by Maia Chance
“For the visiting gown,” Madame Fayette said to Josie, “the forest green crepe we were working on for that Italian princess who ran off with the painter—I do not suppose she will return. With three rows of black velvet ribbon along the hem—oui? The matching paletot to wear over. Black velvet. With a hood, for this dreadful weather, and a small, flat hat of the green crepe to tie under your pretty chin. Très jolie. And the ball gown, ah, oui, the ball gown of eggshell blue that was meant for that courtesan with the smelly little dog. She is a gambler. I would likely never be paid anyway. Oh! But I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Stonewall. I should not speak of such things in front of a young lady.”
Did she say lady with an ironic lilt?
“I told my cousin, Lord Harrington, that I must come to your shop,” Ophelia said. “I have seen such lovely gowns that you’ve made. Even, I’m sorry to say, on a dead girl.”
Madame Fayette glanced up. “Dead?”
“Surely you’ve heard—it’s been in the newspapers. It was—it was simply horrid.”
Madame Fayette continued to measure. “Ah, oui. The girl in Le Marais. You were a . . . witness?”
Josie’s eyes were on her notebook, but she seemed to be all ears.
“Yes. At a party given by the Misses Malbert. There was a lot of screaming and a lot of . . . blood.”
“You wore your maid’s gown to this party, I presume?” Madame Fayette said.
“Yes. Of course.” Drat. “Well, the dead girl’s gown—ivory silk and tulle, with silver and gold embroidery—the funny thing is, it looked exactly like the prima ballerina’s costume that you made for the Cinderella ballet I saw last night.”
“How do you know I made that costume?” Madame Fayette stopped measuring. “My name does not appear in the programme.”
“I saw a label—Maison Fayette, it said—stitched into the costume, when I went backstage to congratulate the ballerina.” A true lady wouldn’t venture backstage. Hopefully Madame Fayette would chalk it up to Miss Stonewall’s American rearing. “Why does a ballet costume need a label?”
Madame Fayette narrowed her eyes. “We are all very proud of the work we do at Maison Fayette.”
“Did you not tell the police you made the dead girl’s gown? It could be a clue.”
“What makes you believe I did not tell them?”
“Because if you had, they’d know more about her. Her name, for instance.”
“I assure you, I know nothing of the murdered girl.”
Was she fibbing? Hard to say. Just because someone had the chubby cheeks of a two-year-old didn’t mean they had the conscience to match. “But how is that possible? Surely she came in for fittings, just like I’m doing now.”
“I maintain the utmost discretion when it comes to my customers.”
Discretion? Hardly, if Madame Fayette’s comments about the Italian princess and the gambling courtesan were any indication. “Then I don’t suppose you’ll tell me if the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau is one of your customers,” Ophelia said. “She’s missing, you know.”
“If my customers request that I keep a secret, why, then I keep a secret,” Madame Fayette said. “Surely, Miss Stonewall, you must appreciate this. One does not sew garments for empresses if one is a—how do you say?—blabbermouth.” She looped her measuring tape around Ophelia’s waist, and squeezed.
Ophelia winced.
“I would be fascinated to discover precisely why it is that you have taken on the duties of an officer of the police,” Madame Fayette said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must go fetch a few samples for you to view.” She whipped her measuring tape free and hurried out.
Ophelia was left alone with Josie.
As soon as Madame Fayette disappeared, Josie whispered, “Madame does not ever admit to it, but she was, years ago, the costume mistress at l’Opéra de Paris.”
“Indeed?”
“I believed you should know this, because you seem so interested in those gowns. The way they were the same. Madame knows people at the opera house. Many people.”
“She knew the murdered girl, then?”
“Non. She designed that gown based upon measurements given to her by a customer. She never measured or fitted the girl in person. None of us did.”
“But who was the customer?”
“I know not.” Josie pushed a wisp of hair from her eyes. “Is the murderer not . . . caught?”
