That was rich. Madame Fayette lolling about in splendor while poor Josie worked her fingers to the bone?
“It is to do with murder,” Penrose said. He was staring at a watercolor painting on the wall. “And a young lady called Prudence Bright who was taken against her will from H?tel Malbert this morning.”
“Taken?” Madame Fayette touched her throat. Her diamond bracelet slid towards her elbow. “Who is the girl, precisely?”
Penrose began to describe Prue’s disappearance.
Ophelia stopped breathing. Mercy. That bracelet, with its braided design and thick crust of diamonds, had seemed familiar before, when Madame Fayette had taken her measurements at Maison Fayette. And now Ophelia knew why: the last time she’d seen that bracelet it had been on Henrietta’s wrist, back in New York. It had been a gift from one of her gentleman suitors.
“Excuse me, madame,” Ophelia said, interrupting Penrose’s ramblings. “I can’t help admiring your bracelet.”
They all looked at the bracelet.
“Where did you get it?” Ophelia asked.
Madame Fayette laughed, but her eyes were hard. “You Americans and your simply charming informal—”
“That bracelet belonged to the Marquise Henrietta. You do know her, and she was one of your customers. Why did you lie about it when I asked you?”
“I never said that I did not know the marquise. I merely refrained from engaging in gossip. Either way, this is not her bracelet—what a fantastical suggestion! It is mine. I have owned it for years. And, do you not mean to say, Madame Brand, why did I lie to Mademoiselle Stonewall?”
A heavy silence. Penrose scratched his temple.
“I shall not even attempt to understand the meaning of your various and absurd disguises, Madame or Mademoiselle Whoever-you-are,” Madame Fayette said.
“How did you know?” Ophelia asked.
“I measured you. Every inch of you. I recognize the turn of your wrist and the set of your shoulders. And you, Lord Harrington. I cannot begin to fathom why a gentleman of your standing would consort with this—this actress thing—”
“Now see here,” Penrose said.
“—but I am somewhat intrigued as to why the two of you have undertaken to play at officers of the police.” Madame Fayette picked up a little silver handbell and jingled it.
With her left hand.
Madame Fayette was a southpaw!
“If, that is,” Madame Fayette said, “you are able to explain your charade before my maid arrives to show you out.”
“You’re a lefty, Madame Fayette,” Ophelia said.
“Pardon?”
“You rang the bell with your left hand.”
“Ah,” Penrose said.
“I cannot think why that is of any interest to you, but, oui, I do use my—”
“I’m interested,” Ophelia said, “because Caleb Grant—and maybe Sybille Pinet, too—were shot with a lefty’s gun. A lady lefty’s gun.”
“Are you accusing me of murder? Good heavens, you are an audacious creature. Where are your manners? But wait—I do not suppose they teach those on the musical stage or wherever it is you have come fr—”
“I’ll save you some puff and cut this short,” Ophelia said. “Did you do it?”
Madame Fayette’s face flushed. “If I had murdered anyone, why would I confess it to you?”
Good point. “To get it off your chest?”
“If you must know, I owned a small pistol specially made for me once for a journey through the mountains. There were tales of bandits at the time, and I wished to protect myself. But that pistol was stolen.”
“Stolen!” Ophelia said, glancing at Penrose. But he was staring at that watercolor painting again. “When was it stolen?” Ophelia asked. “Was it stolen from this apartment?”
“That is quite enough, you impudent little morsel. I did not intend to mention it, but . . . how could anyone be fooled by that wig you have on?” Madame Fayette rang the bell again, furiously this time. “It appears to have contracted mange.”