Grant and Madame Babin hadn’t noticed a thing.
Gabriel shouldered into the throng after Miss Flax.
“How did you learn to do that?” he asked.
She stopped behind a pillar and pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope. “Played a pickpocket on the stage once.”
“Once? It looked as though you’ve done that a thousand times.”
“It was a long-running show.” Her eyes were on the sheet of paper. “Are you suggesting I’ve withheld choice morsels regarding my past? I can’t read this. It’s in French.”
Gabriel’s neck was itchy and hot beneath his collar. Each and every time he managed to convince himself that Miss Flax was a naturally demure young lady who’d simply had a trying time of it, she proved otherwise. She wasn’t demure. She was downright audacious. And the very idea of that perishing Count de Griffe looking at her like—like—
Penrose snatched up the paper. There were only a few lines, which said in French:
Meet me in the wardrobe between La Sylphide and Le Papillon at nine o’clock, or you will pay for the stomacher with your life.
Gabriel translated it for Miss Flax.
“By golly, it’s a death threat!”
“That does appear to be the case,” Gabriel said. “Garde-robe—wardrobe—well, I cannot fathom how it is they intend to kill someone inside a piece of furniture.”
“Who’s it for? Who’s it from?”
“There is no indication.”
“But it was in Madame Babin’s reticule.”
“The envelope was already opened.”
“Not exactly—it had never been sealed.” Miss Flax held up the envelope.
“Therefore, we do not know if the note was coming or going.”
“But look.” Miss Flax poked the page. “That is a lady’s handwriting, isn’t it?”
Was it his fancy, or did Miss Flax pronounce lady with a touch of sourness?
“It is a markedly feminine hand,” Gabriel said.
“Which means that Madame Babin wrote it, and she’s on her way to deliver it to whomever it is she plans to top off.” Miss Flax, on tiptoe, scanned the crowd. “Look! There they go, both of them. We must hurry! It’s near nine o’clock now!”
Gabriel looked over just in time to see Grant and Madame Babin duck out of sight around a corner.
Miss Flax hitched up her skirts and barged after them.
“Where are you going?” Gabriel called after her. “We really ought to take this matter to the police.”
A dignified lady in pearls threw Gabriel a shocked glance. He closed his mouth. Miss Flax escaped.
*
For once, Ophelia was one step ahead of Professor Penrose. It felt marvelous. He had been confused by the theater jargon in the note, but Ophelia knew exactly what it meant. Garde-robe, or wardrobe, didn’t refer to a piece of furniture; it meant the backstage chamber where costumes were stored. And Ophelia just happened to know that La Sylphide was the name of a ballet, because Howard DeLuxe’s Varieties performed ballets from time to time. After a fashion. Le Papillon was most likely the name of another ballet.
Grant and Madame Babin intended to murder someone between the garment racks where the costumes for those two ballets were stored. And it was up to her, Ophelia, to save their next victim.
*
Gabriel considered following Miss Flax. She had gotten a good start, however, and he couldn’t begin to think of what she was doing.
Because, surely Miss Flax did not suppose that Grant or Madame Babin were off to deliver a note to someone threatening action at nine o’clock when it was in fact—he glanced at his pocket watch—mere minutes to nine o’clock already.
“Lord Harrington!”
Gabriel turned to see Prince Rupprecht. “Ah. I was just about to return to your box.”
Brandy fumes emanated from Prince Rupprecht’s very pores. “Come on then, old man, yes? I’ve got a new box of cigars that are from Spain but taste like they are from paradise.”
“Splendid.” Surely Miss Flax would go straight to the prince’s box to find him, once she realized her folly.