Cinderella Six Feet Under (7 page)

Hume took up a post against the wall.

Gabriel approached the fire. Two forms slumped side by side on a sofa.

“Lord and Lady Cruthlach,” Gabriel said. “How delightful to see you.” He
had
hoped never again to lay eyes on this accursed pair. “How long has it been? Two years? Three?”

“Three, dear Lord Harrington, three.” Lady Cruthlach tipped her undersized head and smiled, revealing teeth as perfect as a little child's.

Ivory teeth, surely. Not . . . a little child's.

Lady Cruthlach's too-bright eyes sunk into her crumpled face. Her sparse yellowed hair was dragged back from an aristocratic, high forehead and fastened with jeweled hairpins. The jewels emphasized the shining flesh of her scalp.

Gabriel forced himself to kiss her mottled hand.

“
Why
,” Lord Cruthlach wheezed beside her, “why does he stand? Rohesia, why? He blocks the light. He blocks the warmth. My bones ache from the
cold
, Rohesia, oh!”

Legend had it that Athdar Crawley, Lord Cruthlach, had once been one of the tallest, proudest gentlemen in the Scottish peerage. Heaven only knew how long ago
that
had been, for now he resembled nothing so much as a suit of clothes abandoned on the cushions.

“Rohesia, they pain me again. My veins, they pain me. Oh, why does this blackguard block the warmth?”

“Drink?” Lady Cruthlach crowed to Gabriel. “And please,
do
sit.”

Gabriel sat. Sweat beaded beneath his arms and at the small of his back. “A drink would be splendid.”

Hume poured out tiny glasses of something at a sideboard. His bulky back concealed his operations.

Three drinks were brought forth on a tray.

Normally, Gabriel wouldn't dream of accepting a drink from the Crawleys. He had heard whispers of foes found, necks snapped, at the base of Castle Margeldie's battlements. Of a snooping Cambridge scholar sunk forever out of sight in a bog on their Highland estate. Of a nosy marchioness taken fatally ill after ingesting a slice of chocolate cake at their winter solstice dinner party in 1861.

Gabriel sipped. Putrid, medicinal sweetness, and it scalded all the way down. The four of them seemed to silently count together ten ticks of the mantelpiece clock. Gabriel did not topple to the carpet in convulsions.

Good, then.

O
phelia devoured two apples, a wedge of cheese, nearly half a loaf of bread, drank three glasses of water, and felt her spirits perk up. She left Prue in the kitchen—Prue would not be pried away from her scrubbing—and went upstairs to her chamber. She took the back staircase she'd discovered. Better not to let the entire household in on her comings and goings.

She set to work on a note to Inspector Foucher, using paper, envelope, fountain pen, and ink she kept in her carpetbag. The paper was crumply and the ink flaked. She described with as much detail as possible what she had learned about Sybille Pinet at the opera house and the boardinghouse.

A scream rang out. Then another, and another.

Ophelia dropped her pen. She followed the screams down to the stepsisters' salon. She burst through the doors.

The screams stopped. Several pairs of eyes stared at Ophelia.

“Is everything quite all right?” Ophelia asked.

“Madame Brand,” Eglantine said. “Is it not the fashion to
knock
in Boston?” Eglantine stood upon a dressmaker's stool. She was flushed, and she clutched a ripped piece of paper to her chest. Her pink moiré silk skirts half concealed two seamstresses who knelt at the hem, stitching.

“I beg your pardon, but I grew alarmed at the sound of screams.”

“That was Austorga,” Eglantine said.

Austorga sat on a sofa. Her sturdy shoulders rose and fell. Like her sister, she clutched a ripped piece of paper. In her other hand she held a large, square envelope.

“Was the screaming not Austorga, Mademoiselle Smythe?” Eglantine asked.

Miss Seraphina Smythe was the frail girl in owlish spectacles who had been playing the piano when Sybille's body had been discovered. She sat beside Austorga on the sofa and she had just bitten into a chocolate bonbon. At Eglantine's question, her jaws froze. She nodded.

“Screaming?” Mrs. Smythe, Seraphina's mother, said in a vague voice, from the opposite sofa. She looked up from the pages of a book. “
I
did not hear anything.” Mrs. Smythe had also been in attendance at the stepsisters' soirée on the evening of the murder. She was a stout lady with bleary blue eyes, attired in a smart visiting gown.

“You never
do
hear anything, Mother,” Seraphina said.

Mrs. Smythe did not seem to have heard. She resumed reading.

