by Maia Chance
“Miss Stonewall,” Penrose called.
She ignored him.
Upstairs, she burst into her bedchamber, panting, and ran to her vanity table. She set down the jar of sunflower seeds and opened the little box.
The slip of paper was there.
The ring was gone.
* * *
Ophelia stared blankly into the box until the parakeet chirped.
She looked at the slip of paper with disgust. On it was written a favorite saying of hers:
I make my circumstance.
Apparently, she didn’t.
She replaced the box’s lid. Numb, she exchanged the parakeet’s bread crumbs for sunflower seeds, and by the time she’d refilled its water dish, the parakeet was crunching away.
Someone had stolen the ring. How could she break off her engagement to Griffe now? If she told him she was really an out-of-work actress and a seasoned confidence trickster, he would assume she’d stolen the ring. Her dignity was on the line. Griffe might even have her arrested.
She had a hunch that Knight had been killed by the thief who had stolen her ring, Banks’s cuff links, Ivy’s bracelet, and whatever Bernadette and Tolbert were missing. If she could figure who killed the vicar, then she’d have her thief, and if she had her thief, then she could get the ring back.
The clincher was Ivy’s bottle of traveling sickness tablets; that bottle was out of place. Ophelia wondered if the thief had stolen all those things from people’s chambers as they slept last night, and then gone on to kill Knight—maybe because Knight knew of their stealing. Then, for some reason they had dropped or placed the empty traveling sickness bottle by the body.
Ophelia tallied up the possible suspects. The storm last night had been severe enough to rule out interlopers; the murderer, if Knight had truly been murdered, was among the occupants of Château Vézère. One of the servants, one of the guests, or . . . or Griffe or Bernadette? Ophelia couldn’t picture her host and hostess killing anyone. Nor could she, for that matter, suspect Henrietta, who was as self-absorbed as a baby but not the violent sort. Forthwith? Possible. Larsen? No—she’d heard his snoring all night. Tolbert and that funny old woman with the poodle, Madame something or other, could not be discounted. Neither could Ivy or Banks.
That was a bundle of suspects.
Professor Penrose had said that the vicar’s things were to be left in his bedchamber. So that was the place to start.
* * *
The first matter of business was to locate Knight’s chamber. Bernadette, Griffe, or a servant would know where it was, but Ophelia couldn’t have anyone know she was snooping. Château Vézère was large but not palatial; she could poke around and see if could find it.
Beetle-browed Griffe ancestors decorated the corridor. Just next door was Larsen’s chamber. Ophelia tried the door after that. Unlocked.
Inside, Henrietta slept in a canopied bed, mouth ajar, a satin mask over her eyes.
The last door led to the newfangled water closet—Griffe was keen on such scientific improvements—and after that, the marble bath chamber.
Ophelia turned and went the other way, past the grand staircase and through to the other wing.
Halfway down the corridor, a furtive motion made her stop. There, behind that bulky chair . . . somebody on hands and knees . . . why, it was the chubby, dark-skinned boy she’d seen in the orangerie earlier. She moved stealthily closer, stopping only inches from him. He was inspecting a chair leg, and he did not seem to notice her presence. Was he deaf?
Ophelia cleared her throat.
The boy started with a gasp, and then glared up at her. “I say! What are you playing at, sneaking up on me in that fashion? You’ll give me a fit of apoplexy, and seeing as I am only thirteen years old, that would be a feat indeed. And speaking of feet—” He smirked down at Ophelia’s somewhat large boots.
“Don’t you dare comment,” Ophelia snapped. Instantly, she felt ashamed. He was only a child. A child who spoke like the British members of parliament in Howard DeLuxe’s A Penny for Your Thoughts.
The boy stood, brushed off the knees and sleeves of his little man suit, and held out a hand. “Master Abel Christy.”
Ophelia shook his hand, bare and pudgy. “Miss Ophelia Stonewall. You are Mr. Knight’s charge.”
