Cinderella Six Feet Under(65)

“Did you enjoy the ballet yesterday evening?” Ophelia asked.

Malbert’s newspaper froze. Eglantine sputtered on her coffee.

Austorga said, “Oh! Most exciting. There was a murder! It was the same murderer as the girl in the garden, too, and the police have caught him.”

“Indeed?” Ophelia carefully placed her coffee cup in its saucer. Still, it rattled. “The madman of the streets?”

“Yes. He was seen by several people fleeing from the opera house—with blood on his hands, and raving about someone paying him to kill! Quite mad.”

Ophelia frowned. Perhaps she’d been wrong in thinking the madman was innocent. Perhaps he was a killer . . . for hire.

“Someone caught him and held him until the gendarmes arrived,” Austorga said. “Who was it that caught him, sister dear?”

“The apprentice lad from Monsieur Colifichet’s shop,” Eglantine said. “Must we speak of this?”

“Pierre,” Malbert said.

They all stared at him; it was the first word he’d said.

“The apprentice is named Pierre,” Malbert said.

“Yes, well, Pierre caught the murderer—he frequents the opera house because Monsieur Colifichet, his master, designed the sets for Cendrillon—and he is being treated as quite a hero by the police.”

“It is good, Madame Brand, oui?” Malbert blinked at Ophelia. “The murderer is caught. We will sleep soundly tonight.”

“But what of the Marquise Henrietta?” Ophelia asked. “It wouldn’t do to forget her.”

“She will return,” Malbert said. He raised his newspaper.

“Oh! Réglisse!” Eglantine shrieked. “Non!”

A rotund cat had leapt onto Eglantine’s lap and was licking her oily cheek. “Non! Vilain! Vilain chat!” She shoved Réglisse. He thumped to the floor and licked his lips.

Eglantine wiped her face with a napkin.

“What has Miss Smythe told you this time?” Ophelia asked.

“Nothing,” Eglantine snapped.

“Beef lard face pack,” Austorga said. “For a dewy complexion. Only two more days till the prince’s ball.”

“Dewy complexion?” Ophelia said. “My dear girls, I’m afraid beef lard will give you nothing but spots.”

Baldewyn appeared and announced something in French. Ophelia only understood Mademoiselle Smythe.

Ophelia bolted to her feet. “Excuse me,” she murmured.

Eglantine looked quizzical. Ophelia patted her stomach in explanation. Didn’t dignified matrons always suffer from digestive afflictions?

Ophelia rushed past Baldewyn and intercepted Seraphina in the corridor.

“Good morning, Miss Smythe,” Ophelia said.

“Mrs. Brand. Good morning.” Seraphina’s spectacles were fogged. “Are the Misses Malbert ready? We are going to the shoemaker’s to fetch our dancing shoes for the ball. Mother is waiting in the carriage.”

Ophelia lowered her voice. “I won’t beat around the bush, young lady. Why were you speaking with the coachman a few minutes ago?”

“Did my mother instruct you to spy upon me?”

“I happened to notice your rendezvous with Henri from my window, and I demand an explanation for your subterfuge.”

“It was hardly a rendezvous, and I assure you there wasn’t a jot of subterfuge. I do not owe you explanations of any kind, Mrs. Brand, but since you are a dotty old woman with a passion for prying—Miss Eglantine was quite right about that—I shall tell you. I was simply asking Henri if he had found a dropped glove of mine in the carriage.”

“Oh.” Ophelia swallowed. “Well. The Misses Malbert are still at the table. I shall accompany you there.”





20




The stepsisters left the house with Seraphina a few minutes later, and Ophelia was alone with Malbert at the breakfast table. She wished to be alone with this doughy little monster like she wished for a splinter in the eye.

“My dear Monsieur Malbert, I am so glad we are at last able to speak in privacy.”

The newspaper lowered. “Pourquoi?”

Ophelia knew pourquoi meant why. In the circus, Madame Treminskaya had always asked her customers pourquoi over her crystal ball, in order to figure out what their fortunes ought to be.

“Why? Because I have two important questions to ask you.” Ophelia took a deep breath. “First, did the Marquise Henrietta ever see the diamond stomacher you keep in your lockbox at the bank?”