Mr. Smythe, Ophelia had been told, was some sort of diplomatic attaché from England. Seraphina and her mother, who had met Eglantine and Austorga at a public concert, spent a great deal of their time in the company of the stepsisters. Mrs. Smythe served as chaperone, and the stepsisters always spoke English in the presence of the Smythe ladies.

“Madame Brand,” Austorga said, “we have just been apprised of some most stimulating news.” She waved her piece of paper.

“Madame Brand does not wish, you uncouth twit, to hear of all the dull details of the, well,
you
know,” Eglantine said.

“It is not dull,” Austorga said. “You said yourself you thought you might swoon—”

“Oh, for pity's sake, you ninny!” Eglantine shouted. It was unclear if she was speaking to her sister or to one of the seamstresses.

The company of Prue's stepsisters was intolerable. Ophelia had dined enough with them in the past few days to be convinced of it. However, she had questions to ask.

She sat down next to Mrs. Smythe. Mrs. Smythe did not look up from her book. Ophelia glanced at the top of a page.
Pride and Prejudice
.

“Oh!” Seraphina cried. “Do be careful of Réglisse.”

“Réglisse?” Ophelia said.

A roly-poly black cat yawned beside Ophelia on the sofa.

“Good heavens,” Ophelia said. “I had taken him for a cushion. He is quite . . . well-fed.”

“Surely, Madame Brand,” Eglantine said, “
you
are able to sympathize.”

“So I can,” Ophelia said. “So I can. My dear, I have been meaning to ask, is there any news in the disappearance of your stepmother, Henrietta?”

“No,” Eglantine said.

“And no arrest of the murderer?”

“
Must
we speak of this?” Seraphina whispered.

“No arrest,” Eglantine said.

“And no more news of the dead girl's identity?”

“What do we care of that little tart?” Eglantine said.

Seraphina gasped.

“I do wish you had not torn the letter!” Austorga shouted to Eglantine.

“It would not have torn if you had simply let
go
, as I instructed!” Eglantine shouted back.

Seraphina cowered. Mrs. Smythe turned a page of her book.

“
He
knows that I adore cream-colored paper,” Eglantine said, adopting a dreamy tone. “I told him last week when we sat in his box at the opera.”

“I said that
I
adored cream-colored paper, too!” Austorga said. “I said that cream was my very favorite color for theater programmes.”

“You said that
Don Carlos
was the dullest opera you had ever attended. You said it made you feel as though you were coming down with paralysis of the mind.”

“Not to
him
.”

“
I
believed you already
had
paralysis of the—”

“Pray tell,” Ophelia said, “of which gentleman do you girls speak?”

“No one,” Eglantine said.

“Prince Rupprecht,” Austorga said. “Simply the most handsome, cleverest gentleman in all of Europe.”

Mrs. Smythe suddenly looked up from her book. “
Quite
the eligible bachelor.” She threw an accusing look at her daughter.

“Everything the prince says is so marvelous,” Austorga said, “or so absolutely, hilariously funny that one must simply giggle and giggle and one cannot
stop
giggling.”

“You sounded like the parrot at the zoological gardens, when he was here for our soirée,” Eglantine said.

Prince Rupprecht had attended their soirée? He must've been either the strapping towhead with all the medals and ribbons, or the burly fellow with the lion's mane.

“I had so hoped that we would not have to spoil sweet,
precious
Prudence's stay in our household,” Eglantine said, “for you see, she will not be able to attend the ball on Saturday. It is a private event. If you must know—because I beg your pardon, Madame Brand, but you
do
seem to pry into our family affairs—”

The little snot.

“—a most fascinating missive came in the post today.”

“An invitation to the ball?” Ophelia asked.

“No, no,” Austorga said. “We were invited to the ball ages ago, and Mademoiselle Smythe, too. It is—”

“
Today
,” Eglantine said, “we received a supplement of sorts to the invitation, to the effect that Prince Rupprecht will make an important announcement at the ball.”

Austorga made a seal-like bark.

“He writes,” Eglantine said, “that his announcement will be of particular interest to the young ladies in attendance—”

Austorga muffled another bark in her palm.

“—but that is all.”

“The prince loves surprises,” Austorga said. “He adores them!” She bit into a chocolate bonbon, and cried out in pain.

“What is the matter?” Ophelia asked.

“It is my teeth.” Austorga kept chewing, but her eyes brimmed with tears. “They are terribly sore.”

“It is because of all that vinegar you have been drinking,” Eglantine said. “Everyone knows vinegar weakens one's teeth.”

“But Mademoiselle Smythe said every English rose drinks vinegar to slim herself,” Austorga said.

Ophelia looked at Seraphina. Seraphina said nothing, and her expression was bland.

