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I can tell his mind is somewhere else, but I continue my line of thought. “Lambert is now engaged, which his father arranged, but Oudin’s behavior might have been making Lady Genevieve’s family have second thoughts. So the comte sets out to eliminate the women Oudin is known to visit and also scare him into giving up his night life. That would match what you said about the killer not wanting them to look at him—they weren’t worthy.”
“That’s possible.” Simon pauses. “Why would he kill the prioress, though?”
“Because she knew things,” I say. “Juliane’s first signs of madness were years ago, perhaps while she was being educated at the abbey. And Lady Montcuir was raised there. If Mother Agnes knew of their condition—”
“Lady Montcuir was raised at Solis Abbey?” Simon interrupts. “Like you?”
I nod. “She was a foundling. You didn’t know that?”
Simon shakes his head. “They rarely spoke of her. I only know she suffered as Juliane does—did, but no one would give me any details.”
“It’s rather a romantic story,” I say. “The comte was engaged to another noblewoman, but he married his wife in secret, causing quite a scandal.” When Simon doesn’t say anything, I move on. “But my point is, Mother Agnes probably knew about her affliction and Juliane’s, and that’s something the comte didn’t want to risk getting out.”
Simon frowns. “Then why implicate the master architect?”
I shrug. “Once his work was done, he just needed someone to take the fall. The hammer was the perfect way to do it.”
“That doesn’t explain the destruction at the Sanctum or blaming me for Juliane’s murder,” Simon points out.
After a long quiet moment passes, I ask, “You said he wasn’t your first choice. Who is?”
The evasive manner instantly returns. “Lambert,” he says quietly.
“Lambert?” I would have suspected Madame Denise before him.
“He fits the picture,” says Simon. “Intelligent, physically able, involved in the investigation, a somewhat strange attachment to his mother, an overbearing father, no friends, difficulty with women…”
“Half of it sounds like Oudin,” I protest.
“Butallof it sounds like Lambert.”
I shake my head in disagreement. “Just because he doesn’t visit Pleasure Road and had his father arrange his engagement doesn’t mean he has trouble with women.”
“No,” Simon admits. “But he could be jealous of Oudin’s relative ease.”
Anyone could be as “successful” as Oudin if they had enough coin—which Lambert does. “Even if he was jealous, Lambert is engaged to Lady Genevieve,” I say. “Any troubles he had were over.”
“The timing might actually make sense,” Simon insists. “Some sort of stressful event almost always pushes a killer from fantasy into action. One that is out of their control, like the loss of a loved one, or that forces their life in a drastically new direction, like getting married. But something significant changes their world before they act.”
I shake my head. “You also said Beatrez was the first victim. She was three years ago.”
Simon purses his lips stubbornly. “Maybe I was wrong.”
I don’t think he believes that. “What if Beatrez’s murder was driven by Lady Montcuir’s death?” I suggest. “The comte may have gone searching for consolation but then became disgusted with himself. Or—” I sit up straight with sudden inspiration. “Perhaps he was looking to replace her with another woman he could raise from terrible circumstances.”
That makes Simon pause. Then he shakes his head. “Except that Lady Montcuir died two years before Beatrez.”
“Unless Lady Montcuir was actually the first victim,” I say. “In which case it couldn’t be Lambert. He idolized his mother.”
Whereas Oudin hated her.
Simon sighs in frustration. “And he also loved Juliane.”
We lapse into silence, and the only sounds in the kitchen are the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the bubbles rising from water heating for Simon’s bath. “How do you think he killed Juliane?” I ask quietly.
Simon thinks for a few seconds. “It might have been something added to the tea, but quick-acting poisons tend to have violent physical reactions, so I lean toward suffocation. He would haveonly had to cover her face with her pillow for several minutes. Without looking closer at the body, I can’t say with any certainty, though I didn’t see any obvious signs of violence. If it weren’t for the braid, I would never have connected her death to him—but he wanted me to know it was him.”
I imagine Juliane with her hands crossed on her chest and the blankets tucked up to her neck. Somehow that’s worse than the other bodies I’ve seen. “Madame Denise said she thought Juliane was still sleeping. He must have taken care to make it look so,” I murmur, and Simon cocks his head to look at me. “Not left on display like Perrete and the others, and not completely covered in shame and regret like the grain merchant’s wife. Not left in a panic like Mother Agnes after Marguerite showed up.”
