Snow White Red-Handed (A Fairy Tale Fatal Mystery)

by Maia Chance

  “But who killed Mr. Coop and the count?” Ophelia said.

  “Miss Flax,” Penrose whispered.

  Ghent lifted his vivid blue eyes. “Why, I thought that would be obvious. Once Coop and Count Grunewald became aware of the presence of the mines, my cousin killed them. He never did, you see, like to share.”

  * * *

  “We must go directly to the police,” Penrose told Ophelia, as they hurried down the corridor. “Smith told us in the cave yesterday that he planned to return to America, whether it was forbidden or not. We’ve got to tell Schubert about him before it’s too late.”

  “Do you believe Herr Ghent?”

  “He seemed forthright enough. Particularly when he got to the bit about having us killed.”

  “I mean the part about his ancestry, and Smith’s ancestry. That they are descended from Snow White’s dwarves. How are we going to tell that to Inspector Schubert with a straight face?”

  “We’ll tell Schubert exactly what Ghent told us. Prue shall be exonerated. Your goal shall be accomplished.”

  Why did he sound so chilly?

  “What about your goal?” she said. “You haven’t gotten an inch closer to it.”

  There was a pause. “Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, I have.”

  “And?”

  “I am well aware that you are a Yankee, and as such, you cannot extend your mind far enough to comprehend mysteries beyond your everyday scope of experience.”

  What? Ophelia scowled. “Why are you being so—so sniffy all of a sudden?”

  “I believe—if that is even the correct word—in the truth of fairy tales, Miss Flax. I believe there are things that pass below our mundane routines, above our comprehension. I have committed my life to learning more of the mysteries contained within and alluded to in these pieces of folklore. They are based upon fact, not fiction.”

  “It seems you’re most interested in relics,” she said. “Not stories.”

  He stopped. They’d reached the top of the sweeping staircase that led to the foyer.

  Ophelia stopped, too. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’re one of those collectors, like Ghent sold those relics to. You pretend you’ve got a scholarly interest, but when it comes right down to it, you’re just like any other rich fellow who reckons he ought to be able to buy whatever pretty bauble he wants. And if he can’t buy it, why, he’ll steal it!” She was panting.

  His hair, always so neatly combed, was loose across his forehead, and his lips were parted in anger. “How dare you speak of things of which you know nothing?”

  “How dare I? I reckon I’d never speak at all if you had your say! The fact is, professor, I kept thinking you were helping—not me, I guess—but I thought you were helping get to the bottom of these murders because it was the right thing to do. But it was staring me in the face all along that you were doing it out of greed. Out of—of an obsession with those relics. It’s not wholesome—it’s not right. They’re just things! Aren’t people more valuable than things? Well, you can take your relics, and welcome!” She took off down the stairs.

  He was trotting down the steps beside her. “I’m aware you New Englanders adore staking out the moral high ground—”

  “Why, I—”

  “—but we mustn’t overlook the fact that you, my dear, are a confidence trickster. And not as much of a new hand at it as you’d like me to believe. The way you positively soaked up the attention from the crowd at that roulette table—”

  Wait. He almost sounded . . . jealous.

  “—but, of course, it’s really none of my concern. As soon as we relay this information to Schubert at the police station, you shall have no further need for me.”

  “Now wait a minute. You make it sound as though I just—just used you to get what I wanted!”

  “That’s what confidence sharks do, is it not?”

  They rounded the last curve in the stairs.

  Inspector Schubert lurked at the bottom of the stairs, flanked by policemen. “Miss Flax,” he said, “you are under arrest for murder.”

  One of the other policemen grabbed her arm.

  “Before you arrest her,” Penrose said, “I’ve something to tell you.”

  He told Schubert all they had learned, about Princess Verushka, Mr. Smith, and Herr Ghent—even the part about Snow White’s dwarves.

  To Ophelia’s surprise, Schubert didn’t even smile at that part.

  When Penrose had finished, Schubert was silent, thinking. At last, he said, “I am displeased that you both have meddled to this extent in my investigations. Nonetheless, the evidence that points to Mr. Smith as a possible suspect is compelling. I shall go with my men immediately to Schloss Grunewald. Miss Flax, return to the schloss as well, and await my further instructions.”

  Ophelia wrenched her arm free of the policeman’s grip.

  Penrose escorted Ophelia to the waiting carriage and helped her inside. But he didn’t get in.

  “I shall pay the driver and instruct him to return you to the castle,” he said.

  “Pay him? Oh! I nearly forgot!” Ophelia thrust her reticule towards him.

  He waved a hand. “You keep it. You did quite a lot of hard work to earn that gold.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You, Professor Penrose, are a sight too big for your breeches! You’re a gullible, highfalutin stuffed shirt!”

  “Gullible? Perhaps your superb acting abilities got the better of me.” He moved to shut the carriage door.

  “You think,” she choked out, “you’re too good for the likes of me.” Just before the door closed, she flung the reticule to his feet. It burst open and gold coins flew out, sparkling yellow in the gaslight, falling to the gravel in a tinkling shower.

  He hit the top of the carriage with unnecessary force, and the driver set his horses into motion.