“No. And I reckon the police are after the wrong murderer. I wonder if the marquis—the father of the Misses Malbert—is mixed up in this. Because his wife, his missing wife, perhaps desired a divorce, and he’s so secretive about whatever he does in that funny workshop of his.” Ophelia clammed up. Josie was so mild a presence, she had been thinking aloud. But she ought not be so trusting.
Ophelia studied Josie. She would’ve been pretty as a picture if she hadn’t appeared so unwholesome. Her ears seemed too large for such a hollow face, and her lips were bloodless, as though she hadn’t enough sleep or enough to eat. But surely Madame Fayette paid her employees a good wage. They were highly skilled workers.
“Would you tell me, Josie . . . the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau—did she patronize this shop?”
“Non.” Josie lowered her voice still more. “The murderer is not caught? Then I must—I must tell you, Mademoiselle Stonewall. It is something so odd, but Madame Fayette, she will deliver a parcel to a gentleman today.”
“To whom?”
“I know not. The note I saw from him, it was anonymous, but the penmanship was that of a gentleman. His note—bonté divine!—I saw it by mistake as I was bringing it to Madame—his note said it was urgent that he collect a certain parcel that Madame has in her possession. I fear he is the customer who ordered that poor dead girl’s gown.”
“He will come here, to the shop?”
“Oui, today, at twelve o’clock. But please, do not ask me anything more. Poor Maman in the country, she is almost blind from the sewing, and she depends upon the wages that I send. Et my dear brother, he is so mistreated by his master and must leave his place of work. If Madame knew I was speaking of our customers—”
The door swung open. Madame Fayette bustled in, arms piled high with garments. “Now, Miss Stonewall, should we decide upon the ball gown?”
* * *
Ophelia breathlessly recounted to Penrose all she’d learned, as soon as they were outside and walking along Rue de la Paix. More people were out now, mostly fashionable ladies in complicated hats. Shop windows brimmed with perfume bottles, feathered fans, jewelry, furs, and bolts of gorgeous cloth. The street may as well have been a stage set, it all seemed so dreamlike.
“Hold your horses.” Ophelia stopped in front of a hatmaker’s window and frowned up at Penrose. “Your eyes have got that glow about them again.”
“I can’t think what you mean.” Penrose pushed his hands into his greatcoat pockets. “Oh, do look at that tilbury hat. I haven’t seen one of those in years.”
“You suspect it’s the stomacher in the parcel, don’t you?”
“Is that far-fetched? It was, according to you, at any rate, missing from Miss Pinet’s gown when you discovered her in the garden. The murderer perhaps removed the stomacher. It would be rather valuable, both as an antiquity and as an assemblage of precious metal and gems. Now, this mysterious customer who ordered the gown—the gown that incorporated the real diamond stomacher—wants the stomacher back.”
“But if Madame Fayette has the stomacher now, that means she shot Sybille.”
“Not necessarily. But it would seem that she is deeply involved.”
“Do you suppose Sybille was killed on account of the stomacher?”
“It is possible. As I said, it would be valuable in more than one respect.”
“Surely no one but you, Professor, cares about the stomacher’s fairy tale history.�
�
“No? Then why was the stomacher sewn onto a gown that matches, specifically, a Cinderella costume? Like it or not, Miss Flax, the fairy tale is a part of this.”
“Then Sybille knew a person, was murdered by a person, who is as nutty about fairy tales as you are.”
“You are assuming the gown was sewn expressly for Miss Pinet. That Miss Pinet did not, as the police claim, simply steal the gown from its true owner.”
“But Sybille doesn’t sound like a thief, and she wasn’t a strumpet.”
“How can you be certain on either point?”
Ophelia sighed. She couldn’t be certain. She only hoped that Sybille wasn’t a strumpet or a thief but the truth was, Sybille had likely been wearing the stomacher for some reason. “What I wish to know is, why didn’t Madame Fayette go to the police with the name of this customer?”
“She’s either covering up for someone else, or for herself,” Penrose said. “Shall we have a walk about the Louvre? It is nearby and dry inside, and at twelve o’clock we could return to spy on Maison Fayette and discover the identity of the gentleman customer.”
