Motion caught her eye, over by the carriage house.
Good gracious. There was the coachman Henri, standing in the carriage house doorway. He spoke with a lady whose back was turned. A slim lady in a hooded cloak. Eglantine, maybe?
Ophelia watched. Henri’s exchange with the lady was brief. His shoulders hunched, and the lady kept glancing over her shoulder. Then Henri went inside and the lady hurried towards the house.
Her hood fell back in her haste.
It wasn’t Eglantine. It was Miss Seraphina Smythe.
She disappeared through the carriageway arch.
Ophelia checked the mantelpiece clock. Almost nine o’clock. She went to fetch Prue.
Prue was still abed.
“Prue? Prue, wake up. Don’t you want breakfast?” Ophelia wiggled Prue’s shoulder.
The fat ginger cat on the pillow yawned and stretched a foreleg. Prue muttered something, rolled over, and went back to sawing gourds.
Petered out from all that house drudgery. Ophelia would leave her to sleep. She went downstairs to the breakfast room.
Ophelia’s stomach lurched at the sight of Malbert’s bald head gleaming above a newspaper at the head of the table. Eglantine and Austorga slumped across from each other, eating in silence. They both wore irritable expressions, and each had a peculiar oily sheen to her face.
Where was Miss Smythe?
“Good morning, everyone!” Ophelia said, forcing a cheery, matronly tone. She plopped down next to Eglantine.
Malbert peeped over his newspaper but said nothing.
Those pickled feet. Ugh.
“Good morning, Madame Brand,” Austorga said. She took a bite of pastry—holding it, Ophelia noted, with her right hand. Not her left. A few pastry flakes clung to her oily cheeks.
“Mm,” Eglantine sighed, stirring her coffee. She held her spoon with her right hand. Not her left.
Beatrice plodded in. She brought the coffeepot from the sideboard and poured Ophelia a cup. Greasy hairs hung loose from her bun, and she smelled faintly of soured wine. She flung a pastry on a plate in front of Ophelia, and left.
The family crunched and sipped in silence. Malbert turned a page of his newspaper. With his right hand, not his left.
“Did you enjoy the ballet yesterday evening?” Ophelia asked.
Malbert’s newspaper froze. Eglantine sputtered on her coffee.
Austorga said, “Oh! Most exciting. There was a murder! It was the same murderer as the girl in the garden, too, and the police have caught him.”
“Indeed?” Ophelia carefully placed her coffee cup in its saucer. Still, it rattled. “The madman of the streets?”
“Yes. He was seen by several people fleeing from the opera house—with blood on his hands, and raving about someone paying him to kill! Quite mad.”
Ophelia frowned. Perhaps she’d been wrong in thinking the madman was innocent. Perhaps he was a killer . . . for hire.
“Someone caught him and held him until the gendarmes arrived,” Austorga said. “Who was it that caught him, sister dear?”
“The apprentice lad from Monsieur Colifichet’s shop,” Eglantine said. “Must we speak of this?”
“Pierre,” Malbert said.
They all stared at him; it was the first word he’d said.
“The apprentice is named Pierre,” Malbert said.
“Yes, well, Pierre caught the murderer—he frequents the opera house because Monsieur Colifichet, his master, designed the sets for Cendrillon—and he is being treated as quite a hero by the police.”
“It is good, Madame Brand, oui?” Malbert blinked at Ophelia. “The murderer is caught. We will sleep soundly tonight.”
“But what of the Marquise Henrietta?” Ophelia asked. “It wouldn’t do to forget her.”
“She will return,” Malbert said. He raised his newspaper.
“Oh! Réglisse!” Eglantine shrieked. “Non!”
A rotund cat had leapt onto Eglantine’s lap and was licking her oily cheek. “Non! Vilain! Vilain chat!” She shoved Réglisse. He thumped to the floor and licked his lips.
Eglantine wiped her face with a napkin.