She expected Prue (not that Prue usually knocked). But it was Baldewyn, holding an enormous, flat paperboard box fastened with twine.
“A delivery for you, madame,” he said with undisguised contempt.
“Oh, Baldewyn, you are an old pet!” Ophelia gathered the box to her padded bosom and closed the door with her foot.
She placed the box on her bed. A small tag dangled from the twine: Madame Brand: Enjoy!—Madame Fayette.
Ophelia unfastened the twine and opened the box. She peeled away layers of tissue. A lovely plaid silk gown.
Her hands shook as she put the lid on the box and shoved it under the bed.
How could this be? The tag on the box said Madame Brand, but Ophelia had told Madame Fayette that her name was Miss Stonewall. She had also taken care to sign the note cancelling the order Miss Stonewall, and she had not included a return address with that note. Madame Fayette must have bribed the courier boy yesterday. And the order had not been cancelled, despite that note.
Not only was Madame Fayette wise to Ophelia, she was taunting her.
*
Noble mansions of red brick and yellow stone looked down upon Place des Vosges from all four sides. Tall windows, each with dozens of small, square panes, reflected a blank white sky. Bare linden trees dripped and the fountains didn’t gurgle. No children romped in the grass. Pigeons paced on sandy paths and perched on the statue of Louis XIII on horseback.
When Gabriel caught sight of Miss Flax on a bench near the statue, he breathed a sigh of relief; she wore her matron’s disguise. He would not be in danger of forgetting himself today, then.
She jumped to her feet when she caught sight of him and came hurrying down the path, umbrella in one hand, dumpy reticule in the other.
“Miss Flax, you look pale. At any rate, I suspect you look pale beneath all that muck.”
“I don’t even know where to begin,” she said, out of breath.
“What has happened? Your note said—”
“Oh, my word. The feet.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She told him what she’d seen in Malbert’s workshop. “I tell you, Malbert’s a fiend. A foot fiend! He chops ladies’ dogs off and—and brines them.”
“The first explanation that comes to mind is that the feet are medical or scientific specimens of some sort. Medical training does, alas, include a certain amount of . . . dissection.”
“Malbert’s no medical man.”
“I have also heard of more than one example of the bound foot of a deceased Chinese lady being preserved in fluid for all posterity to inspect.”
“Ugh.”
“I do agree. At any rate, perhaps you stumbled upon the marquis’s cabinet of curiosities—which is rather like a circus freak show in miniature.”
“I have a better theory: how about Malbert is the murderer?” Miss Flax listed Malbert’s opportunities, peculiar behaviors, and possible motives.
“I did not yet mention this to you, Miss Flax, but Malbert is a member of the Jockey Club.”
“Indeed! I allow, it’s hard to picture him taking up with a ballet girl.”
“No? He took up with Henrietta.”
“True. But when Henrietta sets her sights on a fellow, he doesn’t have much choice about what happens next.”
Miss Flax also told Gabriel how the police had arrested the derelict, who’d been caught with blood on his hands and raving about being paid to kill. “Do you reckon the madman’s some sort of hired killer?”
“Quite possibly. I must visit the commissaire’s office and endeavor to speak with this man.”
Finally, Miss Flax told Gabriel how Madame Fayette had discovered her two disguises. “She was mighty suspicious of me when I went in yesterday morning. I don’t believe she bought the story that I was your American cousin for a minute.”
“Madame Fayette? Now that is rather interesting.” Gabriel told Miss Flax about Cherrien’s demand for the stomacher, and his threat to hand Ophelia over to the police if they failed.
“The rat! Wait. You say the client desires the stomacher by Saturday? Saturday is the day of Prince Rupprecht’s ball.”