Cinderella Six Feet Under

by Maia Chance

  “I could not sleep.” Clara crouched on a stool and picked up a cigarette that had been left burning in an ashtray. The cat leapt away. “I was waiting for him to come and shoot me, too. And I was thinking of Caleb, laid out on a slab at the morgue. To be sure, he always seemed to be laid out on a morgue slab, even in life.” She took a long inhale from her cigarette. The skin about her lips puckered. “But still.”

  “You suppose the murderer is a him?” Ophelia asked.

  “I know the murderer is a him, and he was arrested!”

  “Come now, Madame Babin,” Penrose said. “You know as well as we do that the police have not arrested the true culprit.”

  “The madman had blood on his hands!”

  “He was probably paid to kill,” Ophelia said. “What raving lunatic would have the foresight to write that death threat and feign a lady’s hand in the bargain?”

  “We believe Monsieur Grant’s death was somehow related to his little enterprise of procuring ballet girls for wealthy gentlemen,” Penrose said. “What might you be able to tell me about that?”

  Clara squinted at Penrose through a stream of smoke. “Lord Harrytown, you said you are called?”

  “Harrington.”

  “Yes. A lord. You look just the sort who would pay for Caleb’s services.”

  Penrose’s jaw tightened. “You confirm that there was indeed such an enterprise?”

  “Does it come as a great shock? Those girls parade half unclothed onstage every night. None of them come from respectable backgrounds.”

  Penrose shifted in his chair, and Ophelia knew he was thinking of how she was just such a young lady. She sat even straighter.

  “The girls all desire—and need—the money,” Clara said. “And the men? Bah! To hell with all of them!”

  “Did Madame Fayette blackmail Monsieur Grant?” Ophelia asked.

  “Blackmail? No. Why would she?”

  “Did Madame Fayette write the death threat?”

  “We did not know who wrote it. Someone slipped it under the door here, yesterday afternoon. I told Caleb to leave it alone, but he insisted upon confronting whoever it was. If I had not been waylaid by an insane woman in the stage wings when I was scolding that careless Russian ballerina for staining her costume, he might still be alive.”

  Ophelia fought the peculiar urge to cry. “Are you an employee of the opera house, then?”

  “Yes. I look after the costumes. Why would Madame Fayette blackmail Caleb? We only knew her slightly. She left her position as costume mistress years before Caleb moved to Paris and took the position at the opera house.”

  “He came from America?” Ophelia asked.

  “Yes. Philadelphia. But the Americans are philistines who would not know real art if it smacked them in the face. So Caleb left.”

  “Was Monsieur Grant Sybille Pinet’s father?” Ophelia asked.

  “Good heavens, no.”

  “Speaking of art”—Penrose gestured to the wall behind Clara, the wall filled with watercolors of stage scenery designs—“I noticed a watercolor quite like these in Madame Fayette’s home. I have reason to believe she received it in exchange for keeping quiet about something. Something to do, perhaps, with Caleb’s enterprise and the stomacher. Did Caleb have the stomacher in his possession when he died?”

  Clara sucked her cigarette and nodded.

  “If he gave the murderer the stomacher, why was he shot?” Ophelia asked.

  “How would I know?”

  “Do you know what the stomacher means?”

  “Of course I know.”

  “Because of the ballet costume.”

  “Stupid woman. You do not know.”

  Ophelia lifted her brows. “Know what?”

  “Who I am.”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Not merely the mistress of Caleb!” Clara twitched her shoulders. “My God, everyone believes that! How much I gave up! And for what?”

  Ophelia and Penrose exchanged a glance. Ophelia said, “I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow.”

  Clara tapped ash into a vase full of withered flowers. “I am the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau.”

  Ophelia’s breath caught. “You are Miss Eglantine’s mother? And Miss Austorga’s?”

  “What a curious old auntie you are. Did no one ever warn you that curiosity killed the cat? Yes. Babin is my maiden name.”

  “And Malbert?”

  “Their father. Odious little fungus.”