“A transitory arrangement, but yes. I’d only just met him when he collected me from my ship in Marseille. As my escort, you see. I’m considered too young and too small to travel alone, although as anyone might discern, I am quite capable of managing.”
Maybe, but Ophelia noticed that Abel wasn’t able to manage the two small hairs on his spotty chin.
He went on, “As it turns out, I would have been better off without him—I’d be in London by now if I’d been left to my own devices.”
“Then Mr. Knight was a stranger to you?”
“Yes. An acquaintance of my protector, Sir Percival Christy. They met in Kenya at one time or another, where Mr. Knight was preaching to the heathens and all that.”
Knight had had a pasty complexion. How had he managed to preserve that under the African sun? Then again, he’d had that ghastly scar on his throat.
“And to where are you traveling, Master Christy?”
“Back to school. The Warbridge School?”
“Haven’t heard of it.”
“Really, you Americans are so marvelously provincial. It’s almost as though you lived on the surface of a distant star.”
“Where is the Warbridge School, then?”
“England.” Abel looked glum. A fleck of some sort of custard was stuck to his cheek. “Of course, it’s the Christmas holidays just now, but Sir Christy was all in a lather to return to his expedition. He is currently engaged in an expedition to discover the source of the Upper Nile.”
“Oh?”
“No one can find it, you see. The rivers become like mazes in the highlands.”
“Surely Africa is too far from England to simply gallivant down there on one’s school holidays.”
“Death in the family.”
“I am sorry.”
“No need. Grandfather was ninety-seven years old, and his funeral was attended with all the pomp owing a . . . king.” Abel flicked something from his cuff and puffed out his cheeks.
“King?”
“Of Nubia.”
“How grand.” Abel seemed to expect kowtowing from Ophelia. Not in the cards, even if his grandfather really was a king. Which was questionable. Thirteen-year-old boys weren’t known for their honesty. “Tell me, how did you recognize Mr. Knight in Marseille if you’d never met him before?”
“I didn’t. He recognized me. I mean, as soon as I’d reached the bottom of the gangway, there he was, saying he was the Reverend Mr. Knight, and that was that. Nasty man. Kept making little remarks to me about ankle biters and such, although I calmly told him that I have already exceeded his cerebral abilities. Why are you asking so many impertinent questions?”
“Because I’m curious about how Mr. Knight died.”
“But I was told by the cook that the doctor chalked it up to a heart ailment. Not, mind you, that she believed it for a second. She postulates that Mr. Knight was gored to death by a mythical beast. Very quaint.”
Ophelia hesitated, reminding herself that she was speaking with a child. But Abel was no ordinary child. “I don’t believe he died a natural death.”
“Murder, then?”
“You aren’t going to have nightmares about this and blame me, are you?”
“I sleep the sleep of the innocent.”
“That reminds me—what were you doing skulking in the orangerie, and what are you doing in this corridor?”
“Skulking?” Abel looked insulted. “You misunderstand. I am adding to my collection.” He reached in his jacket pocket and withdrew a small corked vial. A fat whi
te grub lay inside. “This is an anobium punctatum larva. Furniture beetle. The larvae bore through wood—see the holes?”
Ophelia looked. The chair was indeed stippled with holes. “You’re a bug collector.”
“I prefer entomologist, but yes. In the orangerie earlier, I was merely pursuing a glorious specimen of cetonia aurata—rose beetle. Normally the adults perish in the autumn, but in that artificial climate, they have survived.”
“But the body . . .”
“Well, I didn’t look at it.”
“Do you know which bedchamber was Mr. Knight’s?”
“Going to have a little sleuth?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve read Poe’s detective tales. I’ll come with you. I don’t think much of Americans, but you seem all right.”
“No. This isn’t a game. A man may have been”—Ophelia lowered her voice— “may have been murdered.”
“I could help you. I enjoy deductive reasoning as much as the next chap.”
“I don’t require help.”
“Do you know where Mr. Knight’s chamber is?”
“Well—”
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
6
Knight’s chamber was third on the right. Ophelia and Abel crept in and shut the door.
