Cinderella Six Feet Under (11 page)

“Miss Banks is an avid collector of scientific specimens,” Gabriel said stiffly, “particularly botanical, although she has of late taken an interest in fossils—”

Ophelia wasn't really sure what fossils were. Something to do with caves. That was it—caves and teeth. Or was it ferns?

“—and she has impeccable penmanship. In my line of work, that, and a certain retiring and ladylike nature, are two indispensable qualities in a wife.”

“Oh, I do agree.” Miss Flax smiled, too sweetly.

Gabriel's neck began to sweat as they went out into the backstage corridor. “I would quite understand if you did not wish to see me again.”

“No, no, it's hunky-dory.” Miss Flax walked so quickly Gabriel was compelled to lengthen his stride. “It is quite logical—I fancy Miss Banks enjoys logic immensely? Yes? Well. You'll be wanting to find the missing stomacher. That's pretty clear. And I wish to locate Henrietta. Since these two problems are, by the looks of it, tied up together, we may as well continue to assist each other.”

“Oh. Quite.”

“To that end—to the end, that is, of a certain arrangement that is of mutual benefit in a strictly businesslike sense, for I would not wish to in any way do
anything
that might give Miss Banks cause for . . . What I mean to say is, tomorrow, perhaps, you might accompany me to the lawyer's office, and translate for me if need be when I ask him what he knows about Henrietta, and then, well, we might go to Maison Fayette and inquire about the two gowns and the stomacher.”

“Yes. A capital plan. Shall I collect you round the corner of Hôtel Malbert at, say, nine o'clock tomorrow morning?”

“Sounds fine.”

T
he ogre had carried Prue from the kitchen, up the steps, clear across the nighttime, earthworm-smelling garden, through the wide-open carriageway gate, and out to the street. Prue heard clopping hooves, the creaks of harness and wheels. He pitched her like dirty laundry onto a carriage seat and slammed her inside.

The carriage rolled away with her shut up inside it. Prue fumbled in the blackness for the door handle. One of her fingernails ripped.

“Do not be afraid, little one,” someone said just by her ear. “We will not harm you. Not
you
, of all people, darling girl, no, no, no.”

Stale breath, that of an ancient person rotting on the inside first. Prue wedged herself in the seat corner.

“We turned down the lamps because we did not wish to attract any attention from the house. We only wished for
you
, you see.”

“It ain't me you want,” Prue said. “I told that to your—your footman feller. The cheek of him, too,
hauling
me like so!”

“We instructed Hume to convey you to us using whatever means necessary. You mustn't be angry with him. He is a most faithful servant. Hume, the lamp.”

He was in here? Sweet sister Sally.

A lamp sizzled up and Prue blinked. When she could see right, she took in silken black on the ceiling, black velvet curtains, black leather seats.

Across from Prue sat an old fogey. He must've been skinny as a rake, because for all the world it looked like he was an empty frock coat draped across the seat with a shriveled monkey face under a top hat.

The ogre—Hume—sat beside the fogey. His huge knees in the scarlet britches were close to his chin.

Prue slid her eyes sideways. Next to her sat a lady as shrunken as the gent, but with a bit more life in her face. She wore a glossy black fur and an old-time black bonnet. Her dark eyes shone. “I am Lady Cruthlach,” she said, “and this is Lord Cruthlach.”

“Pleased ever so.” Prue licked her lips. “Where're you taking me?”

“Oh, we are only going for a little journey about the block, my lovely. No need to fuss. We merely wished to
see
you. You are indeed quite as lovely as Hume reported.” Lady Cruthlach took a lock of Prue's loose hair between a gloved thumb and forefinger and held it up to the light. Greasy and tangled though Prue's hair was, Lady Cruthlach cooed. “Like ripe flax! Such a
folkloric
color, I have always thought. One rarely sees flaxen hair anymore. Girls these days seem faded, somehow. Is it all the photography, do you think, drawing the life out of them? Because girls
will
endlessly sit for their photographic portraits, will they not, despite what everyone knows about energy fields and camera lenses.”

Prue had never heard of
that
one. Not that she was up to snuff on scientific notions.

“Just look at her gown,” Lady Cruthlach said to the fogey. “Practically in tatters.”

The fogey made a rustling-tissue sound with his throat.

Lady Cruthlach fingered Prue's sleeve. “Oh my, is this”—she drew a shuddery breath—“are these
cinders
, girl?”

“Could be,” Prue said, tugging her arm away. She folded her arms.

“The music box,” the fogey wheezed. Then he coughed into a hankie held by Hume.

