The Left Hand of Justice

by Jess Faraday

  “That’s better, yes?” Marie asked.

  Corbeau smiled gratefully around a mouthful of cheese. She flipped another coin onto the lacquered wood in response and took out the papers Javert had given her, spreading them across the bar in front of her. Nodding her understanding, Marie pocketed the coin and drifted back into the kitchen.

  As she took the clippings from the envelope, Corbeau admired the clean, thick paper. The envelope had seen a lot of use but had a lot of use left in it still. Javert’s notes were likewise written on expensive stock. He had taken great care quartering and tearing the sheets of paper inside—paper covered on both sides with perfectly straight lines of his small, neat hand.

  The prefect’s salary was doubtless larger than her own, but she was willing to wager not by enough to afford Spanish cigarettes and expensive paper. Many of Corbeau’s colleagues had taken second jobs. But Javert was high enough on the ladder that such an infraction would be noticed—noticed and not tolerated. Yet he didn’t strike her as a man who lived beyond his means. The discrepancy vexed her, but she would have to tuck the question away for later.

  Right now, she had a case before her for the first time since Vidocq had resigned.

  Javert had organized the papers starting with the clipping showing Madame Boucher at the party where she’d last been seen. She rubbed the newspaper between her fingers. Unlike Javert’s paper, it was cheap and thin, and left a grayish residue on her skin. A few pages later she found the police report. Interesting. The report contained a summary of the events as told to one of Vautrin’s new hires by members of Hermine Boucher’s staff. First, Corbeau would have expected Vautrin himself to take the report for what would surely become a high-profile case. Second, she would have expected to find extended interviews with the driver and footman, who would have been the last people to see Madame Boucher, rather than a few sentences summarizing what other employees had said. The driver wasn’t even mentioned. Corbeau went through the notes again and again, but found no further interviews or investigation of the employees. Corbeau shook her head. Sloppy work from an inexperienced officer. It was going to cost the investigation.

  Disgusted, she laid the report aside and started another pile for newspaper clippings. Several concerned Dr. Kalderash, ranging from her work with the Church of the Divine Spark to dark speculations about her origins and secret spiritual practices. One such piece referred to Kalderash, rather insultingly, as a “Gypsy necromancer.” Dangerous talk to titillate the masses, Corbeau thought. It was more likely than Kalderash trafficking with the dead that whoever had sold that particular tidbit to the paper had thought to gain a few extra sou in shock value. Still, she would have to be careful when interviewing the suspect about her practices. The Church might not see a difference between summoning spirits and pretending to see the future in tea leaves, but when it came to arresting a woman for a serious crime, that could make all the difference in the world.

  She found a few interesting articles about a free clinic opening near the Montagne Ste. Geneviève. The Church of the Divine Spark had funded its construction, and Dr. Maria Kalderash would serve as the primary physician. Most of the articles hailed Madame Boucher as some sort of saint. A few expressed doubt about Dr. Kalderash’s qualifications, as well as about the “spiritual” care that the clinic would provide along with basic medical services.

  Kalderash’s departure from the Divine Spark seemed to be of much greater interest to the gossip-slingers than her charitable works. One long article, a masterpiece of prurient speculation, blamed Kalderash for everything from the closure of the clinic to the latest cholera outbreak. The article consisted of the same piecemeal assembly of information purchased bit by bit from different unnamed, unverifiable sources—people like Sophie, who lurked in cafés, parks, and places of amusement with open ears and ready pencils. Despite the unabashed glee with which the author had documented the destruction of Dr. Kalderash’s professional reputation following her falling-out with Madame Boucher, the collected snatches of gossip contained some solid information.

  Nobody was quite certain when Maria Kalderash had come to Paris—though surely the information could be found somewhere in the bowels of the Palais de Justice. She had burst onto the social scene a year and a half earlier with the introduction of the Gin Liver, a small, removable device the size of a potato, which filtered alcohol out of the body as quickly as a person could drink it down. It had become wildly popular with a certain class of rakish young men and had made Dr. Kalderash, by all accounts, fabulously wealthy herself. A companion device, the Discreet Lady’s Stomach Bypass, allowed young women of breeding to eat to satisfaction while siphoning off any sort of unseemly excess before it attached itself to their nubile forms. The article made no mention of how the devices connected to the body. Corbeau made a note to find out.

