Snow White Red-Handed (A Fairy Tale Fatal Mystery) (4 page)

Mr. Hunt placed a sugared almond between his lips and crunched down.

Tears shimmered in Amaryllis’s eyes.

There was a knock on the door. It was a servant—Ophelia couldn’t see which one—who Mrs. Coop sent back to the servants’ regions to fetch washing powder.

“I do apologize for my sister,” Mrs. Coop said, taking her seat once more. “She hasn’t been herself as of late. The move from America.”

Amaryllis wore the martyred expression of Joan of Arc revolving on a roasting spit.

“Do you intend to stay in Germany permanently?” Penrose asked Mrs. Coop.

He was doing the gentlemanly thing and changing the topic. He did have kind eyes.

“Only through the autumn,” Mrs. Coop said. “Schloss Grunewald shall be our summer home, you see. I simply wouldn’t want to miss a New York season. Unless, of course”—she glanced out of the corner of her eye at Mr. Hunt, flicked her lashes—“one was to receive an invitation to England.”

All that corset-cinching
had
been for Mr. Hunt’s benefit, then. And Mrs. Coop a newlywed, too. Scandalous.

Mr. Coop, however, was now in the midst of a hushed conversation with Mr. Smith—the words
St. Louis
and
red cent
reached Ophelia’s ears—so he wasn’t aware of his wife’s flirtations.

Mr. Hunt, however, was. “A London season, Mrs. Coop—”

“Oh!” She toyed with her necklace.

“—would surely surpass any New York season. In New York, can you expect a social invitation from Her Royal Majesty Queen Victoria?”

“You don’t mean—”

“It has been known to happen.”

Mrs. Coop picked up the bowl of sugared almonds. Her eyes glittered with excitement. “More, Mr. Hunt?”

Penrose shifted in his chair.

Princess Verushka sniggered behind her fan. “Mrs. Pearl T. Coop in Buckingham Palace!
Mon Dieu
!” The princess, like all Russian aristocrats, spoke French.

Mrs. Coop cast the princess a look of loathing mingled, if Ophelia wasn’t mistaken, with fear.

A
fter several minutes, there was another knock on the library door.

“Enter,” Mrs. Coop called.

The door swung open and Prue stepped inside.

Prue?
Ophelia frowned. Prue was a scullery maid. Her duties confined her to the lower recesses of the castle. So what was she doing in an ill-fitting black parlor maid’s dress, ruffled apron, and white cap, carrying a bowl of washing powder into the library?

“Here.” Winkler pointed to the table.

Prue placed the bowl next to the several odd-looking instruments and vials Winkler had arranged on the tabletop.

Also on the table, Ophelia noticed for the first time, were a long, dirty piece of wood decorated with chipped paint and something underneath a white cloth. An ivory-colored thing extended a few inches beyond the cloth. A finger bone.

Prue turned to go.

“You’ve got nice, dainty hands,” Winkler said.

Prue froze. The room fell silent. She saw Ophelia for the first time.

Uh-oh. Prue had been crying. Her eyes and nostrils were pink.

“Would you,” Winkler said, “help us with our experiment?”

Prue clearly wanted to bolt out the door.

“Come now, a pretty girl like you ought to be happy to be the center of notice.”

A scowl washed over Prue’s features.

Ophelia prayed she wouldn’t say anything regrettable.

“Roll up your sleeves,” Winkler said. “You shall assist me.”

*   *   *

Prue gulped. All
eyes were on her. Normally, that wouldn’t bother her a bit. She’d first appeared onstage at the age of two, dressed up like a dancing teapot, to the acclaim of all of New York’s theatrical critics. Or so Ma claimed.

But Prue had been stuck behind the scenes at the castle for near two weeks. She was dismal in the role of scullery maid; she’d never had what folks called a
domestic education
. Her hands were red from scrubbing the wrong way.

And her hands were still shaking from the shocking thing that had just happened to her.

“Gold,” Professor Winkler said, “is the only yellow-colored metal that is not affected by most acids. Therefore, we may test whether this”—he held up a gold-colored flake between metal pincers—“is real gold leaf or merely paint.”

Prue kept her eyes on the carpet. He was here, in the library. That lowdown, bullying scallywag. Blood thundered past her eardrums.

“The test is made with a blowpipe”—Winkler displayed a small instrument, like a metal straw that was curved on one end—“and nitric acid.” He smiled down at Prue. “You must be very, very careful,
fräulein
. One drop of this acid would corrode your pretty skin into yellow monster’s scales.”

Prue gaped up at him. She forgot all about the lowdown scallywag for a second.

