I spent a week in bed, being horribly spoiled by my friends, and then finally I was able to enjoy doing all the things a tourist does in Paris. I went to visit Madeleine and we spent some pleasant afternoons together. After I recovered Sid and Gus found a new apartment, this time on the Left Bank near Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Gus went back to her painting, but it seemed her heart was no longer in it. She confided that she realized she wasn’t as talented as she had thought and she missed New York. I wrote regularly to Daniel and received regular, if brief, replies. Rebuilding on our house had begun. In the meantime he had taken an apartment in Chelsea, but was waiting for me to choose most of the furnishings. He regretted not being there to see Liam take his first steps or say his first words.

Then a week or so after all this excitement I was wheeling Liam through the Jardin du Luxembourg when I heard my name being called. I looked up to see Miss Pinkerton and the other ladies bearing down on me.

“What a lovely coincidence meeting you here, Mrs. Sullivan,” Miss Pinkerton said, beaming at me. “Miss Hetherington and I wondered whether you were still in Paris. We’ve just arrived from Vienna. Isn’t it magnificent? By far the most beautiful city we’ve seen although I did develop a fondness for Venice. How have you been enjoying your stay here and have you had a good relaxing time? You looked rather peaky when we last saw you.”

“A good relaxing time”? I managed a smile. “It’s been most interesting,” I replied and watched them scurry on their way to Les Invalides.

Days passed. We settled into a routine while Sid and Gus discussed going home or going on to Vienna to meet Professor Freud whose work Gus much admired. Then, one hot day in July, a letter came from Daniel saying that the commissioner had been forced to release the leader of the Cosa Nostra, since nobody could be found to testify against him. He believed that this relieved the threat against us and the most sensible course was to come to terms with the Italian gang. He was booking our passage home and suggested we spend the rest of the summer with his mother, who had returned from her adventure out West saying she’d had a taste of travel, and there was no place like Westchester County.

I smiled as I read the letter. I was going home, back to my husband. Back to my life.

As to whether I’d even tell him about the murder of Reynold Bryce and my role in the investigation—well, I’d have five long days at sea to decide how much I wanted him to know.

Also by Rhys Bowen

Also by Rhys Bowen

The Molly Murphy Mysteries

The Family Way

Hush Now, Don’t You Cry