“Are you afraid the murderer will strike in the neighborhood again?” I asked.

“No, one murder does not make me believe the area’s entirely dangerous—not, mind you, because I have any faith in Gaudet’s bound-to-be-infamous manhunt. Protection is necessary because the condition of the château in which we live would give Morpheus himself nightmares. Half the time I expect to wake up in the moat and find the entire building collapsed. The one remaining tower has grown so rickety I’m afraid we’ll have to tear it down—it’s unsafe.”

“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.”