Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“I have missed Monsieur Capet,” Cécile said with a sigh. “He’s such a rare breed of gentleman. Refined and focused, clever, but with the sort of dry wit I admire so much. Although after the success of the haystacks, he really ought to consider Monet popular.”

“You know this man who is causing our troubles?” Madeline asked. “Is he dangerous?”

“Dangerous? No, not at all,” I said. “Sebastian might steal everything valuable you own, but he’d never harm you.”

“He’d be more discerning than that,” Cécile said. “He’d only take a selection of your best items.”

This drew a deep laugh from George. “I’ve half a mind to invite him back, if only I knew how to contact him. We’ve far too much crammed in most of these rooms, and the attics are a complete disaster. Would he be interested in furniture, do you think?”

“Darling, you know we can’t get rid of anything while Maman is still alive,” Madeline said. “It would disturb her too much.”

“You shouldn’t talk about me as if I’m not here.” All of us but Madeline started at the sound of the voice. An elderly woman stood near the doorway, leaning against the wall. I had no idea where she’d come from or how long she’d been standing there. Her gown was of a rich burgundy silk, beautifully designed, an odd contrast to her coiffure—her white hair hung long and wild down her back—and the strained expression on her face.

“Are you the one they’ve sent to stop her? She’s come again, you know. My daughter’s seen her, too,” she said, crossing to George. “We should, I suppose, be introduced.”

Not hesitating in the slightest, George kissed her hand. “George Markham, Madame Breton. I’m Madeline’s husband.”

A shadow darkened her face for an instant. “Bien sûr.” Her eyelids fluttered. “It’s this dark room. Impossible to see anyone until you’re directly in front of them. Who is Madeline? Should I be introduced to her?”

“Madeline is your daughter,” George said.

“It’s all right, Maman,” Madeline said, taking the old woman’s hand. “Would you like to have tea with us?”

“Tea?”

George put an arm firmly around her shoulders. “It’s time for something to eat. We’ve douillons, and I know how you love pears. Come sit with us. I can read to you after we’re done.”

“She doesn’t like the books,” she said. “She’s crying again and won’t stop.”

“Who’s crying?” I asked.

George caught my eye and subtly shook his head before leaning in close to her. “We’ll go for a little walk and you’ll feel better. Then we’ll have tea.”

“I can’t stand the crying,” she said. “Someone has to make it stop.”

“I’m so sorry,” Madeline said, turning to us as her husband led the old woman from the room. “My mother’s not been well for some time. It’s nerves—they plagued my grand-mère, too. The doctor tells us there’s nothing to be done, and George agrees. He trained as a physician in London, you know, but hasn’t had much occasion or need to work. He’s the only one able to help her when she has a spell.”

“She’s fortunate to have him,” I said. “But how dreadful for her to suffer so.”

“I don’t think she has any awareness at all of her condition,” Madeline said. “Sometimes she’s lucid, and when she is, she has no idea that she’s ever not. Eventually she’ll remember nothing. By the time my grandmother died, she didn’t recognize any of us. But, come, now, I don’t want you all to feel awkward. Let’s start our tea.”

Monsieur Leblanc offered her his arm, and we followed them into a narrow corridor lined with tall windows that ran from the keep to a seventeenth-century manor. Stepping into this newer section of the structure was like entering a contemporary Parisian house. Bright yellow silk covered the walls on which stunning paintings hung at regular intervals. There could be no question of the Markhams’ love for art—their collection ranged from Old Masters to Impressionists, grouped by color rather than style. It was a fascinating method of organization, unlike any I’d before seen. A Fragonard beside a Manet, the two Monet haystacks across from a Vermeer portrait.

“Where have you put Sebastian’s bounty?” I asked.

“It’s just across the corridor,” Madeline said. “We’ll show you when George returns.”

Sitting on a tall, rigid chair, I accepted a cup from Madeline. She must have poured it before we’d arrived—there was no teapot in sight, and the drink had gone cold. Cécile raised an eyebrow as she tasted hers, but said nothing and abandoned the beverage for the douillon on her plate. Flaky, butter-filled pastry surrounded a whole pear sweet with cinnamon and sugar, all drowning in crème fraîche. It more than made up for the inadequate tea.

“Have you heard anything further about the murdered girl?” Madeline asked. “Does anyone know who she is?”

“We’ve been told nothing,” I said. “But I would imagine they’ve identified her by now.”

“It is horrifying. Here I am worried about someone breaking in to give us a painting and some poor girl was killed not two miles from me,” she said. “It doesn’t seem possible. And it’s made our intruder all the more frightening. No one in this neighborhood could have done such an awful thing, so this stranger must be the guilty party. And what if he’d gone into a murderous rage while he was in our house?”

“I’m confident Sebastian would never do such a thing—” I began, only to be interrupted.

“I’m so sorry, Adèle,” Madeline said, addressing me directly, her eyes open so wide they looked strained, an odd, unfocused expression coming over her as she began to speak. “I did try to contact you about our change of plans, but I’m afraid you didn’t receive my note. Would you very much mind if our excursion is only to Yvetot, not Rouen? I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting your friend, Sebastian, but he’s more than welcome to join our party.”

“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said, confused and a bit frightened, unsure what to say or do.

“You know how it is when you’re having trouble with household staff. I shall make sure Marie is disciplined firmly,” she continued. “She must have neglected to send my note.”

Cécile and I exchanged baffled glances while Monsieur Leblanc stared at his plate.

