by Maia Chance
“Ugh.”
“I do agree. At any rate, perhaps you stumbled upon the marquis’s cabinet of curiosities—which is rather like a circus freak show in miniature.”
“I have a better theory: how about Malbert is the murderer?” Miss Flax listed Malbert’s opportunities, peculiar behaviors, and possible motives.
“I did not yet mention this to you, Miss Flax, but Malbert is a member of the Jockey Club.”
“Indeed! I allow, it’s hard to picture him taking up with a ballet girl.”
“No? He took up with Henrietta.”
“True. But when Henrietta sets her sights on a fellow, he doesn’t have much choice about what happens next.”
Miss Flax also told Gabriel how the police had arrested the derelict, who’d been caught with blood on his hands and raving about being paid to kill. “Do you reckon the madman’s some sort of hired killer?”
“Quite possibly. I must visit the commissaire’s office and endeavor to speak with this man.”
Finally, Miss Flax told Gabriel how Madame Fayette had discovered her two disguises. “She was mighty suspicious of me when I went in yesterday morning. I don’t believe she bought the story that I was your American cousin for a minute.”
“Madame Fayette? Now that is rather interesting.” Gabriel told Miss Flax about Cherrien’s demand for the stomacher, and his threat to hand Ophelia over to the police if they failed.
“The rat! Wait. You say the client desires the stomacher by Saturday? Saturday is the day of Prince Rupprecht’s ball.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Yes.”
“Who do you suppose the client is?”
“Someone who desires the stomacher.”
“The murderer desires the stomacher.”
“Yes. And maybe the murderer is Madame Fayette.”
“What are you saying?”
“If Madame Fayette knows that Mrs. Brand and Miss Stonewall are, for lack of a better word, frauds, and Cherrien’s client also knows—”
“Then it follows that Madame Fayette is his client.” Miss Flax nodded. “But Madame Fayette is an awful gossip. She might’ve let slip what she knows about me to someone else.”
“We really must pay her a call.”
“We ought to turn over this Cherrien fellow to the police.”
“If you do so, Cherrien will surely share your secrets with the police,” Gabriel said. “Do you wish to risk exposing yourself in that fashion?”
“I’ll hazard it.”
“If you are jailed, Miss Flax—”
“I’m innocent!”
“Not of deceiving everyone as to your true identity. You could be jailed merely on suspicion. As a foreigner, your legal status is somewhat hazy. You could not attempt to locate Henrietta from jail. You could not look after Miss Bright from jail.”
“Then what are we to do?”
“Locate the stomacher. If we accomplish that, then we will, one way or another, unmask the murderer.”
“Then we’ll go see Madame Fayette.”
“Yes. Madame Fayette, and two other people of my acquaintance who also have an ardent interest in the stomacher.”
* * *
Prue chiseled at egg yolk crusted on breakfast plates and had a good, long think about Hansel and Dalziel. The checklist Ma had always used for measuring up fellers wasn’t the slightest help. Hansel and Dalziel were both handsome. Both of them were European blue bloods, and while neither had pots of brass, both of them probably would someday. The main difference was that Hansel seemed to have plum forgotten about Prue, while Dalziel had been so very sweet. Ma’s checklist didn’t include sweet.
There was a rap on the kitchen door.
The plate slipped silently under the water.
“Alors?” Beatrice shouted from the broom closet, where she was routing out mice with a rolling pin. “Open it! It must be Baldewyn locked himself out again, silly old cancre.”
Prue smeared her wet hands down her apron and went to the door.
Only a hump-backed old woman in a raggedy gown, a shawl, and a brown kerchief. She cradled a large, gorgeously colored box in her arms. “Bonbons?” she said in a raspy voice. She was missing a couple of her choppers.
Candy? Well, Prue had finished the orange jellies and butterscotch drops Austorga had given her.
“Non!” Beatrice came up behind Prue, making shooing motions with her rolling pin. “S’en aller! How did you get past the gate, you old witch?”
“Bonbons délicieux.” The crone stroked the top of the candy box with a boot-leather hand.
