Beauty, Beast, and Belladonna

by Maia Chance

  Madame Dieudonné had not returned.

  17

  Forthwith closed the curtains and tried again. Still no Madame Dieudonné.

  “Where has she gone?” Bernadette cried.

  “Forthwith, this isn’t humorous,” Henrietta said.

  “What are you playing at, young man?” Larsen bellowed.

  “She is supposed to—you see—” Forthwith raked fingers through his hair and pushed the curtains aside. He shoved the mirror, and the entire wall panel swung inward.

  “Great Scott, what is the meaning of this?” Banks said.

  “The château is full of such hidden doors,” Griffe said. “The house was built in an era that wished for servants to be invisible.”

  “Well then, she must be somewhere behind the panel,” Larsen said.

  Forthwith pushed the panel further inward. Darkness yawned, and Ophelia felt a draft. “Madame Dieudonné?” he called.

  Silence.

  “Perhaps she meant to begin the game of hide-and-seek,” Ivy said.

  “Silly old woman,” Larsen muttered.

  “I do agree,” Henrietta said.

  Ophelia shushed Meringue’s whining by patting his head.

  “The passage leads to a servants’ stair and, beyond, the kitchen,” Bernadette said. “Our servants do not use these old passages anymore, and there are no lights, and the dust and cobwebs—”

  “We must search for her,” Penrose said. He grabbed a lit candelabra and disappeared into the passage.

  Everyone waited. No one’s eyes met.

  A few minutes later, Penrose returned, his face begrimed and a lock of hair loose across his forehead. “No sign of her. We ought to search the château. Come on, then. We cannot allow an elderly lady to be lost.”

  Everyone armed themselves with candles and gas lamps and dispersed.

  Ophelia took a hurricane lamp and carried Meringue. She began with a search of the library, just next door to the salon. She felt queasy. Someone had, maybe, overheard Madame Dieudonné say that she knew who the murderer was. The murderer was, to Ophelia’s way of thinking, among them. So what if the murderer had made Madame Dieudonné vanish . . . for good?

  But that was silly. This was all because of Forthwith’s conjuring trick, and Madame Dieudonné had volunteered for that.

  Ophelia found nothing of interest in the library. She searched the music room, and then the artillery gallery. Nobody. Room after room she checked, and she passed the others doing the same. What in Godfrey’s green earth had become of Madame Dieudonné?

  All the while, Meringue whined and squirmed in Ophelia’s arms.

  Wait. There was a notion: Meringue could sniff out his mistress. Ophelia plopped him on the floor, and instantly he scampered off. Ophelia followed him.

  Meringue trotted past several doors and up and down two short staircases. They were approaching Griffe’s study.

  A loud crack sounded, somewhere nearby.

  Oh no.

  Ophelia dashed down a long corridor and around a corner. The study door was wide open. She looked in.

  Milky moonlight bathed the chamber. The eyes of the stuffed animal heads glittered. She caught a sweet whiff of burned gunpowder. A shadowy woman—Henrietta—stood in the center of the room, holding something shiny. Another woman—yes, it was Ivy—stood nearby, palms clamped across her own mouth. They both stared down at a black lump on the carpet.

  Henrietta turned to Ophelia. “I do believe she’s dead.”

  Ivy burst into tears.

  Meringue bounded over to the lump. He whined and circled.

  “Dead? Madame Dieudonné is dead? How can that—?” Ophelia rushed in, dropped to her knees, and turned the lump over. Madame Dieudonné’s eyes and mouth gaped, and a hole in her forehead trickled black. Her bouffant wig was halfway off, revealing shiny pink scalp.

  Mercy.

  A dry sob heaved up from Ophelia’s chest. She hunched over and tried to hear a heartbeat, hear a breath. Nothing. Nothing at all. She swung her head up to Henrietta and recognized at last that the shiny thing Henrietta held was . . . a gun.

  Meringue began to lick his dead mistress’s hand.

  “Stop,” Ophelia whispered. “Stop.” She scooped up Meringue and stood.

  Ivy sobbed.