  “And you are still married?”

  “In the eyes of the church and the state.”

  “What about Henrietta?”

  “Puh! Henrietta! A grasping vixen, that one. She is quite, quite welcome to the putrid slug. Not for a single minute have I ever wished to have Malbert back. I left him many years ago, once our daughters were old enough to do without a mother. I was never very fond of those two, anyway. Ugly creatures. Eglantine is devious, too, and Austorga has a slow wit. She finds me at the opera house now and then, and attempts to engage me in mother-daughter repartee. Disgusting.”

  Not exactly a mother hen, was she? But this explained what Austorga had been doing backstage that night.

  “As the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau,” Penrose said, “—and I suppose you are not lying about that?”

  “Why would I lie? It makes me ill to admit it.”

  “All right then. As the marquise, you must have been aware of your husband’s family’s rather unusual claim to share an ancestor with the lady called Cinderella.”

  Ophelia tapped her toe. How did the professor always manage to steer the ship into the fairy tale channel?

  “Isabeau d’Amboise,” Clara said. “Yes. I never heard the end of it. But they always left out the bit about being descended from the wicked stepmother, too.”

  “Then you were also aware of the provenance of the diamond stomacher,” Penrose said.

  Clara picked up a half-empty wineglass and sniffed it. “Yes.”

  “Surely you noticed that the bodice of the ballet costume replicated the stomacher.”

  “I did. But I thought nothing of it.” She polished off the wine.

  “Why not?”

  “Does it surprise you that I do not much care about that foolish tale and that dreary old stomacher? If you wish to know why the ballet costume replicated the stomacher, you must go and ask Prince Rupprecht. He commissioned the ballet, you know. Caleb told me that he took an inordinate interest in all of the scenery and costume design.”

  Ophelia leaned forward. “Really? Prince Rupprecht?”

  “Would you please leave, now?” Clara rose from her stool and stretched out on the sofa. “I am tired, and weary of this game. Go and play detective somewhere else.”

  * * *

  “Well, scratch the notion of Henrietta wishing to divorce Malbert,” Ophelia said, once they were back in the hired carriage parked in the street. “Because a lady can’t divorce a fellow she’s never been married to.”

  “Perhaps Henrietta had enlisted the lawyer for other reasons entirely.”

  “You mean, maybe Henrietta is the lawyer’s client?”

  “She is connected to him somehow, judging by the half-burned envelope bearing his address in her grate.”

  “But what would Henrietta want with that stomacher?”

  “It is valuable.”

  “But she’s got no right to it, no legal right, since she’s not really Malbert’s wife. Besides, if Henrietta is the lawyer’s client, that would make her the murderer, right? And I can’t see it. Henrietta would double cross anyone, but she wouldn’t kill anyone. Especially not her own daughter.”

  “If Henrietta was not legally married to Malbert, the Misses Eglantine and Austorga, and Malbert himself, do not have credible motives for doing away with Henrietta. They were not bound to
her in any way.”

  “You mean to say, they could have simply kicked her out.”

  “Yes. And now they are keeping it quiet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is shameful in more than one way. Bigamy. Cruelty. And then Henrietta’s daughter found dead in their garden soon after.”

  “I can’t help thinking about those feet, Professor.” Ophelia bent to look at the turtle on the seat. He’d peeked out of his shell, and his curved snout and beady eyes were somehow comforting. “Where is Prue? We aren’t getting any closer to finding her.”

  “I believe we are. Prince Rupprecht commissioned the ballet. He may know why the ballet costume resembled Sybille Pinet’s gown and why it incorporated a replica of the stomacher.”

  “He might know all right, but there’s something in the air. Everyone’s lying like dogs on the floor. Do you know where the prince lives?”

  “No. But I suspect that the Misses Malbert do.”

  * * *

  Hôtel Malbert was quiet when Baldewyn let Ophelia in the front door. Penrose was waiting in the carriage since they had no way to explain his presence.

  “Madame,” Baldewyn muttered as he stalked away.

