by Jess Faraday
“She disappeared several days ago,” Javert said.
Corbeau looked up from the papers. “Was His Majesty behind it?”
“Not that I know of,” Javert said in a way that suggested if it were the case, he would have known. “Madame Boucher’s group is well loved by the masses. She herself is well loved—glamorous, young, pretty, and tragically widowed. His Majesty is too smart to make a martyr out of her. But he’s not anxious for her return. If it were up to him, I think he’d be happy for her to remain gone, and the group to simply fade away.”
“Maybe that would be best.”
Javert frowned at her.
“I’m surprised at you, Inspector. I’d have thought, above all, you’d want to see justice done. Fortunately, the decision to investigate does not reside with you, or with His Majesty. It resides with me. And I need your help finding her, quietly and before the papers get wind of this.”
“Why the secrecy? People disappear all the time. Why not put Vautrin on it?”
“Vautrin’s assistant took the initial report. He concluded that—” Javert cleared his throat and leaned in conspiratorially, “Madame Boucher was kidnapped with the aid of black magic.”
“You believe that?”
“From the report, it certainly seems possible.”
Corbeau scoffed. “Vautrin thinks anything he can’t explain is black magic.”
“But in this case, he may be right. And if black magic is actually afoot, I’m glad he kicked it up to me, because he has no business investigating it himself.”
Corbeau sat back and took a long pull from her cigarette. “It would serve him right for getting rid of Vidocq.”
“But it would serve the rest of us very badly. Most people remember a time when there was no organized civil police force.”
“Then they remember how you couldn’t walk down most streets in broad daylight.”
“They also remember a tax being raised to pay for a police force. The panic that would ensue if word of Madame Boucher’s, shall we say irregular disappearance, became common knowledge would make people forget we cut the crime rate in half. People are out of work and prices are rising fast, sometimes doubling in the space of a day. People are already pissing their pants in the Montagne Ste. Geneviève. If it gets out that the angel of the Church of the Divine Spark was spirited away by demonic forces, and the police could do nothing about it, the hysteria will spread across the entire city. That kind of panic left you an orphan. There will be many more orphans, throughout Paris. And the people will blame us, Inspector.”
And as much as Corbeau hated to admit it, she knew he was right. It wasn’t the time to stand back and watch Vautrin hang himself with his own stupidity and shortsightedness, much as she would have relished it. There was just one problem. “You seem to forget, Monsieur, that I’ve been demoted to Vautrin’s girl-of-all-work.”
“Leave Vautrin to me. I have a good idea who has taken Madame Boucher and why. Make the case, bring her in, and you’ll never have to worry about Vautrin again.”
“Her?”
Javert motioned for her to pass the papers. He riffled through the articles and notes until his fingers came to a well-worn newspaper sketch. Two elegantly dressed women stood before one of the most expensive shops on the Boulevard St. Germain. The one on the left—a strong-featured blonde in her late twenties—Corbeau recognized as Hermine Boucher. The other woman was smaller and more simply dressed. Her face was turned to one side, and a fur hat partially hid straight, dark hair, which ended, bluntly and shockingly, at the level of her chin.
The young widow of Henri Boucher was renowned for her beauty, but it was the other woman who caught Corbeau’s eye. The artist had captured a certain haughtiness in her stature—as if her plain dress and short hair were a daring style choice, rather than, as was more likely the case, indications that financial desperation had once forced her to sell her hair and finer clothing. The way she was drawn also betrayed a sly intelligence. Corbeau wasn’t surprised to see the title “Doctor” beside the woman’s name.
“Dr. Maria Kalderash. The artist drew her looking to the side in order to hide her deformity,” Javert said.
“The doctor working in the slums with the Divine Spark?”
Javert nodded. “In reality, Dr. Kalderash’s face is noticeably scarred. She also wears a mechanical device on the right side.”
