Cinderella Six Feet Under

by Maia Chance

  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?”

  “None at all.” A lie. Ophelia had squeezed out of Hôtel Malbert through a cellar window that opened onto the side pavement. Even if Malbert and his daughters were out, she couldn’t sashay out the front door in Henrietta’s gown and her own cosmetics-free face. Baldewyn might see, or Lulu or Beatrice. “The family has gone out, only”—Ophelia glanced around the thronged lobby—“I suspect they might have come here.”

  “But they would not recognize you without your matron’s armor. Might I assist you with your mantle?”

  “No!” Ophelia said, a little too loudly.

  “All right. Shall we go in?” The professor held out his arm. Ophelia took it.

  Henrietta was a few inches shorter than Ophelia, so the gown Ophelia had borrowed didn’t quite make it to the floor. Worse, Henrietta’s dainty satin slippers were an inch too small, so Ophelia’s toes were crunched-up balls of agony. But the main conundrum was that Henrietta was bountifully gifted in the bosom territory, whereas Ophelia was, regrettably, not.

  Luckily, the velvet mantle covered up that territory. Just so long as Ophelia kept it on.

  She leaned towards the professor as they followed streams of people up a swooping staircase. She told him what the stepsisters, Miss Smythe, and Henri, the coachman, had said about the carriageway gate key. “So you see, if the murderer was indeed that derelict, as the police claim, he still would’ve required help from someone inside the house. Members of the household, or the party guests, or people who had help from members of the household or party guests.”

  “Is it possible that Miss Pinet’s body came from inside the house?”

  “Yes, I’ve thought of that, but the cast of suspects would remain the same.”

  “Cast of suspects? How theatrical. Miss Flax, you aren’t attempting to collar Miss Pinet’s murderer, are you?”

  “Of course I am. And I must find Henrietta, too. Oh yes—and that’s the other thing I’ve found. I reckon Henrietta is safe and sound somewhere, and that she wished to initiate a divorce from Malbert.” Ophelia showed Penrose the bit of charred envelope that she’d brought in the reticule.

  “Avocat does indeed mean solicitor, and that happens to be a very good address.”

  They found their seats, plushy red, in the first row of a balcony curving around the theater. Four tiers in all, carved and gold-painted, reached up to a ceiling painted like cherub-plagued heavens. An enormous chandelier blazed over the orchestra-level seats.

  How peculiar that she, Ophelia Flax of Littleton, New Hampshire, was here. Gussied up in borrowed finery. Seated next to an earl. Confabulating about murder.

  “I do not wish to alarm you, Miss Flax,” Penrose said softly, once they were settled in their seats. “However, I feel I must point out that even if the Marquise Henrietta had initiated a divorce, that does not preclude the possibility that she . . . that something unfortunate befell her.”

  “If something unfortunate befalls a lady who wishes for a divorce, I reckon that the one doing the befalling is her husband.”

  “Does Malbert seem capable of violence?”

  “He’s an odd duck. He seems weak, but he’s awfully secretive and he’s always holed up in his workshop, building what, no one knows. He mutters things about his ‘inventions’ if one asks. Oh, yes—and he did remind me that curiosity killed the cat.”

  “Good Lord.”

  Ophelia also described Inspector Foucher’s dismissive note—with its mention of the madman sighting near the Pont Marie—and then the chandelier dimmed and was cranked up on a chain to clear the view. The audience grew hushed, the orchestra tuned, the conductor emerged and bowed, and then the overture began.

  Halfway through the overture, Ophelia was so hot and steamy under the velvet mantle that she had no choice but to fan herself with the programme.

  The professor leaned close. “Are you well, Miss Flax? May I take your—”

  “No!” she whispered.

  9

  The ballet’s first act was a wonder. In the circus and the variety hall, if you could see anything through the cigar smoke and hear anything past the men’s hoots (or the trumpeting of elephants), the quality of the production might’ve been found lacking. However, the Ballet de l’Opéra de Paris pulled out all the stops. The dancers jumped and twirled, no tripping. The orchestra hit all the right notes, which was the first time Ophelia had heard that. The pit musicians in Howard DeLuxe’s Varieties read the newspapers down there, and some of them even drank beer.

  The really breathtaking thing about the ballet was the stage scenery.

  “Are those flowers growing?” Ophelia whispered to the professor. They watched a scene in which Cinderella lamented (gracefully, with hand-clasping) the wicked stepsisters’ shoddy treatment of her, out in the garden. The garden set had started out simple enough, but as the scene progressed the flowers and insects grew bigger and more colorful until they were the size of Cinderella herself.

  “Marvelous, isn’t it?” Penrose said so
ftly. “Ah. I nearly forgot.” He dug into his breast pocket and produced a pair of opera glasses. “Here. Borrowed them from my hotel.”

