Page 142

“Well, that’s clear.”

She leaned forward again. “I’m serious. He hated you then, and that sort of hate only festers and grows in a personality like his.”

“Is he a psychopath?”

“I’d say yes.”

“And the sister, Fiona?”

“Well, that’s another question. She was clearly bright, but so damaged. When there’s not just a failure to protect and nurture, but pain of the most intimate type inflicted by your own mother, well, not many get out of that unscathed.”

“She’s here too. Jean-Guy pointed out that Sam cried when told about his mother. Fiona didn’t.”

“True. But what’s the most natural reaction? The fact is, Clotilde made them cry before she died. Sam’s tears were meant for you, not his mother. Fiona was much more honest in her reaction.”

“Is she dangerous too?”

“I don’t know, Armand. I wish I could tell you. It’s possible that on their own they’re under control. It’s only when they get together that something happens. They bring out the worst in each other.”

And both Hardye and Armand knew the “worst” was pretty bad.

“I need to get back to the city, but there’s one other thing. You said you didn’t think John Fleming was here now. That you’d recognize him. Honestly, if what you’re saying is true, then he’d almost certainly be here. He’d want to see you squirm. He’d want to see his plan unfold and be here in case anything goes wrong. He might not be right in the village, he might be camping nearby, or hiding in some home. You look relieved. I’d have thought having a raving lunatic in your backyard wouldn’t be the best news.”

“I sent Reine-Marie to the UK, to investigate the original.” He nodded toward the painting. “I wanted to get her away, but now I can’t reach her.” He looked again at his phone. Still no message. “If Fleming is here and not with her, that’s a relief. You really think he is here?”

“Probably.”

He walked Captain Moel to her car, then went home for a quick shower and to change.

Probably, thought Armand, was not a yes.

“Yes, I remember her,” said Cecil. “Quite a character. Exactly what you’d expect a Mountweazel to be.”

“This was years ago,” said Amelia. “She must’ve been memorable.”

“Oh, she was, but I don’t remember her from back then.”

“Then how do you know her?” Reine-Marie asked.

“She was here a couple of months ago. All wrapped in furs this time, and scarves, and wearing a sort of turban thing.”

He indicated his head, as though a turban could be worn anywhere else.

“What is it?” he asked, seeing their surprise.

“Nothing,” said Reine-Marie. “Virginia—”

“Lillian,” muttered Amelia.

“Lily didn’t mention she’d been back. Any idea why she came?”

“Not really. I do remember she called to say she’d lost something and wondered if we’d found it and could mail it back to her.”

“What had she lost?” asked Amelia.

“An old letter she said she’d found in a flea market. Something that belonged to her family.”

“Ahh, yes,” said Reine-Marie. “She did mention that. And you sent it back, right? To her old address or the new one?”