The Left Hand of Justice Page 20

  “As you wish.” He took his own chair—wide, padded, with arms—behind the desk and leaned forward, balancing his chin on steepled fingers. “I don’t suppose that, in the course of your vacation, you turned up the plans that woman stole from me?”

  “No,” Corbeau said, though she was wearing the canvas sleeve beneath her shirt. After a thorough cleaning, it had made an excellent support for her arm. She had also begun to make progress with the conductive fabric, though the most she had coaxed from it were a few sparks.

  “You haven’t seen her?” Javert’s tone told her that he knew she’d looked. She and Joseph had scoured the streets as best as they could, but Kalderash had disappeared. Her house was empty and locked up tight. The prefect’s perspicacity might have been uncomfortable, had she not decided to leave police work altogether.

  “Not since that night. Sir, the reason I came,” she fumbled the buckles of her shoulder bag open with her good hand and removed an envelope, “was to tender my resignation.” She pushed the envelope across the desk at him. He glanced from the envelope to her, his thick eyebrows knitting together across the bridge of his nose. “I apologize in advance for the handwriting. As you probably know, I’m left-handed.”

  “Resignation? Surely not? Not now, when we need you, Inspector—or, should I say, Chief Inspector—more than ever before?”

  “Chief…”

  Corbeau sank down onto the hard chair. She’d anticipated he’d offer her job back, possibly even with more pay. But though it was what she’d wanted more than anything several months ago, she couldn’t go back to work on Javert’s terms. He had manipulated her. He had invented a crime to entrap an innocent person—a person, she realized too late, she had cared about. If she allowed him to reinstate her in her current position, she would be naming a price for her professional integrity. She would be inviting him to do it again. But as chief inspector…

  “With Vautrin gone, there’s no one better suited for the position.” Leaving her envelope where it was, he slid a stack of papers across the desk to her. Duties, responsibilities, and a contract. “Your first assignment will be to re-staff the Sûreté with qualified agents. After that, I’ll expect you to rebuild the Bureau of Supernatural Investigations as quickly as you can.

  “And there will be a significant increase in your pay,” he added when she still said nothing. “As well as that of your subordinates. It was shameful what they were expecting you to live on.” He laid a leather envelope on top of the paper stack. Beneath the unsealed flap, she could see that the envelope was heavy with coin. “An advance,” he said, “nothing more.”

  Corbeau’s heart pounded. During those long, cold weeks of recovery, she’d made a plan. After resigning, she’d move into one of the spare rooms at Madame Bernard’s house in the Montagne Ste. Geneviève and start compounding again—not sloppy formulae produced for a quick profit, but some of the recipes she’d learned in her childhood. Healing recipes. With Dr. Kalderash gone, the Montagne Ste. Geneviève would need someone to brew medicines, and she, at least, had some knowledge. It would be a difficult life, but not impossible. As a life of service often was.

  But as chief inspector, she would have a budget and staff. And she’d be serving not just the people of the Montagne Ste. Geneviève, but all of Paris. What’s more, she’d have the authority to do it her way.

  “My department,” she ventured, “to be run without your interference, the way I see fit?”

  Javert cocked an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. And I know you wouldn’t, either.”

  “What about the King? What would he say about reinstating the Bureau?”

  Javert laughed. “Oh, we mustn’t ever tell him. But he won’t dare come poking around. I was his confessor, once.”

  He slid her resignation back toward her. She let it lie. Unlike the King, she didn’t trust Javert. She would never trust him completely.

  On the other hand, it didn’t mean they couldn’t work together.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  “You’ll think about it? Inspector, do you know how many people would jump at the—”

  “I’ll think about it,” Corbeau repeated. “And you’ll wait for my response. You’ll put in a temporary chief, if you must, but you will wait. You need me.” She tucked the money and the contracts into her bag and stood.

  Javert continued to stare. Then a slow smile spread over his face. He held up his hands and shrugged. “Of course, Madame. I shall await your pleasure.”

  He stood to see her out. She slipped her resignation off his desk and crumpled it into her pocket. An unaccustomed elation settled over her: relief, optimism, and the knowledge she’d made the right decision. Nodding once at the prefect, she turned to leave, a small smile pulling at the edges of her lips.

  *

  Corbeau stepped out into the brisk, clean, early afternoon. All along the wide Boulevard du Palais, smartly dressed people moved from shop to restaurant to café, weaving in and out between bare trees and piles of dirt-speckled, hardened snow. She considered the question of lunch. The lump of cash in her bag would allow her to eat her meals wherever she pleased for a long time to come. She could travel by cab all over the city for months. Or, she could husband the money carefully and not have to deal with Javert again until the summer.