  Inside, Ophelia kicked off the pinching slippers, pressed her fist against her forehead, and, her breaths coming sharply, wished she could cry. Her carriage rolled off into the night.

  * * *

  Gabriel paced the streets of Baden-Baden for more than an hour, hands thrust in pockets and head hung low, before he decided to return to Schilltag.

  Once in his chamber at the inn, he peeled off his evening jacket, loosened his tie, poured himself a large brandy, and sank down on the chair.

  He took a first long swallow to dull the edge of his fury. The second swallow was to assuage his niggling conscience. Miss Flax was only a poor, young, uneducated lady trying to eke out a life. The third gulp was to blur the too-vivid memory of her lovely eyes.

  From where he sat, he could see into the closet where his tweed jacket hung. His boots were on the floor, and beside the closet door was the chair with his leather valise. There was also a shelf at the top of the closet.

  He stared hard. The shelf was empty. Yet—he lowered the brandy glass from his lips—yet that was where he’d stashed the two boxes from Horkheimer’s shop.

  The cuckoo clock and the dwarf figurine he’d purchased were gone.

  He set his brandy aside and did a quick once-over of the chamber. The boxes were nowhere to be found.

  When his chamber had been searched that night, he’d thought nothing had been taken.

  He’d been wrong.

  He slumped back down on the chair. It had to have been Ghent’s guards.

  A pity. That clock was the only thing Gabriel had left of the wondrous find in the wood to take with him back to Oxford.

  Perhaps, before he went to the railway station in the morning, he’d stop and purchase another one.

  He turned back to his brandy.

  * * *

  Ophelia stole back into the castle and hurried up to her bedchamber to change. Then she went down to the kitchen.

  The kitchen was empty. Orange coals glowed in the grate. She paced and wait
ed.

  She would not think of the professor.

  Fifteen minutes later, the police arrived.

  By the time Schubert and his two men were at Mr. Smith’s bedchamber door, in a remote wing of the castle, most of the household trailed in their wake.

  Ophelia wanted to see Smith arrested and taken away with her own eyes. Then she’d demand that Prue be cleared of all suspicion.

  “Miss Flax,” Cook whispered to Ophelia, as they hovered behind the police, “I fancied I would never lay eyes on you again!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, the police came here to arrest you and Prue, and they discovered you were both gone missing. Those naughty maids Katrina and Freda had been paid by Hansel to keep mum about Prue being gone. Prue went off with Hansel, to elope, I would judge. I never saw so much lovesick mooning in all my days.”

  “Prue is still gone?” Ophelia’s blood chilled. Surely Prue should have returned from Heidelberg by now.

  Cook nodded. “Mind you, I did not believe for a minute that you two were murderesses.” She glanced at Ophelia. “Actresses, now that I could believe.”

  “Silence!” Schubert ordered.

  Everyone clammed up.

  Schubert knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Not a sound.

  “This is the police, Smith! Open the door!” Schubert tried the door handle. To everyone’s surprise, it opened easily.

  It was soot dark inside.

  “A light, Benjamin,” Schubert said.

  Benjamin lit a gas lamp, and the policemen ventured into the chamber. The servants hung back.

  The chamber was in shambles. Tables and chairs were on their sides, the carpet was puckered, and one of the drapes dangled from the curtain rod. The oval mirror on the armoire was shattered and smeared with what was, unmistakably, blood.

  * * *

  Prue and Hansel sneaked into the shadowy castle gardens through the orchard door. They had ridden to Schilltag from the railway station on a hired mare and walked the rest of the way.

  The castle windows were all lit up. Figures darted to and fro inside.

  “Something is happening in there,” Prue said. “And”—her breath caught—“ain’t that someone standing up in that window, goggling down at us?”

  Hansel squinted up at the tower. “We ought not go into the castle until after we have investigated the cliff for Snow White’s tomb. We cannot afford any delays. The police might be searching for you in there, Prue.”

  Hansel dug out a lantern and shovel from the gardening shed. He grabbed Prue’s hand, and they headed out into the forest.

  * * *

  Ophelia hurried along the battlement, towards the tower. Her hair flew behind her, and cold wind whipped and swirled down from the indigo sky. The tower loomed up. No light shone in its windows.

  “Prue!” Ophelia yelled, as she neared the tower door. “Prue, wake up! It’s me, Ophelia!”

  Silence.

  Her hands shook as she felt for the door handle. It was hard to see in the faded light. She should’ve brought a lamp.

  The door was unlocked. She pushed it inwards. The hinges moaned.

  “Prue?”

  As her eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness, she saw a three-legged stool, a stack of books. In one corner, the ticking mattress. In another corner, the chamber pot.

  It was true. Prue was gone.

  Ophelia feared her heart would burst.

  She turned and retraced her steps along the battlement. This time she was running.

  32

  She rushed to the kitchens, unable to think of where else to go.

  “Prue’s truly gone!” she cried, bursting in.

  The servants were clustered around the hearth. They had been talking softly and were wide-eyed. They fell silent and stared at her.

  Cook spoke first. “You look like a wild creature, Miss Flax.”