  “Are the mademoiselles at home?” Ophelia called after him.

  “Non, madame.”

  “What of Monsieur le Marquis?”

  “I could not say, madame.” Baldewyn disappeared through the library door.

  Ophelia thought fast. She had once seen Eglantine writing letters at a desk in the ladies’ salon. Perhaps she kept an address book of some kind there. She hurried to the salon.

  Empty. The remnants of a ladylike repast littered the coffee table. A mouse sat on its haunches beside a half-filled coffee cup, nibbling a pink macaron. Another mouse went at a chocolate bonbon. An obese cat dozed on a nearby chair.

  Ophelia hurried to the dainty writing desk and opened it. Little compartments, lined in yellow silk, were stuffed with papers and envelopes, pens, and bottles of ink. Ophelia rifled through. Everything was in French, but she could read the names on the envelopes. In her haste, a few envelopes drifted to the carpet. She left them. Wait! Here was that addendum to the Prince’s ball he’d sent a few days ago—it was the same large, square envelope, and yes, there was a Paris return address—

  Someone behind her made a dry cough.

  Ophelia held her breath. She straightened and turned.

  Malbert stood in the doorway. His bald pate shone. So did the large, squared-off meat cleaver he held in one hand. In his other hand he held Ophelia’s battered theatrical case by its handle. “Baldewyn told me that you were back. He is a good servant, Baldewyn.”

  “Monsieur Malbert!” Ophelia said, overdoing the imperious matron’s voice just a touch. “I have misplaced an important missive that I—”

  “You may cease the ruse, whoever you are.” Malbert’s eyelids fluttered like a fly’s wings.

  “Whoever I am? Why, what do you—”

  Malbert adjusted his grip on the meat cleaver. He took a step forward.

  Ophelia tried to swallow. Her throat stuck.

  “At first, I did not believe it when Lulu told me of your theatrical case.”

  Lulu. She’d known it was Lulu.

  “But then, oui, I began to see how peculiar you really do seem, madame. Or are you a mademoiselle? You came to my home under false pretenses. Disguised. Lying at every turn. What do you want?”

  “I want to find Prue. To protect her.”

  “Surely that did not require continuing with your ridiculous disguise.” He came still closer.

  The meat cleaver didn’t look especially sharp—thank the heavens for Beatrice’s incompetent housekeeping. But it looked heavy.

  Ophelia pressed herself back against the desk. “Why did you kill Henrietta? Was it on account of your bigamy?”

  That stopped Malbert. His moist lips parted.

  “That’s right. I know you’re still married to Clara Babin. Did Henrietta find out? Is that why you got rid of her?”

  “I would never have harmed my darling, precious Henrietta.”

  “Do you mean to hack off my feet?” Ophelia’s voice shook. “Just like you did to Henrietta? Hack them off and pop them in a pickling vat?”

  Malbert’s eyes fell to Ophelia’s large, worn boots, just visible below the hem of her bombazine gown. “Hacking off your feet would indeed be an undertaking.”

  Ophelia flicked her eyes around the room. Malbert stood in the path to the door—the only door—but there were the tall windows overlooking the street. She could make a side step and take her chances with the windows.

  Only—she glanced back to Malbert—only he had her theatrical case. Her trusty theatrical case that she’d carted around with her from circus to variety hall and all the way over here to Europe. True, the greasepaints, wigs, and false muttonchops in there had gotten her into a fair amount of trouble. But they’d also gotten her out of trouble.

  Malbert edged closer.

  It was now or never.

  Ophelia folded the prince’s envelope in half and stuffed it into her bodice, sideways between two buttons. She lunged towards Malbert.

  He swung the meat cleaver high.

  She snatched the theatrical case from his weak grip and darted to the side. She fancied she felt the breeze of the whizzing meat cleaver behind her. She ran to the windows and swept aside the draperies. There. The latch. She fumbled with it but her fingers were for some reason like clumsy sausages.

