Cinderella Six Feet Under

by Maia Chance

  However, Miss Flax’s antics yesterday had done nothing to ease the tug Gabriel felt towards her. The antidote had, somehow, already worn off.

  When the waiter arrived with more coffee, he deposited two envelopes on the tablecloth.

  “These were delivered to the front desk,” the waiter said. He poured coffee from a silver pot, and left.

  One envelope was stark white, with a tidy, clerical hand that read Lord Harrington. The second envelope was damp and slightly crumpled. Professor Penrose, it read, and Gabriel recognized Miss Flax’s uneven handwriting.

  There. You see? She even had flawed penmanship. Better to think of Miss Ivy Banks’s hand, which might’ve been in a schoolroom primer.

  Gabriel tore open Miss Flax’s envelope with the butter knife.

  Strange developments. Must speak with you. Will be waiting in the Place des Vosges at ten o’clock.—O.F.

  Place des Vosges was a small park a few blocks from Hôtel Malbert. Miss Flax had doubtless looked it up in that Baedeker she was forever lugging about. He was somewhat alarmed at her message, but surely if it was an emergency she would have said so.

  Gabriel sliced open the second envelope.

  An excessively grand letterhead, with a scrolled design of waves and dolphins, declared M. T. S. Cherrien (Avocat) 116 Avenue des Champs-Élysées.

  Ah. Perhaps Cherrien had found a spare moment before January, then.

  The note was in English.

  Lord Harrington,

  I expect your presence at my office this morning at nine o’clock, regarding a most pressing matter. Your discretion is necessary.

  —M. Cherrien

  Oh-ho! He expected Gabriel’s presence, did he? Gabriel was accustomed to persons, if not scraping before him, at least addressing him as a respected equal. This Cherrien chap deserved to have his insulting summons crumpled and abandoned among the bread crusts.

  Yet curiosity trumped pride. Gabriel glanced at his pocket watch. Eight thirty-seven. He downed the last of his coffee and stood.

  * * *

  Ophelia had been up since the crack of dawn. Once she’d sent off the note to the professor at his hotel, she’d fallen to pacing and fretting in her chamber. The vision of those white feet bobbing in the brining vat was just about enough to make her pack up Prue and their carpetbags and put them on the first train to anywhere.

  But Ophelia had never been one to run from problems. They usually caught up to you again, anyway. And Henrietta was yet to be found.

  Ophelia looked through the window into the sky. Gray clouds bulged. Another rainy day. She glanced down into the garden, and averted her eyes from the vegetable patch.

  Motion caught her eye, over by the carriage house.

  Good gracious. There was the coachman Henri, standing in the carriage house doorway. He spoke with a lady whose back was turned. A slim lady in a hooded cloak. Eglantine, maybe?

  Ophelia watched. Henri’s exchange with the lady was brief. His shoulders hunched, and the lady kept glancing over her shoulder. Then Henri went inside and the lady hurried towards the house.

  Her hood fell back in her haste.

  It wasn’t Eglantine. It was Miss Seraphina Smythe.

  She disappeared through the carriageway arch.

  Ophelia checked the mantelpiece clock. Almost nine o’clock. She went to fetch Prue.

  Prue was still abed.

  “Prue? Prue, wake up. Don’t you want breakfast?” Ophelia wiggled Prue’s shoulder.

  The fat ginger cat on the pillow yawned and stretched a foreleg. Prue muttered something, rolled over, and went back to sawing gourds.

  Petered out from all that house drudgery. Ophelia would leave her to sleep. She went downstairs to the breakfast room.

  Ophelia’s stomach lurched at the sight of Malbert’s bald head gleaming above a newspaper at the head of the table. Eglantine and Austorga slumped across from each other, eating in silence. They both wore irritable expressions, and each had a peculiar oily sheen to her face.

  Where was Miss Smythe?

  “Good morning, everyone!” Ophelia said, forcing a cheery, matronly tone. She plopped down next to Eglantine.

  Malbert peeped over his newspaper but said nothing.

  Those pickled feet. Ugh.