Lady Cruthlach clapped her hands. “Yes! The music box! You are correct, dear Athdar. Oh, I
had
so hoped you might be able to see her. Shall we bring the music box to the sitting room when we return home? We have not enjoyed it for many months.”

“Listen here,” Prue said. “It's come pretty clear that there's a mix-up happening. I reckon, see, you got me mixed up with my sister.”

Silent staring. The carriage bumped along.

“My dead sister,” Prue said. “I suppose you saw it in the newspapers? She was near a mirror image of me—as far as I could tell. But she's dead, see, and I'm—well, like I said, I'm just nobody.”

“Nobody!” Lady Cruthlach tittered. “How delightful!”

Prue eyed the door handle. Looked like it would lever open nice and easy. Only problem was, Hume was eyeing
her
. He would grab her before she could say, “Bob's your uncle.”

“I suppose you haven't received an invitation to the prince's ball, have you?”

“Me? A prince? No prince ever heard of
me
, I'm sure.”

“Tell me,” Lady Cruthlach said, “does your mother look just like—like
this
, too?” Her eyes took to ant-crawling all over Prue again.

“Ma? Naw, Ma don't look like me and—and my sister at all. Ma's got chestnut hair, and—”

All the interest drained from Lady Cruthlach's eyes.

But Prue
was
interested in Ma, so she went on yapping anyway, because it had been a while since she'd been able to talk of Ma's disappearance, what with Ophelia off on her sleuthings all day. “I'm practically an orphan, now.”

“There, there.” Lady Cruthlach stroked Prue's arm. This time, Prue let her. The gesture held a tiny germ of comfort. “An orphan, you say? Lord Cruthlach and I know about orphans, all about indeed. Our own young ward, Dalziel, was an orphan, too, until we took him into our household and raised him as our own. But poor, poor Dalziel will once more become an orphan. We are dying, you see. Lord Cruthlach has slipped farther beneath the waves than I, but I shall follow him shortly to the grave.”

“Are you ill, ma'am?”

“These modern doctors tell us that so many generations of cousins marrying cousins has weakened the Cruthlach blood. Weakened! There is no value, anymore, placed upon purity, is there? Our blood, girl, is as pure as the driven snow. Its very purity leaves us vulnerable to the assails of this rude, modern world.”

“Awful sorry you're ill, ma'am. Might I get out of the carriage, now?”

“No!” Lady Cruthlach twisted Prue's sleeve so tightly it pinched. Prue cried out. “Not until I make you understand that
Dalziel will become an orphan
if you do not help us.”

“Help you with what?”

Lady Cruthlach let go of Prue's sleeve.

Prue rubbed her pinched arm.

Lady Cruthlach rummaged for something in her bodice, under heavy furs. She drew out a locket, chained about her neck with fine-wrought gold. She snapped the locket open and pressed it towards Prue.

The locket held a miniature painting of a beautiful young man. Dark hair, dark eyes, grave expression, a dusky tint to his complexion.

“That is Dalziel.” Lady Cruthlach snapped the locket shut. “The young gentleman who will become, like you, an orphan, cast out into the nightmare dark of the world, shivering, alone. Unless you help us.”

“Dalziel looks nice,” Prue said. “Sure wouldn't want him to be cast out into the nightmare dark of the world and what you say. But it ain't clear to me how I can help, ma'am.”

Lady Cruthlach signaled to Hume. Hume thumped the ceiling. The carriage stopped. Hume reached over the fogey, jerked open the carriage door, and gave Prue a shove.

Prue screamed. She tumbled out and splashed on all fours into a cold puddle. She looked up. The carriage was rolling away into the night and—she looked around—she was in front of Hôtel Malbert.

*   *   *

Only when Prue
was drifting to sleep in her bedchamber, arms around the fat ginger cat, did it hit her: those old folks, and Hume, too, had never asked what her name was.

For some reason, her name was of no consequence.

*   *   *

Ophelia crawled back
into Hôtel Malbert through the cellar window, which she'd left ajar. She groped through the darkness to the door between the cellar rooms and the kitchen. She peeked through. Empty. She tiptoed in. A fading fire glowed and mice swarmed on top of the table, nibbling the remains of a tart. Dirty china filled the sink. A stone pestle lay on the floor. Ophelia picked it up and set it on the table. A mouse with quivering whiskers looked at her.

Ugh.

Well, she wasn't hungry, anyway. For some reason, her belly had been in knots ever since the professor had told her about Miss Ivy Banks, of the ladylike, retiring nature and impeccable penmanship. Well. Ophelia refused to be envious of any lady, and indeed, perhaps the existence of Miss Banks could be considered a relief.

