“I know you caught a murderer back in Germany, but that don’t mean you ought to meddle again. Could be dangerous. Guess you ain’t concerned about danger, though, on account of your nerves got all frazzled out in the circus, standing on them trick ponies.”
“I cannot continue to twiddle my thumbs in this damp prison of a house while Eglantine and Austorga frisk about with their friends to the dressmaker’s, the milliner’s, lectures, concerts, lessons in—what did they say?—elocution, deportment—”
“Velocipede riding.”
“Surely not! Dinners, soirées, the theater, the sweet shop—”
“Austorga did bring me a bag of butterscotch drops, and some nice orange jellies. And they’re keen to find husbands so they need all them refinements.”
“But they do not seem to care about that girl.”
“My sister. Their sister, sort of.”
“Yes. And your mother—it is as though she never existed. ‘Oh, she’ll be back!’ Malbert keeps saying, and your stepsisters look away.” Ophelia had even searched Henrietta’s bedchamber. It had been untidy, but it had offered up no clues as to her whereabouts. “The whole family is keeping things back, I’d wager. The servants, too.”
“A spooky lot, that’s for sure,” Prue said.
Ophelia plopped onto the dressing table stool. She had been disguised as Mrs. Brand every waking minute for the last two days. Her scalp itched under the wig, her muscles ached from hefting around the rump and bosom padding, and her skin was dry and sore from the crinkly cosmetics. “And Malbert is downright peculiar.”
“Looks like a mushroom that’s lost its cap, don’t he?”
“What does he do in that workshop of his? No one seems to know. Not his daughters. Not the servants. When I asked him last night at dinner, he behaved in a most evasive fashion—did you ever see so much blinking and stammering?” The only thing Malbert had confessed was that he was the student of some famous clockmaker, but that he did not make clocks.
Prue picked a loose blob of fluff from the cat and flicked it into the air. “Ma says all fellers is sneaky, and if you think they ain’t you’d best be double careful.”
What a distressing notion.
Ophelia got to work on her Mrs. Brand face. After that first night, she’d made certain to apply her greasepaint, and the flour paste that created the crepey effect, with a delicate hand so that it would stand up to close scrutiny. Heaven only knew how long she’d be stuck in this role, and now, well, there was no turning back.
Behind her, Prue began to snore.
When Ophelia had finished doctoring her face, she stashed her theatrical kit in the bottom of the wardrobe underneath a musty blanket. The housekeeper, Beatrice, had announced that no one would be cleaning their chambers, anyway, but Ophelia liked to be cautious.
She went to the sofa and jiggled Prue’s woolen-stockinged toe. “Prue? Wake up, Prue. It’s time to go down to breakfast.” There was a hole in her stocking, at the heel. Poor Prue. Pretty as a princess, always in rags.
Prue snuffled awake and lifted her head. “Huh? What is it? Is Ma back?”
“No. Not yet. Are you coming to breakfast?” Ophelia’s eyes fell again on Prue’s stocking.
“What?” Prue asked. “What are you gawping at my foot for?”
“Merciful heavens,” Ophelia murmured. There had been something familiar about the dead girl’s foot, about the purple nails and that swollen jut on her big toe. “That is it. That is it.”
*
Ophelia found Malbert hunched behind a newspaper at the breakfast table and demanded that he send at once for the police inspector. Malbert sent a note with an errand boy and returned to his newspaper.
Ophelia dug into her breakfast of coffee, buttery rolls, pungent cheese, ham, and hothouse oranges. Prue had probably gone back to sleep.
“I happened to notice a locksmith working on the carriageway gate this morning,” Ophelia said.
Malbert slowly lowered his newspaper. “Oui?”
“Might I inquire why?”
“Madame Brand, you are most curious, non? What is it that they say about the cat and curiosity?” He blinked twice and raised his newspaper again.