“The Eye,” Corbeau said. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered hearing about the doctor and her eccentric prosthetic gadgets. Although the articles in Javert’s hand spoke of the ones she’d created for healing purposes, there had also been a series of devices that amounted to fashion accessories. For a short time, they had been quite a sensation among the moneyed classes. It was rumored that the contraption she herself wore enabled her to see through a blinded eye.
“Dr. Kalderash trained as a physician in her native Romania. During the year or so that she was associated with the Church of the Divine Spark, she worked side by side with Madame Boucher. Her association with the Church ended some time ago, but she still maintains a modest clientele. Her training isn’t recognized here, of course. Her methods are…foreign at best. Spiritually, they are suspect.”
“You’re calling her a witch?” Corbeau asked. Javert raised a conciliatory hand at her tone.
“Under His Majesty’s new guidelines regarding the prosecution of witchcraft, the argument could be made. However, I have no intention of leveling those charges against her—not when I believe her to be culpable in the more concrete case of Madame Boucher’s disappearance.”
Corbeau looked at the newspaper sketch again. It was dated the previous January. More of the story came back to her. Two of Kalderash’s devices—the Gin Liver and the Discreet Lady’s Stomach Bypass—had been at the height of their popularity. Her name and Boucher’s had always seemed to be linked then. But that had changed over the summer. Corbeau had marked the devices’ decline in popularity as the passing of another trend.
Had it been something more than that?
“They were lovers, you know,” Javert said, interrupting her thoughts.
He said the word matter-of-factly, and without the revulsion or judgment she would have expected from a former priest. Corbeau glanced at the sketch again, her eyes lingering on Dr. Kalderash. Something about the picture stirred her. She’d always had a weakness for intelligent women. She’d even pursued a few. But that had been when she was younger, had more money and energy, and before it had just become easier to be alone.
Javert teased another clipping from the pile of papers and slid it on top of the first. In this sketch, Madame Boucher stood at the entrance of a large, well-appointed home. Beneath a fortune of exquisite pelts, she wore a simple gown—a light, flowing fabric decorated with thousands of crystal beads. It was of the same old-fashioned design—lightly corseted, without the full skirts and bustles her fashionable peers favored. As if to compensate, her light hair had been swept up in a complicated knot and adorned with jewels.
“Three nights ago, Madame Boucher attended a party. Dr. Kalderash turned up uninvited. There was some unpleasantness between them, and Dr. Kalderash was unceremoniously ejected. Much later, Madame stepped into her carriage and vanished.”
“Vanished?”
Javert pinched out what remained of his cigarette and ground the remaining paper twist underfoot.
“The footman reported he shut the door behind Madame, and when he opened it again upon arriving home, the carriage was empty. He said he didn’t stop at any point along the journey. So you can see why people are rumbling about black magic. It doesn’t help that Dr. Kalderash is of Gypsy extraction.”
“But do you actually believe she used black magic to kidnap a woman from a moving vehicle?” Corbeau asked, incredulous.
“That’s what I intend to find out. I thought you might interview her this morning.” He smiled at her expression. “The universe is a big place, Inspector, with more possibilities than our mustard-seed-siz
ed intellects can conceive.”
“But you consider Kalderash a strong suspect?”
“I consider her the only suspect.”
“I thought the universe was a big place. Surely it’s large enough for more than one theory at this point in the investigation.”
Javert shrugged. “I’ll make it worth your while. Review the facts of the case. Interview the suspect and whomever else you deem important. I’ll keep Vautrin out of your hair while you do. And when you gather enough evidence for an arrest warrant for Dr. Kalderash, then you’ll have the opportunity to carry out that warrant as a fully restored detective inspector of the Sûreté.”
Corbeau let out a long breath. Her windpipe still ached from where Vautrin had tried to crush it. A lump was forming on the back of her skull from where he’d bashed it against the doorjamb. Hadn’t he been surprised, when he’d arrived at Armand Lambert’s building, priest in tow, to see that she’d gotten there first? Whatever dark little business of his she’d stumbled on, he’d be looking for any excuse to send her on her way. She certainly didn’t fancy spending the day skulking around the Palais de Justice trying to avoid him.