Yes, that's what it was.

Ophelia lit a taper and stealthily searched the pantry until she found a tin of bicarbonate of soda. She mixed a spoonful into a glass of water, drank it down, washed the glass in the sink, and crept upstairs the back way.

But the soda and water did nothing. It seemed the pain wasn't in her stomach, after all. It clung higher up, around her heart.

She looked into Prue's chamber and saw her asleep with the ginger cat.

In her own chamber, Ophelia shucked off Henrietta's clothing and wrested her crushed toes from the slippers. She washed at the basin and then pulled her theatrical case from its place in the bottom of the wardrobe. Her skin was still chapped from the Mrs. Brand cosmetics. She needed her calendula flower salve.

She opened the case. Something was different. The light wasn't good—she had only the one taper—but . . . the crumbly sticks of greasepaint, in their paper wrappers, were not in their customary order. Yes, one stick, a carnation pink for lips and cheeks, was missing.

Someone in the house knew she was an actress.

*   *   *

Gabriel did not
usually take port before bed. More often than not, he fell asleep over his reading or writing. Yet tonight he ordered a bottle of aged Colheita to be brought to his suite.

The combination of a guilty conscience and acute excitement would require at least two full glasses of port to still them.

The guilt was a simple matter. He had lied to Miss Flax. It was for her own good, though, and he'd not seen any pain in her eyes at the news of his understanding—well, his understanding
of sorts
—with Miss Ivy Banks. He had been foolish to suppose Miss Flax had any interest in his attachments.

The excitement was an altogether separate affair.

Cinderella's stomacher
. Gabriel had never seen it illustrated. Who would bother to illustrate what was believed to be a detail from a wicked stepsister's gown? Still, he could quite easily envision it. Although delicate, it would possess an unnatural weight, and the glints from those diamonds would pierce the eye. It would be intricate, too, with a pattern that seduced one into deeper and deeper labyrinths of luster.

Gabriel took a deep swallow of port. The stomacher must be the relic Lady Cruthlach had spoken of. It had even been made, perhaps, by the mysterious woman called Fairy Godmother. But the stomacher was not hidden somewhere in the Malbert mansion, as Lady Cruthlach believed. No, it had vanished off Sybille Pinet's corpse in the foul hands of a murderer. And he, Gabriel, would find it.

“
G
ood morning, Professor Penrose,” Miss Flax said, settling into the carriage seat.

“Good morning, Miss Flax. The rain has stopped, for now at least.”

The carriage moved forward. The solicitor's office would be the first stop.

“Oh, indeed. Nice to have a break in the rain.”

There. Gabriel adjusted his spectacles. This was better. Polite. Formal. None of that bickering and bantering. He'd been right to mention Miss Ivy Banks last night because now, for perhaps the first time since Gabriel had met Miss Flax, he was able to enjoy a placid conscience. No more fretting about their discordant stations in life. He could even observe her, this morning attired in her own plain cloak and bonnet, her cheeks smooth and rosy, without even the
faintest
stirring of desire. Yes. Miss Ivy Banks was the solution to the problem.

The Avenue des Champs-Élysées was broad, with rows of bare chestnut trees and buildings of pale stone and fanciful wrought iron. In the third-story reception room of Monsieur T. S. Cherrien (
Avocat
), a toad of a secretary manned a mahogany desk. “Might I be of assistance?” he asked in French.

Gabriel introduced himself as Lord Harrington and said that he wished to speak with Monsieur Cherrien.

The secretary looked at Miss Flax in her simple attire. He twitched a faint, knowing smile. “A settlement, perhaps?” he said in English.

Miss Flax sucked in an affronted gasp.

“No,” Gabriel said coldly. “I—
we
—wish to speak with Monsieur Cherrien regarding the disappearance of the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau.”

“We believe she is one of Monsieur Cherrien's clients,” Miss Flax said.

“We never discuss our clients,
monsieur et mademoiselle
. And I regret to say that Monsieur Cherrien is at present occupied, and I expect that he will be occupied for many, many,
many
hours. Please do make an appointment.” The secretary spread open an appointment book and flicked through several pages—mostly empty pages. “Ah. He does have an available time on the fifteenth of January.”

“January,” Gabriel said. “This is November.”

The secretary looked up. “Do you wish for the appointment, or no?”

Miss Flax leaned over the desk and, cheeks flaming, said, “I have a mind to go straight into Monsieur Cherrien's office this minute.”

“You will be sadly disappointed. He keeps the door locked. Shall I summon the police?”

“Good morning,
monsieur
.” Gabriel led Miss Flax out of the office.