“Let us begin.” Winkler ground the gold-colored flake into a powder with a mortar and pestle. Then he measured out portions of the gold powder and the washing powder with thimble-sized measuring spoons.

“This commonplace washing powder is also known as sodium carbonate. It removes oils and stains from textiles, but it is also an acid regulator in this test.”

He placed a small measure of the powder mixture into a recess in a block of charcoal.

“The candle,
fräulein
.”

Prue passed it to him, and he lit it.

The group of observers pressed closer.

Winkler put the metal blowpipe to his fleshy lips and blew the candle flame sideways, over the powders in the recess. The powders melted to liquid.

Winkler stopped blowing and extinguished the candle. “Now we wait.”

“May I go?” Prue whispered.

“
Nein
,” Winkler said. “We shall wait.”

There were several minutes of hushed waiting. Prue lingered at the table while the others chatted. The lowdown scallywag was pretending he didn’t even
recognize
her. To soothe herself, she daydreamed about brown Betty pudding and peanut brittle.

Finally, Winkler announced that it was time to conclude the test. He tipped the melted powder into a vial of water. It dissolved in a flurry of golden dust, except for a small lump that sank to the bottom. With his pincers, he removed the lump and held it aloft.

“The nitric acid,
fräulein
.”

Prue’s hand quivered as she passed it over.

“The cork.”

She pried the cork off the bottle.

Winkler dropped the lump into the acid. It gleamed with an unmistakable luster as it sank and hit the bottom with a clink.

“
Mein Gott
,” he murmured through his mustaches. “It is real gold.”

*   *   *

Gabriel was quiet
as the rest of the party in the library—except the footman and the tall, serene lady’s maid—erupted into a dither. Unlike Winkler, his hypothesis had been that the paint from the cottage ceiling beam would prove to contain gold.

With the help of one of the footmen and the gardener boy, Gabriel and Winkler had hauled the contents of the cottage to the castle and placed them in the library alcove. Seven little wooden beds, seven chairs, and a table, all delicate with decay, were lined up next to crates of spoons and pewter vessels, just behind a velvet curtain.

After luncheon, he and Winkler had cleaned the beam to reveal a carved design of seven little bearded men in pointed hats, all in a row, with shovels and pickaxes on their shoulders. Gabriel had struggled to conceal his excitement. Winkler had laughed.

But how would Winkler explain the presence of real gold in what he’d deemed an elaborate peasant hoax?

Winkler, however, looked as bemused as ever as he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The old beast was already getting peckish for tea.

*   *   *

“Test the soil!”
Mrs. Coop bounced on her crinoline like a schoolgirl. “Oh, professor, I’ll wager that it’s gold, too.”

Ophelia frowned. Why was Mrs. Coop so keen on gold? After all, she was a millionaire’s bride.

“Perhaps,” Winkler said. “I shall begin by refining a sample of the soil in question with the mortar, to ensure an evenly sized particulate.”

After he ground a measure of the soil into powder, he mixed it in a glass bowl with water, producing something like mud.

“Now for the sodium cyanide,” he said. He held up a vial of clear liquid.

“Cyanide!” Princess Verushka laid a hand over her heart.

“And I thought nitric acid was alarming,” Mr. Hunt said. He lit a cigarette.

“This,” Winkler said, grinning down at Prue, “is one thing I shall not allow your pretty hands to touch. This is deadly poison—do you understand? This solution of dissolved sodium cyanide crystals is far more toxic even than prussic acid, your common vermin killer. A few drops on the tongue would make you fall down dead.”

“Yes, sir,” Prue whispered.

Winkler proceeded to pour the cyanide solution into the sludge of soil and water, and mix it with a glass stirring stick.

“Cyanide has,” he said, “an affinity for gold—much like dwarves, ha ha. Stirring allows sufficient air into the mixture. Without air, the experiment would not work.”

Ophelia refrained from rolling her eyes. The professor’s
hot
air was probably responsible for putting countless college boys to sleep.

“Now,” Winkler went on, “I filter the mixture using that screen—
fräulein
?”

Prue handed him a small screen of fine metal mesh.

Winkler poured the sludge onto the screen, over a second bowl. A liquid dripped through, leaving the sludge on the screen. He set it aside.

“The final step is zinc powder. That small bottle there.”

Prue passed him a corked amber bottle.

“Not poisonous, I hope,” Mr. Hunt said in a droll tone.

Winkler tapped white powder into the bowl of liquid. “Quite innocuous. Now—observe.”

Everyone crowded close. Tiny flecks of gold winked in the whitish slurry of zinc.

“Is that—?” Mr. Coop said.

“Gold,” Winkler said. “The soil about the small
house is filled with gold.”