13
The ogre Hume showed up while Prue was working on the breakfast dishes. He burst into the kitchen, hauled her out, flipped her into a waiting carriage, and fastened the door from the outside.
After fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, the carriage stopped in front of a house with witch-hat towers and mean little slits for windows.
Hume dragged Prue inside, up some stairs, and into a stuffy, dim, parlor sort of room that stank of woodsmoke, cough medicine, and ancient folks’ morning breath.
“Ah, the beautiful little orphan who nobody wants.” Lady Cruthlach was all bundled up on a sofa. “Dear Lord Cruthlach is abed, I am afraid. Such a pity, for he did so enjoy seeing you last night.”
Hume shoved Prue down onto a chair. He retreated to a post against a wall.
“My name’s Prue. Prudence Bright. And somebody does so want me.”
“Oh, but your mother shan’t ever return.”
Why did Lady Cruthlach sound so certain? “She will,” Prue said. Tears prickled. “But anyway, I ain’t talking about Ma. I’m talking about my—my friend. Hansel. He’s to be a doctor, and maybe we’ll marry someday.”
“You? Marry a doctor? Oh, good gracious, no!”
“It ain’t so tough to think of! I’m learning housewifing, and—”
“No, no, my dear, the fates have other things in store for you. Tell me. This Hansel person—is he in Paris?”
“Well, no. He’s in Heidelberg. Studying, like I said.”
“Then he abandoned you, too. Just like everyone else has.”
Prue’s throat swelled. “He’s waiting for me. He—he writes me letters. Or, leastways, he used to.” She had sent along her mother’s address to Hansel, but she’d yet to receive a letter from him in Paris.
“Now, you see? He has already forgotten you. My advice to you, my lovely, is to forget Hansel. He is nothing. You, however, you are something quite, quite extraordinary. Now. I wished to ask of you a favor. Not especially for my sake, you must remember, or Lord Cruthlach’s, but for Dalziel. You liked Dalziel’s picture in my locket, yes? You would not make him an orphan?”
Something thawed inside Prue. “No, ma’am.”
“Good. Sweet?” Lady Cruthlach held out a dish heaped with orangey-red candies with white dots.
Uck. Looked like poisonous mushrooms. “No, thank you,” Prue said.
“Come, now.” Lady Cruthlach shoved the dish closer. “I shan’t take no for an answer.”
Prue took one.
“Go on, then. Try it.”
Prue’s stomach turned, but she bit. Marzipan. Only marzipan, though sickly sweet and with a hint of dust.
“Now, then.” Lady Cruthlach replaced the dish on a side table next to a music box with a golden crank. “I need you to bring me—bring us—something from Hôtel Malbert.”
Prue stopped chewing. “Steal something for you, ma’am?”
“It wouldn’t be stealing, heavens, no. The item does not rightfully belong to anybody in the house. It belongs to me, and to my husband. And we mean to have it. It is a book. A book of great age, written in Latin. It must be quite thick, for all the wondrous secrets it holds.”
“Pardon me, ma’am, but there are hundreds, maybe thousands of books in the house. I saw a whole library chockablock with them.”
“But this book will appear to be different. Special. Alluring, even, to all but the dullest mind. It will likely have pictures.”
Prue swallowed dry marzipan.
“You’ve seen it!” Lady Cruthlach lurched forward.
“I—”
“Tell me! Tell me what it looked like!”
“Well, there’s a sort of cookery book I found in a cupboard down in the kitchen, in some peculiar tongue—”
“Latin, you beautiful little dullard. Latin.”
“—and it’s got all kinds of receipts and household hints and whatnot.”
“Bring it to me.”
“Some of them soups and stews in there don’t look too appetizing, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Not soup, you nincompoop . . .” Lady Cruthlach’s words dribbled off, because someone had opened the door.
“I beg your pardon,” a youthful, British-accented voice said. “I did not know, Grandmother, that you were entertaining a visitor.”
“No, no, Dalziel, please! Please come forward, into the light. Come, closer—that’s it!—closer, meet our charming young visitor.”
Dalziel strode closer and stood with his back to the fire.