  Then there were others in the chamber—Forthwith and Larsen, rushing in with lamps. They froze when they saw Henrietta, her gun, and the bleeding corpse on the carpet.

  Larsen spoke first. “Good God, Mrs. Brighton, what have you done?”

  “Done?” Henrietta said in a small voice. She looked at the gun and dropped it as though it scorched her. “Miss Banks, tell them I haven’t done anything. Tell them how you and I came upon the body—together—and then I picked up the gun—”

  “I—I am not certain what I saw,” Ivy said through her tears. “Everything was so very dark, and did I not come upon you already here?”

  “No!” Henrietta cried. “We arrived together, stupid girl!”

  Larsen put his arm around Ivy. “Now see here, Mrs. Brighton, that is no way to speak to a young lady in shock.”

  “But I am in shock, too!” Henrietta said.

  “No, I daresay you are not,” Larsen said coldly. He crouched to pick up the gun with his handkerchief, slipped it in his pocket, and led the weeping Ivy away.

  Ophelia, Henrietta, and Forthwith looked down at the body. Then they looked at each other.

  “Oh, let us get away from that horrible thing,” Henrietta said.

  “Wait,” Ophelia said. “Look.” She pointed to a second door, slightly ajar.

  “I’m not going over there,” Henrietta said.

  “Nor I,” Forthwith said.

  Ophelia rolled her eyes and went to the door. It led into a gaming room, and from there, another door led back out into the corridor.

  Ophelia looped around and met Henrietta and Forthwith in the corridor. “That is how someone might’ve gotten away,” she said. “And did you see the uncorked bottle of brandy on the table? Madame Dieudonné must’ve sneaked in for a tipple. Probably wished to give us all a scare with the conjuring trick, or else she got confused back there in the servants’ passage. And that gun must have come from the gun cabinet in the study. It’s open. Henrietta, this isn’t going to be pretty.” She shushed Meringue’s whines again. “Miss Banks knows that you’re an actress—she told me as much this afternoon.”

  “Oh, God,” Forthwith said.

  “What of it?” Henrietta said.

  “She knows you’re using a false name and that you’re only pretending at wealth. That you’re an opportunist. All sorts of sinister motives could be wrung out of this.”

  “You know I didn’t kill Madame Dieudonné, don’t you?”

  Ophelia paused. Truth was, she didn’t know; she hadn’t seen the murder with her own eyes. But she did know Henrietta, had known her for years, and she was sure that Henrietta wouldn’t ever murder anyone. Fleece, yes, and double-cross, scam, woo, and betray. But not murder. She nodded. “I believe you.”

  “How on earth did that Goody Two-shoes discover my identity?” Henrietta asked. “It has been a year since I gave up acting.”

  “She has some sort of uncanny memory for faces,” Ophelia said, “and she saw your likeness on a theater placard in London a few months back. It’s only a matter of time before she catches on to me being an actress, too, and you, Forthwith, being a slick theatrical deceiver.”

  “Conjurer of the stage would suffice.”

  “But slick theatrical deceiver is so much more accurate. Why in tarnation have you been performing tricks? You’re pretending to be a soap heir.”

  “It’s because he’s a show-off,” Henrietta said. Then to Forthwith, “I told you vanity would be your undoing.”

  “Then that makes the two of us.�
��

  “We ought to take off tonight,” Henrietta said. “The police won’t be here for ages.”

  “With what conveyance? Where would we go?” Ophelia asked. “Into the forest?”

  Henrietta swallowed.

  Forthwith held up a hand. “Hold on a moment—we. Why do you refer to we, precious Henny? I believe you’re the only one who has been caught with the smoking gun—literally. It was so very dramatic: the moonbeam, the—”

  “You would cut me loose?” Henrietta asked in a scalding whisper. “You said we were two peas in a pod, Forthy.”

  “Oh, we are. Which means that I have no intention of scrapping my own plans for you.”

  “What exactly are your plans, Forthwith?” Ophelia said.

  “Never you mind.”

  Sneaky devil. “Henrietta,” Ophelia said, “listen. If the three of us are packed off to jail tonight, part and parcel, well, there won’t be anyone left to act on your behalf. No one to stand up for you, to insist—or prove—that you’re innocent. Mr. Larsen won’t, for starters.”

