Cinderella Six Feet Under (19 page)

“The apprentice is named Pierre,” Malbert said.

“Yes, well, Pierre caught the murderer—he frequents the opera house because Monsieur Colifichet, his master, designed the sets for
Cendrillon
—and he is being treated as quite a hero by the police.”

“It is good, Madame Brand,
oui
?” Malbert blinked at Ophelia. “The murderer is caught. We will sleep soundly tonight.”

“But what of the Marquise Henrietta?” Ophelia asked. “It wouldn't do to forget her.”

“She will return,” Malbert said. He raised his newspaper.

“Oh! Réglisse!” Eglantine shrieked.
“Non!”

A rotund cat had leapt onto Eglantine's lap and was licking her oily cheek.
“Non! Vilain!
Vilain chat!”
She shoved Réglisse. He thumped to the floor and licked his lips.

Eglantine wiped her face with a napkin.

“What has Miss Smythe told you this time?” Ophelia asked.

“Nothing,” Eglantine snapped.

“Beef lard face pack,” Austorga said. “For a dewy complexion. Only two more days till the prince's ball.”

“Dewy complexion?” Ophelia said. “My dear girls, I'm afraid beef lard will give you nothing but spots.”

Baldewyn appeared and announced something in French. Ophelia only understood
Mademoiselle Smythe
.

Ophelia bolted to her feet. “Excuse me,” she murmured.

Eglantine looked quizzical. Ophelia patted her stomach in explanation. Didn't dignified matrons always suffer from digestive afflictions?

Ophelia rushed past Baldewyn and intercepted Seraphina in the corridor.

“Good morning, Miss Smythe,” Ophelia said.

“Mrs. Brand. Good morning.” Seraphina's spectacles were fogged. “Are the Misses Malbert ready? We are going to the shoemaker's to fetch our dancing shoes for the ball. Mother is waiting in the carriage.”

Ophelia lowered her voice. “I won't beat around the bush, young lady. Why were you speaking with the coachman a few minutes ago?”

“Did my mother instruct you to spy upon me?”

“I happened to notice your rendezvous with Henri from my window, and I demand an explanation for your subterfuge.”

“It was hardly a rendezvous, and I assure you there wasn't a jot of subterfuge. I do not owe you explanations of any kind, Mrs. Brand, but since you are a dotty old woman with a passion for prying—Miss Eglantine was quite right about that—I shall tell you. I was simply asking Henri if he had found a dropped glove of mine in the carriage.”

“Oh.” Ophelia swallowed. “Well. The Misses Malbert are still at the table. I shall accompany you there.”

T
he stepsisters left the house with Seraphina a few minutes later, and Ophelia was alone with Malbert at the breakfast table. She wished to be alone with this doughy little monster like she wished for a splinter in the eye.

“My dear Monsieur Malbert, I am so glad we are at last able to speak in privacy.”

The newspaper lowered.
“Pourquoi?”

Ophelia knew
pourquoi
meant
why
. In the circus, Madame Treminskaya had always asked her customers
pourquoi
over her crystal ball, in order to figure out what their fortunes ought to be.

“Why? Because I have two important questions to ask you.” Ophelia took a deep breath. “First, did the Marquise Henrietta ever see the diamond stomacher you keep in your lockbox at the bank?”

To Ophelia's surprise, Malbert's face dimpled in a smile. “Did my daughters tell you of the stomacher?”

“Indeed they did.”

“And I suppose one of them—Eglantine?—enlisted you to convince me to allow her to wear it to the ball?”

“If you must know . . . yes.”

“But what does my dear, darling Henrietta have to do with it?”

Ophelia thought fast. “It occurred to me that perhaps you had given the stomacher to Henrietta and that it was no longer truly in the bank box, and that is why you will not permit either of your daughters to wear it.”

“No, no, the stomacher is still in the bank.
Oui
, I showed it to Henrietta, but she preferred to keep for herself different, more fashionable pieces of jewelry instead.”

“When was this?”

Malbert blinked rapidly. “I cannot recall. Three or four months ago, perhaps?”

“Did Henrietta have a key to the bank box?”

“No, but I share everything with my dear wife.”

Mighty interesting.

“That was the last time you laid eyes on the stomacher?” Ophelia asked.

“Oui.”

“Monsieur Malbert, I don't know quite how to put this, and I do realize it is
indelicate
, but as I have taken it upon myself to look after Miss Bright until her mother has been found, well, might I ask, did Henrietta wish for”—Ophelia lowered her voice to a whisper—“
a divorce
?”

“Good heavens, no! We were only married last spring! And we were—are—deeply
amoureux
.”

“Yes, I suppose you love everything about Henrietta, such as . . . her feet.”

“What a strange thing to say, Madame Brand.” Up went the newspaper.

Well, that was the end of their cozy chat, then.

*   *   *

“Thank you for
your punctuality,” Monsieur Cherrien said to Gabriel across a gleaming expanse of desk. “My time is valuable.”

Cherrien spoke in French, and his voice was only just past the yodeling stage. If Gabriel had seen him on the street, he would have gauged him to be not more than twenty years old. Yet that couldn't be right. Not unless he had taken up studying the law while still in short pants.

