Cinderella Six Feet Under (12 page)

“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.”

T
he 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 cried.

“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.”

Gabriel bounded out of the carriage, instructed the driver to follow Grant, and leapt back in. They were off. But only one block later, Grant got in line to board an omnibus.

“Dash it,” Gabriel said. “Come on.” He helped Miss Flax out, paid the driver, and they climbed onto the packed omnibus just before it reeled forward.

“There he is,” Miss Flax whispered. “He's going upstairs.” A curved flight of steps at the back of the omnibus led to the open-air level.

“Good, then. He won't see us, and we will be able to see him exit if we keep watching the stair.”

The omnibus traveled a few blocks, made a turn, and then lurched and stopped all the way down the Rue de Rivoli until they had almost arrived in Le Marais. But it turned again and passed over the Seine and alongside Notre Dame, and then they were in the Latin Quarter.

At the Rue Saint-Séverin stop, Grant hurried down the omnibus stairs and into the street. Gabriel and Miss Flax followed.

The streets here were narrow and the old, mismatched buildings somehow suggested a child's toy blocks. Cramped shops displayed dingy wares, and cafes emanated cigarette fumes and bitter coffee. Presently, Grant pushed through a pair of chipped blue doors.

Miss Flax stopped. Rain dripped from her bonnet brim onto her nose. Gabriel ignored the urge to wipe the drop gently away.

“If this is where Mr. Grant lives,” Miss Flax said, “why, we might be waiting here all day for him to come back outside.”

“Perhaps we might learn the number of his apartment. That would be a start.”

“A start to what? You don't mean you would housebreak?”

“I prefer to call it reconnaissance. And I seem to recall that you, Miss Flax, are not entirely ill-disposed towards the practice yourself.”

The doors weren't locked, and they went into a dark little vestibule that smelled of mildew and garlic. An iron railing marked the foot of a staircase.

A squat lady, hands on her hips and her back to them, was bickering with a man. She was doubtless the concierge. Parisian concierges were like dragons guarding the mouths of caves, only instead of breathing fire, they breathed gossip. Luckily, the concierge was too consumed by her tirade, and the man was too frightened of the concierge, for either to notice Gabriel and Miss Flax.

“What's she going on about?” Miss Flax whispered.

“Something about burst pipes.”

Gabriel was prepared to wait and then simply ask the concierge where Caleb Grant's apartment was located. But Miss Flax disappeared through a doorway on the other side of the vestibule and returned a few moments later. She tugged his sleeve, saying, “I've got a notion.”

“Not another one.”

“Don't be such a curmudgeon.”

Gabriel hid his smile and followed Miss Flax through the door. A dank flight of stairs led to a cellar cluttered with mops, buckets, and rags, lit only by one high window. Cobwebs swagged the corners. Water pooled across the floor.

“What are we doing down here?” Gabriel asked. “Not everything need be so very theatrical, you realize.”

“I'm not being theatrical. We cannot very well rap upon Mr. Grant's door and announce that we've followed him all the way across the city, that we suspect him of murder, and that he'd better hand over his parcel.”

“I had conceived a somewhat subtler plan, but I do see your point.”

Miss Flax pulled some sort of filthy garment from a peg on the wall.

“You don't mean to disguise yourself,” Gabriel said.

“No. I don't need a disguise, because Mr. Grant only saw me dressed as Mrs. Brand. I mean to disguise
you
.”

*   *   *

Two minutes later,
Gabriel's Savile Row suit was covered by a damp, gray workman's smock that smelled of either underarms or overripe Gruyère, and baggy drawstring trousers. He had changed from his own gleaming shoes into muddy-soled boots, and stashed his kidskin gloves, felt hat, and greatcoat in an empty crate.