Cinderella Six Feet Under (8 page)

“Well? Come now, don't be a tease. Read it aloud. My eyesight is no longer good.”

“The excised passage was appended to the moral at the end of the tale. It denotes the address of the Cendrillon house—the house, that is, in which Cinderella dwelled with her father, stepmother, and stepsisters. The address was removed from subsequent editions of the volume, no doubt in order to protect the privacy of the Roque-Fabliau family.”

“Roque-Fabliau? Of Hôtel Malbert? You must be mistaken. That pitiful little marquis, up to his fat chins in debt? His two daughters were thrust upon me at a lecture on Pliny the Elder not long ago. Ugly, grasping creatures. Surely
they
cannot be descendants of Cinderella.”

“If the manuscript is to be believed, then they are not descendants of Cinderella, but descendants of Cinderella's father and stepmother.”

Lord Cruthlach's mouth opened and shut like a carp fish.

“What is it that you know?” Gabriel asked.

“Know?” Lady Cruthlach smoothed the blanket on her knees. “We know nothing, my dear.”

“Perhaps, then, it would be best if we forego any trades in the future.” Gabriel replaced the sheet of paper in the book and snapped it shut. He stood.

“No!” Lady Cruthlach cried. “Stay. I shall tell you. I shall tell you! You are the most diligent, the most resourceful and
adventurous
collector that we are acquainted with, Lord Harrington. I
would
so hate to see the last of you.”

Gabriel remained standing, and he tucked the book into his jacket.

“We have heard tell, for many years past, of a most
extraordinary
relic hidden in the Cendrillon house,” Lady Cruthlach said. “The queen mother of all other fairy tale relics.”

“I don't quite follow.”

“My lord Athdar is dying, Lord Harrington. Surely that is apparent. But there is something hidden in the Cendrillon house that will change that. Something of such fantastical power that my lord will be restored. And he will live. Yes, he will
live
.”

“What is the nature of this relic?”

“We know not.” Lady Cruthlach's eyes glittered. “Yet.”

Had Miss Flax been present, she would have doubtless remarked that Lady Cruthlach wasn't a very fine actress.

Gabriel gave Lady Cruthlach his card with the name of his hotel written on the back. He left the mansion with the uneasy sense that he had somehow revealed too much.

O
phelia had never laid eyes on the Malberts' coachman, who the girls had called Henri, because she had never ridden in their equipage. She did know that Eglantine and Austorga kept him busy day and night with their chock-full social calendars and that he must, then, be always at the ready.

She slipped away from the ladies in the salon, donned her cloak, and went out into the rear courtyard through a pair of doors in the library. The mansion formed two sides of the courtyard, and the ivy-covered carriage house and a high wall formed the other two sides. Beside the large, curved carriage doors was another, smaller door. Ophelia knocked on the small door.

Rustling and footfalls sounded within, and the door opened. A fine-looking young man stood before Ophelia. He was not very tall, but he had well-formed muscles, a proud bearing, and floppy brown curls. He wore shirtsleeves and a coachman's shiny boots. “Madame Brand,
bonjour
,” he said in a calm, deep voice.

“Do you speak English?” Ophelia asked.

“
Oui
, yes, a little, please only.” His dark eyes twinkled. “Madame la Marquise, she keep all servants only who speak English.”

Ophelia fancied Henrietta had kept Henri on for reasons quite unrelated to his English-speaking abilities. And it was no wonder the three young ladies were so quick to spring to Henri's defense. He would've caused a sensation on the dramatic stage.

“How did you know my name?” Ophelia asked.

“Baldewyn, he always tell me name of guest,
oui
? So that I might be, how you say, polite. Good servant.” His winning smile hid something sly.

“Well, I simply wished to ask you, Henri, about the carriageway key.”

“Ah,
oui
? It is kept locked always,
madame
, for we are in city very big.”

“No, no, I do not wish to go
through
the gate. I merely wished to ask if it had been left open, by you, on the night that, well”—Ophelia lowered her voice—“that the poor girl was dragged into the garden.”

“
Non
. I tell police. I never forget of locking gate. Never. That evening,
aussi
, I stay in. Here, in carriage house,
parce que
the
mademoiselles
entertain at home.”

“You were here.”

“
Oui
. And I have key in waistcoat pocket always.”

Ophelia glanced at his waistcoat. A button fastened the small pocket at the front. “Then did you notice anything? Hear anything?”

“Only when
la jolie mademoiselle
, the daughter of marquise, begin screaming. I was sleeping.”