“Please”—Cherrien gestured to a chair—“sit.”

Gabriel sat. The chair had evidently been constructed for an elf, because once seated, Gabriel found that his chin was scarcely higher than the edge of the desk.

“Now then.” Cherrien steepled his hands. “I suppose you are wondering why I have summoned you here this morning.”

“The thought has flitted through my mind, yes. But first—your secretary did tell you that I called here yesterday morning? Yes? Good. I wished to speak with you regarding the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau. She is a client of yours, I have been led to believe, and she wished for a divorce—”

Something flashed in Cherrien's eyes. Alarm? Then it was gone.

“—and now, as you are doubtless aware, she is missing. What do you know of this affair, Monsieur Cherrien?”

“Know? Nothing.”

He was lying. But Gabriel had no means to make him talk.

Cherrien waved his hand. “I do not have much time. Now. I have learned through certain avenues that you are well aware of the existence of a certain . . . item. An item that holds great significance as a historical relic, a significance that surpasses even its monetary value, which is not to be sneezed at, as I believe you English are fond of saying.”

“Are we?”

Cherrien made a chilly little smile. “Cendrillon's stomacher. I see in your face that you know of it. My client wishes to have it.”

“And your client is—?”

“That is confidential.”

“But your client is aware that it is a priceless relic. That it belonged to Cendrillon, and that some say it is imbued with magical powers.”

“As a gentleman of the law, it is beyond my capacity to assess the
magical
attributes of items, although I am willing to believe that it did indeed belong to a real lady who came to be known as Cendrillon. My opinion on the matter is neither here nor there. My client wishes for the stomacher, and it is my job to procure it for—”

Gabriel held his breath, waiting for Cherrien to slip up and say
him
or
her
.

But Cherrien caught himself. After a pause he said, “I require you to perform the legwork in locating the stomacher. I am a very busy man, and I understand that you are experienced with such things.”

“Who told you that?” Lady Cruthlach. This had to be her doing.

“Bring me the stomacher by no later than ten o'clock on Saturday morning.”

“Why Saturday?”

“Do not worry yourself with details.”

“Why would I do this for you? Or for your client?”

“Because if you do not, I will be forced to go to the police and inform them of an American actress who has, in an exceedingly bizarre fashion, insinuated herself into the household of the Marquis de la Roque-Fabliau. It has a certain—what is it?—a romantic element, does it not? The actress and the earl, scheming to steal Cinderella's diamond stomacher. Alas, my client grows impatient.”

Gabriel stood. “Good day, Cherrien.” He went to the door.

“Get me the stomacher, Lord Harrington,” Cherrien called after him, “or I shall be forced to have your little confidence trickster of an actress arrested.”

Gabriel attempted not to slam the door as he left.

*   *   *

Just as Ophelia
was gathering her Baedeker and reticule—it was almost time to go meet Professor Penrose—there was a knock at her bedchamber door.

She expected Prue (not that Prue usually knocked). But it was Baldewyn, holding an enormous, flat paperboard box fastened with twine.

“A delivery for you,
madame
,” he said with undisguised contempt.

“Oh, Baldewyn, you
are
an old pet!” Ophelia gathered the box to her padded bosom and closed the door with her foot.

She placed the box on her bed. A small tag dangled from the twine:
Madame Brand
:
Enjoy!—Madame Fayette
.

Ophelia unfastened the twine and opened the box. She peeled away layers of tissue. A lovely plaid silk gown.

Her hands shook as she put the lid on the box and shoved it under the bed.

How could this be? The tag on the box said
Madame Brand
, but Ophelia had told Madame Fayette that her name was Miss Stonewall. She had also taken care to sign the note cancelling the order
Miss Stonewall
, and she had not included a return address with that note. Madame Fayette must have bribed the courier boy yesterday. And the order had not been cancelled, despite that note.

Not only was Madame Fayette wise to Ophelia, she was
taunting
her.

*   *   *

Noble mansions of
red brick and yellow stone looked down upon Place des Vosges from all four sides. Tall windows, each with dozens of small, square panes, reflected a blank white sky. Bare linden trees dripped and the fountains didn't gurgle. No children romped in the grass. Pigeons paced on sandy paths and perched on the statue of Louis XIII on horseback.

When Gabriel caught sight of Miss Flax on a bench near the statue, he breathed a sigh of relief; she wore her matron's disguise. He would not be in danger of forgetting himself today, then.

She jumped to her feet when she caught sight of him and came hurrying down the path, umbrella in one hand, dumpy reticule in the other.

“Miss Flax, you look pale. At any rate, I
suspect
you look pale beneath all that muck.”

“I don't even know where to begin,” she said, out of breath.

“What has happened? Your note said—”

“Oh, my word. The
feet
.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She told him what she'd seen in Malbert's workshop. “I tell you, Malbert's a fiend. A foot fiend! He chops ladies' dogs off and—and
brines
them.”

“The first explanation that comes to mind is that the feet are medical or scientific specimens of some sort. Medical training does, alas, include a certain amount of . . . dissection.”

“Malbert's no medical man.”

“I have also heard of more than one example of the bound foot of a deceased Chinese lady being preserved in fluid for all posterity to inspect.”

“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
.