“I hadn’t thought of that. Yes.”
“Who do you suppose the client is?”
“Someone who desires the stomacher.”
“The murderer desires the stomacher.”
“Yes. And maybe the murderer is Madame Fayette.”
“What are you saying?”
“If Madame Fayette knows that Mrs. Brand and Miss Stonewall are, for lack of a better word, frauds, and Cherrien’s client also knows—”
“Then it follows that Madame Fayette is his client.” Miss Flax nodded. “But Madame Fayette is an awful gossip. She might’ve let slip what she knows about me to someone else.”
“We really must pay her a call.”
“We ought to turn over this Cherrien fellow to the police.”
“If you do so, Cherrien will surely share your secrets with the police,” Gabriel said. “Do you wish to risk exposing yourself in that fashion?”
“I’ll hazard it.”
“If you are jailed, Miss Flax—”
“I’m innocent!”
“Not of deceiving everyone as to your true identity. You could be jailed merely on suspicion. As a foreigner, your legal status is somewhat hazy. You could not attempt to locate Henrietta from jail. You could not look after Miss Bright from jail.”
“Then what are we to do?”
“Locate the stomacher. If we accomplish that, then we will, one way or another, unmask the murderer.”
“Then we’ll go see Madame Fayette.”
“Yes. Madame Fayette, and two other people of my acquaintance who also have an ardent interest in the stomacher.”
*
Prue chiseled at egg yolk crusted on breakfast plates and had a good, long think about Hansel and Dalziel. The checklist Ma had always used for measuring up fellers wasn’t the slightest help. Hansel and Dalziel were both handsome. Both of them were European blue bloods, and while neither had pots of brass, both of them probably would someday. The main difference was that Hansel seemed to have plum forgotten about Prue, while Dalziel had been so very sweet. Ma’s checklist didn’t include sweet.
There was a rap on the kitchen door.
The plate slipped silently under the water.
“Alors?” Beatrice shouted from the broom closet, where she was routing out mice with a rolling pin. “Open it! It must be Baldewyn locked himself out again, silly old cancre.”
Prue smeared her wet hands down her apron and went to the door.
Only a hump-backed old woman in a raggedy gown, a shawl, and a brown kerchief. She cradled a large, gorgeously colored box in her arms. “Bonbons?” she said in a raspy voice. She was missing a couple of her choppers.
Candy? Well, Prue had finished the orange jellies and butterscotch drops Austorga had given her.
“Non!” Beatrice came up behind Prue, making shooing motions with her rolling pin. “S’en aller! How did you get past the gate, you old witch?”
“Bonbons délicieux.” The crone stroked the top of the candy box with a boot-leather hand.
“Close the door, Prue,” Beatrice said. “We do not allow peddlers, and Henri must have left the gate open again, the fool.”
Quick as a wink, the crone dropped the candies and drew a revolver from the folds of her shawl. She cocked it—the gun looked too big for her rickety body—and aimed it at Prue.
Prue’s lips parted. A gurgle came out.
“Sacre Dieu!” Beatrice screamed. She dropped her rolling pin.
The crone grabbed Prue and half pushed, half pulled her across the kitchen, meanwhile aiming her revolver at Beatrice. The crone herded Beatrice—squeaking in fright—into the broom closet and latched it shut.
Beatrice pounded on the closet door. Her cries were muffled.
With a steely grip, the crone dragged Prue out the door and as far as the carriageway—where the gate stood wide open. When Prue saw Lord and Lady Cruthlach’s carriage in the street, she made up her mind: she’d rather take her chances getting shot than go like lambykins to slaughter in that carriage.
She wrenched her arm from the crone’s grasp and started running.