“You must, however, give me the name of your newfound dressmaker,” Madeline continued, her voice light and happy. “You did promise and I can’t have you keeping secrets from me.”

George entered the room, his mother-in-law conspicuously absent, and the moment Madeline saw him, her manner changed. But it wasn’t simply her manner—the light in her eyes altered conspicuously. “Apologies,” he said. “In the end I thought it best Madame Breton not join us.”

“Should I go to her?” Madeline asked, her pretty lips pressed together, her face pale. The transformation unnerved me. She looked entirely different than she had just moments ago and showed no sign of being aware of what had happened.

“She’s settled, but I’m sure would enjoy some company,” George said. “I was afraid talk of an intruder might upset her.”

“Of course,” Madeline said. “You’re so considerate, my dear. Will you excuse me? I’ll go sit with her.”

When she’d gone, George took her untouched douillon and scooped up an enormous bite. “It’s terrible, this trouble with her mother. She’s been ill for as long as I’ve known her, but it’s got much worse in the past few years. It used to be she was just a bit batty, but her forgetfulness was almost entertaining. Now, though, it’s as if the charming, refined woman she used to be is disappearing entirely.”

“How dreadful,” I said, wondering if it would be appropriate to mention his wife’s apparent lapse in sanity. “And there’s nothing to be done?”

“Apparently not.” He swallowed another bite of pastry. “I’ve researched the matter thoroughly. It’s wrenching to watch her. Would break the heart of the strongest man.”

“Je suis desolée,” Cécile said.

“You’re very kind,” he said. “We did not, however, bring you here to earn your pity. Maman’s condition is something we must bear, but expending too much focus on it will serve to do nothing but depress us. Have you finished your tea? I want to show you the painting.”

“Monsieur,” Cécile said. “Unless I am drinking champagne, I am always finished.”

“An admirable policy. I think I should adopt it myself.” He ushered us out of the room and down a long corridor. “As you can see, this part of the château is much more livable than the rest. It’s almost modern.” We entered a grand hall, this one done in shades of green, from the darkest forest to pale lime. In the center, standing on an easel, was Monet’s painting.

“Rouen,” Cécile said. “One of my favorite cathedrals.” Golden tan hues dominated the canvas, the building seeming to soar from the street, the brushstrokes easy and loose.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell whether it was Notre Dame de Paris or Notre Dame de Rouen. Churches aren’t my specialty,” George said, continuing forward, a curious look on his face. “This was not here before.” He picked up an envelope resting against the canvas, glanced at it, frowned, and handed it to me. My name was scrawled across the front. With shaking hands, I opened it and pulled out the note it contained:

It is good of you to come back to me.

Sebastian’s arrival excited me more than a little. He amused me, and I rejoiced at having something other than all things tragic to think about. Colin’s response, on the other hand, might be less than rhapsodically enthusiastic, and this caused me no small measure of concern. As soon as Cécile and I had returned to his mother’s house, I gave the envelope to him. His dark eyes danced when he read Sebastian’s missive. “I knew it,” he said. “Am I to have a rival, Emily?”

“Far from it,” I said, taking the note back from him. The afternoon had turned chill as a bracing rain began, and we gathered in a timbered sitting room in front of a hulking stone chimneypiece to take champagne tea, a concept introduced by Cécile and embraced at once by my husband. He had opened for us a bottle of Moët, and Cécile was inspecting the bubbles in her glass.

“You know, Monsieur Hargreaves, that I much admire our clever thief,” Cécile said. “But his every quality pales in comparison to you.”

“I do appreciate the vote of confidence, Cécile,” my husband said, inspecting an array of hors d’oeuvres on the table before him. Oignons blancs farcis, stuffed with herbed roast pork and Gruyère cheese, poached truffles, and a spectacular pâté de campagne. “I’m not surprised in the least, now that we know your old friend is behind this, Emily, that he should have found you. No doubt when he learned you were in France he set about manufacturing a circumstance to bring himself back to your attention. He could have easily determined that my mother is friends with George Markham—it’s reasonable to assume two expats living in such close proximity would keep company.”

“So he stole a painting to get my attention?”

“I think he stole it to ward off ennui,” Cécile said. “His life has undoubtedly become tedious since he’s stopped following Emily.”

“An excellent point,” Colin said. “But now that he—”

“Who is following Lady Emily?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked, entering the room and sitting next to her son.

“An old nemesis, mother,” Colin said. “And the man who put the painting in the Markhams’ house.”

“Sebastian is far from a nemesis,” I said. “If you remember, he turned out to be quite good.”

My mother-in-law coughed. “Sebastian? You are on a first-name basis with a thief?”

“He’s not simply a thief. In the end, he agreed to protect—” I began.

She raised a hand to silence me. “I’m afraid we haven’t time for it now, Lady Emily. I’ve come with business. Are you well enough to speak to Inspector Gaudet? I worried that perhaps this gallivanting about the countryside might have set your recovery back, so I’ve left him waiting in the corridor while I inquire.”

“I’m much better, thank you,” I said. “But I do very much appreciate your touching concern for my health.” Now it was Cécile’s turn to cough, and I caught a wicked glint in Colin’s eyes at my ironic tone. His mother disappeared only for a moment, returning with the inspector.

Gaudet nodded sharply at us as he entered the room. “I understand you believe you’ve identified our thief?”

“He’s someone familiar to me, yes,” I said.

“Has this man a history of violence?”