Cinderella Six Feet Under

by Maia Chance

  Prue knew what Ma would say: Splendid work, sugarplum! Now reel him in! Easy does it—don’t allow him to slip the hook.

  “If you stay with me, Miss Prudence, I shall take care of you,” Dalziel said. “You require someone to take care of you.”

  Prue thought of Hansel. He didn’t seem to reckon she required care. She stole a glance at the nuns, black domed shapes in rows. “Will you help me go to my friend, Ophelia? Take me in a closed carriage, maybe? I’ve been trying to figure how to get hold of her without being seen or having some spy of a messenger boy read my note—not that I’ve got any money for a messenger boy, anyway, and I’m not sure if I could find the Malbert mansion again even if I tried—”

  “Yes.”

  Prue sighed with relief. “Then let’s go.”

  * * *

  Ophelia dressed that morning in her Mrs. Brand disguise. The bombazine gown was, of course, the only one she had at this point. She’d stitched up the rip the mechanical bear had made the best she could, with a needle and thread from her theatrical case. But she didn’t need to wear the Mrs. Brand cosmetics. She was no longer camped out at Hôtel Malbert.

  “And anyway,” she said to the turtle, “everyone and their grandma seems to have caught on to my disguises.”

  The turtle munched lettuce on the rug.

  The real reason Ophelia was wearing the complete Mrs. Brand disguise was that she required something to hide behind after that shameful kiss in the carriage last night.

  She went down to the front desk in the lobby and somehow made it understood that there was a small turtle occupying her suite, and that neither he nor his washbasin were to be disturbed.

  The clerk smiled and nodded, but as Ophelia was marching away he muttered, “Dame folle.”

  Didn’t sound too flattering.

  Penrose’s eyes widened when Ophelia plopped down in the chair opposite his in the hotel dining room. He set aside the newspaper he’d been reading. He looked clean and pressed and combed, and he had a plaster on the top of one of his ears.

  “Seems like we’re back to square one again,” Ophelia said.

  “Square one? What do you—ah. You refer to the stomacher. To Miss Bright.”

  “What else could I be referring to?” Ophelia knew exactly what else she could be referring to, but she’d made up her mind to pretend it had never happened. “This is a fine scenario, isn’t it? Here we are dining in a hoity-toity hotel while Prue and her mother are who knows where, and a mad velocipede rider might pedal in at any moment, bandying a revolver about, or the police might come rushing in to arrest me, supposing Malbert—or Madame Fayette or that nasty lawyer—told them I’m an impostor, or the police might come for you, Professor, after our interlude in Colifichet’s workshop last night—”

  “We will tend to each obstacle as it arises.”

  How could he be so calm?

  “I have given it some thought,” Penrose said, “and I feel I must visit the lawyer Cherrien again. Alone. Perhaps at his home.”

  “You mean to squeeze something out of him?”

  “No one is talking—or if they do, I fancy they’re lying. The police are useless. Yet Henrietta and Miss Bright are still missing, and learning the identity of Cherrien’s client seems to be the key to it all. By the way . . . Mrs. Brand again?”

  “Would you please pass the butter?”

  “You needn’t keep yourself in such a state of discomfort.”

  “One never knows who one might meet.” Ophelia’s eyes fell on a large form lumbering towards them. “You see?”

  “Lord Harrington!” the Count de Griffe said.

  Penrose stood. “Please, join my aunt and me,” he said to Griffe. He threw Ophelia a dark look.

  Ophelia took Griffe’s proffered hand. “Count! How delightful to meet you again.”

  “And you, madame.” Griffe kissed her hand. “I trust that you have not met with any more trials dangereux since we last met at the exhibition hall, eh?” He pulled up a chair.

  “No, thank heavens. When I told my niece, Miss Stonewall—”

  Penrose stirred his coffee noisily.

  “—how you had rescued me, Count, she was most captivated. She thinks highly of you, very highly indeed.”

  “That is flattering, madame, for your niece is a sparkling diamond, a rare flower, among women.” Griffe cleared his throat. “What did she say about me?”

  “Oh, it has simply flown from my mind. My memory, dear young man, is not what it once was.”

  Penrose took a loud sip of coffee.