“Close the door, Prue,” Beatrice said. “We do not allow peddlers, and Henri must have left the gate open again, the fool.”
Quick as a wink, the crone dropped the candies and drew a revolver from the folds of her shawl. She cocked it—the gun looked too big for her rickety body—and aimed it at Prue.
Prue’s lips parted. A gurgle came out.
“Sacre Dieu!” Beatrice screamed. She dropped her rolling pin.
The crone grabbed Prue and half pushed, half pulled her across the kitchen, meanwhile aiming her revolver at Beatrice. The crone herded Beatrice—squeaking in fright—into the broom closet and latched it shut.
Beatrice pounded on the closet door. Her cries were muffled.
With a steely grip, the crone dragged Prue out the door and as far as the carriageway—where the gate stood wide open. When Prue saw Lord and Lady Cruthlach’s carriage in the street, she made up her mind: she’d rather take her chances getting shot than go like lambykins to slaughter in that carriage.
She wrenched her arm from the crone’s grasp and started running.
A gunshot cracked the air. Prue kept going.
Prue had been a street rat as a tyke. Ma had given her free reign to roam the streets of their neighborhood, since Ma was usually too occupied to do mother-type things. And New York street rats were mean. Prue didn’t have the fighting spirit, so she’d preferred to dodge, not tussle with, other ragamuffins.
The trick to a successful dodge was to make lots of turns. If you kept running in a straight line, your pursuer could just catch up and collar you. But clever urchins on the run made sudden turns, twists, and switchbacks, and survived, just like rats, with a zigzag kind of cunning.
Prue found a place to turn. And then she turned.
* * *
When Ophelia and Penrose arrived at Rue de la Paix, only a few delivery vans and errand boys were about. The door of Maison Fayette was shut tight.
“Too early,” Ophelia said.
Just as they were turning away, the door cracked open.
“Josie!” Ophelia exclaimed without thinking. Josie had met Miss Stonewall, not Mrs. Brand.
Josie peered up at her with puzzled eyes. “Oui, madame?”
Drat. Ophelia resolved to keep her trap shut.
Penrose said, “Is Madame Fayette within?”
“Non, monsieur. We do not expect her at the shop today. She is quite overcome with fatigue as of late.”
“But you, mademoiselle, are working?”
Josie appeared to be on the brink of nervous exhaustion. Her eyes were sunken, and bloodred cracks extended past the corners of her lips.
“I have been working all night. The prince’s ball, you see. . . .”
“Ah. Gowns to be finished.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Would you be so kind as to tell me the address of Madame Fayette’s private residence?”
“Oh, non! I could never—”
“Please,” Ophelia said. “It’s most urgent. It concerns the gentleman’s death at the ballet last night—did you hear of it?”
“Oui . . . but you do not suppose Madame had anything to do with that poor gentleman’s death?”
“I do not wish to upset you
,” Penrose said, “but yes, I’m afraid she might.”
Josie’s eyes darted up and down the sidewalk. She looked behind her, into the shadows of the shop’s foyer. She leaned close. “Eighty-six Rue Vaneau.” She clamped the door shut.
* * *
Rue Vaneau lay on the left side of the river, a genteel avenue of apartment blocks with iron balconies and steep slate roofs.
Penrose and Ophelia got past the building’s concierge by using his Lord Harrington calling card. They climbed three flights of stairs, and Penrose rapped on Madame Fayette’s door.
A maid answered, and she and Penrose held a whispered confabulation in French. Then Penrose passed the maid another one of his calling cards.
“Madame Fayette is abed,” Penrose told Ophelia as they hiked back down the stairs. “I told the maid we will return in an hour. In the meantime, we aren’t too terribly far away from the old acquaintances of mine that I mentioned.”
“Old, as in longtime? Or old, like ancient?”
“Both.”
21
Twenty minutes later, Ophelia and Penrose’s carriage stopped in a gnarled side street. A soot-streaked mansion rose up, with pointy turrets, mullioned windows, and grinning monkey gargoyles.