At the same time, Javert’s certainty of Dr. Kalderash’s guilt suggested a setup. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t set up suspects before, of course. The first thing an agent learned was that if a criminal isn’t guilty of the crime in question, he—or she—is probably guilty of something else. But it smelled all the same.
“I’ve done a lot of your research for you already,” Javert said. “I’m confident that once you read the evidence, you’ll agree with me. What do you think, Inspector?”
He held out his hand. She hesitated. Surely he didn’t expect her to accept his assessment on faith. Yet she might arrive at the same place Javert had, through her own methods. And then her days of coffee and paperwork would be over.
“I’ll read over your reports,” she said, taking the proffered hand. “But I’ll conduct my own investigation.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“What about Mr. Lambert?”
“Who?”
“Armand Lambert. You showed up at his house just as I was leaving. Chief Inspector Vautrin and his pet priest took Mr. Lambert into custody earlier this morning following his outburst. Who knows what sort of spiritual remediation they have in mind for him? Frankly, Monsieur, I fear for his safety.”
“Mmm.” Javert nodded. “You concentrate on Dr. Kalderash. I’ll find your Mr. Lambert. In the meantime, I believe you know where you are now.” He rapped the top of the carriage with the handle of a large, oiled-silk umbrella. The carriage slowed and pulled to a stop before the café Corbeau knew so well. “Oubliette doesn’t open for another hour or two. It should give you plenty of time to settle your affairs there before you go to interview Dr. Kalderash. Best not to let these things fester. Her address is inside, by the way. The Rue des Rosiers. Although I’m sure you could have deduced that for yourself.”
Corbeau folded the papers back into their envelope and tucked it into her shoulder bag. Javert opened the door onto the uneven sidewalk in front of the café. Corbeau placed one foot onto the metal step, pausing to watch the pounding rain and the river rushing through the gutter beneath her. Javert chuckled, his voice resonant within the wooden walls of the fiacre.
“Where are my manners?” He handed her his umbrella. When she hesitated, he said, “Use it in good health, Inspector. Return it to me at our next meeting. And don’t forget this.” He handed her the purse of coins she had earlier ignored. “I won’t lose my only qualified agent over a matter of two weeks’ pay.”
Reluctantly, Corbeau tucked the purse into her coat pocket. As the carriage rolled off, she wrestled the baleen frame of the umbrella into position, taking comfort in the silk shelter, though by that time, her hems were soaked through. Dodging puddles and the occasional pedestrian, she swallowed her pride and made her way to the front door.
Chapter Four
Though Corbeau would have allowed at least a week to pass before turning up at Oubliette again—she would have needed at least that much time to scrounge the money she owed for the chair and the bottle of Bordeaux—Javert was right. It was better to sort these things out before they got out of control. The owner, Marie, would forgive her once she had cash in hand. And from the weight of the coins in her pocket, she likely had enough to settle up with Ugly Jacques as well. After she cleared her accounts, she’d go home and sleep all day. Perhaps all night, too. Her employment was no longer at the whim of Chief Inspector Vautrin. No matter that he probably wished her dead now—Javert wouldn’t let him touch her.
The café’s dark-blue awning whipped back and forth in the wind. Cold drops dripped from the sodden canvas, falling hard on the oiled silk of Javert’s umbrella as she passed beneath it. The café had closed for the night around two. Corbeau reckoned it was a little after seven. The important thing was that Marie would be happy to take her money any time of day. Despite the sign, the front door was unlocked. Corbeau walked past the stacked chairs and tables that would fill the narrow stretch of sidewalk out front should it ever stop raining. As she shut the door behind her, the sounds of food preparation stopped, the kitchen door burst open, and a stout, formidable-looking woman charged out.
“Well, don’t you have a nerve?” Marie looked as if she’d slept as little as Corbeau had, but it showed more clearly on her rough-featured face and in the sag of her age-rounded shoulders. “I thought I told you—”
“Peace, Madame. I came to pay you, and to apologize.”