“Stonewalled,” Miss Flax said, as they went down the stairs.

“We'll go to see Madame Fayette, the
couturière
, next, but it occurs to me that you ought to have a cozy chat with Malbert later. Perhaps he'll divulge something about Henrietta wishing to divorce him.”

“Malbert is about as liable to divulge secrets as a suet pudding. But I reckon it's worth an attempt.”

*   *   *

Maison Fayette was
a mile or two away, in a fancy shopping street called Rue de la Paix. Marble pillars flanked its carved door, and sparkling windows on either side displayed nothing but mauve velvet draperies.

“A waiter at my hotel told me fantastical tales of Madame Fayette,” Penrose said. He pressed the doorbell. “Evidently she is a sorceress with needle and thread, and he said that ladies swear she works magic on their figures.”

“Magic? No doubt she's got her hands on some extra strong corset laces, then.”

The door opened and a maid led them inside. Penrose gave the maid his card and she scurried away, leaving them in a waiting room decorated with mirrors and urns of roses.

Ophelia caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors. She'd done her best to sponge her traveling gown and cloak, but she still looked as shabby as a church mouse next to the professor. Oh, well. Nothing to be done about it except stand up tall. No need to ponder how well Miss Ivy Banks probably looked next to him.

“When you speak to Madame Fayette alone,” Penrose said, “ask her if she made the gown and the matching ballet costume. When it comes to the stomacher, be as subtle as you are able.”

“Why am I to speak to her alone?”

Penrose didn't answer.

“Welcome, Lord Harrington!” A tiny, chubby woman floated towards them, arms outstretched. “I am Madame Fayette.” Her voice was fluting and French-accented. She was between grass and hay—sixty years old, maybe—clothed in an expertly darted black silk gown. Her silver hair was swept up beneath a Spanish lace cap, and a diamond bracelet shimmered at her wrist. “I made your cousin Eliza's wedding gown last year. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“My American cousin, Miss Stonewall”—Penrose drew Ophelia forward—“is in need of a few gowns. She lost her trunks somewhere between Cleveland and Paris, I'm afraid, and has been forced to borrow her maidservant's attire. Do you suppose you might have a visiting gown and—what do you ladies call your coats these days?”

“A paletot?” Madame Fayette said.

“Yes, a paletot, made up for Miss Stonewall by tomorrow, and a ball gown and another gown in the next few days?”

“
Tomorrow?
Oh dear. I do have sixteen seamstresses,
oui
, but we are quite busy, Lord Harrington.
Quite
. Prince Rupprecht's ball is in but three days' time, so—”

“I would compensate you for the rush. Miss Stonewall is rather desperate.”

“Oh, very well. I may have a few half-made gowns that could be altered. Please, do sit, Lord Harrington, and the maid will bring you tea. Come along, Miss Stonewall.”

The walls of Madame Fayette's inner sanctum were hung with mauve and cream stripes and edged with plasterwork like thick, white cake icing. Three plum-colored velvet dressmaker's stools stood in front of three huge, gilt-framed mirrors. Flowery chandeliers burned with gas bulbs. The room was unoccupied.

“Please.” Madame Fayette gestured to a folding screen in the corner. “I shall go and fetch Josie. We have just enough time before my first appointment, if we hurry.”

Ophelia stripped down to her unmentionables behind the screen. Her chemise and petticoats were gray-tinted from age and hand-laundering, and her corset had never been quality.

Madame Fayette reappeared with a delicate, blond-haired young lady.

Ophelia recognized her as Josie, the seamstress who had been hemming Eglantine's ball gown yesterday. The one who had spilled her pins. Ophelia had been disguised as Mrs. Brand then, so Josie wouldn't recognize her. Knock on wood.

“Josie,” Madame Fayette said. “Your notebook.” Madame Fayette addressed Ophelia. “Mademoiselle Baigneur is my chief assistant and most skilled seamstress. She speaks English, too, which helps—so many of my customers come not only from England, but New York, Boston, and Philadelphia as of late. But you are my first”—her brows lifted—“from Cleveland.”

“Fancy that.”

Madame Fayette took Ophelia's measurements every which way and murmured numbers in French. She moved quickly, and her bracelet slid up and down her arm. The bracelet was hefty, with a braided design crusted all around with diamonds. And for some reason, it looked awfully familiar to Ophelia.

Josie scribbled away in a notebook.

