Snow White Red-Handed (A Fairy Tale Fatal Mystery) (25 page)

Her eyelids drooped. Her body, all on its own, drew closer to his chest.

His face was coming closer. She saw the sandy texture of his jaw, his now serious-looking mouth.

There was a flash of motion in the corner of her eye. She turned her head and saw the hulking silhouette of a man. She screamed.

“H
old your ground!” Penrose yelled. His hand was on his breast, over his revolver.

The person held up his hands. “Smith here.”

“
Mr. Smith?
” Ophelia said.

Smith stepped into the cave, looking much smaller than he’d seemed at first. Water streamed from his deerstalker hat, and his shooting jacket was soaked. A rifle was slung across his back.

“Out hunting?” Penrose said. He’d stepped away from Ophelia.

“Got caught in this downpour.” Smith appeared to have tobacco in his cheek. His eyes fell on the knapsack. “Reckon I oughtn’t ask what the two of you are doing out here.”

Ophelia’s cheeks smoldered as she fastened the top button of her shirt.

“It would, perhaps,” Penrose said, “be a superfluous question.” He shifted so his bloodied shoulder was in shadow. “May I be so bold as to ask, why are
you
here?”

“Birding. Castle’s a wretched place these days.” Smith moved to the knapsack, knelt beside it.

Ophelia and Penrose exchanged a glance.

The knapsack and the maps were his.

“The place is filled with the despair of women.” Smith stuffed the maps into the knapsack. “Chews at a man’s soul like termites.” He tightened the straps with a jerk, buckled them. “I’ve spent most of my life in the out-of-doors. Wasn’t made for parlors and paperwork. But I did it for Homer. He was my greatest friend.” His face—at least in the dim light—appeared to crumple.

“What will you do next?” Penrose said. “Now that Coop is gone.”

“It’s back to Nevada for me, or California, maybe. Haven’t been out to the territories for more than a dozen years past. Lately I’ve been fired up with a longing for the wilderness—too much fancy food and piped-in hot water at that castle for my constitution.”

“What about this forest—the
Schwarzwald
?” Penrose said. “Is it not at all like California?”

“Like California? Haw! It’s about as much like California as one of them Arabian racehorses is like a Mexico donkey. Oh, that’s a hoot! No, one thing’s certain, and it’s that I’ve got to get myself back to some real wilderness. That durned policeman, Schubert, has forbidden us all to leave until he gets to the bottom of the murders, but I figure that’ll take about as much time as for him to learn to be a ballerina.”

“Who,” Penrose said, “do you believe killed Coop?”

Smith worked the plug of tobacco in his cheek. “Who did it? You want to know who did it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you who. That vixen Princess Verushka.”

“Princess Verushka?” Penrose said. “But she only met Coop for the first time the day he was killed.”

“That’s what I thought—that’s what everyone thought. But there’s something mighty strange about that one, mark my words.” Smith’s eyes suddenly flashed with malice. “You just take yourself down to Baden-Baden and have a squint at what’s she’s up to, flitting around in that there conversation-what’s-it.”

“The
Conversationshaus
?”

“That’s what I said. Go and have a look-see for yourself. She’s not who she says she is, that’s for dang sure.”

“Not a princess?”

“Oh, I reckon she’s a princess. But she ain’t a lady. I hear tell she’s taken up with the owner of that gambling joint. Rich as a king, they say he is. Bet that’d suit a little frippet like her just fine.”

“Herr Ghent?” Ophelia said.

“Don’t know what his name is. All I know is, that princess has got rich fellers on the brain. And don’t you forget, Homer was real rich.” Smith glanced out the mouth of the cave. “Now look at that. Rain’s letting up.” He slung his knapsack over his shoulder. “Afternoon to you both. And don’t worry about me finding you two here. I know how young folks got to have their fun.” He winked, ducked out from under the rock ledge, and was gone.

*   *   *

“If Princess Verushka
is Herr Ghent’s mistress—” Miss Flax said.

Mistress
. Gabriel frowned. Were proper young ladies acquainted with such terms?

