Cinderella Six Feet Under(74)

“A music box, then. In the house of Lord and Lady Cruthlach. Its toy dancer was in the form of Cendrillon, dressed in a miniature costume precisely like that in the ballet playing at the opera house.”

“Lord and Lady Cruthlach commissioned that music box—and, I must add, they are both quite, quite senile. I simply built it to their specifications.”

“Oh, indeed? When was this?”

“A year ago or more. I cannot recall. In fact, it was Pierre who built all but the interior mechanism of that piece.”

“Were either of you at all surprised when the ballerina’s Cinderella costume happened to be identical to that of the doll on the music box?”

Pierre’s eyes were empty.

Colifichet sniffed. “I pay no attention whatever to ballet costumes. My work concerns the stage sets. The rest—mmn!—it is women’s rubbish.”

“What of the fact that the music box figure resembles, to an uncanny degree, the murdered girl Sybille Pinet? I was told she worked as an artist’s model at one point. Did she model for you?”

“No. I do not use models.”

“That is rather difficult to believe.”

“Believe whatever you wish, Lord Harrington. I do not much care. As for the Cinderella figure on the music box, well, it possesses an insipid sort of beauty. A beauty with every distinguishing characteristic quite refined out of it until all that is left is a rather bland perfection. A living girl, with all of a living girl’s flaws, simply cannot compete with the cool perfection of art.”

“A pretty speech, Monsieur Colifichet, but quite beside the point. I’ll ask you directly: did you send a woman to steal a young lady from the house of the Marquis de la Roque-Fabliau today?”

“Mon Dieu, your accusations grow more and more curious. Do I appear to have any interest whatsoever in young ladies? Now, if you do not mind, I must return to my work. And you, Pierre—stay. We must get that leg just so. You, madame et monsieur, may show yourselves out—and perhaps peruse the shop before you go, hmn? You might find an automaton to amuse you—because you must be ever so bored if you are intruding in police business. Bonjour.”

*

Ophelia started down the gloomy corridor towards the front of Colifichet’s shop, but Penrose touched her arm and beckoned her in the other direction. A door at the end led out to a tight rear courtyard. Moss clotted the paving stones. Yellow walls rose five stories high, and clotheslines drooped from windows. Penrose studied the buildings.

“Do you mind letting me in on the big secret?” Ophelia whispered. “I don’t even know what Mr. Colifichet said back there.”

“I shall tell you in a moment. But first—I’ll be returning later. I must learn of all possible points of entry. This place is a bit like a fortress, unfortunately—although there does seem to be a gate at the back.”

Ophelia squinted up at the windows and clotheslines. “Oh, we’ll find our way in.”

“We.”

“Goodness, Professor, surely you aren’t so elderly you require an ear horn.” Ophelia bustled back inside.

*

Madame Fayette’s residence was next. During the carriage ride, Penrose told Ophelia what Colifichet had said.

Ophelia, holding the turtle on her lap, said, “If Monsieur Colifichet has the stomacher, as Pierre claimed, then he must have killed Mr. Grant last night. But what does it have to do with Prue?”

“I do not know.”

“How will we ever find her?”

Penrose didn’t answer at once, and Ophelia didn’t fancy his grim face one bit. Finally, he said, “It seems to me that we must continue to pursue the stomacher. If we do indeed find it in Colifichet’s workshop tonight, we must bring it to the police, along with a report of the lawyer Cherrien’s demands.”

“You’d give up a fairy tale relic like that?”

“Prue is far more important. Meanwhile, it is still necessary to speak with Madame Fayette. If she is Cherrien’s client, then she desires the stomacher.”

“I don’t care about the stomacher! All I care about is Prue.”

“We will find Prue. I give you my word.”

“You cannot give me your word.”

“The stomacher will lead us to her. And as I believe you well know, Miss Flax, there is much to be said for steely determination.”

Ophelia stared out the carriage window as they bumped along. Never had the Paris streets seemed so alien. “I feel as though everything is slipping through my fingers like sand. Henrietta gone. Now Prue.” Ophelia couldn’t say it aloud, but she wondered how she’d ever live with herself if she never saw Prue again.