She could cow them. Easy as pie.
With Malbert translating, the two officers questioned Ophelia and Prue at the kitchen table. They had no identity papers, which caused a stir until Ophelia shamed the officers with a reminder that ladies needn’t carry such vulgar documents, and that a lady’s word was verification enough. She elaborated on the string of half-truths and whoppers, and summed up their discovery of the body in the garden.
“So,” she said, “if you mean to arrest us for murder, I do hope you will be quick about it, for I do not think Miss Bright and I shall abide another hour—no, not another minute—in this shockingly inhospitable house. I would rather spend the night in jail, thank you very much.”
Malbert translated.
Both officers’ eyes grew round, and they muttered to each other in French.
“What rude men!” Ophelia said.
“They are surprised at your suggestion of arrest,” Malbert said to Ophelia, “since the murderer has already been identified.”
“Oh! And arrested?”
“Not yet. It seems the scoundrel eluded the police and he is still at large, but the Gendarmerie is out in full force and he is expected to be apprehended shortly.”
“Who is he?”
“A certain vagabond, a useless, half-witted wretch who dwells in the alleyways and courtyards of this quartier, and who has been known to prey upon . . . ah . . . ladies of . . . ill-repute.”
Prue gasped.
“You do not mean to suggest,” Ophelia said, “that that poor girl—”
“I am afraid so.”
It wasn’t so scandalous, learning that Henrietta Bright’s daughter was a fallen woman. The real wonder was that Prue had retained her virtue, given her upbringing and her beauty, a beauty that men wished to dig into like a beefsteak dinner.
“Why was the girl in the garden of this house?” Ophelia asked.
“The police tell me that her body and garments showed signs of having been dragged there,” Malbert said.
Right. Her foot. Her bare, small, battered foot. What had become of her shoes? Had someone chased her through the night before shooting her? Is that how her toes had gotten so black and blue? “Do you mean to say that she was killed elsewhere?”
“Precisely. Her body was dragged from the street, through the carriageway, across the courtyard, and left in the vegetable patch.”
“When?”
“Judging by the merely damp, rather than soaked, condition of her gown, she had not been out of doors for more than a half hour or so.”
“If the murderer has been identified, were there witnesses to the crime?”
“Not precisely, but bystanders in the street reported seeing the murderer fleeing from the carriageway on foot, and he was recognized.”
“What of the fine gown she wore?” Ophelia asked. “That was not such as ladies who haunt street corners are wont to wear.” And—not that Ophelia could say it aloud—surely that girl’s surpassing beauty would have protected her from walking the streets to find customers.
“She must have stolen the gown,” Malbert said. “Madame, the unfortunate creature was placed by chance, and only by chance, in my garden.”
“No, it is too, too great a coincidence,” Ophelia said. “Placed by chance in her own mother’s garden?”
“Forgive me for saying so, madame, but reality is . . . untidy. In reality, la chance plays the greatest role.”