  “How quickly he leaped to comfort Miss Banks,” Henrietta said. “How quickly he assumed I was a killer—and after all I have done.”

  “What precisely have you done?” Forthwith asked.

  “As far as I can make out,” Ophelia said, “you’ve been devoting yourself to tricking the poor old man, Henrietta.”

  “Precisely. Devoting. And now look at me! My legs positively ache from those wretched flat boots he suggested I wear, and I’ve grown fat and spotty from the rich food he forced me to try. I feel like one of those foie gras geese.”

  “I wasn’t going to mention it . . . ,” Forthwith murmured.

  “Oh, shut up, you selfish beast.”

  Meringue growled. Ophelia stroked his head. “When we are questioned, Forthwith, we must keep up our ruse as brother and sister and distance ourselves from Henrietta, claim we were oblivious to her tricks, claim that although we are all three from Cleveland, we only met Henrietta last week at Artemis Stunt’s apartment in Paris.”

  “Fine,” Forthwith said.

  Ophelia knew he was agreeing for his own sake, not Henrietta’s.

  “I knew I should have started going to church,” Henrietta said. “Or at least confession. Artemis says it’s wonderfully refreshing to have your conscience wiped clean regularly, quite like a good clay face mask.”

  “They wouldn’t allow you through the church doors, Henny,” Forthwith said, kissing Henrietta’s cheek. She slapped him, and he laughed.

  Several pairs of footsteps and harassed-sounding voices grew louder.

  Ophelia took one last, long gander at Madame Dieudonné’s body on the carpet. She cradled Meringue to her chest and squared herself to face the music.

  And, quite possibly, the murderer.

  * * *

  The Sarlat police arrived hours later, having been summoned by a servant on horseback. The first thing they did was lock up Henrietta in the dining room. She cursed them roundly, but submitted. What else could she do? And she was already half drunk.

  The second thing the police did was announce that they would perform a search of the château. They corralled everyone in the salon and told them to await questioning. A gendarme guarded the door. Ophelia overheard Bernadette saying that the servants had been gathered in a similar fashion down in the kitchen.

  Ivy was summoned for questioning first.

  18

  Ophelia sank into a chair in the salon, still holding Meringue, who did not seem to wish to leave her. Poor thing. He was destructive and smelly, but he was an orphan now. Ophelia untied his blue bow, scratched his fuzzy ears, and covertly studied the others.

  After all, one of them could be a murderer. Twice over. At first, she reasoned that the murderer must’ve been at the ruined castle that morning, in order to have overheard Madame Dieudonné. That only left Tolbert, Banks, Ivy, and the village woman Lucile. But then she realized that someone could’ve overheard what Madame Dieudonné said at the castle, and passed it on to one of the folks who’d stayed behind: Larsen, Griffe, and Bernadette. Lucile could’ve even told one of the château servants.

  That there could be a team of murderers working together, well, it was enough to give you goose bumps.

  Yet everyone in the salon wore an innocent expression, all wide, worried eyes and churchy voices. Ophelia was pretty certain that no one would miss Madame Dieudonné. No, they were all worried about their own necks—with the exception of Professor Penrose. He was probably worrying about that crusty old jawbone.

  “Miss Stonewall, I see you have a new friend,” Penrose said, sitting beside Ophelia. He patted Meringue’s head, and Meringue wiggled his tail.

  “He likes you,” Ophelia said. “Maybe you ought to adopt him.”

  “That wouldn’t be very favorable for my studious image, would it?”

  Griffe watched them over the brim of his wine goblet.

  The police clearly did not wish for their questions and methods to be shared, so after each person was questioned, they did not return to the salon.

  Ophelia’s turn was brief. In fractured English the police inspector, who resembled a badger in a suit, asked for Ophelia’s version of events, starting with Forthwith’s mirror trick and ending with Henrietta holding the gun.

  “Is Mrs. Brighton guilty?” Ophelia asked.

  “But of course.” Inspector Pierot chuckled. “Why does no one see to it that young ladies are educated in logic?”