“Oh, I see.” Ophelia peered past Henri into the dim carriage house. She saw straw on the floor, and smelled horse. His quarters would be upstairs.

“Is there a groom?” she asked.

“I do all the work. Horses, everything, and harnesses
aussi
.”

“And is there any way to reach the courtyard through the carriage house? From whatever street or alleyway lies behind, I mean.”

“
Non
. The carriage house was built without doors other than these.” He patted the doorjamb. “To keep family safe,
oui
? City very big all around.”

“Thank you, Henri.”

Ophelia went back inside. If Henri was telling the truth, then there was only the key that had gone missing from the kitchen to wonder about. Someone had stolen it. Either the murderer, or someone aiding the murderer.

*   *   *

Ophelia returned to
her chamber, finished writing her note to Inspector Foucher, and took it downstairs to Baldewyn. She asked him to have a delivery boy take it to the
commissaire
's office.

“Very well,
madame
,” Baldewyn said.

She gave him a few coins.

Baldewyn looked insulted, but kept the money.

Ophelia waited about an hour, and Baldewyn brought her Inspector Foucher's reply. She read it in her chamber.

Madame Brand: Thank you for your message with regards to the identity of the murdered girl. Although your fortitude and resourcefulness are to be commended, your efforts are entirely misplaced, and I would be obliged if you would not continue to misuse the valuable time of the police. Mademoiselle Pinet's identity has been duly noted but, as I informed you this morning, her identity is not relevant in this case, as the murderer has been identified. I will reveal to you, to put your evidently nervous mind at ease, that the murderer was spotted near the Pont Marie this morning, and we expect to apprehend him at any moment.

M. Foucher

Sybille's identity wasn't
relevant
? Ophelia crumpled the note and threw it into the fireplace. It caught fire on a smoldering coal and quickly turned to ash. Sybille's identity would have been relevant had she a family, or position in society.

Ophelia felt a kinship with Sybille. Ophelia had no family, no position in society, either. Her mother was dead, her father had scarpered when she was only four, and her brother, Odie, well, she'd lost sight of him after he'd enlisted during The War Between the States. In her heart of hearts, she knew Odie was a goner, but that never stopped her from picturing him walking through a door one day with a big smile on his face.

Ophelia looked up Pont Marie in her Baedeker. Her stomach sank. It was a bridge a mere five or six blocks from Hôtel Malbert. If the police
were
after the right man, he was lurking close by.

*   *   *

Beatrice had shown
up just long enough to slap together luncheon for the upstairs crowd, and then she ankled it out of the house again.

Prue got to work sprucing up the broom closet beneath the kitchen stairs. Maybe if everything was shipshape when Beatrice returned, she'd show Prue how to cook something Hansel might like.

When Prue darted outside the kitchen door to dump yet another dustpan full of mouse berries into the rubbish bin, she saw the man.

He was bulky. Uncommonly bulky, carrot-topped, and wearing drab, patched workman's clothes, a woolen cap, and leather boots that fit snug around hamlike calves. Peculiar, too: it seemed, somehow, that Prue laying eyes on him startled him into motion. As though he'd been waiting for her to come out.

Prue dumped the dustpan and went back inside. Before she could slam the door, the man called out, “Wait.” In English. Not French.

Prue stayed by the door. She waited until the man arrived at the top of the kitchen steps.

The police had warned her to stay out of the sight of strangers. But surely it wouldn't hurt to find out what the man wanted. Besides, he spoke English, and the murderer was French. Wasn't he?

“You are a servant of this house, miss?” the man asked. He spoke with a funny kind of accent, not American or English. It reminded Prue of the dockworkers in New York.

“No,” Prue said. “I mean, yes. Well, in a manner of speaking. Doing servants' tasks and such, but I ain't being paid.”

“Not paid? How could you be held here, thus, like a slave?”

“No! It ain't . . . I'm just helping out Beatrice. The housekeeper. She's giving me lessons, like.”

The man peered over Prue's shoulder. “Is Beatrice within?”

“She's at market.”

“Ah.” A pause.

Prue clung to the door handle. The sky overhead churned dark. It hit her now, how alone they were. And how much this feller resembled an ogre in a pantomime.

“I must go inside,” Prue whispered.

“Of course.” The man bowed and set off towards the carriageway gate.

Prue went inside. Her fingers shook as she fastened and refastened the latch.