  Griffe studied Ophelia’s face. She prayed her cosmetic crinkles were holding up.

  “Madame,” Griffe said, “they say that when one regards a young lady’s elder kinswomen, one peers, as into an enchanted mirror, into the future. It seems that Mademoiselle Stonewall’s future is bright.” His voice dropped a half octave. “Even, may I say, très belle.”

  Penrose’s cup clattered in its saucer.

  “Oh! Well, I cannot even think what you mean,” Ophelia said in a fluttery, matronly way.

  The maître d’hôtel whispered something in Penrose’s ear. Penrose frowned. He stood, threw his napkin on his chair, and said, “Excuse me Mrs. Brand, Count de Griffe. It seems I’ve a visitor in the lobby.”

  “I am greatly anticipating Prince Rupprecht’s ball,” Ophelia said to Griffe, as she watched Penrose’s retreat. “Have you been to his château before?”

  “Oui. It is a beautiful estate. You will enjoy it very much.”

  “And you have known the prince for many years?”

  “Ten years. Perhaps more. We met in Rome. When he arrived in Paris several months ago, he looked me up.”

  “I’m told Prince Rupprecht plans to make a grand announcement tomorrow evening, at the ball. Some believe he intends to announce a bride.”

  “A bride! Prince Rupprecht is a sworn bachelor. And if he changed that and did take a wife, why, I would pity the poor lady who had become so entangled.”

  “Oh? I’m acquainted with more than one lady who would be delighted to marry Prince Rupprecht. He is titled, wealthy, handsome.”

  “You think him . . . handsome?” Griffe sagged. “Oui, I suppose he is. But he will never marry. Mark my words.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is . . . discontented with ladies.”

  Ophelia frowned. “At the ballet, it seemed—I mean, according to my niece—that he rather enjoyed the dancers.”

  “I cannot think, Madame Brand, why you are so anxious to learn of the prince’s marital prospects. Does Mademoiselle Stonewall wish to know?”

  “No, no. You see, my youngest niece, Abigail, wrote to me and inquired about the prince. She is the prettiest of the Stonewall sisters, and her mama has high hopes that she will make a great match in Europe someday.”

  “Ah! Mademoiselle Stonewall’s sister? Je comprends.” Griffe brightened. “Write to your niece Abigail and tell her that she should not give Prince Rupprecht another thought.” He lowered his voice. “He is a scoundrel. A cad. If Abigail is anything like you and Mademoiselle Stonewall, then she is a petite beauty. But for the prince, that is not enough. He is tired of ladies. He would tire of her, for no lady is ever perfect enough for him. He imagines he is like the Prince Charming, searching for his Cinderella, but she will never be found. He grows impatient. He searches high and low. But every lady has a flaw—too short, too tall, too fat, too thin. Big feet, small feet. A crooked tooth. A donkey’s laugh. Non, Prince Rupprecht will never find a bride. And, eh! He does not deserve to.”

  Ophelia stared at Griffe. “Cinderella? Did the prince say he is searching for Cinderella?”

  “Oui, although I cannot think why a grown man has his head in a muddle over a child’s fairy story.”

  How could she have been so blind? Prince Rupprecht was the murder
er. He tired of ladies. He went through them like racehorses, it seemed. And what did people do with old racehorses who couldn’t cut it anymore?

  They shot them.

  28

  The maître d’hôtel led Gabriel out to Hôtel Meurice’s lobby, with its marble floors and white-and-gold pillars. Gabriel wasn’t certain if leaving Miss Flax and Griffe was a relief or a danger—because it was obvious that Miss Flax was attempting to get his goat by flirting with the chap. Griffe appeared ready to propose marriage to Mrs. Brand, Miss Stonewall, or both.

  Gabriel couldn’t complain. After all, he had his understanding (of sorts) with Miss Ivy Banks. Not that it had been the memory of Miss Banks kissing him that had kept him up half the night.

  A handsome, olive-complexioned young gentleman stood against a wall, holding a bowler hat in his hands. A young nun stood beside him.

  “This is the gentleman who summoned me?” Gabriel asked the maître d’hôtel in French.

  The maître d’hôtel nodded and glided away.

