Cinderella Six Feet Under(73)

“You rescued him from certain death. Perhaps he requires time to recover his equilibrium.”

They got out. Lustrous teal velvet lined Colifichet’s display windows. Toys of gilt, enamel, silk, colored jewels, brass, and human hair nestled in the velvet. There were monkeys in jesters’ costumes, a doll seated at a tiny harpsichord, a crouched tiger, several grinning acrobats, a rabbit with a drum, and a donkey in a three-piece suit. But no Cinderellas—although there was a Wicked Wolf, covered in what looked like real dog’s fur, attired in Granny’s nightgown and cap.

“I’d never give one of those things to a child in all my livelong days,” Ophelia said.

“They would surely inspire nightmares,” Penrose said. “And you haven’t yet seen them wound up and whirring about.”

Inside, the shop smelled faintly of the grease P. Q. Putnam’s Traveling Circus had used to slick the carousel gears. A portly shopkeeper in a green coat was helping a lady at a display case. The shopkeeper placed a tiny camel on the countertop. Slowly, and with a soft clicking, it walked across the counter.

The shopkeeper said something in French to Penrose.

“He says he will assist us in a moment,” Penrose said to Ophelia.

They waited.

A slim form emerged from the rear of the shop.

Pierre, Colifichet’s apprentice. He appeared to be searching for something behind one of the counters.

Ophelia made a beeline for Pierre. His eyes flared. “Just the gentleman I wished to see,” she said in an imperious tone. “Or, one of the gentlemen—pray tell, boy, where is your master, Monsieur Colifichet?”

Pierre’s jaw drooped, sullen.

“Where is Monsieur Colifichet?” Ophelia repeated. “I know that you speak English—Lord Harrington here told me as much.”

“Monsieur Colifichet is working,” Pierre said. His eyes darted to the shopkeeper, still nattering to the lady customer, then back to Ophelia. “Why is it, madame, that you wished to see him?”

Ophelia ignored Penrose’s warning glance. With Prue missing, this was no time to mince words. “It concerns the matter of a stomacher. Cinderella’s stomacher, to be precise. Oh yes—and two disappeared ladies, and two murders.”

“A stomacher? Murder?” Pierre cocked his head. “Mais oui, that sounds precisely the sort of thing in which my master would be interested.”

Ophelia and Penrose exchanged an amazed look.

Pierre lowered his voice. “I have, in truth, noticed a stomacher in Monsieur Colifichet’s workshop.”

“Hidden?”

Pierre nodded, and leaned closer. “In a cabinet. Locked up. Is it important?”

“Very,” Ophelia said.

“I shall bring you to my master, but I am certain he will not admit to possessing the stomacher.”

Pierre beckoned them behind the counter and through a curtain. The shopkeeper didn’t notice. Pierre led them down a gloomy corridor and paused in front of a closed door.

“I must warn you, Monsieur Colifichet has not slept in two days. The special project he has been working on is not going as well as he would like. There have been a few small, unforeseen problems.” Pierre opened the door.

“Allez-vous en!” Colifichet screamed.

*

Colifichet perched on a tall stool at a draughtsman’s table, hunched with a pencil and ruler.

He held his pencil in his right hand, Gabriel noted. Not his left.

Tidy workshop benches stored tools and glimmering little metal things. Weak white light slanted through tall windows. In the far corner, black cloth shrouded four or five tall, bulky forms.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Colifichet asked in French. He got down from his stool, fists balled, jaw unshaven, shirt untucked. “I told you that I was not to be disturbed under any circumstance. You again, Lord Harrington. Is this your nursemaid, perhaps?” He sent a scornful glance to Miss Flax in her dumpy disguise.

“Allow me to do the talking just this once,” Gabriel murmured to Miss Flax.

Miss Flax, uncharacteristically silent, nodded.

“They insisted upon coming to see you,” Pierre said to Colifichet. “They pushed me aside and forced their way in. I attempted to stop them.”

“That is not precisely the way I would describe it,” Gabriel said. Why was the apprentice lying? “It is about a trinket I happened to view today.”

“Trinket?” Colifichet massaged his eye sockets. “Pray, do not call the fruit of my labors a trinket.”