“For the visiting gown,” Madame Fayette said to Josie, “the forest green crepe we were working on for that Italian princess who ran off with the painter—I do not suppose
she
will return. With three rows of black velvet ribbon along the hem—
oui
? The matching paletot to wear over. Black velvet. With a hood, for this dreadful weather, and a small, flat hat of the green crepe to tie under your pretty chin.
Très jolie
. And the ball gown, ah,
oui
, the ball gown of eggshell blue that was meant for that courtesan with the smelly little dog. She is a gambler. I would likely never be paid anyway. Oh! But I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Stonewall. I should not speak of such things in front of a young lady.”

Did she say
lady
with an ironic lilt?

“I told my cousin, Lord Harrington, that I must come to your shop,” Ophelia said. “I have seen such lovely gowns that you've made. Even, I'm sorry to say, on a dead girl.”

Madame Fayette glanced up. “Dead?”

“Surely you've heard—it's been in the newspapers. It was—it was simply
horrid
.”

Madame Fayette continued to measure. “Ah,
oui
. The girl in Le Marais. You were a . . . witness?”

Josie's eyes were on her notebook, but she seemed to be all ears.

“Yes. At a party given by the Misses Malbert. There was a lot of screaming and a lot of . . . blood.”

“You wore your maid's gown to this party, I presume?” Madame Fayette said.

“Yes. Of course.” Drat. “Well, the dead girl's gown—ivory silk and tulle, with silver and gold embroidery—the funny thing is, it looked exactly like the prima ballerina's costume that you made for the Cinderella ballet I saw last night.”

“How do you know I made that costume?” Madame Fayette stopped measuring. “My name does not appear in the programme.”

“I saw a label—Maison Fayette, it said—stitched into the costume, when I went backstage to congratulate the ballerina.” A true lady wouldn't venture backstage. Hopefully Madame Fayette would chalk it up to Miss Stonewall's American rearing. “Why does a ballet costume need a label?”

Madame Fayette narrowed her eyes. “We are all very proud of the work we do at Maison Fayette.”

“Did you not tell the police you made the dead girl's gown? It could be a clue.”

“What makes you believe I did not tell them?”

“Because if you had, they'd know more about her. Her name, for instance.”

“I assure you, I know nothing of the murdered girl.”

Was she fibbing? Hard to say. Just because someone had the chubby cheeks of a two-year-old didn't mean they had the conscience to match. “But how is that possible? Surely she came in for fittings, just like I'm doing now.”

“I maintain the utmost discretion when it comes to my customers.”

Discretion? Hardly, if Madame Fayette's comments about the Italian princess and the gambling courtesan were any indication. “Then I don't suppose you'll tell me if the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau is one of your customers,” Ophelia said. “She's missing, you know.”

“If my customers request that I keep a secret, why, then I keep a secret,” Madame Fayette said. “Surely,
Miss Stonewall
, you must appreciate this. One does not sew garments for empresses if one is a—how do you say?—blabbermouth.” She looped her measuring tape around Ophelia's waist, and squeezed.

Ophelia winced.

“I would be fascinated to discover precisely why it is that you have taken on the duties of an officer of the police,” Madame Fayette said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must go fetch a few samples for you to view.” She whipped her measuring tape free and hurried out.

Ophelia was left alone with Josie.

As soon as Madame Fayette disappeared, Josie whispered, “
Madame
does not ever admit to it, but she was, years ago, the costume mistress at
l'Opéra de Paris
.”

“Indeed?”

“I believed you should know this, because you seem so interested in those gowns. The way they were the same.
Madame
knows people at the opera house. Many people.”

“She knew the murdered girl, then?”

“
Non
. She designed that gown based upon measurements given to her by a customer. She never measured or fitted the girl in person. None of us did.”

“But who was the customer?”

“I know not.” Josie pushed a wisp of hair from her eyes. “Is the murderer not . . . caught?”

“No. And I reckon the police are after the wrong murderer. I wonder if the marquis—the father of the Misses Malbert—is mixed up in this. Because his wife, his
missing
wife, perhaps desired a divorce, and he's so secretive about whatever he does in that funny workshop of his.” Ophelia clammed up. Josie was so mild a presence, she had been thinking aloud. But she ought not be so trusting.

Ophelia studied Josie. She would've been pretty as a picture if she hadn't appeared so unwholesome. Her ears seemed too large for such a hollow face, and her lips were bloodless, as though she hadn't enough sleep or enough to eat. But surely Madame Fayette paid her employees a good wage. They were highly skilled workers.

“Would you tell me, Josie . . . the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau—did she patronize this shop?”

“Non
.”
Josie lowered her voice still more. “The murderer is not caught? Then I must—I must tell you, Mademoiselle Stonewall. It is something so odd, but Madame Fayette, she will deliver a parcel to a gentleman today.”