“Wake up,” Ophelia said.
Prue lifted her head. “What time is it?”
“Three thirty, more or less.”
“Rats. I need to get going with those turnips.” She pointed to a heap of purple turnips on the table.
“I’ve heard from Inspector Foucher, Prue, and he says that the man the police suppose is the murderer, well, he was sighted only a few blocks from here. Please be careful.”
“I am being careful.”
“Even more so, then.”
“You said the flatfeet was after the wrong feller.”
“I believe they may be. But we cannot be too careful—you cannot be too careful.”
“Sure.” Prue poked at a turnip. “Whatever you say.”
*
When Gabriel caught sight of Miss Flax at three minutes till eight, his heart once again performed that peculiar squeezing-and-swelling feat.
Miss Flax paused just inside one of the opera house lobby doors. Gabriel, with a stab of self-reproach, did not immediately go to her. She wore a sumptuous, midnight-blue velvet mantle—where had she gotten that?—the standing collar of which framed her anxious face.
Here, at last, was the face he had been dreaming about these many weeks past, the face that had been obscured that morning by her wretched matron’s disguise. A pure oval face, dark, darting eyes like the centers of poppies, a gleam of honey-brown hair swept back into knots—
Miss Flax’s eyes lit on him.
He pretended to adjust a cufflink.
She smiled a little and started towards him.
*
By the time Ophelia reached Professor Penrose, he no longer looked like he’d just been punched. He’d probably had too much cream sauce with his dinner. The French were heavy-handed with the cream sauce.
“Good evening, Professor.” Ophelia forced herself to employ a calm and friendly tone. She had given herself a talking-to on the way to the opera house, concluding that if being with Penrose made her feel as nervy as a human cannonball, well, that wasn’t his fault.
“Miss Flax. You look lovely.”
“It’s Henrietta’s cloak and gown. And reticule.”
“You had no trouble leaving the house for the evening?”
“None at all.” A lie. Ophelia had squeezed out of H?tel Malbert through a cellar window that opened onto the side pavement. Even if Malbert and his daughters were out, she couldn’t sashay out the front door in Henrietta’s gown and her own cosmetics-free face. Baldewyn might see, or Lulu or Beatrice. “The family has gone out, only”—Ophelia glanced around the thronged lobby—“I suspect they might have come here.”
“But they would not recognize you without your matron’s armor. Might I assist you with your mantle?”
“No!” Ophelia said, a little too loudly.
“All right. Shall we go in?” The professor held out his arm. Ophelia took it.
Henrietta was a few inches shorter than Ophelia, so the gown Ophelia had borrowed didn’t quite make it to the floor. Worse, Henrietta’s dainty satin slippers were an inch too small, so Ophelia’s toes were crunched-up balls of agony. But the main conundrum was that Henrietta was bountifully gifted in the bosom territory, whereas Ophelia was, regrettably, not.
Luckily, the velvet mantle covered up that territory. Just so long as Ophelia kept it on.
She leaned towards the professor as they followed streams of people up a swooping staircase. She told him what the stepsisters, Miss Smythe, and Henri, the coachman, had said about the carriageway gate key. “So you see, if the murderer was indeed that derelict, as the police claim, he still would’ve required help from someone inside the house. Members of the household, or the party guests, or people who had help from members of the household or party guests.”
“Is it possible that Miss Pinet’s body came from inside the house?”
“Yes, I’ve thought of that, but the cast of suspects would remain the same.”