Cinderella Six Feet Under(99)

Traps. Harmless mousetraps! That was what Malbert was forever tinkering on in his workshop. That was what those odd metal boxes were.

“—and I set them free, in the countryside. Usually in the evenings, when my daughters are out.”

“Do you feed the cats, too?” Ophelia asked.

“How do you know of my cats?”

“Oh. Well, you must have mousers.”

“I feed the cats, oui, I feed them amply so that they might not murder the poor little mice.” Malbert bent over the trunk, scooped a mouse out, and placed it on the ground. “Adieu.” He closed the trunk. “That was the last one for today. Good evening, Lord Harrington, and Mademoiselle—”

“Stonewall,” Ophelia said quickly. She ducked into deeper shadow.

Malbert, pulling his empty trunk, left.

*

Ophelia and Penrose waited for Malbert to get a nice long start back to the chateau. There was no point in crumbling the little fellow’s dignity any further. He may have brandished a cleaver at Ophelia, but she had been a disguised stranger under his roof.

“We should have asked him about the feet in the pickling vat,” Ophelia said.

“I cannot imagine how you might’ve woven that into the conversation, Miss Flax.” Penrose smiled.

“It is not so humorous. I saw them with my own eyes!”

“There must be a rational explanation.”

After a minute, they set forth along the curve of lakeshore. Several small rowboats lay on the gravel bank.

From somewhere beyond the rustling reeds came a rhythmic creaking sound. Not frog-peeping, and accompanied by hollow wooden thuds. As they stood watching, a rowboat slid into sight from behind the reeds. It edged towards the middle of the lake. The moon hung low in the ink-blue sky, and it shed a shimmering white line across the water. The rowboat passed through the moonbeam.

“Only a fellow with his lady,” Ophelia said. “Mighty romantic. Let’s go.”

“Wait. Do my eyes deceive me, or is that . . . Prince Rupprecht?”

Ophelia squinted. “Certainly looks it.” The prince’s pale hair caught stray light, and even from this distance Ophelia saw the glimmer of his medals. The lady, seated across from him, wore a bonnet and some kind of veil. She held herself with ladylike stillness.

“I’ve got an awful feeling about this. The prince is the murderer. He ought not be alone with a young lady. And where’s he taking her? Shouldn’t she have a chaperone? If something were to happen to her, well, that’d be blood on our hands.”

“I tend to agree.”

Ophelia was already leaning over and shoving one of the rowboats into the water. She hopped in. The rowboat wobbled from side to side and her skirts swayed, but she managed to sit without capsizing.

Penrose leapt into the boat just as it launched out onto the water. He clambered around Ophelia, sat, took up the oars, and began to stealthily row. Out they went, past the thicket of reeds and into the wide-open water. Because Penrose was rowing, his back was turned to Prince Rupprecht and his lady. Ophelia watched the prince as well as she could through the dark. He seemed to be making for the far shore. He was speaking to the lady; his rumbling voice reached Ophelia’s ears. He did not seem to have noticed Ophelia and Penrose’s boat.

Then a third rowboat nosed into Ophelia’s vision. Off to the right and a little behind them. It must have been hidden in the reeds.

“Professor.” Ophelia tipped her head.

“I had no notion the lake would be such a popular spot this evening.” Penrose leaned into the oars, and they sped up.

The third boat was occupied by two narrow, hooded forms. Were they two ladies, or two slight gentlemen, or one of each? Impossible to tell. But they were plainly aware of Ophelia and Penrose, for two pale faces turned towards them. Ophelia’s scalp crawled as she stared into the hollows of two pairs of eyes.

She’d never believed in ghouls, but she was thinking about giving it a try. “I fancy those two spooks are turning their boat towards us. Steer away, would you? I don’t know who they are, but I don’t reckon I wish to.”

Penrose stole a quick glance. “Good heavens, it cannot be—no. Impossible.”

“What? Who?”

“Don’t laugh, but I would avow that is Lady Cruthlach at the oars.”





30




“Lady Cruthlach behind the oars? How could that be? Her arms would snap like twigs if she tried to row a boat. And Lord Cruthlach can’t sit up like that. Hume carries him around.”