“Cast of suspects? How theatrical. Miss Flax, you aren’t attempting to collar Miss Pinet’s murderer, are you?”
“Of course I am. And I must find Henrietta, too. Oh yes—and that’s the other thing I’ve found. I reckon Henrietta is safe and sound somewhere, and that she wished to initiate a divorce from Malbert.” Ophelia showed Penrose the bit of charred envelope that she’d brought in the reticule.
“Avocat does indeed mean solicitor, and that happens to be a very good address.”
They found their seats, plushy red, in the first row of a balcony curving around the theater. Four tiers in all, carved and gold-painted, reached up to a ceiling painted like cherub-plagued heavens. An enormous chandelier blazed over the orchestra-level seats.
How peculiar that she, Ophelia Flax of Littleton, New Hampshire, was here. Gussied up in borrowed finery. Seated next to an earl. Confabulating about murder.
“I do not wish to alarm you, Miss Flax,” Penrose said softly, once they were settled in their seats. “However, I feel I must point out that even if the Marquise Henrietta had initiated a divorce, that does not preclude the possibility that she . . . that something unfortunate befell her.”
“If something unfortunate befalls a lady who wishes for a divorce, I reckon that the one doing the befalling is her husband.”
“Does Malbert seem capable of violence?”
“He’s an odd duck. He seems weak, but he’s awfully secretive and he’s always holed up in his workshop, building what, no one knows. He mutters things about his ‘inventions’ if one asks. Oh, yes—and he did remind me that curiosity killed the cat.”
“Good Lord.”
Ophelia also described Inspector Foucher’s dismissive note—with its mention of the madman sighting near the Pont Marie—and then the chandelier dimmed and was cranked up on a chain to clear the view. The audience grew hushed, the orchestra tuned, the conductor emerged and bowed, and then the overture began.
Halfway through the overture, Ophelia was so hot and steamy under the velvet mantle that she had no choice but to fan herself with the programme.
The professor leaned close. “Are you well, Miss Flax? May I take your—”
“No!” she whispered.
9
The ballet’s first act was a wonder. In the circus and the variety hall, if you could see anything through the cigar smoke and hear anything past the men’s hoots (or the trumpeting of elephants), the quality of the production might’ve been found lacking. However, the Ballet de l’Opéra de Paris pulled out all the stops. The dancers jumped and twirled, no tripping. The orchestra hit all the right notes, which was the first time Ophelia had heard that. The pit musicians in Howard DeLuxe’s Varieties read the newspapers down there, and some of them even drank beer.
The really breathtaking thing about the ballet was the stage scenery.
“Are those flowers growing?” Ophelia whispered to the professor. They watched a scene in which Cinderella lamented (gracefully, with hand-clasping) the wicked stepsisters’ shoddy treatment of her, out in the garden. The garden set had started out simple enough, but as the scene progressed the flowers and insects grew bigger and more colorful until they were the size of Cinderella herself.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?” Penrose said softly. “Ah. I nearly forgot.” He dug into his breast pocket and produced a pair of opera glasses. “Here. Borrowed them from my hotel.”
Ophelia peered through. “Gimcrackery indeed. Those flowers are made of painted metal—they’re mechanical.”
“The set quite upstages the dancers, does it not?”
After a few minutes, Ophelia allowed the opera glasses to drift away from the stage—despite those mechanical wonders—to the balconies. Row after row of togged-up ladies and gents. Swaying fans, bent heads, bloated gowns, sparkling jewels.