  Ophelia peered through. “Gimcrackery indeed. Those flowers are made of painted metal—they’re mechanical.”

  “The set quite upstages the dancers, does it not?”

  After a few minutes, Ophelia allowed the opera glasses to drift away from the stage—despite those mechanical wonders—to the balconies. Row after row of togged-up ladies and gents. Swaying fans, bent heads, bloated gowns, sparkling jewels.

  Oh, drat. There was Austorga! One tier up. And there was Eglantine beside her, frowning and fanning herself, and the Smythe ladies. Mrs. Smythe read a book. Light bounced off Seraphina’s spectacles. No Malbert, though.

  Austorga had opera glasses glued to her eyes. She wasn’t viewing the stage; she was viewing the opposite balcony. Ophelia trained her own opera glasses on the spot where she fancied Austorga was looking.

  Aha.

  Ophelia passed Penrose the opera glasses. “Up there, first balcony on the right, second tier. That towheaded gentleman in the white jacket was at the party in the mansion that night, and so was that lion-looking fellow next to him, with the hair down to his shoulders.”

  Penrose looked.

  “I fancy one of those gentlemen might be a fellow by the name of Prince Rupprecht,” Ophelia said. “The stepsisters were raising a ruckus over him just this afternoon. He’s giving a ball on Saturday, and seeing as he’s the apple of every Parisian debutante’s eye, it sounds as if it’s to be the biggest to-do of the year. What’s more, it seems he’s making an important announcement at his ball.”

  “Of a matrimonial nature?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “Well, if he and that other chap were in attendance at the Roque-Fabliau mansion the night Miss Pinet was killed, I must go and speak with them. One of them is, quite possibly, a murderer.”

  “We will go speak with them.”

  At the first interval, Penrose sent along his card with one of the ushers. The usher returned with an invitation for Lord Harrington to join Prince Rupprecht in his box for the remainder of the ballet.

  “You do wring every last drop from that title of yours,” Ophelia said.

  “I try.”

  As soon as they had pushed through the curtains at the back of Prince Rupprecht’s box, Ophelia wrinkled her nose. The box reeked of cigar smoke, brandy fumes, and some other scent that called to mind dark dens and musky fur.

  Four gentlemen occupied the box.

  “Lord Harrington!” the towheaded gentleman said. “Come in, come in!” He had some sort of exotic accent. Ophelia couldn’t put her finger on which one, but it smacked of the far frontiers of Europe. He lounged in a chair near the front railing, where he’d propped up both of his glossy-booted feet in order, presumably, to better enjoy his brandy and cigar. Epaulets, gold braid, and colorful medals bedecked his white evening jacket, and a scarlet sash cut diagonally across his chest. His pale hair contrasted with his flushed complexion. “I made the acquaintance of your brother—Edgar is it?—in Wiesbaden last year. Is he still preoccupied with horses? But how rude of me—gauche, these frogs like to say. I am Prince Rupprecht of Slavonia.”

  Penrose drew Ophelia forward. “Monsieur le Prince, may I present to you Miss—ah—Miss Stonewall. My cousin, visiting from America. Her first time in Paris.”

  “Any mademoiselle is welcome here,” Prince Rupprecht said with a leer, “but sometimes we take issue with the madames. May I introduce Monsieur Garon, Count de Griffe?”

  The Count de Griffe was the galoot with shaggy, dark gold hair. His barrel body strained the seams of his black evening suit, his collar appeared to be stained, and his jaw hadn’t met with a razor in a few days. When he spied Ophelia, his tawny eyes lit up.

  Oh, golly.

  “And this,” Prince Rupprecht said, gesturing to a third gentleman, “is Monsieur Apollo-Aristede Colifichet, the toast of Paris.”

  Colifichet was a narrow, praying mantis sort of fellow in a mauve waistcoat and gray evening jacket. He perched on the edge of his chair, legs crossed, spine straight as a broomstick. His hair was scraped back with Macassar oil.

  Colifichet barely glanced at Ophelia as they were introduced.

  “That little scamp over there at the end,” Prince Rupprecht said, “is Pierre, Colifichet’s little delivery boy and apprentice, here to view the fruits of his master’s labors, to learn, to dream, yes?”

  Pierre, who was well within earshot, looked over. His expression was dark; he must’ve understood everything, which meant he spoke English. Purple shadows circled his eyes. His blond hair was cropped close, and he had extraordinarily large ears. He was about Ophelia’s own age—far too old to be referred to as a little scamp.

  “Fruits?” Penrose said. “Labors?”

  “Why, I believed that was why you sent up your card,” Prince Rupprecht said. “To make the acquaintance of the gentleman who designed those stupendous stage sets. Mechanical, every last bit. Much more of a spectacle than pasteboard props moved around by ropes and pulleys, would you not agree?”

