by Maia Chance
“And?”
“Nothing. Which is meaningless. Henrietta could have used any sort of alias, and she is an actress, so if she wished to remain anonymous she could have easily done so. If she left Paris, or even France, she might’ve gone by railway or stagecoach. She could be staying at one of the myriad less reputable hotels and boardinghouses in the city, which the concierge did not check. Or she might”—Penrose ahemed—“have taken up residence with another, ah, gentleman. I could not discover, either, a convent orphanage that is named something to do with stars. Miss Pinet’s landlady must have been mistaken on that point.”
Ophelia stared at the ticket in her gloved palm. She suddenly felt weary and irritable, and the notion of that Miss Ivy Banks, perched at home in England somewhere, embroidering hankies or painting china bunny rabbits, or whatever it was that a real lady did, made her feel as cross as two sticks. “I don’t like charity.”
“The ticket is not charity, Miss Flax. I was under the impression that you dislike being left out of things. We are aiding each other in a joint investigation, as it were.”
“That does sound better than gallivanting about in Paris with a person you don’t know from Adam.”
She knew she’d really irked him, because a lock of hair had come lose over his neatly combed hairline. “Miss Flax,” he said in a rough voice, “what I—”
“Oh, do look!” Ophelia twiddled her fingers. “The Count de Griffe!”
Griffe plowed his way through the crowd, his gaze fixed on Ophelia. When he drew close, he ignored Penrose and swept up Ophelia’s hand for a juicy kiss.
“Mademoiselle Stonewall,” he murmured, “how ravishing you look in green. Like a budding plant, eh?”
Ophelia said hello, batted her eyelashes, and gently laughed in the coy way she’d perfected for her role in The Serpent’s Sting: A Melodrama. As she did so, she happened to notice that Penrose had crumpled his ballet programme in his fist.
17
Ophelia viewed the ballet’s first act by herself from the lowest balcony. Penrose had lent her the opera glasses and, after escorting her to her seat, had curtly left. He was jealous of the Count de Griffe, all right. However, he’d given her a box of chocolate-raspberry opera bonbons.
How did he know raspberry was her favorite?
Cendrillon was just as jaw-dropping as it had been last night, but Ophelia’s mind was on Sybille Pinet and Caleb Grant. If Grant had matched up Sybille with a gentleman admirer or two, then that could explain why the boardinghouse landlady had said Sybille had seemed haunted lately. Being a quiet girl from a convent orphanage, maybe Sybille had had qualms about the business. Then, Sybille somehow met her mother—either Henrietta looked her up, or saw her dancing at the opera house, or maybe Sybille discovered Henrietta herself. Either way, Henrietta might’ve offered Sybille a ticket out of Paris in the form of a prospective job at Howard DeLuxe’s Varieties.
And then what? Had Grant killed Sybille because he knew she wished to leave for New York? That seemed excessive. His black-bound book indicated he had a slew of other girls from whom to reap a profit. What about Henrietta? Might Grant have killed her?
If Grant had killed Sybille and dragged her body into the garden, glaring questions cropped up. How had Grant gotten the carriageway gate key? Could he have gotten it from Austorga, with Madame Babin somehow mixed up in it, too? Why would Austorga have helped him commit murder? And why in land sakes had Sybille been togged up like Cinderella?
Ophelia worked her way through the entire box of bonbons without even tasting them. The lights went up for the first interval. She checked the corners of her mouth for chocolate and went down to the lobby to meet the professor.
On the stairs, she narrowly missed an encounter with Malbert and his daughters. Not that they would recognize her without her Mrs. Brand accoutrements, but they might recognize Henrietta’s gown. However, the stepsisters were too busy bickering, and Malbert was blinking too rapidly behind his spectacles, to notice Ophelia slip by.
When Penrose found Ophelia he said, “No go. Lord Dutherbrook never arrived—probably snoring in his chair at the club—and so I was not introduced to Grant.”
“No matter. Grant’s just over there.” Ophelia gestured with her chin.
