Except.
Prue dropped her gaze down to the damp dirt of the garden plot and hurried up ripping out more dead plants. Except being a looker didn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter. She had figured that out already, and she’d only been hunkered down in the nunnery for—what was it?—three hours? It felt like longer. The nunnery was so quiet and cool, and everything smelled like beeswax and clean laundry. Time seemed gentler.
When Prue had finally found the Pensionnat Sainte Estelle, across the river from Malbert’s mansion, and, hopefully, miles away from that crone and her revolver, she’d been wheezing for breath and sweaty. She’d rattled the nunnery gates. When a nun came and opened up, it was as though they’d been expecting her. The nun had led her to Sister Alphonsine.
Prue had gulped water, taken a hot bath, dressed up in clean, nunnish togs, and devoured a big meal. Then Sister Alphonsine had set her to work in the herb garden out back.
The nunnery felt safe. No mice in sight, either, although Prue missed the fat ginger cat.
The only snag was, Prue didn’t know what she was going to do next. Ophelia would be worried sick about her. But how could she tell Ophelia where she was without risking telling the wrong people, too?
24
When Ophelia and Penrose alighted from the carriage in the Latin Quarter, Ophelia indulged in a quick glance about the street. A peddler wheeled a handcart piled with onions. Ladies in kerchiefs chattered out second-story windows. A violinist screeched away on the corner, hat at his feet. Two students, already drunk—or still drunk—stumbled into an inn. Nothing seemed unusual.
It was silly to think a person might’ve followed them all this way through the city on a velocipede.
Madame Babin was at home. Her mahogany hair clung to her slack cheeks. A wrinkled, saffron silk dressing gown drooped to her ankles. “Oui?”
“Madame Babin, we would be most obliged if we could have a brief word with you,” Penrose said in English.
Surely she understood English; she had been living with the American Caleb Grant.
A Siamese cat curved around the doorjamb. Clara scooped it up. “Who are you?” she asked in throaty English. Her eyes flicked to Ophelia. “Who is this old river barge?”
Ophelia drew herself up. “I am his aunt, Madame Brand.”
“His aunt? You might buy a nicer bonnet, then. You resemble a charwoman.”
“How rude! Did—”
“Madame Babin,” Penrose said quickly, “it is urgent that we speak with you regarding Monsieur Grant’s death.”
“What does it matter? He is gone and the murderer was arrested. And why do you care one way or the other?” Clara stroked the cat. Hard.
Ophelia said, “We care because two ladies, the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau and her daughter, are missing. We believe their disappearances are related to Monsieur Grant’s demise.”
“Go away.” Clara, still holding the cat, nudged the door shut with her shoulder.
“Our questions also concern the Cinderella stomacher and a certain letter you could describe as a death threat,” Ophelia said.
The door stopped.
“We had supposed the wisest course was to go to the police with the matter,” Ophelia went on, “but I suspected that you would not especially enjoy being questioned.”
Clara’s voice fell to a hiss. “How do you know about the letter?”
“You must have dropped it in the opera house lobby.”
“Bah!” Clara threw a hand up. “Very well, then, very well. What do I care?” She left the door open and stalked into the apartment. Her dressing gown wafted. The cat glared over Clara’s shoulder at Ophelia.
“Well done,” Penrose murmured in Ophelia’s ear, and Ophelia smiled in spite of herself.