Cinderella Six Feet Under(60)

Ophelia and Penrose hid themselves just outside the doorway.

“The wardrobe,” Ophelia whispered. “In the theater it’s a room, not a piece of furniture.”

“Ah.”

They looked in.

The three men stood between two rows of garment racks straight ahead, looking down at a heap of something on the floor. No, not a heap of something. A heap of someone. Of Caleb Grant.

“They are saying that he has been shot in the heart,” Penrose whispered to Ophelia.

One of the gendarmes whipped out a handkerchief, crouched, and picked up something.

“He says that is the murder weapon,” Penrose whispered.

The gendarme held up a small, silver-colored pistol. The cylinder flopped open and a bullet clinked on the floor.

“We had better go,” Penrose said.

*

Truth be told, when Prue escaped the Cruthlach mansion it wasn’t the first time she’d snuck out a window. But the first time had been with Hansel, and she’d been in love. Seemed it wasn’t exactly right to go sneaking out windows with a feller you weren’t in love with. Or—wait. Did that rule only apply when the feller was sneaking in?

Dalziel had placed a ladder outside—it seemed he was as capable as a soldier—and then he’d come to the chamber where Prue was locked up and helped her down to the murky courtyard. A carriage was waiting in the street. Dalziel handed her up.

“That was as easy as falling off a log,” Prue said, breathless.

Dalziel stepped up into the carriage beside her and slammed the door. The carriage started forward. “I’ve had a bit of practice.”

“You don’t say so!”

Dalziel smiled in the dark. “Grandmother has always desired to keep a close watch on me, ever since I was a baby. She said she was afraid the fairies were going to steal me back.”

Fairies?

The drive to the cemetery took only ten minutes or so. Prue had just nodded off when the carriage stopped and Dalziel said, “We are here.”

*

“It is a lady we want,” Professor Penrose said.

Ophelia and Penrose stood in the shadows on an uneven cobbled sidewalk. Across the street, the opera house blazed with light. Only a few carriages rolled by. Overhead, the moon floated behind quick, silvery clouds.

“Because of the lady’s handwriting on the death threat, you mean,” Ophelia said.

“Yes. We are able to rule out the derelict the police are after, for surely he doesn’t have the foresight to write letters in a feigned hand, let alone deliver them.”

“The police said that man preys upon ladies of ill-repute, too. Which Mr. Grant wasn’t.”

“We are also able to rule out Madame Babin and Polina Petrov . . . Miss Flax, you are shaking. Might I lend you my greatcoat?”

“I’ve got my mantle. Well, Henrietta’s mantle.” Ophelia held it up. “It’s only nerves. I always used to get nerves onstage, too, whenever I had a big role. It’ll pass.” She blotted the lumpy shape of Caleb Grant’s corpse from her mind, along with the notion that if she hadn’t gotten sidetracked by Madame Babin in the wings, she might’ve prevented his death. “It looked like a lady penned the death threat, but couldn’t a lady have written it out for a gentleman murderer? Or couldn’t a gentleman have pretended a feminine hand?”

“Yes. Although it is noteworthy that Grant was shot with a lady’s pistol—did you see how dainty it was? I believe I even glimpsed floral décor carved on the barrel.”

“A gentleman could shoot a lady’s pistol.”

“True. Did you see how the cylinder fell open to the right when the gendarme held it up?”

“I’m no crackerjack sharpshooter, Professor.”

“It was a left-handed pistol.”

“Oh.”

“The cylinder opens on the right because the shooter holds the gun and pulls the trigger with the left hand, and loads with the right.”

“So the murderer is a southpaw.”

“Perhaps. Or simply a person who possessed, for some reason, a southpaw’s gun.”

The professor’s accent made southpaw sound like the name of a fancy aperitif.

“One thing is certain,” Ophelia said. “The murderer is killing because of the stomacher.”

“It does seem so.”

“Do you think Henrietta is dead?”