyssey in my hand. Correctly determining that I was studying Greek (the volume I held was not an English translation), he had delivered to me, over the following weeks, a series of romantic notes written in the ancient language.

“Capet is not the only person in Europe capable of quoting Greek,” Colin said.

“Of course not,” I said. “But you must agree the manner of the theft sounds just like him. Stealing a painting to give it to someone who would appreciate it?” I slipped a lacy dressing gown over my shoulders and pulled it close.

“How does that bear any similarity to a man who was obsessed with owning things that belonged to Marie Antoinette?”

“It’s the spirit of it! They both reveal…” I paused, looking for the right word. “There’s a sense of humor there, a clever focus.”

“Heaven help me. You’re taken with another burglar.” He splashed water on his face and scrubbed it clean.

“There is no other burglar. I recognize Sebastian’s tone.”

“And you remain on a first-name basis with the charming man. Admit it—for you, my dear, there will never be another burglar.”

“You’re jealous!” I said.

“Hardly,” Colin said. “In fact, I don’t object in the least to you investigating the matter further. It might prove an excellent distraction.”

“Did you really have the impression that Inspector Gaudet is competent?”

“He seemed perfectly adequate.” He drew his eyebrows together. “Has he done something to lose your confidence?”

“George wasn’t pleased with the way he handled the issue of their intruder.”

“Which is why I suggest you spend as much time as you’d like investigating the matter,” he said.

“And the murdered girl?”

“Sadly, Emily, she is none of our concern.”


5 July 1892

I’m trying my best to tolerate my son’s child bride, but the effort would be taxing for a woman of twice my stamina. I realize she’s not so young as I imply, but youth, I’ve always believed, is less about age than experience, and this unfortunate girl has a dearth of it. She’s been sadly sheltered for most of her years and perhaps it is unfair of me to expect—or hope for—more from her. Still, given the way Colin had spoken of her, I’d imagined another sort of lady entirely. I thought he’d be bringing me someone who might prove an interesting sort of companion. Instead, I should perhaps have paid more attention to what her first husband fixated on: her appearance. There may be a reason he went no deeper.

She, of course, views things differently altogether, and is quite proud of her accomplishments—imagines herself an independent woman of the world, despite the fact she’s the pampered daughter of some useless aristocrat. I don’t mean, of course, to insult her father, whom I’m told is a decent man. But I have no use for a social hierarchy that places accidents of birth above merit and achievement. It was my own dear Nicholas’s cause, and I’ve taken it on as mine since his death. Unoriginal, I suppose, to do such a thing. Colin tells me his wife did the same after Ashton died—says that she learned Greek and reads Homer and has a propensity for the study of ancient art. Such endeavors must require a certain aptitude and intelligence, but I’ve yet to see her demonstrate much ability to accomplish anything beyond reading a seemingly endless supply of sensational fiction.

She is taller than I’d expected.

3

I woke up early the next morning, the first day since we’d arrived in Normandy that I’d come downstairs before luncheon. The combination of my injuries and my mother-in-law’s scorn did little to inspire me to action. But today Cécile and I were to visit George and Madeline and examine the note left by their mysterious visitor, and the prospect filled me with excitement. We rode to their château accompanied by a protective footman, following winding roads that meandered through golden fields and into a small, dense wood opening onto a moat whose water was so clear I could see the rocks settled on its bottom. Branches hung heavy from weeping willows along the bank, and on the far side of the water stood a round stone tower with a pointed roof. It could, I suppose, be described as crumbling.

To say the same about the rest of the château wouldn’t be entirely correct; George, it seemed, was prone to exaggeration. This was not the refined type of building found in the Loire Valley or at Versailles. It was more fortress than Palace, a true Norman castle, with an imposing keep. We looped around the water and over a rough bridge, then followed the drive along a tall gatehouse fashioned from blocks of stone and golden red bricks, its windows long and narrow. Defensive walls had once enclosed the perimeter, but now all that remained of them were bits and pieces of varying heights, few much taller even than I, most of them covered with a thick growth of ivy or dwarfed by hydrangea bushes. Long rows of boxwoods lined gravel paths in the formal garden, and the flowers, organized neatly in pristine beds, must have been chosen for their scents, as the air was sweet and fragrant.

“The garden is much nicer than the house,” George said, rising from a stone bench and coming towards us, a gentleman with a large, dark moustache at his side. “You’d be wise to stay outside. I can have tea sent to us here.”

“You’re doing nothing, sir, but increasing my curiosity about the interior,” I said. “The exterior is lovely.”

“Very medieval,” Cécile said, tipping her black straw hat forward to better shade her eyes from the sun.

“If only I had a catapult,” George said. “We might have some real fun. May I present my friend, Maurice Leblanc from Étretat?”

The other man bowed gracefully. “It is a pleasure,” he said as George introduced us.

“Maurice is a writer—does stories for every magazine you can think of. Excellent bloke.”

“If you can overlook my failure to complete law school,” Monsieur Leblanc said.

“What sort of things do you write?” I asked.

“I’ve just finished a piece on France’s favorite ghost,” he said.

“Ghost?” I asked.

“I’d hardly be inclined to call any ghost a favorite,” George said.

“But this one isn’t full of menace,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “She’s sad, lonely, searching for a better mother than the one she had.”

“Do tell,” I said.

“Years ago, early in the century, there lived, in the small port of Grandcamp-les-Bains here in Normandy, a young mother notorious for neglecting her daughter. She let the girl wander through the village at all hours of day and night, didn’t send her to school, could hardly be bothered to take care of her.”

“I have heard this story, Monsieur Leblanc,” Cécile said. “And find it hard to believe any woman would treat her own daughter in such a manner.”

“It wasn’t always that way,” he said. “But after the woman’s husband, a sailor, died in a shipwreck not far from the coast, she could hardly stand the sight of the child. She looked too much like her father, you see, and the grieving mother could not cope. One day, when the girl had begged and begged to be taken on a picnic, they went to Pointe du Hoc, a promontory with spectacular views high above the sea.”

“And of course the mother wasn’t watching the girl,” George said.

“Correct,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “And while she was playing, too close to the edge of the cliffs, she slipped and fell to her death. And ever after, there have been stories of people—women—all through France seeing her. She wanders the country in search of a better mother, one who would look after her properly.”