1 November, 1867 Oxford, England The murdered girl, grainy in black-and-gray newsprint, stared up at him. Her eyes were mournful and blank. Gabriel placed the chipped Blue Willow teacup beside the picture. His hand shook, and tea sloshed onto the newspaper. Ink bled. Gabriel Augustus Penrose, although a bespectacled professor, hadn''t--not yet, at least--developed round shoulders or a nearsighted scowl. Although, such shoulders and such a scowl would have suited the oaken desk, swaybacked sofa, towers of books, and swirling dust motes in his study at St. Remigius''s College, Oxford.
And at four-and-thirty years of age, Gabriel was certainly not given to fits of trembling. But this . He tore his eyes from the girl''s. Was it today''s newspaper? He glanced at the upper margin-- yes . Perhaps there was still time. Time for . what? He didn''t customarily peruse the papers during his four o''clock cup of tea, but a student had come to see him and he''d happened to leave The Times behind. The morgue drawing was on the fourth page, tucked between a report about a Piccadilly thief and an advertisement for stereoscopic slides.
A familiar, lovely, and--according to the report--dead face. SENSATIONAL MURDER IN PARIS: In the Marais district, a young woman was found dead as the result of two gunshot wounds in the garden of the mansion of the Marquis de la Roque-Fabliau, 15 Rue Garenne. She is thought to be the daughter of American actress Henrietta Bright, who wed the marquis in January. The family solicitor said that it is not known how the tragic affair arose, and that the family was unaware of the daughter''s presence in Paris. The commissaire de police of that quarter has undertaken an assiduous search for her murderer. Gabriel removed his spectacles, leaned forward on his knees, and laid his forehead in his palm. The murdered girl, Miss Prudence Bright, was a mere acquaintance. Perhaps the same might be said of Miss Ophelia Flax, the young American actress who had been traveling with Miss Bright when he''d encountered them in the Black Forest several weeks ago.
Mere acquaintance . The term could not account for the ripping sensation in his lungs. Gabriel replaced his spectacles, stood, and strode to the jumbled bookcase behind his desk. He drew an antique volume from the shelf: Histoires ou contes du temps passé -- Stories or Fairy Tales from Past Times --by Charles Perrault. He flipped through the pages, making certain a loose sheet of paper was still wedged inside. He stuffed the volume in his leather satchel, along with his memorandum book, yanked on his tweed jacket, clamped on his hat, and made for the door. Two Days Earlier Paris The mansion''s door-knocker was shaped like a snarling mouse''s head. Its bared teeth glinted in the gloom and raindrops dribbled off its nose.
It ought to have been enough of a warning. But Miss Ophelia Flax was in no position to skedaddle. Yes, her nerves twanged like an out of tune banjo. But she''d come too far, she had too little money, and rainwater was making inroads into her left boot. She would stick to her guns. "Ready?" she asked Prue, the nineteen-year-old girl dripping next to her like an unwrung mop. "Can''t believe Ma would take up residence in a pit like this," Prue said. Her tone was all bluster, but her china-doll''s face was taut beneath her bonnet, and her yellow curls drooped.
"You sure you got the address right?" "Certain." The inked address had long since run, and the paper was as soggy as bread pudding by now. However, Ophelia had committed the address--15 Rue Garenne--to memory, and she''d studied the Baedeker''s Paris map in the railway car all the way from Germany, where she and Prue had lately been employed as maids in the household of an American millionaire. "It''s hardly a pit, either," Ophelia said. "More like a palace. It''s past its prime, that''s all." The mansion''s stones, true, were streaked with soot, and the neighborhood was shabby. But Henrietta''s mansion would dwarf every building in Littleton, New Hampshire, where Ophelia had been born and raised.
It was grander than most buildings in New York City, too. "I reckon Ma, of all people, wouldn''t marry a poor feller." "Likely not." "But what if she ain''t here? What if she went back to New York?" "She''ll be here. And she''ll be ever so pleased to see you. It''s been how long? Near a twelvemonth since she ." Ophelia''s voice trailed off. Keeping up the chipper song and dance was a chore.
