“It was her only belonging, and she carried it with her everywhere. Cranked it up and curled her body around it every time she was afraid—especially during a storm. She is terrified of storms.”

Ella Blythe’s fine brow wrinkled.

“She’s become increasingly agitated since losing the little box, but I don’t know much about her background. I haven’t any idea what else might comfort her. Which is the other reason I’ve come.”

She nodded. “Very well, then. What can I do?”

“Tell me about this Philippe. Perhaps I may locate him, or at least some remembrance . . .”

She fidgeted with the tip of one glove. “Philippe Rousseau. Heavens, I should remember something about the man, but I cannot even seem to summon his likeness in my mind. He was principal at Craven, and . . . oh, bother.” She turned to call over her shoulder. “Frannie, is my husband back in his office yet?”

“Yes ma’am, been listening in from there since I brought your visitor in.”

“Has he, now?” Her eyes sparkled, and she relaxed into her Queen Anne armchair. “What a little snoop.” She tipped her head back and raised her melodic voice. “Oh, Mr. Dorian!”

“It’s Jack, woman. Jack!” The side door burst open and a hearty man with a lively countenance strode into the room, bringing an air of energy and surprising warmth, despite his good-natured outburst. “At least in my own home, eh?” He leaned down, tipping her chin up, and kissed his wife before them all.

Turner couldn’t help but smile at the little exchange.

She pinched her lips in mock anger. “Now that you’ve heard the whole story, Mr. Dorian, I don’t suppose you could help us, could you? Something about Philippe?”

Mr. Dorian raised his eyebrow. “Would it be crass of me to be pleased that you’ve forgotten so much about him?” He kissed her forehead and turned toward Mitchell for the first time.

Turner rose and gave a small head bow. “I’m grateful for you both welcoming me into your home.”

He waved off the formalities and loosened his necktie. “So you want to talk about Philippe Rousseau. He was a Frenchman with a soft voice and tall build, and for what it’s worth, he was actually released from prison some years ago.”

His wife turned in her chair. “And why wasn’t I told? Where has he gone?”

“That’s precisely why I never told you—I have no idea where he went, only that he was released on bail from . . . some unnamed source . . . and he never returned.”

“Unnamed source, eh?” She narrowed her eyes, pressing her lips together. “That’s what happened to the six hundred pounds you never would speak of, wasn’t it?”

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Couldn’t let the poor bloke waste his life away, now could I? Not after I spent so much of my energy on him in our youth.”