  As she followed the clippings back through time, a story began to emerge. At some point, a little less than two years earlier, the widow Hermine Boucher had discovered an obscure inventor whose immense talent apparently made up for her foreign birth, dubious dearth of connections, and appalling lack of money. Despite these differences—and the scandal of Dr. Kalderash’s heathen blood—the women became inseparable. Boucher funded Kalderash’s growing business—creating cosmetic enhancements for the vain and deep-pocketed—and used her share of the profits to start her church.

  Though the names of Boucher and Kalderash had peppered the pages of the scandal sheets for quite a while, discussions of the beliefs and practices of the Divine Spark were conspicuously absent, though Javert’s notes addressed themselves to this organization. By Javert’s account, Madame Boucher’s interest in the occult had begun following the death of her husband. That wasn’t uncommon. Corbeau remembered numerous occasions when neighbors and acquaintances had sought out her mother’s assistance to contact a recently departed loved one. But rather than fading over time, Madame Boucher’s interest deepened. She began to gather others around her, to style herself as some sort of medium. Shortly after Dr. Kalderash joined her entourage, Javert’s unnamed sources reported that the group had taken a political bent, setting itself, philosophically at least, against the Church and the reactionary King. It was here that Javert’s speculations left off.

  And then, at some point last winter, Kalderash’s name, which had been linked inextricably with that of Madame Boucher in the papers, had suddenly disappeared from mention. It was as if the inventor had been called into existence on Boucher’s whim, then dismissed when the whim had changed.

  Hermine Boucher had kept some very prominent company, Corbeau thought. As dizzying as such a meteoric rise into society must have been for someone like Kalderash, who had likely grown up around caravans and campfires, it must have been humiliating to be dropped so unceremoniously. The effect upon her business must have been even harder to bear. Lives were ruined when people like Hermine Boucher called an end to a fashion.

  “Hmm,” Corbeau said. Maybe Javert was being honest with her. If the women had been lovers, their falling-out would have been devastating on a very personal level as well. Stabbed in the back in business, friendship, and love. Many people would kill over just one of those.

  “Sounds like someone’s working hard,” a voice said behind her.

  Corbeau turned, quickly gathering up the papers in front of her. “You following me, Soph?”

  But Corbeau felt a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. The woman’s presence was inevitable, for one thing. For another, Sophie was another of the few remaining faces from the old days. If they’d met as adults, Corbeau wouldn’t have allowed a gossipmonger within ten feet of her. But Sophie had kept her confidences well—better than Corbeau would have expected. With breakfast inside her, and a long nap in sight, everything was looking a lot less bleak. Leaning on an elbow, Corbeau looked at her first lover, and the smile crept all the way across her face.

  Sophie smiled back. Morning’s light made it easier to appreciate the care she had taken with her
appearance. Her cream-colored silk gown was untouched by the rain. Over it, she wore a long, form-hugging crimson redingote decorated with rows of silver buttons that gave the over-garment a smart, military look. She had removed her very expensive coat and hung it near the door with her umbrella.

  “God, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “And you just look sore.” Sophie gestured toward her bruised face. “Have your misdeeds finally caught up with you?”

  Corbeau nodded. She wasn’t ready to discuss her scuffle with Vautrin or what it might have meant. Her past might have been off limits, but Sophie considered police business fair game. Better she should blame the bruises and scratches on Ugly Jacques—at least until Corbeau figured out why Vautrin was so keen on personally presiding over exorcisms on the wrong side of town.

  Corbeau flinched when Sophie’s cool fingers traced the goose egg on her cheek, but she bit back the sharp remark that had been her first instinct. She’d spent her adolescence fending for herself in the fetid little streets around the Bastille; it had taken a long time to learn to let someone take care of her. The people she’d allowed had been few and far between. But after the night she’d had, even she had to admit that a little babying would do her good.