Something didn't tally up right. That feller's words, his gestures, had been gentlemanly in spite of his scruffy duds. He hadn't said why he'd been in the garden. He hadn't carried a parcel or a crate, as a deliveryman would. And how had he gotten past the carriageway gate?

One thing was certain: Prue couldn't mention that she'd spoken to a stranger to Ophelia, or Beatrice, or
anyone
. She was supposed to stay sealed up tight in the house, like a pickle in a jar.

*   *   *

If Ophelia was
to attend the ballet, she required something to wear. Her Mrs. Brand bombazine was not the crispest, to say the least. And something told her that muddy boots wouldn't go over too well at the Paris Opera. She had fretted over it all through luncheon—a mysterious greenish soup and cold, tough meat—and the only place she could think of from which to borrow a fancy gown was Henrietta's bedchamber.

Once Ophelia was in the bedchamber, she decided to have a more thorough look-see for clues before choosing a gown.

Henrietta wasn't what you'd call a fastidious lady. Certainly, she was an expert on the authenticity of gemstones, and she could discern the name of a gentleman's tailor with the briefest glance at his jacket lining. Still, her chamber was in more disarray than Ophelia ever recalled her dressing room at the Varieties having been. However, there was no blood anywhere, nor anything broken. No train ticket stubs, no letters, no photographs of a dashing gentleman who wasn't her husband.

Wait.
Here
was something Ophelia had overlooked the first time around: a small book on the dressing table, underneath a bottle of rosewater complexion tonic.
How to Address Your Betters
, by A Lady. Ophelia flipped through. Nothing but advice on kowtowing to European blue bloods, with some bits about which fork to use and when
not
to use your hankie thrown in. On the title page, someone had scribbled a dedication:
May you use this in good stead.—Arty
.

Arty? Just like Henrietta to have some fellow involved.

Ophelia replaced the book under the bottle and kept searching. A jumble of shoes on the carpet, withered roses on the mantel—aha. A half-burned letter in the grate. Ophelia crouched and shook off ash from the remnant of envelope. Nothing remained but a return address:

M. T. S. Cherrien (Avocat)

116 Avenue des Champs-Élysées

Avocat?
Ophelia only knew a handful of French words, but
avocat
looked an awful lot like
advocate
.

A lawyer.

Knowing Henrietta, a lawyer reeked of one notion, and one notion only: divorce.

Ophelia dusted off the remaining ash, folded the bit of envelope, and slid it up her cuff. She got to work choosing an opera gown.

*   *   *

After stashing the
borrowed gown in her own chamber, Ophelia went to visit Prue in the kitchen. Prue was sleeping at the table, head on her arm.

“Wake up,” Ophelia said.

Prue lifted her head. “What time is it?”

“Three thirty, more or less.”

“Rats. I need to get going with those turnips.” She pointed to a heap of purple turnips on the table.

“I've heard from Inspector Foucher, Prue, and he says that the man the police suppose is the murderer, well, he was sighted only a few blocks from here. Please be careful.”

“I
am
being careful.”

“Even more so, then.”

“You said the flatfeet was after the wrong feller.”

“I believe they may be. But we cannot be too careful—
you
cannot be too careful.”

“Sure.” Prue poked at a turnip. “Whatever you say.”

*   *   *

When Gabriel caught
sight of Miss Flax at three minutes till eight, his heart once again performed that peculiar squeezing-and-swelling feat.

Miss Flax paused just inside one of the opera house lobby doors. Gabriel, with a stab of self-reproach, did not immediately go to her. She wore a sumptuous, midnight-blue velvet mantle—where had she gotten that?—the standing collar of which framed her anxious face.

Here, at last, was the face he had been dreaming about these many weeks past, the face that had been obscured that morning by her wretched matron's disguise. A pure oval face, dark, darting eyes like the centers of poppies, a gleam of honey-brown hair swept back into knots—

Miss Flax's eyes lit on him.

He pretended to adjust a cufflink.

She smiled a little and started towards him.

*   *   *

By the time
Ophelia reached Professor Penrose, he no longer looked like he'd just been punched. He'd probably had too much cream sauce with his dinner. The French were heavy-handed with the cream sauce.

“Good evening, Professor.” Ophelia forced herself to employ a calm and friendly tone. She had given herself a talking-to on the way to the opera house, concluding that if being with Penrose made her feel as nervy as a human cannonball, well, that wasn't
his
fault.

“Miss Flax. You look lovely.”

“It's Henrietta's cloak and gown. And reticule.”

“You had no trouble leaving the house for the evening?”