  “Good morning, Madame Brand,” Austorga said. She took a bite of pastry—holding it, Ophelia noted, with her right hand. Not her left. A few pastry flakes clung to her oily cheeks.

  “Mm,” Eglantine sighed, stirring her coffee. She held her spoon with her right hand. Not her left.

  Beatrice plodded in. She brought the coffeepot from the sideboard and poured Ophelia a cup. Greasy hairs hung loose from her bun, and she smelled faintly of soured wine. She flung a pastry on a plate in front of Ophelia, and left.

  The family crunched and sipped in silence. Malbert turned a page of his newspaper. With his right hand, not his left.

  “Did you enjoy the ballet yesterday evening?” Ophelia asked.

  Malbert’s newspaper froze. Eglantine sputtered on her coffee.

  Austorga said, “Oh! Most exciting. There was a murder! It was the same murderer as the girl in the garden, too, and the police have caught him.”

  “Indeed?” Ophelia carefully placed her coffee cup in its saucer. Still, it rattled. “The madman of the streets?”

  “Yes. He was seen by several people fleeing from the opera house—with blood on his hands, and raving about someone paying him to kill! Quite mad.”

  Ophelia frowned. Perhaps she’d been wrong in thinking the madman was innocent. Perhaps he was a killer . . . for hire.

  “Someone caught him and held him until the gendarmes arrived,” Austorga said. “Who was it that caught him, sister dear?”

  “The apprentice lad from Monsieur Colifichet’s shop,” Eglantine said. “Must we speak of this?”

  “Pierre,” Malbert said.

  They all stared at him; it was the first word he’d said.

  “The apprentice is named Pierre,” Malbert said.

  “Yes, well, Pierre caught the murderer—he frequents the opera house because Monsieur Colifichet, his master, designed the sets for Cendrillon—and he is being treated as quite a hero by the police.”

  “It is good, Madame Brand, oui?” Malbert blinked at Ophelia. “The murderer is caught. We will sleep soundly tonight.”

  “But what of the Marquise Henrietta?” Ophelia asked. “It wouldn’t do to forget her.”

  “She will return,” Malbert said. He raised his newspaper.

  “Oh! Réglisse!” Eglantine shrieked. “Non!”

  A rotund cat had leapt onto Eglantine’s lap and was licking her oily cheek. “Non! Vilain! Vilain chat!” She shoved Réglisse. He thumped to the floor and licked his lips.

  Eglantine wiped her face with a napkin.

  “What has Miss Smythe told you this time?” Ophelia asked.

  “Nothing,” Eglantine snapped.

  “Beef lard face pack,” Austorga said. “For a dewy complexion. Only two more days till the prince’s ball.”

  “Dewy complexion?” Ophelia said. “My dear girls, I’m afraid beef lard will give you nothing but spots.”

  Baldewyn appeared and announced something in French. Ophelia only understood Mademoiselle Smythe.

  Ophelia bolted to her feet. “Excuse me,” she murmured.

  Eglantine looked quizzical. Ophelia patted her stomach in explanation. Didn’t dignified matrons always suffer from digestive afflictions?

  Ophelia rushed past Baldewyn and intercepted Seraphina in the corridor.

  “Good morning, Miss Smythe,” Ophelia said.

  “Mrs. Brand. Good morning.” Seraphina’s spectacles were fogged. “Are the Misses Malbert ready? We are going to the shoemaker’s to fetch our dancing shoes for the ball. Mother is waiting in t
he carriage.”

  Ophelia lowered her voice. “I won’t beat around the bush, young lady. Why were you speaking with the coachman a few minutes ago?”

  “Did my mother instruct you to spy upon me?”

  “I happened to notice your rendezvous with Henri from my window, and I demand an explanation for your subterfuge.”

  “It was hardly a rendezvous, and I assure you there wasn’t a jot of subterfuge. I do not owe you explanations of any kind, Mrs. Brand, but since you are a dotty old woman with a passion for prying—Miss Eglantine was quite right about that—I shall tell you. I was simply asking Henri if he had found a dropped glove of mine in the carriage.”