  As if reading her mind, Sophie laid a hand on her cheek and said, “Why don’t you come back to my rooms and rest for a bit? I’m sure Vautrin can get his own coffee for one day.”

  “What, no drinks first? No banter? What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  Sophie’s smile softened. “The kind who could use a hot bath and a few hours’ sleep between silk sheets.”

  Corbeau laughed in spite of herself. “You do know, then.”

  The well-tended fingers traveled down her neck, down her arm, and rested on her wrist. Sophie had rubbed tinted oil into her fingernails. They glowed a warm, translucent red. “Only that, if you like. No expectations, Elise.”

  Their fingers found each other and tangled. They had agreed years ago: no promises, no expectations. The times they’d tried to make it more than that had been disastrous. But neither fact ever made it easier to leave in the morning. All the same, the pull of Sophie’s sweetly scented flesh was almost irresistible—flesh that she knew almost as well as her own. She had known so little safety in her life. The safety of the familiar, even if it wasn’t perfect, called to her.

  “I’ll think about it,” Corbeau said, sliding her hand free.

  Sophie pulled up the stool beside her and crossed what Corbeau knew to be very shapely legs beneath her dress. The ensemble probably cost some admirer more than what Corbeau made in a month.

  “Don’t you have some bankers to harass or something?” Corbeau asked.

  “Silly. You’re much more interesting these days. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on in the Montagne Ste. Geneviève?”

  “If you knew to show up there this morning, then you know as much as I do. More than that, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Because it’s police business?” Sophie asked.

  “Because I have no idea myself. But ghoulies and ghosties aren’t your usual beat. What’s your interest?”

  “Let’s just say my interest is personal.”

  Sophie arched her back like a cat in the sun. Suppressing a grin at the other woman’s transparency, Corbeau forced herself to look away. “Well, if you learn anything new about the disturbances, I hope you’ll let me know. In the meantime, I do have some questions that may be more up your alley.”

  Sophie looked distinctly pleased at the thought. She patted her hair and leaned in on an elbow. “Anything for you, Inspector.”

  “What do you know about Hermine Boucher?”

  Surprise and pleasure lit Sophie’s face. “Ooh, are you working on that? I wouldn’t have thought Vautrin would let you near such a high-profile case with a ten-foot barge pole.”

  “Vautrin has nothing to do with it.”

  “Working on your own, then? You never could resist a damsel in distress.”

  “Just answer the question, Soph. Who wants her gone?”

  Sophie picked up Corbeau’s empty coffee cup and tipped it sideways to watch the sludge ooze across the bottom. “A lot of people. The King, for one. Oh, he’s no fan of the Divine Spark, that’s for sure. Besides, the Great Prophet—that’s Hermine—scares people. It doesn’t come across in the newspaper sketches, but she has this power about her. When she looks at you, it’s as if she can see through you, into your past and into the future.” She met Corbeau’s eyes. “Power like that often frightens those in authority, especially if their authority is illegitimate.”

  “Hermine, is it?”

  Sophie blushed. Her familiarity in referring to Madame Boucher by her given name wasn’t lost on Corbeau. Nor was her uncharacteristic enthusiasm for the idea of spiritual power. Sophie had always reserved a special disdain for religion. Until now, Corbeau had assumed that disdain extended to the supernatural as well. Sophie shrugged. “The Great Prophet doesn’t stand on ceremony, even with us lowly gossipmongers.”

  “Yes, she does quite a bit of work on the behalf of the lowly, doesn’t she?”

  “And the King doesn’t like it, not one bit.”

  “No, nor her group’s unorthodox beliefs, I suppose. But with the noise the rabble are making about rising prices and new moral restrictions coming down from the throne, I doubt His Majesty would risk making a martyr of her,” Corbeau said.

  “Yes, that’s true.” A wicked glint lit Sophie’s eyes. “The Church calls her ‘the Whore of Babylon,’ you know.”