"This is cork-brained," Prue said. "We''ve come all this way, and we''re not turning back now." Ophelia didn''t mention that she had just enough maid''s wages saved up for one--and only one--railway ticket to Cherbourg and one passage back to New York. Prue''s mother, Henrietta Bright, had been the star actress of Howard DeLuxe''s Varieties back in Manhattan, up until she''d figured out that walking down the aisle with a French marquis was a sight easier than treading the boards. She had abandoned Prue, since ambitious brides have scant use for blossoming daughters. But Prue and Ophelia had recently discovered Henrietta''s whereabouts, so Ophelia fully intended to put her Continental misadventures behind her, just as soon as she installed Prue in the arms of her long-lost mother. Before Ophelia could lose her nerve, she hefted the mouse-head door-knocker and let it crash. Prue eyed Ophelia''s disguise.
"Think she''ll buy that getup?" "Once we''re safe inside, I''ll take it off." The door squeaked open. A grizzle-headed gent loomed. His spine was shaped like a question mark and flesh-colored bumps studded his eyelids. A steward, judging by his drab togs and stately wattle. "Good evening," Ophelia said in her best matron''s warble. "I wish to speak to Madame la Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau." What a mouthful.
Like sucking on marbles. "Regrettably, that will not be possible," the steward said. He spoke English. Lucky. The steward''s gaze drifted southward. Ophelia was five-and-twenty years of age, tall, and beanstalk straight as far as figures went. However, at present she appeared to be a pillowy-hipped, deep-bosomed dame in a black bombazine gown and woolen cloak. A steel-gray wig and black taffeta bonnet concealed her light brown hair, and cosmetics crinkled her oval face.
All for the sake of practicality. Flibbertigibbets like Prue required chaperones when traveling, so Ophelia had dug into her theatrical case and transformed herself into the sort of daunting chaperone that made even the most shameless lotharios turn tail and pike off. "Now see here!" Ophelia said. "We shan''t be turned out into the night like beggars. My charge and I have traveled hundreds of miles in order to visit the marquise, and we mean to see her. This young lady is her daughter." The steward took in Prue''s muddy skirts, her cheap cloak and crunched straw bonnet, the two large carpetbags slumped at their feet. He didn''t budge.
Stuffed shirt. "Baldewyn," a woman''s voice called behind him. "Baldewyn, qui est là ?" There was a tick-tick of heels, and a dark young lady appeared. She was perhaps twenty years of age, with a pointed snout of a face like a mongoose and beady little animal eyes to match. " Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle Eglantine," Baldewyn said, "this young lady--an American, clearly--claims to be a kinswoman of the marquise." "Kinswoman?" Eglantine said. "How do you mean, kinswoman? Of my belle-mère ? Oh. Well.
She is . absent." Ophelia had picked up enough French from a fortune-teller during her stint in P. Q. Putnam''s Traveling Circus a few years back to know what belle-mère meant: stepmother . "No matter," Ophelia said. "Mademoiselle, may I present to you your stepsister, Miss Prudence Deliverance Bright?" "I assure you," Eglantine said, "I have but one sister, and she is inside. I do not know who you are, or what sort of little amusement you are playing at, but I have guests to attend to.
Now, s''il vous plaît , go away!" She spun around and disappeared, the tick-tick of her heels receding. Baldewyn''s dour mouth twitched upwards. Then he slammed the door in their noses. "Well, I never!" Ophelia huffed. "They didn''t even ask for proof!" "I told you Ma don''t want me." "For the thousandth time, humbug." Ophelia hoisted her carpetbag and trotted down the steps, into the rain. "She doesn''t even know you''re on the European continent, let alone on her doorstep.
That Miss Eglantine--" "Fancies she''s the Queen of Sheba!" Prue came down the steps behind her, hauling her own bag. "--said your mother is absent. So all we must do is wait. The question is, where?" They stood on the sidewalk and looked up and down the street lined with monumental old buildings and shivering black trees. A carriage splashed by, its driver bent into the slanting rain. "We can''t stay out of doors. May as well be standing under Niagara Falls. I''m afraid my greasepaint''s starting to run, and this padding is like a big sponge.
" Ophelia shoved her soaked pillow-bosom into line. "Come on. Surely we''ll find someplace to huddle for an hour or so. Your sister--" "Don''t call her that!" "Very well, Miss Eglantine said they''ve got guests. So I figure your mother will be home soon." The mansion''s foundation stones went right to the pavement. No front garden. But farther along they found a carriageway arch.
Its huge iron gates stood ajar. "Now see?" Ophelia said.