Cinderella Six Feet Under(63)

Malbert and the stepsisters had been at the opera house tonight. Each one of them might have a reason to kill for the stomacher. After all, it was their family heirloom. Ophelia was only a little comforted by the notion that the murderer wouldn’t do Prue or her any harm, since it was the stomacher the murderer was after. Still, being under the same roof as that bunch was downright eerie.

Ophelia mulled things over. There had to be something she’d missed, some crucial ingredient that would make it all firm up and set, like calf’s-foot jelly in fruit preserves.

There was the lawyer. They hadn’t been able to speak with him, and Ophelia had never managed to have a cozy chat with Malbert in order to extract any divorce secrets. But other than that, all of this business about the ballet and the Cinderella stomacher? Befuddling.

Except.

Except Malbert always seemed removed, as though the events around him did not quite touch him. But what if he were really the center of it all? Henrietta, after all, was his wife. Sybille’s corpse had been found just outside his workshop. The stomacher that everyone was so interested in belonged by rights to Malbert, and had come from his bank box. Malbert had even had the opportunity, perhaps, to shoot Caleb Grant at the opera house tonight.

Ophelia sat forward. What was it Austorga had said at the exhibition this afternoon? Something about Malbert and inventions? Oh, yes: something like, Danger is the price one pays for scientific advancement.

Danger. Sybille had met with danger, and so had Caleb Grant.

Yes. It was high time Ophelia took a gander at Malbert’s workshop.

She lit a taper, drew on her shawl, and tiptoed though dark corridors and stairs to his workshop. She knocked softly on the door, but there was no reply. Good thing, too, since she wasn’t in her Mrs. Brand disguise.

She twisted the knob. It gave.

Well. Surely if Malbert stored diabolical things in his workshop, he’d keep the door locked.

Inside, wet wax extinguished her taper. Smoke and darkness filled her eyes. She should’ve brought spare matches.

She blinked. Her eyes adjusted. The draperies were open, admitting fragile moonbeams that glinted off bits of metal on the table. When Ophelia had spied upon Malbert through the window last week, her impression had been of piles of mechanical disarray. Now she saw that the piles were sorted: springs in one, bolts in another, and so on. She squinted. There certainly could be the makings of a pistol in there—a left-handed pistol—but she couldn’t be sure. She picked up a box, like the one Malbert had been tinkering with the other night. It was a hollow metal cube, big enough for a large apple to fit inside, and one end was open. Peculiar.

Ophelia noticed a wooden cabinet against the wall. One door was wedged open a few inches. She replaced the metal cube on the table.

She went to the cabinet and opened the door. The hinges squeaked.

Once her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that the cupboard’s shelves were bare, except for—

A sob of horror fell out of her mouth.

Except for a glass jar the size of a small butter churn, filled with brownish liquid like a brining jar. Except there weren’t any gherkins or dills in this jar. No. In this jar, two fair, dainty feet bobbed inside. A lady’s feet. In a brining vat.

Ophelia slammed the cupboard door. She couldn’t breathe.

Henrietta. Were those Henrietta’s feet? Had she requested a divorce, and Malbert had retaliated with—with what? Murder? Or was Henrietta held captive somewhere, missing her feet?

Ophelia’s guts heaved. She hustled out of the workshop as fast as her own blessedly attached feet could carry her.

*

Gabriel breakfasted early in H?tel Meurice’s dining room. His night had been a torment of tangled bedclothes and twisting thoughts. He felt like he’d had too much wine but the truth was, he’d had too much Miss Flax.

Telling her of Miss Ivy Banks had seemed a brilliant antidote to the distraction that she, Miss Flax, posed. Obviously, Gabriel could not even begin to think of marrying Miss Flax (the very idea!) and he refused to become like that repulsive Lord Dutherbrook and take an actress for a mistress. Which, of course, was an utterly laughable idea in itself. Although Miss Flax was bold beyond all comprehension, she would never be any man’s mistress. Of that, Gabriel was certain.

However, Miss Flax’s antics yesterday had done nothing to ease the tug Gabriel felt towards her. The antidote had, somehow, already worn off.

When the waiter arrived with more coffee, he deposited two envelopes on the tablecloth.