*   *   *

In the subsequent
commotion, Ophelia saw Prue slink out of the library.

“Ma’am,” Ophelia whispered, bending close to Mrs. Coop’s ear, “you look pale—shall I bring you a cup of tea?”

“Do I?” Mrs. Coop said distractedly. “No, no, we’ll have tea in only an hour.”

“You must think of your health.”

“Very well, Flax, some cool water, then.” Mrs. Coop dove back into excited conversation with the others.

Ophelia slipped away.

*   *   *

She caught up
to Prue in the servants’ stair.

“What were you doing above stairs?” Ophelia said. “Mrs. Coop will be furious, once she stops to think of it.”

Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls.

“Katrina cut her finger on a broken wineglass,” Prue said, marching down the steps. “Had to fill in for her.”

Ophelia threw her a sharp glance. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Prue sniffled.

“Wait.” Ophelia touched her arm.

Prue stopped on the stairs.

“Why have you been crying?”

“Haven’t.” Prue smeared her sleeve across her nose.

“Prue.”

“It was
awful
.”

Ophelia wrapped her arms around Prue and lowered them both to a seat on the cold steps. Prue cried like a baby against Ophelia’s arm. Ophelia waited until the weeping subsided.

“Prue, tell me what happened. Have you been hurt?”

Prue smudged her wet cheeks and shook her head. “I wish we was back in New York.”

“It won’t be too much longer, now.”

“These people are rats!”

“Shh.”
Ophelia pricked her ears. She thought she’d heard a sound, further up the stairwell. She waited a few seconds. Nothing. She lowered her voice. “We oughtn’t speak ill of our employers, because if they hand us our walking papers, we’ll be in a worse fix than ever. Tell me, what happened to make you so upset?”

“It’s all because of Hansel.”

“Hansel?” Ophelia frowned, thinking of the smiling-eyed youth who worked in the castle gardens. “He seems pleasant enough.”

“Oh, he
is
pleasant.” Prue perked up. “Pleasant and helpful and ever so kind to me.”

“Lads of nineteen have been known to be kind to pretty girls.”

“He’s
nice
.”

“Go on.”

“Well, after luncheon today the dirty china, silver, and crystal came into the kitchen like a landslide. I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off just trying to keep up—”

The castle was short on servants, since many had left when Count Grunewald had sold the place, and the Coops had yet to hire replacements. Everyone was run off their feet with extra work.

“—and I ran smack into Karl, and he was carrying a half-eaten chocolate cake the size of Pennsylvania, and it went all over me.”

“And you cried?”

“Not then,” Prue said. “But I almost did, because I looked like I’d been wallowing in a pigpen, and Hansel always comes in after meals to take away the scraps—for his chickens, and they aren’t so different than pigs, are they, so he
would
know—and I couldn’t bear for him to see me looking like that.”

The tale had, so far, all the hallmarks of one of Prue’s debacles. She’d been fired from Howard DeLuxe’s Varieties, for instance, after she’d clumsily revealed that Mr. DeLuxe was married—to the pretty lady he’d been pursuing around the ship.

“I thought,” Prue said, “I’d sneak away and change—I knew Cook would never allow it if I asked her. Only thing was, I couldn’t use the servants’ stair because I couldn’t risk anyone going and tattling to Cook. So I took the other stairs.”

“The family stairs?” Prue had not yet caught the spirit of scullery maid decorum.

Prue nodded. “Well, at the top of the stairs, that big corridor with them plushy carpets was empty. So I hurried along, planning to take the grand staircase to the upper chambers.” Her voice thickened again. “I’d near made it when someone reached out and grabbed my arm.”

Ophelia listened with mounting dread.

“I opened my mouth to scream, see, but he smacked his big, hot hand over my mouth and pulled me into his study.”

“Who did?”

“Mr. Coop.”

“Mercy.”

“He was all big and red-faced, with his hair puffed around his head like a lion—”

“He’s pickled today.”

“Smelled like a distillery. I said, ‘Awful sorry, mister.’ He asked me what I was doing above stairs. Said I was just taking a shortcut.”

Ophelia’s hands had balled into fists.

“I tried to get away,” Prue said. “He grabbed my shoulder, rough as can be, and said ‘Not so fast.’”

“He touched you?”

“He did! So I said, ‘I reckon I’ll be obliged to scream soon, mister.’ Well, he laughed at that—mean, you know, not funny laughing—and showed his yellow horse teeth. I even saw his two gold molars, way back. Then he shoved his big mug right up into mine and said, ‘You reckon so, do you? Well,
I
reckon I’ll be obliged to expose every one of you lying harpies in this castle for what you really is.’”

Ophelia tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. “He knows we’re actresses?”