“The bed doesn’t appear to have been used at all,” Ophelia said, mostly to herself. Abel rubbed her the wrong way, and on top of that, she felt silly and ashamed that a thirteen-year-old nipper could rub her the wrong way. “Knight had stayed up before his death, then—he hadn’t been roused from his slumber to go to the orangerie.”
“There is his trunk,” Abel said, pointing to a large, domed affair with brass ribs and tacks.
They went over, and Ophelia swung it open. The scents of bay rum aftershave lotion and exotic dust wafted up.
“What a mess.” Ophelia prodded the tangle of garments and hats inside the trunk. “Was the vicar a sloppy fellow?”
“No, actually. Mr. Knight struck me as the sort who had a fire poker up—”
“I see,” Ophelia said quickly. “A stickler.”
“He was a vicar.”
“Then someone has been rummaging through his trunk already.” Ophelia removed the items from the trunk, one by one, and stacked them on the floor. Some clothes were made for a warm climate—white flannels and linen shirts and a straw hat—while others, like the greatcoat, beaver hat, and woolen suits, were made for a European winter.
“Everything looks to be the first-rate quality,” Abel said.
“Well-worn, though.”
“Well, the kingdom of heaven and all that.”
“Here’s his Bible.” Ophelia flipped through. It was tissue-paged and floppy. Some pages were translucent with finger oil. An envelope fell out.
“Aha!” Ophelia and Abel exclaimed in unison. Abel made a grab for the envelope, but Ophelia nabbed it first. Return address one D. J. Montgomery, Esq., in London.
“That’s Sir Christy’s solicitor,” Abel said.
The seal was broken. The letter read,
Dear Mr. Knight,
Thank you for agreeing to escort young Master Christy from Marseille to London. Upon his safe arrival at my offices, you will receive recompense of two hundred pounds sterling for your trouble. I am afraid, however, that if he is not delivered by the twentieth of December, you will be required to wait one month to collect this recompense, as I will be going abroad.
I wish you safe travels.
Sincerely,
D. J. Montgomery
Abel pouted. “I had no notion the solicitor was paying people to herd me about. Makes me feel a bit like a sheep.”
“I wouldn’t feel too badly.” Ophelia replaced the envelope in the Bible and dug through to the bottom of the trunk. A pair of riding boots, neatly folded nightshirts— “What’s this?” She pulled out a bundle wrapped in twine.
“Any detective would open it.”
Ophelia didn’t need convincing. She undid the twine, and several bobbins clattered to the floor and rolled. She picked one up. “Embroidery thread?”
“Looks like silk—what colors. Could Mr. Knight have been stitching a sampler?” Abel snickered.
“Perhaps these were a gift for a lady back in England.”
“Silk doesn’t come from Africa, you know. It comes from India and China.”
“Well, goodness knows where he got these. Come on, help me pick them up.”
After rewrapping the bobbins, Ophelia patted the trunk lining for good measure. It was baggy from use. “There is something . . . something under the lining. Feels like it might be a cuff link. Mr. Banks is missing a pair of diamond cuff links, by the by. Here’s a hole . . . what’s this?” She held up a tiny gray thing. “A tooth?”
“Allow me.” Abel snatched it.
“Hold it, whippersnapper.”
Abel rolled his eyes. “I’ve been called whippersnapper more times than I can count. Tiresome. Now, look. It’s a fossilized tooth. See how, instead of being formed of tooth enamel, it appears to be made of stone? It’s very, very old.”
“It’s a pig’s tooth,” Ophelia said. As a girl she’d tended a sow named Hecuba. “A molar.”
“Mr. Knight must have been some sort of amateur naturalist.” Abel tucked the tooth in his pocket.
“Give that to me.”
“But I’ve begun a small fossil collection in the dormitory at school.”
“I’m investigating. You’re simply—simply assisting. Temporarily.” Ophelia held out her hand.
Abel heaved a sigh and handed over the tooth. “What are we going to do next?”
