She was looking directly at me now, willing me to understand. I suspected she was desperate to share her secret with someone. She waited until a party of four Americans had walked past us, heading for the restaurant, then she continued.
“So I came away feeling annoyed and upset. I couldn’t understand his attitude to me. Wouldn’t he have been glad to see someone from home, a member of a family he used to know well? And then it hit me. Certain things I’d overheard at home and not understood. Conversations that were broken off when I came into the room. Something my stepfather had said: ‘How long are you going to let this charade continue?’ and ‘Thank God she’ll soon be married off and no longer be your responsibility.’” She paused, staring out blankly past me into the hallway. “I thought he was just being his usual horrible self. But there was that painting in Mr. Bryce’s hallway and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. You know, one of the Angela paintings. It must have been one of the last ones because my aunt Adelaide looks quite grown up. But the problem was it looked so exactly like me that it was frightening. And then I realized the truth about what had happened and why he’d fled to Paris. Aunt Adelaide was really my mother. He must have seduced her and when she found out she was going to have a baby it was too much for her delicate nature. She’d always been na?ve and led a very sheltered life. She must have been so overwhelmed that she had a nervous breakdown. And my adoptive mother was the only sister who was married at the time and wanted to have a baby of her own, so I was handed over to her. And everybody who knew kept quiet. But silly Mama must have spilled the beans to my stepfather.”
“I see,” I said. “Yes, that is how it must have been. How very tragic. So you decided to kill your father. To make him pay for what he had done.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I decided to do. If he had welcomed me, told me the truth, wanted me in his life, I might have forgiven him. But that complete and utter rejection—it was too much. There he was, enjoying a good life—rich, famous—when my poor little mother’s life had been ruined forever. I decided that such a man does not deserve to live. I slipped into the hotel kitchen and took a sharp knife and carried it in my purse to my father’s house.”
“And the housekeeper admitted you? Weren’t you scared that she’d be a witness to his murder?”
“I didn’t think about that. I didn’t care about anything anymore. I did worry about the young girl being there. I thought I’d somehow have to lure him away or find an excuse to get rid of her. But when I went into his studio he was alone. And the housekeeper left us alone too. I told him I’d figured out the truth and he looked amused and said, ‘Good for you. Obviously smarter than your mother, then.’
“Then he asked me why I had come. What I wanted from him. Was it money? I said I’d come to kill him. I got out the knife. I told him how he’d ruined my mother’s life and my life and he didn’t care about us at all. As I came toward him he didn’t look afraid—amused rather. He got up, grabbed my wrist, and twisted it until I had to drop the knife.
“‘Now stop being a fool. Go home and forget all about me,’ he said. ‘And we’ll say no more about this absurd incident. If you come back, I’ll have you locked up as insane—do you understand?’ I turned and ran out of the house.”
“Leaving the knife on the table.”
She nodded. “Yes. That’s the problem, isn’t it? My fingerprints will be on that knife. I keep waiting for the police to come and find me.”
“Since they don’t have your fingerprints on file and since the housekeeper has given a description of the assailant being a slim, dark young man I don’t think that will happen,” I said.
I saw a glimmer of hope in those eyes. “You mean I’m safe?”
“I think you’re safe,” I said. “Of course, you’ll be carrying this secret with you for the rest of your life, if you’re smart. It’s not the sort of thing you should share with your fiancé.”
She nodded. “Good Lord, no, I couldn’t share it with Peter.” She reached out a slim white hand and put it over mine. “I’m sorry I was rude to you earlier. I’d been so frightened.”
“I understand.” I smiled at her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Would you like one last piece of advice from me?” I said. She nodded. “Don’t marry him. He seems like a spoiled and unpleasant young man. Marriage is for a terribly long time with someone you don’t love.”
She nodded again. “You may be right. But I can’t stay at home any longer, not now that I know the truth.”
“If I were you,” I said slowly, “I’d have a talk with your adoptive mother. Tell her you know the truth and you want the money that was settled on you now. Then I’d go to New York and start a life of your own.”
“That sounds a little like blackmail.”
“Not blackmail. Just coming from a position of strength for the first time. And showing them that you can’t be pushed around.”
“But it does sound like fun. I thought maybe I’d stay in Paris. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”