Ophelia hugged Henrietta’s mantle and caught a faint whiff of Henrietta’s perfume. If Ophelia could have cried, now would’ve been a fine time. But she hadn’t shed a tear for longer than she could remember.
She must’ve made a face, though, because Penrose frowned. “Miss Flax, perhaps it would be wise if you ceased poking about in this affair.”
“Now is the time to buckle down and go at it even harder.”
“You might place yourself in unnecessary danger.”
“I’ll be the judge. I’m not a child.”
“The police—”
“They’re incompetent. Stubborn. Blind! I told you what Inspector Foucher wrote about our discovery of Sybille’s identity. He ought to be a circus sideshow: The Insensible Man. No. I’ve undertaken to figure out what happened to Henrietta, and I’m not about to stop now simply on account of the water’s gotten higher.”
“And finding this—this murderer, of two people now, if it is indeed the same culprit, that will bring you to the solution of Henrietta’s disappearance?”
“Looks that way.”
Penrose gazed at Ophelia for such a long moment, she wondered if she had chocolate somewhere on her face. At last, he said, “I told you that I would help you, and so I shall. I must have time to think of what is the wisest course.”
“We must have time to think.”
He smiled a little. “We. Now, won’t you please allow me to hire a carriage to return you to H?tel Malbert? Then you must rest. The past two days have been fatiguing for you. I see it in your face.”
Ophelia wasn’t what you’d call a vain lady. Years of experience in the circus ring and on the stage had taught her that beauty is an illusion, as fleeting as a magic lantern show. But still, did she really look so tuckered out?
“I’ll walk.”
“At this time of the evening?”
“Can’t be more than two miles.” Ophelia’s pinched toes, in Henrietta’s tiny slippers, cursed her.
“Then I shall walk with you. A murderer is afoot, my dear.”
Yes, and Ophelia’s feet were murder.
*
A high, moon-sheened stone wall surrounded the Montparnasse Cemetery. Dalziel instructed the driver to wait. He led Prue through iron gates that hung, half open, from thick pillars. Beyond the gates sprawled gravestones, tombs, and statues, glowing pale against the shadows.
Wind rippled. Bare trees rattled. The air smelled of fresh-dug dirt—or was that just Prue’s fancy? She shivered, despite the shawl that Dalziel had brought for her. Or maybe because of the shawl, which stank a little of camphor and probably belonged to Lady Cruthlach.
“I confess I took the liberty of visiting here earlier, after I called upon the convent,” Dalziel said. His voice was carried off by a twirl of wind. “Her grave is along this way.”
“All right,” Prue said. She swallowed. “Sure.”
She stuck close to Dalziel all the way along a cobble-paved avenue, and then down a smaller, sandy path that sliced through rows of graves like an aisle in a shop. Moonlight brightened the sky and bounced off the statues—mostly of dead bodies and cherubs and such. She nearly jumped out of her boots when a cat skittered across the way.
A few raindrops started smacking down.
“Here,” Dalziel said softly. He slowed, and pushed his hands in his pockets.
A big, stone rectangle lay between two others, piled around with fresh, black dirt. A bunch of lilies drooped on top. The headstone said—Prue could see it clearly in the moonlight—
Ici Repose
Sybille Pinet
1846–1867
“She must have been beloved by the sisters in the convent,” Dalziel said. “This is a costly grave.”
Prue nodded, numb. Now it felt—what? More real? That couldn’t be it. Nothing had felt more real than Sybille’s chilly, rained-on skin in the garden that night.
“It’s the end,” Prue said. “I never got to meet her, and now it’s the end.” Cold tears dripped down her face along with the rainwater.