  “Babylon the Great, Mother of all Harlots and Abominations?”

  “You’ve heard the sermons?”

  “No, that’s what Vautrin calls me. When he’s in a good mood.”

  Sophie smiled. “Of course those are the exact words that Hermine uses to describe the Church. There’s scriptural evidence to back that up, by the way. It’s not just a convenient insult.”

  “So, some bishop on a mission, then.”

  Sophie cocked her head, frowning. “Maybe, but Hermine’s group isn’t really big enough to be a threat. Not yet, at least.”

  “What about their beliefs?”

  Sophie reached for Corbeau’s bread and took a thoughtful bite. “The Great Prophet believes that God uses spirits to speak to us. Of course the Evil One also uses spirits to possess and torment and confuse. It’s not always easy to discern which is which. And then there are all the usual charlatans.”

  “So a person needs a wise leader like Hermine Boucher to show them the difference.”

  “Exactly. And don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s coarse.”

  Corbeau paused to swallow the remainder of the dry bread, wishing she had a drop of coffee left to wash it down. After her breakfast had scratched its way down to her stomach, she said, “How can you tell if someone is speaking for God, or if they’re just after your money?”

  “Oh, Hermine is for real,” Sophie said. “I’ve seen it.”

  Corbeau leaned back, half-listening as Sophie went on to describe a dozen astounding supernatural feats she had seen the missing woman perform. A few Corbeau identified as advanced stage tricks. Others Corbeau had witnessed herself in the course of her work, although she wouldn’t have described them in terms of spirits acting through people. From Corbeau’s experience, many of the things people blamed on spirits were unconscious manifestations of an individual’s vital spiritual forces. But it wasn’t this difference in terminology that nagged at the back of her mind. What bothered her was the light in Sophie’s eyes—the gleam of the true believer—as Sophie spoke of the missing Madame Boucher.

  “You keep speaking of her in the present tense.” Corbeau interrupted Sophie’s monologue. “The woman has been missing for several days without a ransom demand. It’s not looking good.”

  Sophie stopped short and smiled patronizingly. “If you’d seen what I have, you’d have a little faith, Inspector.”

  “I’ve seen that and more. If any
thing, it discourages faith. You sound very taken with this woman.”

  Sophie’s smile turned brittle. “No business of yours. I admire her, that’s all. She’s very powerful, and she’s used her power to help a lot of people. Actually, you’d find this interesting. It’s sort of the other side of what you used to do. You used to help people channel spirits—”

  “I did nothing of the sort—”

  “You know you did. You just called it something else. Of course you didn’t care as long as it was making you money.”

  “Money you didn’t mind spending. But that’s not the point. My formulae helped people to develop what was already inside—”

  “They came to you for help, and how many ended up in the madhouse or in the grave?”

  “They came to me for a quick path to power. I gave it to them.”

  Why did so many of their discussions turn into a fight?

  “They came to you for help,” Sophie insisted. “But Hermine actually does help people. She helps them keep the spirits away.”

  “Really?” Corbeau quickly forgot their argument. If Sophie was correct, Madame Boucher had been working the reverse of Corbeau’s own research. Where Corbeau’s potions had brought out her clients’ latent supernatural abilities, Hermine Boucher was helping people suppress them. “How?”

  “Do you remember, Bernadette?” Sophie asked, suddenly, irritatingly switching the subject. “That little basement in Montmartre? When it was just the two of us?”

  “I told you never to call me that.”

  “Relax, there’s no one around but Marie, and she’s not talking. I miss those days. You do, too. Sleeping all day, champagne all night—remember?”

  “That was you. I spent my nights in the lab.”

  “Not all of them. Don’t you miss it, Elise?”

  Corbeau ground her teeth in frustration. She wanted to steer the conversation back to the Church of the Divine Spark, but she couldn’t resist setting Sophie straight. “Which part? Holed up for fourteen hours at a time nursing a still in a poorly ventilated basement, or spending the rest of the time hiding from the people who wanted to kill me and take my recipes? Hard to remember which part was more fun.”