“After I shot Monsieur Grant,” Josie said, “Pierre caught the madman, with blood on his hands, fleeing the opera house.”
“But how?”
“Pierre had listened carefully to the police description of the madman they suspected. Pierre agreed that I should kill Monsieur Grant, and Pierre found the madman, gave him money, brought him to the opera house, spilled pig’s blood on his hands. Then Pierre ‘caught’ him.”
“That man is innocent!”
Josie lifted a shoulder. “He had to be sacrificed. Pierre and I would have been safe, we could have sold this stomacher and gone away, to America, perhaps. We might have begun a new life where there are no cruel masters, no princes. But you could not leave things alone, could you?”
“You put me off the scent time and again, Josie. To think I felt pity for you! You set me up to see Grant taking the parcel from Maison Fayette, didn’t you?”
“You were so forthcoming,” Josie said. “Stupid. And it was not even the stomacher in that parcel. It was a scrap of cloth.”
“Grant never had the stomacher?”
“Never!” Josie’s fingers spread across the stomacher.
“What about that note, threatening to kill for it?”
“I meant for Monsieur Grant to suppose that he might receive the stomacher by meeting me that night.”
The wording of the note had been ambiguous. Ophelia realized she must have misinterpreted it. “Why did Grant desire the stomacher?”
“He had seen it before. He understood its value.”
“But in the end, he was merely a pawn in your game, Josie. Why did you kill him?”
“For revenge. He procured me like a—a whore for Prince Rupprecht. He was responsible for my degradation.”
“Why did you kill him at the opera house?”
“Pierre said we should have many witnesses when he caught the madman.”
“And why on that particular night?”
“Because of you.”
Oh, no.
“Once I became aware of your investigation—”
“How?”
“I could easily tell that Mrs. Brand and Miss Stonewall were one and the same. I saw you in both disguises. Once I learned that you were prying, I knew that Monsieur Grant must die. If I did not kill him, you see, you would sooner or later discover that he introduced me to the prince. I would become an obvious suspect.”
Ophelia’s belly sank. “Once you knew I was prying, you pointed fingers at Grant, Malbert, Madame Fayette—by delivering Miss Stonewall’s gown to H?tel Malbert. Pierre placed Professor Penrose and me in that trap in Colifichet’s workshop in an attempt to have us arrested.”
“Yes. And you, foolish lady, went off in the direction of each of my tricks like a cat after a clockwork mouse.”
“I may have gone round and round a little, but each time I was getting a bit closer to the truth. Would you have come here tonight if it weren’t for the professor and me?”
Josie’s eyes shone with pure loathing. She puckered her mouth as though about to spit, but two gendarmes trotted down the steps, heaved Josie to standing, and hauled her away.
*
“That was by far your best performance,” Ophelia said to Prue.
“Think so?” Prue forked a huge bite of cake into her mouth. “Never played a ghost before. That was the best scheme you’ve ever cooked up, Ophelia Flax. Where’s Ma? Are you sure she’s here?”
“I spoke to her.”
“Probably met a new feller tonight.” Prue’s voice was careless, but her eyes were damp with hurt as they darted around the ballroom, searching.
Ophelia longed to tell Prue that her mother wasn’t worth all that sadness, but how could she? After all was said and done, you only got one mother.
Prue wore the Cinderella costume that Ophelia had doctored with greasepaint and scissors to have a bullet hole and blood, but she didn’t seem to mind. Neither did Dalziel, who had taken it upon himself as his sole mission in life to gaze at Prue while feeding her sweets.