  “Is it illogical to think that Mrs. Brighton was telling the truth, and that she did indeed pick up the gun only after the fatal shot had been fired?”

  “Why are you so very certain that Mrs. Brighton is innocent?”

  “Oh, she is surely guilty,” Ophelia said quickly.

  “Mademoiselle Banks told me that not only did she come upon Mrs. Brighton just after the shot was fired, but she recognized her as a variety hall actress whom she had once seen on a theater placard in London.”

  “A variety hall actress? How shocking.”

  “What is more, my gendarmes performed a search of her chamber and discovered a pair of diamond cuff links belonging to Monsieur Banks. He says they disappeared on the night that Mr. Knight was murdered.”

  “Oh?” Planted. The murderer must have planted those cuff links. Which meant the murderer was trying to frame Henrietta. “She is a thief?”

  “Of course. Clearly an opportunistic and grasping huntress, always on the scent of money.”

  Not too far from the bull’s-eye. But Ophelia doubted Henrietta would steal cuff links, even diamond cuff links. Those were chicken feed compared to Henrietta’s grandiose matrimonial aims.

  “You appear surprised by all of this, Mademoiselle Stonewall, yet you arrived from Paris with this cunning woman.”

  Fingers crossed that Henrietta and Forthwith would keep the story straight. “Yes, but I only met her a week ago at the Paris home of the authoress Artemis Stunt. Mrs. Stunt tends to keep”—Ophelia cleared her throat—“rather bohemian company.”

  “Why do your parents allow you and your brother to consort with such company?”

  “Artemis Stunt is an esteemed authoress, Inspector, and my father, although a soap manufacturer, enjoys reading in his spare time. He believed—correctly, I might add—that Mrs. Stunt would be an amusing hostess for my brother and me during our time in Paris.”

  Miraculously, Inspector Pierot swallowed it. “Very well,” he said. “You may go.”

  Ophelia took a deep breath. “Inspector, this is going to sound a little funny, but Madame Dieudonné, well, this afternoon she told me she knew who murdered Mr. Knight. She said that she’d tell me who it was, and what proof she had, tonight. Someone must have overheard her saying this—someone in the château, or else the village woman called Lucile—and I reckon this is why she was kille
d. To keep her quiet.”

  “Monsieur Knight died of natural causes,” Inspector Pierot said absently, shuffling through his notes. “Is that all, mademoiselle?”

  “You can’t possibly still suppose Mr. Knight died of a heart ailment,” Ophelia said.

  “Ah, I do. The two deaths are unrelated.”

  “All right, then, what about this: The whippletree on the stagecoach—the stagecoach that broke down, carrying both people who are now dead—was deliberately broken. The blacksmith in the village told me as much.”

  Inspector Pierot finally lifted his eyes from his notes. “Have you been playing detective?”

  “I may speak with whomever I like. I will be the Countess de Griffe in only a few more days, Inspector. I reckon I’ll have some clout in this neighborhood. I won’t be dismissed like this. I—”

  “I have known the count since we were both children, mademoiselle, and I would advise you not to pull too hard at the leash. He has a nasty temper.”

  Ophelia’s breathing went shallow.

  “Now then.” Inspector Pierot’s smile didn’t make it to his eyes. “You may go. Do not return to the salon until I have finished questioning the others. In fact, as you have had such a great shock, I advise you to retire for the evening. And please, no more quizzing the village folk. You may . . . regret it. The occupants of Vézère are strange. Secretive.”

  Was that a warning or a threat?

  Ophelia stood. “Will you arrest Mrs. Brighton—or whatever her name is?”

  “She has been arrested already. We will take her to the jail in Sarlat tonight.”

  Oh no. “And Madame Dieudonné?”

  “We will carry her to the morgue.”

  “Good. For I would not sleep a wink knowing a murderer or a corpse were still in the château.”

  * * *

  After Ophelia left Inspector Pierot in the library, she went straight to the dining room. She rattled the door handles, but both sets of doors were locked. She supposed the police would’ve also locked the door that led from the dining room to the servants’ passage.