“—then she might’ve killed Mr. Coop. Maybe she’s somehow mixed up with, well, whatever Ghent and his thugs are doing.”

“She was there when Coop died, true.”

“She could’ve been sent to the castle to kill him and to ferret around in Coop’s study. She was also in the castle yesterday morning, calling on Mrs. Coop. When Karl died.”

Miss Flax had knotted her loose hair and buttoned her shirt. The change did nothing to assuage Gabriel’s preposterous urge to drag her into his arms. Thank God Smith had shown up when he did. Gabriel had rather not have the sullied innocence of a maidservant on his conscience.

Miss Flax was worrying her lower lip.

Gabriel forced himself to look away—the sight was a bit much under the circumstances—as he said, “You’ve thought of something else.”

“Yes, well, remember I told you about those laudanum drops Mrs. Coop has been guzzling?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Princess Verushka has been in the castle”—she tipped her head, thinking—“yes, she’s been in the castle both times the new bottles of drops appeared.”

“Are you suggesting—?”

“What if Princess Verushka is the one who’s keeping Mrs. Coop in that state?”

“I must go back to Baden-Baden and try to discover what Smith was referring to.” Gabriel looked out of the cave. The rain had indeed let up. “I think we ought to wait for a while here. Those guards could be searching for us still.”

They settled down to wait inside the cave. Yellow sunbeams poured through the steamy greenery, and the birds gradually started twittering again.

They didn’t speak. Gabriel didn’t trust himself to. And he could tell Miss Flax was embarrassed by their encounter. As well she ought to be. He’d been a cad.

*   *   *

Prue and Hansel
marched a long while down Heidelberg’s main street. They arrived, presently, in a big market square. The rain was splatting down harder, and the market vendors were packing up their carts and stands. Vegetable scraps littered the paving stones. An enormous funny-shaped church, like a big loaf pan, loomed over the square.

Prue tipped her neck to see the top of the steeple. It looked like a jumbo black handbell.

“The Church of the Holy Spirit,” Hansel said. He shoved the brim of his cap down to keep the rain out of his eyes.

“Where Snow White’s buried?”

“Perhaps.”

That feeling of being followed clung to Prue all across the market square and into the church.

Inside, it was cool and dim, but dry. It smelled of burned beeswax and spicy incense. The ceiling was sky-high and obscured by shadows. A few figures in black knelt in pews way up by the altar, but the church was mostly empty.

She and Hansel poked around the edges of the sanctuary, searching for the entrance to the crypts, trickling rainwater behind them. They found the choir robe closet, confessional booths behind curtains, a broom cupboard, and what looked to be the organist’s secret supply of schnapps. But no crypts.

The whole time, that sense of being watched stuck around.

Hansel dragged open a big, iron-girded door that they’d discovered in a chamber behind the baptismal font. “Ah,” he said.

Prue joined him. Candles in black iron holders lit a shuddering path down the stairs. Looked like the entrance to Fire and Brimstone Town. “Maybe I’ll keep watch up here,” Prue said. “Make sure no one follows you.”

“I may need your help.”

“Doing what?”

“Moving sarcophagus lids.”

Sweet sister Sally.

“Do you even know her real name?” Prue said. “Snow White’s, I mean? Because surely that ain’t written on her tombstone.”

“I do not. However, last night I examined a history of the region, taken from my—from the castle library. I believe I know the name of the man Snow White possibly wed.”

“Her prince?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

The crypt was bone-cold, but not smelly and slimy like Prue had feared. It was filled with stone coffins with chiseled human figures lying on their lids.

She hung close to Hansel as he inspected the coffins, one by one, holding the candle that he’d brought down. Each coffin had a name carved in its lid. Hansel’s eyes were eager, his mouth rigid, as he searched.

Prue eyed the staircase, half expecting the door at the top to slam shut. She was sure she heard mouse squeaks somewhere.

“Look at this,” Hansel said, after going over about a dozen coffins. He rubbed at the carved letters with his cuff. Cobwebs balled up. “This is the sarcophagus I was searching for.”

Prue sidestepped some mouse dribbles. “Snow White’s old man?” The carved figure on the lid was a bearded fellow in robes, holding a sword.