  She decided to enjoy the walk.

  What had become of Dr. Maria Kalderash? Corbeau supposed it was inevitable that the inventor would disappear again. Javert might have let her go that long-ago night in November, but he still thought she had the plans for the Left Hand of Justice. If she remained in Paris, he wouldn’t have been able to leave her alone for long. And there was Madame Boucher. The headlines had blazed with the names of Hermine Boucher and the Church of the Divine Spark through most of December. But both vanished from the papers some time around the New Year. And now, it was as if neither had ever existed. Even if Madame Boucher and Dr. Kalderash had come to an understanding, could either of them have remained in Paris, under the weight of those memories?

  She strode down the boulevard. The day was fine, and she was feeling strong. A flash of red down on the corner caught her eye.

  “Sophie!” she called.

  The other woman turned. A smile broke over her face and she waved. “Elise!”

  They hadn’t seen one another since that night in November. Corbeau hadn’t pursued her, and Sophie hadn’t sought her out. Corbeau was surprised at how happy she was to see Sophie running toward her, her crimson redingote peeking out from beneath her new coat, fur hat bobbing up and down as she ran, her shiny boots clacking on the pavement. As she approached, Corbeau reached out her hand. Sophie took it but stopped short of a full embrace.

  “I trust you’ve been well, Elise,” she said soberly.

  Corbeau nodded. “You?” Sophie nodded back. She was afraid, Corbeau realized—and rightfully so—that Corbeau wouldn’t forgive her for her betrayal in November. And Corbeau hadn’t, not for a long time. But those months of solitude and recovery had given her a lot to think about. And although they would never again share the intimacy they once had, Corbeau had too few friends who knew her from the inside out to cut her off completely. “And Madame Boucher?”

  Sophie’s smile returned. She looked both contented and relieved. “She forgave me, Elise, after I convinced her that I’d seen the error of my ways.”

  “Have you?”

  Sophie looked down. “I think so.”

  “Is she still having her outbursts?”

  Sophie nodded. “It was a little rough after the whole business in November, but we left Paris for a while to rest and heal. She has a small cottage in the country, so quiet and clean. It’s doing us a lot of good.”

  Corbeau shook her head. She couldn’t imagine Sophie voluntarily exiling herself from the nonstop excitement of the city, from her luxurious apartment and many lovers. But she looked healthy, happy even. Perhaps the move was just what she needed. “I’m glad. So what are you doing b
ack here?”

  Sophie laughed. “Looking for you, of all things. You’ve been very hard to find.”

  “Sorry. Jacques gave me good practice.”

  Sophie made a dismissive gesture. “No matter. I knew if you weren’t at home, I could probably find you here. I have some information you might want.”

  “No more supernatural emergencies, I hope. I’m on vacation.”

  “Well…”

  “Out with it, Soph.”

  Sophie patted her hair and made a little moue. “All right. I have it on good authority that a small village near Provins has been experiencing strange events. Bangs and crashes in the night, odd-colored flashes of lightning in clear weather, that sort of thing.”

  “I said I’m on vacation.”

  “They say it all began with the arrival of a doctor from Paris. She arrived from Paris, that is, but everyone’s certain that she’s really from somewhere else. They say she’s unnaturally talented with machines, and even wears a mechanical eye.”

  Corbeau’s heart stopped. She’d thought quite a bit about Dr. Kalderash in the past few weeks, and not only because she’d been playing with the woman’s equipment. She’d never met anyone like her, and she was pretty sure she never would again. Excitement rose in her chest, and, to her surprise, she found herself returning Sophie’s smile. “That’s good information, Soph.”

  “I thought you could use it, Inspector.”

  “That’s Chief Inspector, now. And thanks.”

  Sophie reached up and kissed her on the cheek. It was a chaste kiss, like that of a sister…or a friend. Corbeau opened her mouth to speak, but Sophie was already dancing away in the opposite direction, the bloodred hem of her redingote darting out from beneath her coat, as ever out of reach of the mud and slush. Corbeau watched her disappear into the crowd as light, clean snow began to fall.

  *

  Corbeau reached the walled city of Provins in late April. She had left a few weeks after she’d talked to Sophie, making her way slowly, east by southeast, a bit more than one hundred kilometers. The weather had been cooperative; she’d made most of the journey on foot, sleeping under the stars and stopping at the occasional inn as the mood took her. The advance on her salary had lasted well. If she was careful, she’d have enough to return.