  “They are indeed stupendous,” Penrose said to Colifichet.

  “Yes, wonderful,” Ophelia said.

  “They are not perfect, non, yet I did my utmost.”

  “Are you a regular designer for l’Opéra de Paris?” Penrose asked. “I did not realize they—”

  “I am an employee of no one.” Colifichet twiddled bony fingers.

  “Of course not!” Prince Rupprecht said, spilling brandy on his lap. “Spilt drink. Rain is on the way.”

  “I daresay the rain has already arrived,” Penrose said.

  “Are you superstitious, Prince Rupprecht?” Ophelia asked.

  “It is what comes of having peasants for nursemaids. They filled our heads with magic and tales.” Prince Rupprecht stared down at the droplets on his lap with a creased brow. Then he looked up at Penrose. “Lord Harrington, I have heard tell that you are afflicted with superstitions of your own. That you hunt down relics of a most peculiar nature, yes?”

  “Good heavens,” Penrose said in a mild tone. “Who told you such nonsense? I am a professor.”

  Colifichet said to Penrose in an impatient tone, “I have a shop on Rue des Capucines. Colifichet and Sons. Perhaps you have heard of it?”

  “Finest clockwork toy shop in all of Paris,” Prince Rupprecht said.

  “Toy shop,” Colifichet said, flushing, “is not the term I prefer. I invent and create automata. My grandfather built the shop, but in those days it was strictly a clockmaker’s.”

  Ophelia tried to think why clockmaker rang a bell.

  “My grandfather once made an engraved pocket watch for Napoleon Bonaparte,” Colifichet said.

  “How remarkable,” Ophelia said, attempting to remember when Napoleon Bonaparte had lived.

  “Not really. Bowing down before aristocrats was never what I wished for myself. I wish to create more. More beauty, more ingenuity, even the semblance, oui, the poetic semblance of life itself. Life, indeed, perfected.”

  “Life, I daresay,” Penrose said, “at least, judging from that garden in Act One, made fantastical. Phantasmagorical, rather.”

  “If only I could make clockwork ballerinas, too,” Colifichet said. “Did you see that wretched display in scene two? Like a troupe of dromedaries.”

  Prince Rupprecht grunted his agreement.

  “I work so hard, so very, very hard,” Colifichet said, “and those girls destroy it all with one cumbersome arm out of place. My work, my sweat, my blood!” He curled his lip. “Wasted. I would like to kill those girls, sometimes.”

  Ophelia and Penrose traded glances. “Pardon me, Monsieur Colifichet,” Ophelia said, “but is the Marquis de la Roque-Fabliau a student of yours? A student of clockwork inventions?�
�

  “Oui, my only student. The marquis is eager to learn, and, well, how could I say non to such passion?”

  Sounded like Malbert paid handsomely for his lessons in clockwork.

  Meanwhile, the Count de Griffe had lumbered close to Ophelia.

  Ophelia had always had a way with animals. For starters, she’d spent her girlhood on a farmstead where her mother had been a maid-of-all-work. Ophelia had fed the chickens, milked the cows, and in the summertime, supervised a bratty herd of goats as they foraged along sloping green meadows. Later, when she’d joined P. Q. Putnam’s Traveling Circus, she’d been not only a trick rider, but assistant to a poodle who leapt through hoops.

  For some reason, this all came to mind as she regarded Griffe and his lionlike aspect.

  “Mademoiselle Stonewall,” he said with a gruff French accent, “I beg of you, what is your given name? I shall perish, perish like the buffalo of your American soil, if you do not consent to bestow upon me that small morsel.”

  He was a regular Lord Byron, wasn’t he? Well, surely there was no harm in telling him her real given name. “My name is Miss Ophelia Stonewall.”

  Griffe kissed her hand. “Merci, ah, merci! Mademoiselle Ophelia Stonewall. Like an angel’s name, no?”

  Ophelia yanked her hand from his grasp. “I’ve always thought it sounded a little forbidding.”

  “I fall at your feet in shame, please, if I have offended you. Please, where are you from?”

  “From? Oh—”

  “Ohio? I have heard of it.”

  “Yes. Ohio. Cleveland, Ohio.”

  “I, myself, am from the Périgord, a most beautiful region to the south. Cleveland. Your family has been settled there long?”

  “Not terribly. My father is a—a soap manufacturer. Tallow, you know.”

  “A soap and tallow heiress? Magnifique.”

  “Heiress? Well, I . . .” Ophelia was wearing a gown and mantle that had probably cost more than most folks’ yearly wages. The mantle, by the by, had become stifling. She was going to have to bite the bullet and take it off. “Yes,” she said, sliding it from her shoulders, “Papa has met with good fortune.” She sighed in relief as cooler air flowed over her neck and shoulders.