Grant stood across the lobby, wearing evening clothes. His black hair and pointy beard shone with pomade. The shoulders of his greatcoat glittered with raindrops, and he held a top hat.
“He’s just arrived from out of doors,” Ophelia said.
“Yes, and looking quite as much like a hearse driver as the last time we saw him. That looks like the greatcoat in which we found his notebook.”
“He seems nervy.” Ophelia frowned. “And so does Madame Babin on his arm.”
Grant and Madame Babin had their heads bent together in urgent conversation. Grant looked angry, but Madame Babin seemed frightened. Her shoulders were hunched, and her eyes flicked about. She, too, had just come in from out of doors; her purple cloak and ribboned hat were wet.
“Let’s go eavesdrop,” Ophelia said.
“Miss Flax, I really don’t—”
“No time to dillydally. Mr. Grant might be a murderer.”
The crowd was dense, so they were able to position themselves just behind Grant and Madame Babin without being noticed. They strained their ears.
* * *
If pressed, Gabriel would have had to admit that Miss Flax’s innocent face was convincing. He knew better now. Although she didn’t seem entirely experienced in, say, the ways of the birds and the bees, she was a first-class trickster.
Grant and Madame Babin were still murmuring to each other, but the hubbub was too thick to make out a single word. It appeared that a crinkly envelope, held by Madame Babin, was at issue. She gesticulated with the envelope. Grant made a swipe at it. Then Madame Babin stuffed it in her reticule.
Miss Flax tugged Gabriel’s sleeve.
“Yes?”
She threw a significant look towards the reticule. The crinkly envelope protruded halfway.
Gabriel whispered, “You cannot even begin to think that you are going to steal that from—”
In one liquid motion, Miss Flax plucked the envelope from the reticule and swayed off.
Grant and Madame Babin hadn’t noticed a thing.
Gabriel shouldered into the throng after Miss Flax.
“How did you learn to do that?” he asked.
She stopped behind a pillar and pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope. “Played a pickpocket on the stage once.”
“Once? It looked as though you’ve done that a thousand times.”
“It was a long-running show.” Her eyes were on the sheet of paper. “Are you suggesting I’ve withheld choice morsels regarding my past? I can’t read this. It’s in French.”
Gabriel’s neck was itchy and hot beneath his collar. Each and every time he managed to convince himself that Miss Flax was a naturally demure young lady who’d simply had a trying time of it, she proved otherwise. She wasn’t demure. She was downright audacious. And the very idea of that perishing Count de Griffe looking at her like—like—
Penrose snatched up the paper. There were only a few lines, which said in French:
Meet me in the wardrobe between La Sylphide and Le Papillon at nine o’clock, or you will pay for the stomacher with your life.
Gabriel translated it for Miss Flax.
“By golly, it’s a death threat!”
“That does appear to be the case,” Gabriel said. “Garde-robe—wardrobe—well, I cannot fathom how it is they intend to kill someone inside a piece of furniture.”
“Who’s it for? Who’s it from?”
“There is no indication.”
“But it was in Madame Babin’s reticule.”
“The envelope was already opened.”
“Not exactly—it
had never been sealed.” Miss Flax held up the envelope.
“Therefore, we do not know if the note was coming or going.”
“But look.” Miss Flax poked the page. “That is a lady’s handwriting, isn’t it?”
Was it his fancy, or did Miss Flax pronounce lady with a touch of sourness?
“It is a markedly feminine hand,” Gabriel said.
“Which means that Madame Babin wrote it, and she’s on her way to deliver it to whomever it is she plans to top off.” Miss Flax, on tiptoe, scanned the crowd. “Look! There they go, both of them. We must hurry! It’s near nine o’clock now!”
Gabriel looked over just in time to see Grant and Madame Babin duck out of sight around a corner.
Miss Flax hitched up her skirts and barged after them.
“Where are you going?” Gabriel called after her. “We really ought to take this matter to the police.”