  “Well I’ll be!” the nun shouted. “Professor Penrose! It really is you! What’s happened to your ear?”

  “Miss Bright! Good heavens! Are you all right?”

  “Fine as frog hair.” She grinned.

  “But why are you got up like a nun?”

  “I was with the nuns. At the Pensionnat Sainte Estelle.”

  Sainte Estelle. Gabriel’s breath caught. Sybille Pinet’s landlady had said Sybille had come from a convent that had been named something to do with stars—and Estelle meant star. “Is that a convent orphanage?” he asked Prue.

  “They’ve got a school, but it ain’t an orphanage. The students there got families, it sounded like.”

  Gabriel cursed his own stupidity. He’d only gotten a list of all the convent orphanages in Paris, but Sybille hadn’t been an orphan when she’d entered the school.

  “Lord Harrington,” the young man said in a refined Scottish accent.

  Gabriel turned to him. “Good morning, Monsieur—?”

  “Crawley. Dalziel Crawley.”

  Good God.

  “Miss Bright,” Gabriel said, “step away from this man. He is dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? Dalziel’s my friend.”

  Gabriel studied Dalziel. He appeared to be intelligent, kind, and, most important, sane.

  “I am my grandparents’ ward,” Dalziel said.

  Ah. That explained quite a lot.

  “I found your card, with this hotel’s name jotted on the back, amongst Grandmother’s things,” Dalziel said. “I knew I could bring Miss Prudence to you. She cannot return to Hôtel Malbert.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’d like to go and get Ophelia,” Prue said, “back at the Malbert house.”

  “Miss Flax is here,” Gabriel said.

  * * *

  “Madame Brand, I must go.” The Count de Griffe stood, and treated Ophelia’s hand to another smooch. As he bent, beads of sweat dripped from his brow.

  Was Griffe sweating it out on account of what he’d revealed about Prince Rupprecht? Or was it because of his peculiar passion for Miss Stonewall?

  Griffe straightened. “Madame, I beg you, where is your niece now?”

  “Oh, shopping for perfume. Or did she say she was going with friends to a panorama exhibition? I simply cannot recall.”

  “Edifying herself, eh? An intelligent young lady. I have the utmost regard for intelligent ladies. Please, madame, would you ask your niece to accompany me to Prince Rupprecht’s ball on the morrow?”

  “I really don’t think she—”

  “Madame, my very happiness depends upon it. Without her at my side tomorrow, I shall wilt in sorrow, decay like the—”

  “Very well. I will ask her.”

  “Ah, bon. I shall leave here this afternoon for the countryside. I hope to have her answer by then.”

  Griffe loped away. Poor lovesick critter. If he only knew the truth about his soap and tallow heiress from Cleveland, Ohio.

  * * *

  The reunion of Miss Flax and Miss Bright was quite as noisy and teary—the tears were on Miss Bright’s side—as Gabriel expected. They brought Miss Bright and the young Mr. Dalziel Crawley up to Miss Flax’s suite of rooms and ordered food and drink for Miss Bright. She requested flapjacks and bacon; Gabriel told the waiter to bring strawberry crêpes and jambon de Bayonne.

  It took a quarter of an hour to hear Prue’s story.

  “You ought to have told me about Hume,” Miss Flax said to Prue.

  Although Miss Flax’s voice was scolding, Gabriel saw the tenderness in her eyes. Besides which, she was hand-feeding strawberries to a turtle. Apropos of nothing, it occurred to Gabriel that Miss Flax would make an excellent mother. Miss Ivy Banks would, naturally, always have regiments of nursemaids to help rear her offspring, and Gabriel supposed that was for the best. Miss Banks seemed to care more for her King Charles Spaniel than she did for her nieces and nephews.

  Miss Flax set the turtle on the carpet, stood, and paced over to the windows.

  “What is it, Miss Flax?” Gabriel asked.

  She turned, holding her elbows tightly in cupped hands. “In all the excitement about finding Prue, I forgot to mention that I fancy I’ve worked out who the murderer is.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Gabriel said.

  Prue took a large bite of whipped cream. Dalziel leaned forward in his chair.

