Cinderella Six Feet Under(80)

“We believe Monsieur Grant’s death was somehow related to his little enterprise of procuring ballet girls for wealthy gentlemen,” Penrose said. “What might you be able to tell me about that?”

Clara squinted at Penrose through a stream of smoke. “Lord Harrytown, you said you are called?”

“Harrington.”

“Yes. A lord. You look just the sort who would pay for Caleb’s services.”

Penrose’s jaw tightened. “You confirm that there was indeed such an enterprise?”

“Does it come as a great shock? Those girls parade half unclothed onstage every night. None of them come from respectable backgrounds.”

Penrose shifted in his chair, and Ophelia knew he was thinking of how she was just such a young lady. She sat even straighter.

“The girls all desire—and need—the money,” Clara said. “And the men? Bah! To hell with all of them!”

“Did Madame Fayette blackmail Monsieur Grant?” Ophelia asked.

“Blackmail? No. Why would she?”

“Did Madame Fayette write the death threat?”

“We did not know who wrote it. Someone slipped it under the door here, yesterday afternoon. I told Caleb to leave it alone, but he insisted upon confronting whoever it was. If I had not been waylaid by an insane woman in the stage wings when I was scolding that careless Russian ballerina for staining her costume, he might still be alive.”

Ophelia fought the peculiar urge to cry. “Are you an employee of the opera house, then?”

“Yes. I look after the costumes. Why would Madame Fayette blackmail Caleb? We only knew her slightly. She left her position as costume mistress years before Caleb moved to Paris and took the position at the opera house.”

“He came from America?” Ophelia asked.

“Yes. Philadelphia. But the Americans are philistines who would not know real art if it smacked them in the face. So Caleb left.”

“Was Monsieur Grant Sybille Pinet’s father?” Ophelia asked.

“Good heavens, no.”

“Speaking of art”—Penrose gestured to the wall behind Clara, the wall filled with watercolors of stage scenery designs—“I noticed a watercolor quite like these in Madame Fayette’s home. I have reason to believe she received it in exchange for keeping quiet about something. Something to do, perhaps, with Caleb’s enterprise and the stomacher. Did Caleb have the stomacher in his possession when he died?”

Clara sucked her cigarette and nodded.

“If he gave the murderer the stomacher, why was he shot?” Ophelia asked.

“How would I know?”

“Do you know what the stomacher means?”

“Of course I know.”

“Because of the ballet costume.”

“Stupid woman. You do not know.”

Ophelia lifted her brows. “Know what?”

“Who I am.”

“No, not exactly.”

“Not merely the mistress of Caleb!” Clara twitched her shoulders. “My God, everyone believes that! How much I gave up! And for what?”

Ophelia and Penrose exchanged a glance. Ophelia said, “I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow.”

Clara tapped ash into a vase full of withered flowers. “I am the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau.”

Ophelia’s breath caught. “You are Miss Eglantine’s mother? And Miss Austorga’s?”

“What a curious old auntie you are. Did no one ever warn you that curiosity killed the cat? Yes. Babin is my maiden name.”

“And Malbert?”

“Their father. Odious little fungus.”

“And you are still married?”

“In the eyes of the church and the state.”

“What about Henrietta?”

“Puh! Henrietta! A grasping vixen, that one. She is quite, quite welcome to the putrid slug. Not for a single minute have I ever wished to have Malbert back. I left him many years ago, once our daughters were old enough to do without a mother. I was never very fond of those two, anyway. Ugly creatures. Eglantine is devious, too, and Austorga has a slow wit. She finds me at the opera house now and then, and attempts to engage me in mother-daughter repartee. Disgusting.”

Not exactly a mother hen, was she? But this explained what Austorga had been doing backstage that night.

“As the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau,” Penrose said, “—and I suppose you are not lying about that?”