“Looks like a witch’s house,” Ophelia said. They climbed the front steps.
“You’re frightfully close to the mark.” Penrose knocked on the front door. “Lord and Lady Cruthlach believe they possess . . . uncanny blood.”
“And why exactly might they be Cherrien’s clients?”
“Why? Because they believe in fairy tales, my dear.”
Oh, my.
After a minute or so, a bulky, ginger-haired footman opened the door. He was stuffed into crimson satin livery, high-heeled shoes, and—oddly enough—a white apron. “Lord Harrington,” he said in a Scots accent.
“Hume. I must speak with Lady Cruthlach.”
“Yes, Your Lordship.”
Moments later, Ophelia and Penrose were led into a stifling, dim sitting room. Hume positioned himself against a wall.
An old lady sat on a sofa before the fire. “Lord Harrington,” she creaked. “What a pleasure. And who is this with you?”
“Mrs. Brand, my American aunt.”
“Goodness! America? How sad. A nation singularly lacking in magic.”
“Where is Lord Cruthlach?” Penrose asked.
“He is not well, I am afraid. And a pity, too, for he would so enjoy speaking with you. Please, sit.”
Ophelia and Penrose sat side by side on a sofa.
“You and I, Lady Cruthlach, have known each other for many years,” Penrose said. “Indeed, from time to time we have taken care with each other’s secrets. I feel, then, that I may be perfectly blunt. Have you enlisted a solicitor by the name of Monsieur Cherrien to force me into locating the Cendrillon stomacher?”
“A solicitor? Good heavens, no, Lord Harrington. Why, if I wished to force you to do anything, as you say, I would simply do it myself.” She twittered. “A stomacher, you say? Belonging to Cendrillon?”
“Pray, do not attempt to persuade me that you are ignorant of this matter.” Penrose’s voice grew hot. “I had deduced that this was the relic from Hôtel Malbert that had piqued your interest so much the last time we spoke.”
“Then you deduced incorrectly.”
Hume drew close, carrying a tray of glasses filled with something chokecherry red. Ophelia, Penrose, and Lady Cruthlach each took a glass. Hume placed the tray on a side table and positioned himself in front of the table. He was so near to Ophelia, she heard him breathing.
“Do drink, Mrs. Brand,” Lady Cruthlach said.
Ophelia pretended to sip. Her eyes floated sideways to Hume. Some kind of object sat on the table behind him, next to the tray. A cream-painted box with glimmers of gold—
Hume made a side step, concealing the object.
He was hiding that thing.
“Of course, Lord Harrington,” Lady Cruthlach said, “if you were to tell me more about this stomacher, what it looks like, for instance . . .” She began prying and wheedling. Penrose fended her off.
Ophelia took a gulp of the red cordial and, as she’d hoped, it made her cough. And cough.
“Good heavens, Mrs. Brand, are you well?” Penrose asked, half rising.
“Fine.” Ophelia wheezed, with a pinch of dramatic flair. “It’s just a bit like”—she staggered to her feet—“like turpentine.”
“Turpentine!” Lady Cruthlach sounded affronted. “I have this shipped to me from Italy, from the only region the bull berry grows.”
“Too . . . strong.” Ophelia coughed some more and pounded a palm on her chest. She toppled sideways against Hume. “Oof,” she said as her padded hip struck Hume’s thigh.
Hume was built like a brick chicken coop, but he staggered to the side. Ophelia reached out for the table. She knocked it over. The thing Hume had been hiding went flying and crashed on the floor. It tinkled a half measure of music, and fell silent.
Lady Cruthlach said nothing. Hume panted. Penrose, who had leapt to Ophelia’s aid and had his hands on her shoulders, froze. All four of them stared.
The thing on the floor was—or had been—a music box. The cream-and-gold wooden base was splintered along one edge and the lid had opened to expose a mirrored inner lid and a little porcelain girl. Her yellow-haired head had snapped off and lay a few feet away. Real human hair on the head, by the looks of it, and a tiny, rosy, flawless little doll face.
“Looks just like Prue,” Ophelia whispered.