A dignified lady in pearls threw Gabriel a shocked glance. He closed his mouth. Miss Flax escaped.
* * *
For once, Ophelia was one step ahead of Professor Penrose. It felt marvelous. He had been confused by the theater jargon in the note, but Ophelia knew exactly what it meant. Garde-robe, or wardrobe, didn’t refer to a piece of furniture; it meant the backstage chamber where costumes were stored. And Ophelia just happened to know that La Sylphide was the name of a ballet, because Howard DeLuxe’s Varieties performed ballets from time to time. After a fashion. Le Papillon was most likely the name of another ballet.
Grant and Madame Babin intended to murder someone between the garment racks where the costumes for those two ballets were stored. And it was up to her, Ophelia, to save their next victim.
* * *
Gabriel considered following Miss Flax. She had gotten a good start, however, and he couldn’t begin to think of what she was doing.
Because, surely Miss Flax did not suppose that Grant or Madame Babin were off to deliver a note to someone threatening action at nine o’clock when it was in fact—he glanced at his pocket watch—mere minutes to nine o’clock already.
“Lord Harrington!”
Gabriel turned to see Prince Rupprecht. “Ah. I was just about to return to your box.”
Brandy fumes emanated from Prince Rupprecht’s very pores. “Come on then, old man, yes? I’ve got a new box of cigars that are from Spain but taste like they are from paradise.”
“Splendid.” Surely Miss Flax would go straight to the prince’s box to find him, once she realized her folly.
* * *
Ophelia followed Caleb Grant and Madame Babin backstage, but she lost sight of them when they passed by the stage right wings. Too crowded. Dancers in costume rushed around, finding their Act Two positions onstage or in the wings. From beyond the closed curtain came the sound of the orchestra sailing through the second act overture. Onstage, stagehands were making last-minute adjustments to the mechanical garden set. Ophelia recognized the big pumpkin-coach contraption.
From beyond the curtain came applause, and the huge, red velvet curtains rolled open. Act Two had begun.
Ophelia knew the wardrobe would be somewhere in the more remote regions of the theater. She only hoped she could find it in time.
Except—she stopped in her tracks.
Except that there was Madame Babin, hands on hips, in one of the wings. She was scolding one of the ballerinas in French. The prima ballerina Polina Petrov, as a matter of fact, in her raggedy Cinderella gown. Caleb Grant was nowhere in sight.
Ophelia crept closer and hid herself behind one of the curtains that formed the wings.
Dancers in flower and mouse costumes twirled across the stage. Madame Babin’s voice pierced the sounds of the orchestra. Polina was silent.
Ophelia peeked around the curtain. Polina was in costume. She would soon dance the scene in which the fairy godmother magically transformed her rags into finery. This meant that her costume looked like rags on top but had a version of the embroidered ivory tulle ball gown underneath.
Madame Babin lunged for Polina and lifted her ragged gown to expose the ball gown costume.
The stomacher flashed in the brilliant stage light. Was it the false, beaded stomacher of the ballet costume? Or was it, for some unfathomable reason, the real, diamond stomacher?
Polina tried to tug herself free, but Madame Babin would not stop pulling on her.
Ophelia’s heart sped.
Madame Babin wanted the stomacher. She was prepared to kill for the stomacher. There was no choice in the matter.
Ophelia sprang from her hiding place and found herself in the midst of a three-lady tussle. Madame Babin spat French words that didn’t sound too nice and left off tugging at Polina in order to claw at Ophelia instead. Polina got away; Ophelia caught a glimpse of her taking one last horrified glance over her shoulder before leaping onstage to a spatter of applause.
Madame Babin was all elbows and hisses and nipping fingernails.
“Get off me, you wretched critter!” Ophelia whispered. She felt like yelling, but she’d hate to ruin the show.
Madame Babin grabbed a handful of Ophelia’s coiffure and gave it a hard twist.