  She passed through the narrow, twisting cobblestone streets and closely packed houses. Everywhere, the famous Provins roses were exploding into bloom. The air was heavy with their perfume. She wandered for a while through a bustling market and bought a jar of rose honey. She stopped at a tavern for a proper meal and then continued on toward the city gate.

  The afternoon sun warmed her shoulders and back. The snow was long gone, and the rolling hills were springing to life in all their green glory. She walked along the path for a few hours more until she came to a small farming settlement. Large parcels of land sprawled out along the hills, with occasional houses dotting the hills here and there. So different from Paris. It looked happy and alive. Even the mud in the wheel-ruts looked clean.

  She stepped off the road when she heard the heavy clip-clop of a draft horse behind her, followed by the low rumble of its cart.

  “Can I help you?” the driver asked, pulling to a stop next to her. He was a pleasant-looking man of about sixty, and he spoke in an easy, country drawl.

  “I’m looking for the new doctor, Dr. Kalderash.”

  Her clipped Parisian sounded harsh in her ears. The man squinted for a moment as if he were trying to puzzle out her words. Then he said, “Just over the hill. I can take you there. Are you ill?”

  “No, I’m not ill. If you just point out her house, I can get there myself.”

  He raised a callused hand to his brow and stared out over the land. “Over there,” he said, nodding. “If she’s not in the garden, listen for the machines.”

  “Thank you.”

  The man nodded again and flicked the reins over the horse’s broad back. The cart began to roll.

  About twenty minutes later, Corbeau walked up to the house the farmer had indicated. It was a simple stone cottage, but the building, fence, and grounds looked well maintained. A riotous jungle of flowers and herbs sprawled out between the walls and a low, surrounding fence.

  On the west side of the building, a woman was transplanting something exotic-looking into a patch of rich, dark earth. A three-legged dog nosed through the undergrowth near her feet. Corbeau’s heart began to pound. The woman was kneeling, her back to the road. Dark hair peeked out from beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat. It was long enough to brush her shoulders, now.

  What should she say? What could she say? Would Maria Kalderash even want to see her? Sensing her presence, the dog turned. A thin growl began in its throat.

  Her back still to Corbeau, Maria put a calming hand on her dog. She stood slowly, stretching as she rose. Country life had been kind to her. Her body had grown softer, and her skin seemed to glow. When she turned, the sun glinted off the lens of the Eye, and she smiled. “Inspector, I was wondering when you’d arrive.”

  Only a few yards separated the garden from the road. But to Corbeau, the distance seemed interminable.

  At last, Maria reached the front gate. She reached down and popped open the latch. “Do come in,” she said. A lively spark danced in her natural eye. The dog nuzzled Corbeau’s hand with its cold, wet nose. When Maria took Corbeau’s other hand in her own, Corbeau thought she might die of relief. “Do come in, Inspector. May I call you Elise? We have a lot to talk about.”

  —END—

  About the Author

  Before trying her hand at fiction, Jess Faraday trained as a linguist and translator. After a number of years in education, and a handful of published translations, she produced her first novel, The Affair of the Porcelain Dog. A voracious reader, avid martial artist, and outdoor enthusiast, she enjoys hiking, camping, and cycling.

  What Reviewers Say About Jess Faraday’s Work

  “The Affair of the Porcelain Dog is an excellent mystery. The characters are complex and in general not what they seem on first sight. Many unexpected twists and turns keep the novel intriguing right up to the end.”—Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender Round Table of the American Library Association

  “The Affair of the Porcelain Dog is a thoughtful book, a well-put-together mystery that integrates relationship problems into the main framework, but it is also an action-packed book…If you are a fan of Victorian-era mystery, or of strong LGBT characters in a story that does not rely on sex to move the plot along, Porcelain Dog is an excellent pick for your next read.”—Anthony Cardno, Chelsea Street Station No. 1

  “Jess Faraday takes you into a very bleak, dangerous, and inhuman realm. A world without mercy. But despite all this, she’s able to deliver a beautiful and romantic story. …This clever multi-layered mystery skillfully combined with some very strong characters will definitely keep you in suspense until the very end.”—Booked Up Reviews

  “Whether you like detective fiction, noir, Victorian stories or just damned good love stories, this will appeal to you.”—Erastes, Speak Its Name Reviews

  “The author builds a credible plot through the actions of diverse, fully-nuanced characters, which keeps the reader interested…Excellent first novel by a promising new author, which I give five stars out of five.”—Bob Lind, Echo Magazine

  “…despite all the ugliness it dealt with it managed to be also sweet and romantic…”—Elisa Reviews

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