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My breath grew uneasy. I’d already doubted Alfred was my poisoner, but what if I hadn’t been poisoned in the café at all? What if it happened before that? The chick clinked again against the flask as I stared at the refraction of light in the smoothly polished surface. Good God. My landlady had tried to kill me.

My thoughts raced forward like the train that brought us here. Where was Mrs. Wauters anyway? She’d been the one who found me in the woods, warning me from the lake with some absurd story about the water sprite—to keep me away and prevent my finding whatever it was my mother had discovered. She claimed she didn’t see the girl, but what if she had? My hands began to shake. Mrs. Wauters had also been here when the message was painted on the boardinghouse wall. Had her shock been surprise, or had it been fear of discovery of what she, herself, had done?

My heart thundered in my chest as I began adding up the small inconsistencies regarding our landlady. Could she be behind it all?

“It’s possible.” Ruan agreed, having overheard my panicked imaginings.

I shot him a dark look, still not wholly comfortable with his eavesdropping. “The patients are protecting the missing child. Von Keller is protecting the patients. But Mrs. Wauters…? What is her motive?”

Ruan made out a low sound of agreement in his chest. “She’s not working alone. That’s clear. Perhaps that’s what our problem has been all along. We’ve looked for one killer, but we should be looking for several.”

“But who?” I ran my fingers through my hair. While I could admit I’d been wrong before in my investigations, something about this one bothered me more than it ought. “Violet Devereaux is innocent. At least of murder. She was in league with the dead reporter. I think she is in danger. Sister Agathe too, as she’s the missing child’s cousin.”

Ruan nodded, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his trousers, glancing at the closed door. “You think this is all about the girl, Manon?”

I caught my lower lip between my teeth. “I fear it is. Her mother was the first to die. The patients seem to be trying to hide her, as does Sister Agathe. There must be something about the girl. Something dangerous my mother discovered setting everything into motion … but what?”

“Does it even matter, if we can’t find the killer?” Ruan frowned coming closer. “What about Father Étienne? What do you make of him?”

I shook my head staring at the door. The wooden frame stained from where Violet Devereaux had smashed the poisoned bottle of brandy. “He’s hiding something. He, Félix, and Djhan were friends before the war. I cannot believe he’d harm them now. But one thing is certain … until we know Mrs. Wauters isn’t our killer, we need to stay elsewhere.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONEA Poorly Hatched Plan

IT didn’t take long to convince Ruan to leave the boardinghouse with me. His sense of self-preservation was far greater than my own. We’d spend the night in the hired automobile and take turns staying awake. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but we’d endured far worse. We packed our things, including the little chick—for Ruan was not about to leave it behind with a possible murderess—and set up camp in the motorcar.

I leaned back in the seat, my stocking-clad feet on the dashboard, and watched the night sky. Faint mist fell on the windscreen of our Renault motorcar as Ruan’s soft reassuring breathing kept me company. I loathed sleeping in cramped spaces after having done my share of it during the war. In any event, it was a better option than being murdered in one’s sleep.

I bit into a piece of crusty bread, chewing it slowly and turning the day over in my mind. Despite the evidence pointing in her direction, I could not understand why Mrs. Wauters would be our killer. It would be one thing if she knew her son was missing, but as far as she knew he was still at the hospital. Von Keller had kept his disappearance quiet. What’s more, why kill the others and not von Keller, the man standing between her and her child?

I sighed, tugging a purloined blanket up over me. My breath visible in the cold night air as I continued rolling the clues over in my mind. Ruan let out a soft snore and shifted against the window. He’d somehow contorted himself at an uncomfortable angle, but at least he was sleeping. The shadow of war had fled his face. I reached over, brushing a dark curl from his forehead, my fingers lingering on the reassuring warmth of his skin. Good grief, I was in deep.

The little chick escaped the box Ruan had placed her in and made her way to burrow along his neck for warmth. She was a darling little thing and I could not fault him for swooping in to save her. Granted, I didn’t know what we were going to do with a chick. I touched her gently, stroking the softness of her feathers. She was an utter doll.

Doll … Like a shot, I recalled the note I’d found in the poppet this afternoon. So much had occurred in the intervening hours. Between Dr. Peterson’s death and fleeing the boardinghouse I’d nearly forgotten about it. I reached into my pocket, pulling the little paper out, cursing myself for not thinking about it earlier.

Mrs. Wauters was not the only person who’d given me aid and was still alive. Sister Agathe had as well. I still wasn’t certain if the note was meant for me or for her, but either way I could not handle more blood on my conscience. My skin pricked as the image of Narcisse’s sightless eyes flashed in my mind. He’d asked me to meet him somewhere and ended up dead for it. I could not allow the same fate to befall the poor young sister.

“Ruan.” I nudged him in the belly. He grunted his exhausted displeasure and nestled himself deeper against the side of the car. Of all the times for him to sleep soundly. The man was perpetually awake. I huffed out a breath and tried again.

“Wake up!”

Still nothing. The chick cheeped in protest as her comfortable spot had moved beneath her feet. She nuzzled closer into the collar of his jumper.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” I muttered to myself. He could not complain about me going out and about on my own when he wouldn’t wake up when I needed him. As likely as not, there would be nothing there. Yet the nagging worry Sister Agathe might be in danger propelled me onward. I slipped Mr. Owen’s Webley revolver into the pocket of my skirt along with the flashlight. I’d at least be prepared if things went awry.

I shut the door loudly, in a final attempt to wake him, before giving up and disappearing into the dark. Besides, I’d only promised I wouldn’t get myself locked in the hospital; I’d made no promises about visiting cemeteries at night.

I curled my fingers around the grips of the revolver, hurrying through the night to the strangers’ cemetery. While I did not fear the dead, one could never be too careful with the living. My breath made little clouds before me as I followed the river path, keeping to the shadows as best I could until the solemn graves of the strangers’ cemetery came into view. The village and hospital were both fast asleep at this time of night. The moon, wreathed in clouds overhead, provided the only light. Not even the creatures moved tonight.

I needed to be quick. The car was hidden in the trees, and I doubted anyone would find us there but I did not like leaving Ruan alone and unprotected. Cautiously I stepped into the cemetery, shining my light over the graves.

It was empty.

Foolish girl. What did you expect?

I walked closer to the river’s edge. The water pulsed toward that terrifying cave where Manon and Djhan were hiding. But where was my mother? I shook the thought away, I could not get distracted by it—not when I was so close to finding the killer. Relieved to not find fresh bodies, I turned back toward the path, my foot catching in a foxhole and sending me tumbling to the ground. A sharp jolt of pain raced up my leg. I caught myself, palms flat against the wet grass, and started to pull myself out before I realized what had happened. It wasn’t a foxhole at all—I’d tripped and fallen into my mother’s shallow grave.

A wave of nausea came over me. The dirt here had been torn up. The wooden casket partially exposed. A corner had been pried loose. Someone had tried to get inside. I swallowed the bile down as a glint of something caught in the moonlight. I reached down, digging into the half-frozen mud and wrapped my fingers around the object. A silver magpie pin. I flipped it over, the name Félix Thys engraved on the back. My chest tightened. I tucked the bauble into my pocket before running my flashlight over the desecrated grave. The casket was fully exposed on the far side where I’d tripped, and the lid dislodged. It would be a simple enough matter to lift it farther and see what had been buried here—for it certainly wasn’t a human. Death carried with it a particular scent, one I’d been exposed to countless times during the war, and yet it was entirely absent. Relief washed over me. If I’d needed further reassurance my mother lived, this was it. An empty grave.