  “Prince Rupprecht,” Miss Flax said. She recounted how Griffe had invited Miss Stonewall to accompany him to the ball, and what he’d said about Prince Rupprecht’s discontentedness with ladies. “The prince is mad about the Cinderella story—we already knew that, right, once we learned he’d commissioned the ballet? Now, what I figure is, Prince Rupprecht became acquainted with girls from the ballet company—with Caleb Grant’s assistance, probably—and dressed them up like Cinderella in the gown and such. That’s why he wishes to have the stomacher tomorrow—to give it to whomever this new lady is. The one he means to introduce at the ball.”

  “You’re suggesting that Prince Rupprecht is Monsieur Cherrien’s client?” Gabriel said.

  “Yes. And recall how spooked he was yesterday about ghosts, tossing that coin of his? And how he didn’t wish me to peer into that chamber with all those . . . artworks? Well, I’d wager that chamber was where it all happened. Sybille was there, wearing the Cinderella gown and stomacher so she’d look the part for him. And then, something happened—an argument? Or perhaps she said she was leaving for New York?—and he shot her. Then he brought her to Hôtel Malbert and left her in the garden.”

  “What about the stomacher?” Gabriel asked.

  “He lost it somehow, or someone took it. And he’s desperate to have it back.”

  “Hold it,” Prue said. “Prince Rupprecht was at the party that night.”

  “He could’ve placed Sybille in the garden before the party,” Miss Flax said. “Or he might have simply stepped away—he could’ve said that he wished to smoke a cigarette outside—and then transported Sybille from his carriage to the garden.”

  “We should go to the police,” Gabriel said.

  “We could,” Miss Flax said slowly. “Or . . . we might trap the prince into a confession ourselves.”

  “A trap?”

  “Yes. I’ve just had a dinger of a notion. To begin with, Miss Stonewall must accept the Count de Griffe’s invitation to accompany him to the ball tomorrow evening.”

  “The ball?” Gabriel asked.

  Miss Flax nodded.

  “Well, then, Miss Flax,” Gabriel said, “you must have something splendid to wear.”

  * * *

  Ophelia scrubbed off her Mrs. Brand face, but by necessity she still wore the bombazine gown and taffeta bonnet when she and Professor Penrose walked to Maison Fayette thirty minu
tes later. Penrose kept taking big breaths, as though he were about to say something. But he said nothing, and strolled beside her with his hands in his pockets and a creased brow.

  They waited a long while after Penrose rapped on Maison Fayette’s door.

  “Sounds like no one’s there,” Ophelia said. “Wait. I hear something.”

  Footsteps came closer, and the door was opened by the seamstress Josie.

  “Hello, Josie,” Ophelia said. “Is Madame Fayette within?”

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle Stonewall. No, Madame departed for her villa at the seashore in Deauville.”

  “The seashore? In November? Hasn’t she ever so much work to do? Prince Rupprecht’s ball is tomorrow.”

  “Her work is finished.”

  “All of the ball gowns are done?”

  “Non. But as I said, her work is finished. The other seamstresses and I still have much to complete before tomorrow.”

  Ophelia hated heaping more work on Josie’s plate, but they were attempting to trap a murderer. “Josie, is the ball gown you were to finish for me complete—or passable enough to wear in public?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle. I did not know where to send it—Madame Fayette did not tell me—and it is waiting in a box in the shop. So, too, is the green visiting gown and the velvet paletot. Come in, please. Wait here in the foyer and I shall go fetch them.”

  Ophelia and Penrose stepped inside and waited in silence.

  “Here you are, Mademoiselle Stonewall.” Josie returned with two big, flat boxes. “The ball gown, the visiting gown, the paletot, and a hat and dancing slippers. Please do enjoy the ball. I am told that Prince Rupprecht’s château is very beautiful, fit for a princess indeed.”

  Penrose took the boxes.

  “Josie, forgive me,” Ophelia said, “but has Madame Fayette ever mentioned Prince Rupprecht to you or, perhaps, to a customer in your presence?”

  Josie’s eyes filled with tears. “You ask me again, Mademoiselle Stonewall, to gossip. To risk my job. Poor Maman—”

  “I know, Josie, but there is a murderer still at large.”

  Josie’s eyes widened. “You believe Prince Rupprecht is the murderer?”