“Prue. Prudence.”
“Forgive me, Miss Prudence. I was taken by surprise. You do so resemble your sister—her morgue picture so tastelessly published in the newspapers—that I quite forgot my manners. You are a young lady in mourning, too, so—well, do you forgive me?”
Prue gazed into Dalziel’s melting-dark eyes. “Sure,” she whispered. “Sure I forgive you. That’s the first anyone has said a peep about me being in mourning. I don’t even know where Sybille’s buried or nothing.” If such a nice young man was the kin of Lord and Lady Cruthlach, maybe they weren’t as monstrous as she had supposed.
Lady Cruthlach made an impatient little bleat.
“Sybille was her name?” Dalziel said.
“Yes.” Prue brushed away a tear. She turned to Lady Cruthlach. “I will bring it to you. The book, I mean. But only if, after that, you leave me be.”
“Yes, yes,” Lady Cruthlach said. “Leave you be.”
“Because I won’t be kidnapped again!” Prue found herself on her feet, fists balled. “Do you promise you’ll leave me be?”
“I am a lady, dear girl. No need to exact promises. Sit down.”
Prue stayed on her feet. Standing made her feel like she had at least a little control over things. “Hume will take me back?”
“Of course.”
“Will you tell him not to throw me in the gutter this time?”
“Grandmother!” Dalziel cried.
“If you insist,” Lady Cruthlach said to Prue. She waved a knobby hand. “Take her back, Hume. And wait in the carriage until she emerges again with the book.”
“Grandmother,” Dalziel said, “I really must insist that—”
“Quiet, child.”
“I reckon it might take some doing,” Prue said to Lady Cruthlach. “Beatrice will be back and she’ll set me to my chores, and it might not be so easy to—”
“Hume is patient,” Lady Cruthlach said. “Hume will wait as long as necessary.”
*
At noon, Gabriel and Miss Flax sat silently in a hired carriage parked across the street from Maison Fayette. Raindrops smacked on the roof. Traffic splashed by. Miss Flax watched the shop in silence with her folded umbrella across her lap. Gabriel watched Miss Flax.
The Louvre had been a bit of a debacle, because Gabriel had not sufficiently considered in advance the quantities of nude Classical statues on the premises. After her initial surprise, Miss Flax had kept her gaze strictly on the “Museums” chapter of her Baedeker whenever Gabriel was near. Although he had noted her, from afar, viewing Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss with interest and a somewhat high color in her cheeks.
Miss Ivy Banks, although well-versed in ancient Greek texts, was a staunch advocate for fig leaves on statuary.
“Look!” Miss Flax whispered. “Someone’s at Maison Fayette’s door! He’s ringing the bell. Is that—? Why, that’s the dancing master from the opera house.”
“So it is,” Gabriel said. “Caleb Grant.”
“If he killed Sybille, well, that explains why he told the entire opera house to keep mum about her identity. He wasn’t covering things up to save the opera house’s reputation. He was covering up to save his own skin.”
“This is merely a theory, you do realize.”
Miss Flax rolled her eyes.
The shop door opened. They caught a glimpse of the maid, and then Grant disappeared inside. In less than a minute he was back out on the sidewalk, opening his umbrella. A small, brown paper-wrapped parcel was tucked under his arm.
“He’s got something,” Miss Flax said. “If it’s the stomacher then, well, he’s the one who ordered the gown to be made from measurements. That would be something to tell Inspector Foucher.”
Gabriel bounded out of the carriage, instructed the driver to follow Grant, and leapt back in. They were off. But only one block later, Grant got in line to board an omnibus.