The juggernaut of a woman stopped short, sharp eyes lighting on the pouch Corbeau held up. A smile spread across her face at the jingle of the coins inside. The smile grew wider with every coin Corbeau pressed into her fleshy palm.
“And one more for your trouble,” Corbeau said. “I am truly sorry, Madame. It won’t happen again.”
Marie held her gaze for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. “Thank you, dear, I knew you’d come through.”
“I’m sure that’s what you told everyone last night after you threw me out.”
“Well…now…” She self-consciously tucked a strand of steel-colored hair back beneath her frayed scarf. “What’s a woman to do? You were much better at paying your bills when you were a bum, you know.”
“Of course back then you always complained about the ‘element’ my business attracted.”
“Would have broken your mother’s heart. All that knowledge twisted and turned to immoral purpose.” She cocked her head, thoughtful. “Though I can’t say she’d have liked your current activities any better. Police work, indeed.”
“You have to admit it does keep people on their best behavior knowing the Sûreté is about.”
“Except when it’s the Sûreté turning the place on its ear.”
Corbeau closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. “I’ve just paid for that and more.”
“Well…now…” Marie smiled and patted her arm. “I suppose you have made up for it. And you’ve done so much for that poor woman in the Montagne Ste. Geneviève. How is her little boy?”
Corbeau exhaled a breath of relief. Marie was one of the few people who still knew her from the old days. She’d been a friend of Corbeau’s mother. Corbeau had practically grown up in the warmth of the wooden walls and the glow of the wall sconces. The café was a refuge whose loss Corbeau would have felt acutely. “A nuisance. But he’s doing well.”
“I’m glad. It was bad enough, him running under the wheels of that wagon. I never thought a little one like that would survive an amputation on top of it.”
Corbeau was grateful Marie hadn’t reminded her Joseph had been running because Corbeau had been chasing him. The fumes from her tinctures and potions had been slowly curdling her common sense, pushing her natural suspicion toward a deadly paranoia. When six-year-old Joseph’s curiosity had led him to peek through the window of Corbeau’s basement lab that day, he’d been lucky the carriage had gotten him before Corbea
u had. Vidocq had kicked down the door of her lab the next day.
“Joseph’s a tough little weasel,” Corbeau said.
Marie narrowed her eyes at the uncharacteristic emotion in her voice. She caught her eye. “You’re doing right by that family, Elise. Your mother would be proud.”
Corbeau sighed. “I won’t be doing it for long if prices keep doubling every time I take a breath. If His Majesty doesn’t give our salaries a bump soon, I’ll be sleeping on the floor of Joseph’s bedroom—and I’ll still be paying that place off, poltergeists and all.”
Marie smiled kindly and patted her arm again.
“Come to the bar and I’ll fix you some breakfast. On the house. You look terrible, by the way.”
Corbeau followed her across the traffic-worn floorboards to the bar at the back. Leaning Javert’s umbrella against the bar, she slid onto one of the stools. She grimaced at her reflection in the long mirror on the wall. Bruises shaped like Vautrin’s fingers were blooming on her neck. They matched the black eye Jacques’s man had given her. Not the most attractive look, but at least she hadn’t lost any teeth. She ran her fingers through her hair until it no longer looked like a bird’s nest and took a clean cloth napkin from the pile on the edge of the bar to wipe the dirt from her face. A little banged up, but not bad for twenty-eight, she thought. A proper wash, and she’d be good as new. She turned up the collar of her coat and winked at her reflection.
“Jacques hasn’t sent anyone else, has he?” Corbeau called. She used the mirror to give the place a quick once-over.
“Pfft. After what you did to the last one? Besides, I don’t think drooling thugs wake up as early as honest citizens such as ourselves.”
After a bit of shuffling behind the kitchen doors, Marie reappeared with a slice of buttered bread on a plate, a wedge of cheese, and a small cup of strong coffee. The bread was stale, but it calmed the burn in Corbeau’s stomach. The mere smell of the coffee began to clear her head.