Ophelia stood. She meant to begin her search of every suspect’s bedchamber, but she had no intention of allowing Abel to tag along. “Perhaps, after doing a quick search of the rest of this chamber, we ought to check and see if there are any fresh pastries to be had in the kitchen.”
Abel’s face brightened. “I suppose enormously rangy ladies like you require loads of pastries and so forth to keep you going?”
“Yes indeed,” Ophelia said with a tight smile. “Almost as much pastry as cheeky youngsters with custard on their faces.”
Abel whipped out a hankie and dabbed his lips.
“More to the left,” Ophelia said, tapping her cheek, and went to look under the vicar’s bed.
* * *
Gabriel searched for young Master Christy but could not find him. He meant to learn from the lad who would be the best person to contact regarding his current predicament.
After that, Gabriel, Ivy, and Banks rode the mile to Madame Genepy’s house. The yellow stone farmhouse squatted at the edge of a snow-covered field. Behind the house, a line of bare trees marked the banks of the Vézère River. The village lay just across the field, a hodgepodge of snowy roofs and stone chimneys.
“How sweet her house looks,” Ivy said as Gabriel helped her down from her horse. Her gloved hand lingered in his, and she smiled up at him.
A besotted man would’ve said, How sweet YOU look, my dear. “Quite,” Gabriel said, gently removing his hand from Ivy’s.
Banks thudded down from his own horse. “Griffe complains about how backward his peasants are—resistant to his efforts at improving their lots and so forth—but I find this all rather charming. Quite like stepping into the pages of a picture book, what?”
“I do agree,” Gabriel said, going to the door. Not a single footprint marked the snow around the house. He knocked.
A woman opened the door. She was short and blowsy, thirty-odd years, with mussed brown hair. “Oui?” she said in a coarse voice.
Gabriel continued in French, since Banks and Ivy were fluent. “Good afternoon. I am Professor Penrose, a guest of the Count de Griffe. With me are Mr. Banks and his daughter, Miss Banks. Would you be so kind as tell
me if Madame Genepy is within?”
“Grandmother, you mean. Yes. Snoozing by the fire as always. What do you want with her? Are you some sort of doctor?” The woman looked Gabriel up and down. “Where is your bag? Are not doctors supposed to carry bags?”
Gabriel explained to her that he was a scholar of folktales and that he wished to hear Madame Genepy’s story of La belle et la bête.
“That sorry old tale?” The woman’s expression closed. “Changes it every day, she does. No one knows which version is the correct one anymore. But seeing as you have come all this way through the snow, you may as well come in and hear for yourself the nonsense she spins. My name is Lucile, by the way. I do not live here—have a husband and house in the village—but when the snow started coming down so thick yesterday evening, I came here to look after Grandmother.” She led them into a low-beamed room stinking of cat urine and wood smoke. A small fire crackled. A film of dust coated everything, and balls of cat fur lurked in the corners. A frail, shawl-wrapped old woman curled against the chimney corner. She was snoring. A cat sat alert on her lap, yellow eyes unblinking.
Lucile roused Madame Genepy. “Grandmother, wake up. Visitors.”
Madame Genepy’s eyes slowly opened. “Visitors?” she said in a creaky voice.
“They wish to hear one of your stories, Grandmother.” Lucile turned to the visitors. “I have cleaning to do. I will be in the next room.” She slouched away.
Madame Genepy watched blearily as Gabriel, Ivy, and Banks removed their cloaks and sat.
“What is that you are wearing, child?” Banks whispered harshly to Ivy.
Ivy tensed. “It’s only a dress, Father,” she said softly.
“A cotton dress, Ivy. You know what I told you about—” Banks stopped, realizing that Gabriel was listening. He flushed.
Ivy stared at the floor.
Well, well. Was this a crack in the idyllic father-daughter rapport? And about a cotton dress?
“I am so pleased to meet you, Madame Genepy,” Gabriel said, taking a notebook and pencil from his inner jacket pocket as he sat. “I would be most obliged if you would relay to me—to us—the tale of Beauty and the Beast. Your tale.”