A quick, bright energy bounced off of Dalziel, and his expression, though grave, had a sweetness to it. He was about twenty years old, dressed in a subdued, tailored black wool suit, a white linen shirt, and a gray silk waistcoat and cravat.
He glanced at Prue. Then his eyes flew to Lady Cruthlach. “But she is—Grandmother, what have you done?”
“It is a sister, Dalziel. Only a sister.”
It? That was the first time Prue had been called it, and she’d been called lots of not-nice things.
“She knows of the book, Dalziel—she works as a scullery maid in the house.”
“House?”
“We found the house.”
“I beg your pardon, miss,” Dalziel said to Prue. “What is your name?”
“Prue. Prudence.”
“Forgive me, Miss Prudence. I was taken by surprise. You do so resemble your sister—her morgue picture so tastelessly published in the newspapers—that I quite forgot my manners. You are a young lady in mourning, too, so—well, do you forgive me?”
Prue gazed into Dalziel’s melting-dark eyes. “Sure,” she whispered. “Sure I forgive you. That’s the first anyone has said a peep about me being in mourning. I don’t even know where Sybille’s buried or nothing.” If such a nice young man was the kin of Lord and Lady Cruthlach, maybe they weren’t as monstrous as she had supposed.
Lady Cruthlach made an impatient little bleat.
“Sybille was her name?” Dalziel said.
“Yes.” Prue brushed away a tear. She turned to Lady Cruthlach. “I will bring it to you. The book, I mean. But only if, after that, you leave me be.”
“Yes, yes,” Lady Cruthlach said. “Leave you be.”
“Because I won’t be kidnapped again!” Prue found herself on her feet, fists balled. “Do you promise you’ll leave me be?”
“I am a lady, dear girl. No need to exact promises. Sit down.”
Prue stayed on her feet. Standing made her feel like she had at least a little control over things. “Hume will take me back?”
“Of course.”
“Will you tell him not to throw me in the gutter this time?”
“Grandmother!” Dalziel cr
ied.
“If you insist,” Lady Cruthlach said to Prue. She waved a knobby hand. “Take her back, Hume. And wait in the carriage until she emerges again with the book.”
“Grandmother,” Dalziel said, “I really must insist that—”
“Quiet, child.”
“I reckon it might take some doing,” Prue said to Lady Cruthlach. “Beatrice will be back and she’ll set me to my chores, and it might not be so easy to—”
“Hume is patient,” Lady Cruthlach said. “Hume will wait as long as necessary.”
* * *
At noon, Gabriel and Miss Flax sat silently in a hired carriage parked across the street from Maison Fayette. Raindrops smacked on the roof. Traffic splashed by. Miss Flax watched the shop in silence with her folded umbrella across her lap. Gabriel watched Miss Flax.
The Louvre had been a bit of a debacle, because Gabriel had not sufficiently considered in advance the quantities of nude Classical statues on the premises. After her initial surprise, Miss Flax had kept her gaze strictly on the “Museums” chapter of her Baedeker whenever Gabriel was near. Although he had noted her, from afar, viewing Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss with interest and a somewhat high color in her cheeks.
Miss Ivy Banks, although well-versed in ancient Greek texts, was a staunch advocate for fig leaves on statuary.
“Look!” Miss Flax whispered. “Someone’s at Maison Fayette’s door! He’s ringing the bell. Is that—? Why, that’s the dancing master from the opera house.”
“So it is,” Gabriel said. “Caleb Grant.”
“If he killed Sybille, well, that explains why he told the entire opera house to keep mum about her identity. He wasn’t covering things up to save the opera house’s reputation. He was covering up to save his own skin.”
“This is merely a theory, you do realize.”
Miss Flax rolled her eyes.
The shop door opened. They caught a glimpse of the maid, and then Grant disappeared inside. In less than a minute he was back out on the sidewalk, opening his umbrella. A small, brown paper-wrapped parcel was tucked under his arm.
“He’s got something,” Miss Flax said. “If it’s the stomacher then, well, he’s the one who ordered the gown to be made from measurements. That would be something to tell Inspector Foucher.”