Hume grunted.
“Sue?” Lady Cruthlach said. “Who is Sue?”
And the body. Well, the body of the doll, still affixed to the inside of the music box, was dressed in a miniature ivory gown, embroidered—of course!—in silver and gold, the bodice decorated with a tiny, silvery stomacher.
“Pick it up, Hume,” Lady Cruthlach snapped. “Why are you standing there like an ox?”
Hume obeyed.
“That, dear Lady Cruthlach,” Penrose said, “is what the stomacher looks like. Where did this music box come from?”
“I simply cannot recall.”
“Where did you get it?”
Hume tensed, an attack dog waiting for the signal.
“Ah yes, I recall now. From that dear little trinket shop in Rue des Capucines. What is it called? Oh, yes. Colifichet and Sons.”
* * *
“We’ll go to Colifichet’s shop directly.” Penrose handed Ophelia up into the carriage and jumped in beside her. “Colifichet has seen the stomacher.” The carriage jerked forward.
“And Hume was trying to hide the music box.”
“Yes—I haven’t yet had a chance to congratulate you on your rather stunning sleight of hand. Or, I should say, sleight of hip.”
“Prue shouldn’t be left all alone at Hôtel Malbert. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” A sickening thought hit Ophelia. “Lady Cruthlach—and her husband, too—they’re collectors, right? Fairy tale collectors, like you?”
“Yes.”
“What if . . . do you think Lady Cruthlach might try to, well, collect Prue? Because she looks like her Cinderella music box?”
Ophelia wished with all her might that the professor would laugh off the notion. But to her dismay, his eyes grew troubled. “It is not inconceivable.”
“Might we take Prue along with us today, then? She could stay in the carriage. She’s able to take naps anywhere, and I’m certain she won’t complain if we give her some penny sweets.”
“Very well. I’ll instruct the driver to go first to Hôtel Malbert.”
* * *
Penrose waited in the carriage. Baldewyn appeared to have been awoken from a snooze when he opened the front door. Ophelia rushed past him without a word.
Prue wasn�
�t in her bedchamber. But then, why would she be? It was nearing luncheon time.
Ophelia hurried downstairs. As she passed through the entry foyer, the stepsisters and Miss Smythe were just returning from their outing. Their arms were piled high with parcels. Only Miss Smythe noticed Ophelia rushing past. Behind her owlish spectacles, her glance was sharp.
Ophelia heard the thuds and shouts as soon as she was on the kitchen stairs. She raced down. The thuds were coming from the closet under the stairs.
Ophelia fumbled with the latch and flung open the door. Beatrice staggered out, begrimed and sweaty, with flyaway hair.
“Where is Prue?” Ophelia cried.
“Oh, that woman, that old woman with the gun!”
Ophelia’s heart shrank to a pebble. “What woman?”
“A peddler woman, old. A hunchback. Selling sweets.”
Sweets? Prue would follow a pointy-tailed demon if he lured her with sweets.
Ophelia tore out the kitchen door and through the courtyard. The carriageway gate stood open.
“Miss Flax!” Penrose cried when he saw her.
“She’s gone! Someone has taken Prue.”
* * *
Ophelia insisted that they drive straight back to Lady Cruthlach’s mansion. She had a mad, sickening hunch that somehow Lady Cruthlach was mixed up with Prue’s disappearance. That horrible little music box . . .
The traffic thickened and slowed, and Ophelia fought panic. She held her elbows tight in cupped hands. The professor sat in tense silence.
The carriage hadn’t quite stopped in front of the mansion when Ophelia leapt out and ran up the steps. Penrose was just behind her. They both pounded on the door.
No answer.
Ophelia tried the door handles. Locked.
“What about another door?” Ophelia stepped back to scan the façade. She had just spied an archway off to one side, when the front door opened.
Hume.
Penrose grabbed Ophelia’s hand. “Please excuse us,” he said. Hand in hand, they raced up the stairs and burst into the stifling sitting room.
Lady Cruthlach slept upright on the sofa where they had left her.