“I must be slim for the ball,” Austorga said, taking another bite of bonbon. “I
must
.”

“Oh, do shut
up
!” Eglantine flailed her thin arms for emphasis. One of the seamstresses, still stitching Eglantine's hem, tumbled backwards. Eglantine muttered something waspish.

The seamstress crawled around the carpet, picking up pins. She was delicate, with a waxen complexion, lank blond hair, and blue half circles under her eyes.

“Is your seamstress well?” Ophelia asked Austorga. The seamstress glanced over. Had she heard? Could she understand?

“Josie is always a miserable little thing,” Austorga whispered. “Do not mind her. She is only one of Madame Fayette's assistants.”

“Is the other seamstress over there Madame Fayette?”

“No, no, Madame Fayette is our dressmaker. Surely you know of her, for I have heard tell of American ladies traveling all the way to Paris to have their trousseaus made at Maison Fayette.”

“New England ladies always stitch their own trousseaus,” Ophelia lied.

“Well, Madame Fayette does not pay house calls. Only her seamstresses do.”

Mrs. Smythe looked up from her book. “Madame Fayette and her seamstresses are ever so busy, since every young lady of quality wishes to appear to the utmost advantage at the ball on Saturday. Or”—she threw her daughter another accusing glance—“
almost
every young lady.”

“Ah,” Ophelia said. Then, since everyone fancied she was a nosy old dame anyway, she said, “Why is it, I wonder, that the carriageway gate lock was changed this morning?”

“Was it?” Eglantine said in an airy tone.

“On account of the murder,” Austorga said.

“Oh?” Ophelia leaned closer. “How so?”

“Because the gate was left open that night, you see, and the murderer dragged that girl's body in through the gate, and only after the police arrived did Beatrice notice that the carriageway gate key, which she always keeps on a little hook at the bottom of the kitchen stair, was missing.”

“Good heavens!” Ophelia said. “But the murderer is a derelict with no connection to the house. How did he obtain the key?”

“No one knows.”

“Beatrice must have lost the key,” Eglantine said. “She drinks like a fish when she plays cards with her friends behind the marketplace. Lulu told me so.”

“Is there only one key?” Ophelia asked.

“Two,” Austorga said. “The one kept in the kitchen, which Beatrice uses to open the gate for tradesmen's deliveries, and the one kept by the coachman, Henri. But Henri said he still has
his
key.”

“Perhaps the murderer dragged the body through the gate behind the coachman,” Ophelia said.

“Surely Henri would have noticed something,” Eglantine said sharply.

“Yes, Henri would have noticed,” Seraphina said in a small voice.

“Seraphina!” Mrs. Smythe exclaimed. “Pray do not speak of the servants.”

Seraphina took a sullen bite of bonbon.

“I
must
insist that we discuss something more pleasant,” Eglantine said. “Mademoiselle Smythe—are you simply
dying
with envy over my ball gown?”

“Oh yes, quite. Dying,” Seraphina said, chewing. She nudged her enormous spectacles upwards.

*   *   *

“I traveled to
Paris after reading an astonishing report in
The
Times
of a murder in Le Marais,” Gabriel said to Lady Cruthlach after interminable and antiquated pleasantries. “I wished to meet you, to learn what you know of the matter and, perhaps, to propose another . . . exchange.”

“Oh yes, Lord Harrington,” Lady Cruthlach said, treacle-sweet. “Our last trade was
most
beneficial.”

For
her
, perhaps. The Tyrolean black wolf's tooth they had given him, in exchange for a rare specimen of Siberian
Amanita muscaria
, had been a fraud.

“However, I know not of the astonishing newspaper report to which you refer,” Lady Cruthlach said.

“You did not notice the report of the girl found murdered in the garden of a house in Le Marais?”

“We do not worry ourselves with the rush and stew of the present day. You know as well as we do that the
past
is everything and all.”

Lady Cruthlach didn't know about the house, then. Gabriel could continue to guard the secret. On the other hand, she might know something that he did not.

Gabriel drew the Charles Perrault volume from his jacket. He slid out the loose sheet, and unfolded it.

“Well?” Lady Cruthlach said. “What is this?”

Lord Cruthlach wheezed softly.

“My notes,” Gabriel said. “A transcription, rather, of an excised passage from Perrault's ‘Cendrillon.'” There was actually more than one passage, but he would begin with this one.

“Excised passage?” Lady Cruthlach licked the corner of her mouth. “I knew not of such—such treasure. How did you come by this?”

“I stumbled upon it a few years ago, quite by chance, whilst researching ‘The Sleeping Beauty' in a rare first-edition housed in the Sorbonne.”