* * *
“That one has got legs like a chicken,” Prince Rupprecht said. He pointed to one of the ballerinas down on the stage. The second act had begun only moments earlier, yet Prince Rupprecht had already evaluated the dancers as efficiently as a farmer at a livestock auction.
“Ah, oui,” Griffe said, studying the girl in question through opera glasses. “But a breast like a hen, non?”
For God’s sake. Gabriel raked a hand through his hair and continued pacing at the back of the box. As soon as he’d reached Prince Rupprecht’s box, Gabriel had sent an usher backstage to summon Caleb Grant. He’d told the usher that Grant was perhaps to be found in a room with a wardrobe—although he still couldn’t understand what that was supposed to signify.
Surely Grant would come. This was a bally prince’s box. Then Gabriel might be able to discern what that note had meant.
The audience sucked in a collective gasp.
“Mon Dieu.” Griffe rose halfway in his chair, opera glasses glued to his eyes. “It is Mademoiselle Stonewall!”
Gabriel froze, mid-pace. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ah, how sweet she is in green!”
“Give me that!” Prince Rupprecht snatched the opera glasses from Griffe. “Indeed, it is she!”
Gabriel fancied his neck was in danger of exploding. “Miss Fl—Miss Stonewall, my cousin, onstage?” He strode to the prince, grabbed the opera glasses, and scanned the stage. “Oh dear God. It is.”
Dancers dressed as mice and flowers crowded the stage, while Cinderella pirouetted before the footlights.
But . . . there.
Miss Flax, in her green evening gown, crawled on all fours towards the wings. A mouse hopped over her.
“Why the deuce is she onstage?” Gabriel muttered.
“She has got rather nice ankles,” Prince Rupprecht said.
“She is a lady,” Gabriel said coldly. “Pray do not speak of her in that fashion.”
Prince Rupprecht turned to Griffe. “She is onstage to impress you, you must understand. Wishes to stand out in your mind as a daredevil—and to show off her fine stems and flower petals, too.” He chortled.
Gabriel was just weighing the cost of cuffing a prince on the nose—and perhaps a count, too—when Miss Flax crawled out of sight into the wings.
The usher poked his head through the curtains at the rear of the box and gave a tactful cough.
All three men swiveled around.
“I regret to say,” the usher said, “that Monsieur Grant is dead.”
18
Gabriel found Miss Flax in a backstage corridor surrounded by a ring of dancers and theater workers, all berating her in Fre
nch. She caught sight of Gabriel.
“Get me out of this, won’t you?” she called.
Gabriel strode through the ring of people, grabbed Miss Flax’s hot, gloved hand, and pulled her away through the still-yelling group—they were all going on about her ruining the performance, with a few accusations thrown in that she was some sort of anarchist or else a saboteur sent from the ballet company in London.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he whisked her along.
“I’m taking you home. What were you thinking?”
“It wasn’t my fault! I was pushed onstage! I was trying to save that ballerina! And did she demonstrate even the smallest bit of gratitude? No!”
“Caleb Grant is dead.”
“What?” Miss Flax stopped walking.
Footsteps clattered towards them, and a harried little fellow in side-whiskers and two uniformed gendarmes burst around a corner. Gabriel and Miss Flax pressed themselves against the wall so the men could pass.
Miss Flax’s eyes met Gabriel’s.
“No,” he said.
“We’ve got to.”
“I cannot continue to enable your harebrained schemes—”
“Hurry, before it’s too late. And I’m not harebrained, if you don’t mind. Merely resourceful.”
“Resourceful?” Somehow, Gabriel found himself following Miss Flax as she hurried down the corridor after the men. How precisely did she convince him, against his better judgment, time after time? “You are not simply resourceful, my dear. I daresay you will stop at nothing.”
* * *
They followed the clattering footsteps of Side-Whiskers and the gendarmes, and caught sight of them in the dressing rooms corridor. The performance was still going onstage, so dancers darted here and there.
The men did not stop there, but continued down a twisty flight of stairs into the bowels of the theater.