  “Prue’s gone!” Ophelia repeated. “The tower is empty! Don’t you care?”

  “I told you,” Cook said, “Prue has been missing since yesterday.”

  Katrina and Freda nodded. Freda crunched into a raspberry pastry.

  “Oh, but she has returned,” Wilhelm said.

  Everyone turned to stare at him. “I saw Prue, and Hansel, too, not five minutes ago, going across the kitchen gardens hand in hand like two children.”

  Of course. Hansel.

  “Why,” Cook asked, “did you not tell us?”

  Wilhelm shrugged. “I did not think it mattered anymore, since now the police are searching for Mr. Smith.”

  “You saw the blood in Mr. Smith’s chamber!” Ophelia cried. “Something’s happened to him, too, and the murderer—the true murderer—is still at large! Where were Prue and Hansel going?”

  Wilhelm sipped his tea at what seemed an excruciatingly slow pace. “I do not know.”

  “Which direction were they headed?”

  “Let me think.” Wilhelm gazed into his teacup. “Towards the orchard, if I recall correctly. Ja. Towards the gate in the wall.”

  The forest. Hansel was taking her out to the forest.

  No time for cogitating. Ophelia hotfooted across the kitchen to the door and out into the windswept, starry night.

  She stumbled through the kitchen gardens and burst out into the top of the orchard.

  Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps Hansel and Prue had only been going for a stroll and a little fresh air.

  But Ophelia couldn’t forget the nasty gleam in Hansel’s eyes, the grim set of his mouth, when he’d said Homer T. Coop had deserved to die. There was no telling what he was capable of.

  She squinted down into the jagged black ring of trees. There was a flickering light, not far beyond the perimeter of the orchard. Someone was down there. Moving, step by step, deeper into the forest.

  She hitched up her skirts and raced down the orchard slope, towards the light.

  * * *

  In the forest, Ophelia could no longer see the flickering light, but she rushed blindly forward. She stumbled on sharp stones, the thorny undergrowth tore at her clothes and cheeks, but she could think of nothing but Prue.

  She’d let her down.

  Ophelia’s lungs wheezed and her heart thundered. She stumbled and fell on a clump of ferns, and as she scrambled to her feet, she saw again, wavering in the trees ahead, the light.

  “Prue!” she tried to yell. It came out as a croak. She scrabbled and clawed her way forward.

  Above her in the canopy of trees, an owl hooted, and there were black, fanning wings. She recalled, dimly, the talk of bears in this wood and the furred boars with their pointed tusks. The wolves.

  She didn’t care. She’d fight them off with her bare hands. She’d—

  Out of nowhere, an impossibly forceful blow hit her head.

  The forest was, for a brief instant, lit up in a shower of stars. Then she was falling, and everything went black.

  * * *

  Hansel led the way up the steep path. The moon rode behind spiny, black treetops. Every last rustle and cheep in the thickets made Prue jump.

  At the top, out on the cliff, cold wind whipped around in all directions. The landscape below and beyond the cliff was a vista of blurry grays. But a yellow light glowed and shuddered from behind one of the boulders on the cliff.

  Prue glued herself to Hansel. “What’s that scraping sound?” she whispered. It was grating and rhythmic, and it came from the direction of the light.

  Hansel shook his head.

  They picked their way over the rocks, towards the light. They came up to the boulder and peeked over.

  There was a fizzing lantern balanced on a stone. There was also a man on his hands and knees. His face was averted, and he was scraping at a rock with some small tool. He turned his head.

  “Franz!”
Prue cried. “What, for land sakes, are you doing down there?”

  Franz didn’t stop scraping. “I found them,” he said. “I found them all. All seven. See?” He lurched to his feet, lifted the lantern, and stumbling over rocks, illuminated a round stone. “Come closer.” His voice was whipped away on a gust of wind.

  Hansel and Prue came around the boulder.

  Franz showed them seven stones carved with numerals: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII. There was the dug-up grave they’d found before, in front of the IV marker.

  “Seven dwarves,” Prue said. “Seven graves.”

  “But where in God’s name is hers?” Franz said. “It must be here somewhere. It must!” It was tough to tell whether the wobble in Franz’s voice was the start of laughter or tears. Maybe both. “I have been here, scraping, for hours. Yet look how many rocks there are still!” He swept a hand around the cliff. “It will take days. Days and days.”

  Prue gasped. She’d caught a flash of Franz’s hand in the lantern light. His fingers were bloody, his nails clotted with black moss. And his eyes, beneath his wind-lashed hair, burned like those of a madman.

  “Calm yourself,” Hansel said.

  “Calm myself!” Franz shrieked. Then he tipped back his throat and cackled up to the moon-glow clouds. “Calm? At a time like this? When a treasure beyond price lies in the balance? Hansel, Hansel. I would have thought you, of all people, would comprehend what a great difference it makes to one’s life chances if one has treasure laid up in the bank.”

  Prue felt Hansel stiffen.

  “Do you not think it a bit greedy,” Franz said, “to attempt to steal this treasure out from under my nose?”

  “He ain’t stealing,” Prue said. “The treasure belongs to Hansel, seeing as it’s buried with his ancestress.”