  “I will not allow you to go!” Malbert said behind her. Thumping footsteps coming closer, and she’d bet the farm that he was still brandishing that cleaver.

  Ophelia hefted the theatrical case and bashed the window. Glass shards showered down. She climbed onto the low sill, hugged her theatrical case to her chest, and jumped. Her skirts poofed like a parachute. She landed on two feet on the sidewalk, hip pads bouncing.

  Penrose was halfway out of the carriage. Shock slackened his face as he watched her galloping towards him, but he said nothing. He bundled her and then himself into the carriage and slammed the door. They jostled forward.

  Ophelia couldn’t breathe or speak. Her heart raced. She looked out the carriage window just in time to glimpse Malbert staring out the shattered window. She pulled the folded envelope from her bodice and waved it. “I’ve got Prince Rupprecht’s address,” she said, panting.

  25

  By the time they reached Prince Rupprecht’s house, Ophelia had straightened her wig and, since she had her theatrical case right there on her lap, she had done some repairs to her face. Professor Penrose had watched the proceedings with interest and, Ophelia fancied, slight alarm.

  Prince Rupprecht resided in a stately, white stone mansion behind spiked iron gates. The drapes were all drawn.

  “You need not come in, Miss Flax,” Penrose said. “Perhaps you should rest after your ordeal with the—”

  Ophelia was already halfway out the carriage door.

  “At least allow me to ask the questions of Prince Rupprecht,” Penrose said. “He strikes me as the sort who only feels regard for gentlemen’s conversation.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  The front gates were ajar, and a dignified manservant answered their knock on the door.

  Penrose said something about the prince in French and passed his card. He had to be running low on those cards by now. He passed them out like show bills.

  The servant led them into a foyer and disappeared.

  “Looks like we’ve come just in the nick of time,” Ophelia whispered. She pointed to the pile of traveling trunks at the base of a lavish marble staircase. “He must be setting off for his château.”

  “I am, I am!” a voice boomed above them. Prince Rupprecht trotted down the stairs. “Lord Harrington! What a charming surprise.
” He reached the foot of the stairs, and surveyed Ophelia in her matronly disguise. “Good afternoon, madame,” he said in a bored voice.

  Penrose once again introduced Ophelia as his aunt. “I would very much like to have a word with you, Prince Rupprecht, if you have the time.”

  “I am just about to set off for Château de Roche, but certainly, certainly. Come this way.”

  Prince Rupprecht led Ophelia and the professor down a wide corridor filled with chandeliers and statues of voluptuous ladies, and through tasseled curtains into a sitting room. He went straight to a sideboard and poured out two brandies. He passed one to Penrose—completely ignoring Ophelia—and fell into a thronelike chair.

  Ophelia and Penrose sat.

  Penrose laid aside the brandy and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I shan’t waste your time. I was told you commissioned the ballet Cendrillon at the opera house. Why?”

  “Why?” Prince Rupprecht swirled his brandy. “I am a newcomer to this city, Lord Harrington. My land, Slavonia, is thought to be backward by the Parisians. Provincial. Some even say barbaric. I wish to make France my home, however, and so, to earn the respect of the people here, I commissioned the ballet. At great expense, true, but it proves, I think, that Prince Rupprecht of Slavonia belongs here, at the center of the civilized world. Not in a backwater.”

  And Ophelia thought she was touchy about being a bumpkin.

  “Why do you ask, Lord Harrington?”

  “I was considering commissioning a ballet myself, as it happens.”

  What a tall tale! But Prince Rupprecht seemed to buy it; he nodded.

  “Another fairy tale ballet, I fancy,” Penrose said.

  Prince Rupprecht grunted what sounded like approval and finished off his brandy. He placed the glass on the carpet and lounged back in his chair.

  “‘The Sleeping Beauty,’ perhaps,” Penrose said. “I enjoyed that tale as a lad. But I must get the sets and the costumes just so, and I was told that you, Prince Rupprecht, took great care over the costumes and scenery of Cendrillon.”

  “Who told you that?”