Cinderella Six Feet Under(56)

“Because I wished to speak to you of this matter in person. It would not do to send detailed messages about these sorts of things. Anyone might read them. Which reminds me—I asked the concierge at my hotel to make inquiries regarding Henrietta at hotels and steamship offices.”

“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.”