  “Oh.” Ophelia swallowed. “Well. The Misses Malbert are still at the table. I shall accompany you there.”

  20

  The stepsisters left the house with Seraphina a few minutes later, and Ophelia was alone with Malbert at the breakfast table. She wished to be alone with this doughy little monster like she wished for a splinter in the eye.

  “My dear Monsieur Malbert, I am so glad we are at last able to speak in privacy.”

  The newspaper lowered. “Pourquoi?”

  Ophelia knew pourquoi meant why. In the circus, Madame Treminskaya had always asked her customers pourquoi over her crystal ball, in order to figure out what their fortunes ought to be.

  “Why? Because I have two important questions to ask you.” Ophelia took a deep breath. “First, did the Marquise Henrietta ever see the diamond stomacher you keep in your lockbox at the bank?”

  To Ophelia’s surprise, Malbert’s face dimpled in a smile. “Did my daughters tell you of the stomacher?”

  “Indeed they did.”

  “And I suppose one of them—Eglantine?—enlisted you to convince me to allow her to wear it to the ball?”

  “If you must know . . . yes.”

  “But what does my dear, darling Henrietta have to do with it?”

  Ophelia thought fast. “It occurred to me that perhaps you had given the stomacher to Henrietta and that it was no longer truly in the bank box, and that is why you will not permit either of your daughters to wear it.”

  “No, no, the stomacher is still in the bank. Oui, I showed it to Henrietta, but she preferred to keep for herself different, more fashionable pieces of jewelry instead.”

  “When was this?”

  Malbert blinked rapidly. “I cannot recall. Three or four months ago, perhaps?”

  “Did Henrietta have a key to the bank box?”

  “No, but I share everything with my dear wife.”

  Mighty interesting.

  “That was the last time you laid eyes on the stomacher?” Ophelia asked.

  “Oui.”

  “Monsieur Malbert, I don’t know quite how to put this, and I do realize it is indelicate, but as I have taken it upon myself to look after Miss Bright until her mother has been found, well, might I ask, did Henrietta wish for”—Ophelia lowered her voice to a whisper—“a divorce?”

  “Good heavens, no! We were only married last spring! And we were—are—deeply amoureux.”

  “Yes, I suppose you love everything about Henrietta, such as . . . her feet.”

  “What a strange thing to say, Madame Brand.” Up went the newspaper.

  Well, that was the end of their cozy chat, then.

  * * *

  “Thank you for your punctuality,” Monsieur Cherrien said to Gabriel across a gleaming expanse of desk. “My time is valuable.”

  Cherrien spoke in French, and his voice was only just past the yodeling stage. If Gabriel had seen him on the street, he would have gauged him to be not more than twenty years old. Yet that couldn’t be right. Not unless he had taken up studying the law while still in short pants.

  “Please”—Cherrien gestured to a chair—“sit.”

  Gabriel sat. The chair had evidently been constructed for an elf, because once seated, Gabriel found that his chin was scarcely higher than the edge of the desk.

  “Now then.” Cherrien steepled his hands. “I suppose you are wondering why I have summoned you here this morning.”

  “The thought has flitted through my mind, yes. But first—your secretary did tell you that I called here yesterday morning? Yes? Good. I wished to speak with you regarding the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau. She is a client of yours, I have been led to believe, and she wished for a divorce—”

  Something flashed in Cherrien’s eyes. Alarm? Then it was gone.

  “—and now, as you are doubtless aware, she is missing. What do you know of this affair, Monsieur Cherrien?”

  “Know? Nothing.”

  He was lying. But Gabriel had no means to make him talk.

  Cherrien waved his hand. “I do not have much time. Now. I have learned through certain avenues that you are well aware of the existence of a certain . . . item. An item that holds great significance as a historical relic, a significance that surpasses even its monetary value, which is not to be sneezed at, as I believe you English are fond of saying.”

  “Are we?”

  Cherrien made a chilly little smile. “Cendrillon’s stomacher. I see in your face that you know of it. My client wishes to have it.”

