“Because it is shameful in more than one way. Bigamy. Cruelty. And then Henrietta’s daughter found dead in their garden soon after.”
“I can’t help thinking about those feet, Professor.” Ophelia bent to look at the turtle on the seat. He’d peeked out of his shell, and his curved snout and beady eyes were somehow comforting. “Where is Prue? We aren’t getting any closer to finding her.”
“I believe we are. Prince Rupprecht commissioned the ballet. He may know why the ballet costume resembled Sybille Pinet’s gown and why it incorporated a replica of the stomacher.”
“He might know all right, but there’s something in the air. Everyone’s lying like dogs on the floor. Do you know where the prince lives?”
“No. But I suspect that the Misses Malbert do.”
*
H?tel Malbert was quiet when Baldewyn let Ophelia in the front door. Penrose was waiting in the carriage since they had no way to explain his presence.
“Madame,” Baldewyn muttered as he stalked away.
“Are the mademoiselles at home?” Ophelia called after him.
“Non, madame.”
“What of Monsieur le Marquis?”
“I could not say, madame.” Baldewyn disappeared through the library door.
Ophelia thought fast. She had once seen Eglantine writing letters at a desk in the ladies’ salon. Perhaps she kept an address book of some kind there. She hurried to the salon.
Empty. The remnants of a ladylike repast littered the coffee table. A mouse sat on its haunches beside a half-filled coffee cup, nibbling a pink macaron. Another mouse went at a chocolate bonbon. An obese cat dozed on a nearby chair.
Ophelia hurried to the dainty writing desk and opened it. Little compartments, lined in yellow silk, were stuffed with papers and envelopes, pens, and bottles of ink. Ophelia rifled through. Everything was in French, but she could read the names on the envelopes. In her haste, a few envelopes drifted to the carpet. She left them. Wait! Here was that addendum to the Prince’s ball he’d sent a few days ago—it was the same large, square envelope, and yes, there was a Paris return address—
Someone behind her made a dry cough.
Ophelia held her breath. She straightened and turned.
Malbert stood in the doorway. His bald pate shone. So did the large, squared-off meat cleaver he held in one hand. In his other hand he held Ophelia’s battered theatrical case by its handle. “Baldewyn told me that you were back. He is a good servant, Baldewyn.”
“Monsieur Malbert!” Ophelia said, overdoing the imperious matron’s voice just a touch. “I have misplaced an important missive that I—”
“You may cease the ruse, whoever you are.” Malbert’s eyelids fluttered like a fly’s wings.
“Whoever I am? Why, what do you—”
Malbert adjusted his grip on the meat cleaver. He took a step forward.
Ophelia tried to swallow. Her throat stuck.
“At first, I did not believe it when Lulu told me of your theatrical case.”
Lulu. She’d known it was Lulu.
“But then, oui, I began to see how peculiar you really do seem, madame. Or are you a mademoiselle? You came to my home under false pretenses. Disguised. Lying at every turn. What do you want?”
“I want to find Prue. To protect her.”
“Surely that did not require continuing with your ridiculous disguise.” He came still closer.
The meat cleaver didn’t look especially sharp—thank the heavens for Beatrice’s incompetent housekeeping. But it looked heavy.
Ophelia pressed herself back against the desk. “Why did you kill Henrietta? Was it on account of your bigamy?”
That stopped Malbert. His moist lips parted.
“That’s right. I know you’re still married to Clara Babin. Did Henrietta find out? Is that why you got rid of her?”
“I would never have harmed my darling, precious Henrietta.”
“Do you mean to hack off my feet?” Ophelia’s voice shook. “Just like you did to Henrietta? Hack them off and pop them in a pickling vat?”