How did he know raspberry was her favorite?
Cendrillon was just as jaw-dropping as it had been last night, but Ophelia’s mind was on Sybille Pinet and Caleb Grant. If Grant had matched up Sybille with a gentleman admirer or two, then that could explain why the boardinghouse landlady had said Sybille had seemed haunted lately. Being a quiet girl from a convent orphanage, maybe Sybille had had qualms about the business. Then, Sybille somehow met her mother—either Henrietta looked her up, or saw her dancing at the opera house, or maybe Sybille discovered Henrietta herself. Either way, Henrietta might’ve offered Sybille a ticket out of Paris in the form of a prospective job at Howard DeLuxe’s Varieties.
And then what? Had Grant killed Sybille because he knew she wished to leave for New York? That seemed excessive. His black-bound book indicated he had a slew of other girls from whom to reap a profit. What about Henrietta? Might Grant have killed her?
If Grant had killed Sybille and dragged her body into the garden, glaring questions cropped up. How had Grant gotten the carriageway gate key? Could he have gotten it from Austorga, with Madame Babin somehow mixed up in it, too? Why would Austorga have helped him commit murder? And why in land sakes had Sybille been togged up like Cinderella?
Ophelia worked her way through the entire box of bonbons without even tasting them. The lights went up for the first interval. She checked the corners of her mouth for chocolate and went down to the lobby to meet the professor.
On the stairs, she narrowly missed an encounter with Malbert and his daughters. Not that they would recognize her without her Mrs. Brand accoutrements, but they might recognize Henrietta’s gown. However, the stepsisters were too busy bickering, and Malbert was blinking too rapidly behind his spectacles, to notice Ophelia slip by.
When Penrose found Ophelia he said, “No go. Lord Dutherbrook never arrived—probably snoring in his chair at the club—and so I was not introduced to Grant.”
“No matter. Grant’s just over there.” Ophelia gestured with her chin.
Grant stood across the lobby, wearing evening clothes. His black hair and pointy beard shone with pomade. The shoulders of his greatcoat glittered with raindrops, and he held a top hat.
“He’s just arrived from out of doors,” Ophelia said.
“Yes, and looking quite as much like a hearse driver as the last time we saw him. That looks like the greatcoat in which we found his notebook.”
“He seems nervy.” Ophelia frowned. “And so does Madame Babin on his arm.”
Grant and Madame Babin had their heads bent together in urgent conversation. Grant looked angry, but Madame Babin seemed frightened. Her shoulders were hunched, and her eyes flicked about. She, too, had just come in from out of doors; her purple cloak and ribboned hat were wet.
“Let’s go eavesdrop,” Ophelia said.
“Miss Flax, I really don’t—”
“No time to dillydally. Mr. Grant might be a murderer.”
The crowd was dense, so they were able to position themselves just behind Grant and Madame Babin without being noticed. They strained their ears.
*
If pressed, Gabriel would have had to admit that Miss Flax’s innocent face was convincing. He knew better now. Although she didn’t seem entirely experienced in, say, the ways of the birds and the bees, she was a first-class trickster.
Grant and Madame Babin were still murmuring to each other, but the hubbub was too thick to make out a single word. It appeared that a crinkly envelope, held by Madame Babin, was at issue. She gesticulated with the envelope. Grant made a swipe at it. Then Madame Babin stuffed it in her reticule.
Miss Flax tugged Gabriel’s sleeve.
“Yes?”
She threw a significant look towards the reticule. The crinkly envelope protruded halfway.
Gabriel whispered, “You cannot even begin to think that you are going to steal that from—”
In one liquid motion, Miss Flax plucked the envelope from the reticule and swayed off.