“Do you mind letting me in on the big secret?” Ophelia whispered. “I don’t even know what Mr. Colifichet said back there.”
“I shall tell you in a moment. But first—I’ll be returning later. I must learn of all possible points of entry. This place is a bit like a fortress, unfortunately—although there does seem to be a gate at the back.”
Ophelia squinted up at the windows and clotheslines. “Oh, we’ll find our way in.”
“We.”
“Goodness, Professor, surely you aren’t so elderly you require an ear horn.” Ophelia bustled back inside.
*
Madame Fayette’s residence was next. During the carriage ride, Penrose told Ophelia what Colifichet had said.
Ophelia, holding the turtle on her lap, said, “If Monsieur Colifichet has the stomacher, as Pierre claimed, then he must have killed Mr. Grant last night. But what does it have to do with Prue?”
“I do not know.”
“How will we ever find her?”
Penrose didn’t answer at once, and Ophelia didn’t fancy his grim face one bit. Finally, he said, “It seems to me that we must continue to pursue the stomacher. If we do indeed find it in Colifichet’s workshop tonight, we must bring it to the police, along with a report of the lawyer Cherrien’s demands.”
“You’d give up a fairy tale relic like that?”
“Prue is far more important. Meanwhile, it is still necessary to speak with Madame Fayette. If she is Cherrien’s client, then she desires the stomacher.”
“I don’t care about the stomacher! All I care about is Prue.”
“We will find Prue. I give you my word.”
“You cannot give me your word.”
“The stomacher will lead us to her. And as I believe you well know, Miss Flax, there is much to be said for steely determination.”
Ophelia stared out the carriage window as they bumped along. Never had the Paris streets seemed so alien. “I feel as though everything is slipping through my fingers like sand. Henrietta gone. Now Prue.” Ophelia couldn’t say it aloud, but she wondered how she’d ever live with herself if she never saw Prue again.
*
This time, Madame Fayette’s maid told them that her mistress was awake and expecting them.
Madame Fayette’s entry foyer was a little, airy space done up in shades of lemon and periwinkle. The maid led Ophelia and Penrose down a narrow, lofty corridor scented with dried lavender and into a light-filled parlor. Oil paintings, framed sketches, and watercolors filled the walls, and side tables and shelves displayed busts and baubles. Yellow roses overflowed from crystal vases. An ornate brass birdcage stood on a stand. Inside, a canary hopped.
“Good morning,” Madame Fayette said. She wore a gown of green silk with more ruffles than a flustered goose. She poured coffee from a graceful silver pot, and her diamond bracelet sparkled. “Lord Harrington and—?”
“Mrs. Brand, my American aunt.”
“Ah, indeed?”
Ophelia watched Madame Fayette closely. If she knew that Miss Stonewall and Mrs. Brand were frauds, and if she was the one who’d enlisted the lawyer to put the screws on Penrose, she didn’t show it. Maybe she hadn’t sent that boxed gown addressed to Madame Brand, after all. But if she hadn’t, who had? Funny, too, that Josie had said Madame Fayette was suffering from fatigue, because she appeared rosy and well-rested.
“Please, do sit,” Madame Fayette said. “I was most surprised when my maid told me that you called at such an early hour but I must admit, my curiosity is piqued. Coffee?”
“Thank you,” Penrose said.
Ophelia nodded. She’d made up her mind to let the professor do the talking. All of the talking. No point in giving her disguise away.
They sat. Madame Fayette passed cups of coffee and gestured to the cream and sugar. “Does this concern Miss Stonewall’s garments, Lord Harrington? Josie has not been herself as of late—she is the seamstress who finished those gowns—so I do apologize if the garments were not sewn to your young cousin’s taste.”