“Perhaps. Kunibert Odovacar. The third son of one of the electors palatine in the fifteenth century. He is the youngest son of an elector palatine in that era, so I deduced it was he that Snow White married.” Hansel checked the name on the coffin next to Kunibert’s. “But there is no wife buried beside him.”

“No Snow White.” Prue had reckoned it would be simple: they’d go to the crypts and find a coded message explaining who was the murderer and why, and then all their problems would be solved. Her shoulders sagged. “What’ll we do next?”

“Yes,” someone said behind them, “what
will
you do? First a railway journey to Heidelberg, then an antiquarian expedition in a crypt—what next? A sojourn to the moon?”

Prue and Hansel whirled around.

“Franz,” Hansel said.

She
knew
it. “You been following us since the train station?”

Franz removed his bowler hat and flicked raindrops off of it. “Ever since I saw you on the platform in Baden-Baden.”

“Following us.” Hansel said. “Why?”

Franz shrugged. “Boredom. Mind you, I was returning to Heidelberg anyway. When I saw an escaped convict and a castle gardener out for a secret gallivant, perhaps my curiosity got the better of me.”

“You will not,” Hansel said, “tell anyone you saw Miss Bright out, will you?”

“I have never seen her anywhere
but
out.” Franz’s eyes fell on the coffin behind them. “What is more intriguing than an escaped murderess is that you claim to have located the tomb of Snow White’s prince. Perhaps, Hansel, completing your university education would do you a world of good. Believing in fairy stories! Tsk, tsk.”

Hansel scowled.

“Why,” Franz went on, “are you attempting to find the tomb of a lesser character from the murk of mythology?
Do
tell. I find the beliefs of servants so fascinating. Perhaps it is a notion gleaned from your wretched grandmother?”

“See here, Franz,” Prue said. She felt hot, despite the crypt’s clammy air. “There’s no need to be so stuck-up about Hansel just because he’s come down in the world. He’s finer and grander than you’ll ever be, and matter of fact, his pa wrote him a letter that said everything’s going to go back to the way it used to be, just as soon as we figure out where Snow White is buried.”

Hansel winced.

Crackers. Was that letter supposed to be a secret?

Franz wormed closer, around a couple coffins. He moistened his skinny lips. “There is something buried with Snow White?”

“Not necessarily,” Hansel said. He picked up the candle.

Franz edged still closer. His shoes crunched on the gritty floor. “I do not believe you.” He leaned around Hansel and read the inscription on the coffin lid. “Kunibert Odovacar. Your fairy tale prince, I presume?” He snickered. “Come, dear Hansel. You need a drink. Join me at the beer hall, and we shall show your sweet little murderess a splendid time. And you”—he reached out and straightened the placket of Hansel’s homespun jacket—“shall tell me all about that letter.”

Hansel and Prue exchanged a glance.

“We do need to eat,” Hansel said, “but there is nothing more to say about the letter.” He pushed Franz’s fingers away from his jacket and led the way out of the crypts.

*   *   *

After an hour
of waiting inside the cave, Gabriel and Miss Flax made their way back through the forest without seeing a soul. When Gabriel left her at the foot of the orchard slope, he passed her his revolver.

She stared down at it, and then up at his bloodied shoulder.

“You may require it,” he said.

“I don’t know how to use it.”

“No? You know how to do so many other things.”

She frowned.

He took the gun. “It’s loaded. Six bullets. You need only cock it—like this—”

She winced.

“—and pull the trigger. After a shot, hold up the gun, like so, when you cock it again, to allow the spent caps to fall out.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Those guards meant to kill us.”

She set her lips, took the gun, and slipped it into her trousers pocket in silence. She started up the slope.

“And Miss Flax.”

She turned.

“Be careful.”

*   *   *

When Gabriel returned
to the inn, bone-tired and soaking wet, Winkler was ensconced before the sitting room fire with a newspaper, some kind of steaming drink, and a plate piled high with biscuits.

Gabriel tried to slip past the open sitting room door unseen. He intended to go directly up to his chamber, peel off his wet clothes, pour himself a large brandy, and see to his shoulder.