  “And your client is—?”

  “That is confidential.”

  “But your client is aware that it is a priceless relic. That it belonged to Cendrillon, and that some say it is imbued with magical powers.”

  “As a gentleman of the law, it is beyond my capacity to assess the magical attributes of items, although I am willing to believe that it did indeed belong to a real lady who came to be known as Cendrillon. My opinion on the matter is neither here nor there. My client wishes for the stomacher, and it is my job to procure it for—”

  Gabriel held his breath, waiting for Cherrien to slip up and say him or her.

  But Cherrien caught himself. After a pause he said, “I require you to perform the legwork in locating the stomacher. I am a very busy man, and I understand that you are experienced with such things.”

  “Who told you that?” Lady Cruthlach. This had to be her doing.

  “Bring me the stomacher by no later than ten o’clock on Saturday morning.”

  “Why Saturday?”

  “Do not worry yourself with details.”

  “Why would I do this for you? Or for your client?”

  “Because if you do not, I will be forced to go to the police and inform them of an American actress who has, in an exceedingly bizarre fashion, insinuated herself into the household of the Marquis de la Roque-Fabliau. It has a certain—what is it?—a romantic element, does it not? The actress and the earl, scheming to steal Cinderella’s diamond stomacher. Alas, my client grows impatient.”

  Gabriel stood. “Good day, Cherrien.” He went to the door.

  “Get me the stomacher, Lord Harrington,” Cherrien called after him, “or I shall be forced to have your little confidence trickster of an actress arrested.”

  Gabriel attempted not to slam the door as he left.

  * * *

  Just as Ophelia was gathering her Baedeker and reticule—it was almost time to go meet Professor Penrose—there was a knock at her bedchamber door.

  She expected Prue (not that Prue usually knocked). But it was Baldewyn, holding an enormous, flat paperboard box fastened with twine.

  “A delivery for you, madame,” he said with undisguised contempt.

  “Oh, Baldewyn, you are an old pet!” Ophelia gathered the box to her padded bosom and closed the door with her foot.

  She placed the box on her bed. A small tag dangled from the twine: Madame Brand: Enjoy!—Madame Fayette.

  Ophelia unfastened the twine and opened the box. She peeled away layers of tissue. A lovely plaid silk gown.

  Her hands shook as she put the lid on the box and shoved it under the bed. />
  How could this be? The tag on the box said Madame Brand, but Ophelia had told Madame Fayette that her name was Miss Stonewall. She had also taken care to sign the note cancelling the order Miss Stonewall, and she had not included a return address with that note. Madame Fayette must have bribed the courier boy yesterday. And the order had not been cancelled, despite that note.

  Not only was Madame Fayette wise to Ophelia, she was taunting her.

  * * *

  Noble mansions of red brick and yellow stone looked down upon Place des Vosges from all four sides. Tall windows, each with dozens of small, square panes, reflected a blank white sky. Bare linden trees dripped and the fountains didn’t gurgle. No children romped in the grass. Pigeons paced on sandy paths and perched on the statue of Louis XIII on horseback.

  When Gabriel caught sight of Miss Flax on a bench near the statue, he breathed a sigh of relief; she wore her matron’s disguise. He would not be in danger of forgetting himself today, then.

  She jumped to her feet when she caught sight of him and came hurrying down the path, umbrella in one hand, dumpy reticule in the other.

  “Miss Flax, you look pale. At any rate, I suspect you look pale beneath all that muck.”

  “I don’t even know where to begin,” she said, out of breath.

  “What has happened? Your note said—”

  “Oh, my word. The feet.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She told him what she’d seen in Malbert’s workshop. “I tell you, Malbert’s a fiend. A foot fiend! He chops ladies’ dogs off and—and brines them.”

  “The first explanation that comes to mind is that the feet are medical or scientific specimens of some sort. Medical training does, alas, include a certain amount of . . . dissection.”

  “Malbert’s no medical man.”

  “I have also heard of more than one example of the bound foot of a deceased Chinese lady being preserved in fluid for all posterity to inspect.”