The Left Hand of Justice

by Jess Faraday

  Corbeau smiled and ran a hand over the gentle swell of Sophie’s hip, lazily tracing around the navel with her thumb. This new contempt was a far cry from her earlier worshipful description of Madame Boucher. Was she compensating for having deliberately made Corbeau jealous?

  “And they’re meeting when?” Corbeau asked, slipping her hand between Sophie’s tightly closed thighs.

  “No civilized dinner begins before nine.”

  “It’s a dinner?”

  “A party, even, if you can imagine.”

  “With their leader missing?”

  Sophie sat up abruptly, pulling herself and her pillow against the headboard.

  “She’ll be fine, I told you. You need to have faith.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got faith enough for both of us. And I don’t know what to make of that, Soph.”

  “People change.”

  “I suppose.”

  The heat between them began to drain away, and for the first time, Corbeau felt how cold the room was despite the fireplace just beyond the doorway. She pulled the covers back, and they both slid underneath.

  “Will they be choosing an interim leader?” Corbeau said.

  “I don’t know. I certainly wasn’t invited.”

  “Did you expect to be?”

  The silence said more than words. If Corbeau was reading things correctly, she had been right about how close Sophie and Madame Boucher had been. If Corbeau was reading things correctly, the civet and rose soaps had been Hermine Boucher’s choice. How long had they been together? If Sophie was being excluded from that night’s meeting, then she probably hadn’t been more than a peripheral member of the Church of the Divine Spark. But she knew the Church’s work and its goals. And she’d been on intimate terms with its leader. Still, something had changed between them before Madame Boucher disappeared.

  Something making Sophie deeply unhappy.

  “When was the last time you saw Hermine Boucher?” Corbeau asked gently.

  Sophie looked away this time. Outside the rain was falling again: as hard against the evenly paved streets in front of Sophie’s building as it was no doubt onto the cracking roof-tiles of Corbeau’s. Sophie shivered, and Corbeau pulled the feather bed farther over them.

  Sophie laid her head on Corbeau’s shoulder. “The demons were at her again the night before she disappeared. I brewed her up something quick, like I’d done a thousand times, but it wasn’t working anymore. She was this close to begging that Gypsy woman to come back. Said she was ready to try to handle it a different way.” Sophie looked up from Corbeau’s shoulder, bitterness plain on her face.

  “Did she call her back?” Corbeau asked.

  “No. I stayed with her until it was time to go to the party—another party to which I wasn’t invited. Neither was Dr. Kalderash, though she turned up that night all the same. And then…”

  It was a strange position in which to find oneself, lying naked next to someone, sympathizing that her lover wanted someone else. But they had no claim on each other, and they’d known each other too long for either of them to be either upset or surprised.

  The unwelcome thought occurred to Corbeau that Sophie had just revealed a possible motive for disposing of Madame Boucher herself, or at least for seeing Dr. Kalderash take the blame for it. She glanced over at the other woman, who was running a finger over the embroidery on the featherbed. Sophie was angry and jealous, yes. Corbeau had seen for herself that she was capable of violence. At the same time, she seemed so convinced Hermine Boucher would surface at some point, safe and unharmed. It wasn’t the viewpoint one would expect from a kidnapper. Sophie’s fingers strayed over the edge of the feather bed and, with a glance to the left, burrowed under the covers as if in search of warmth.

  “You’ll go tonight,” Sophie whispered, as her fingers found their target. Corbeau’s hips moved forward to meet them, and as Sophie leaned forward to steal a kiss, Corbeau pressed herself closer.

  “I’ll go.”

  “The housekeeper’s name is Madame Pettit,” Sophie whispered. “Take what you want from my clothes, but I assume you’ll be entering through the back.”

  Corbeau smiled against Sophie’s lips. Sophie had heard enough of her stories to anticipate how Corbeau would go about gaining entrance to the house. She moved her hand over Sophie’s firm, round buttock.

  “I always have enjoyed the back entrance,” she murmured.

  Business concluded, she followed Sophie into the warmth beneath the feather bed. She had other questions, of course, but Corbeau had gotten the information she needed, and quite a bit more. Familiar fingers described tingling trails across her legs, stomach, and breasts. She moaned softly as something she’d thought forgotten stirred deep within her. Encouraged, Sophie slid down the length of her body, pressing her legs open and insinuating herself between them. And then all was as it had been in the beginning: everything and nothing, just pounding pulse and darkness, scent, and skin.

  *

  Night came quickly, and with it, the chiming of the mantel clock and a renewed deluge outside the now-darkened window. The sun had receded, dragging night’s black cloak over Paris while Sophie slept on beside her. Corbeau’s body felt heavy and sated, but she had awakened with her mind afire with questions. Thunder shook the wooden frame of the building. Still deep in the clutches of some dream—a pleasant one, from her expression—Sophie mewled in her sleep and turned over. The faint smells of sweat and rose oil hung in the air. It would be so easy to burrow back beneath the covers and luxuriate in Sophie’s warm, clean flesh. If she left now, Sophie would make her pay. On the other hand, Sophie had been the one who had told her about the meeting. She shouldn’t be surprised if Corbeau actually went.

  Bunching her pillow against the headboard, she sat up and gave the cool night air a moment to clear her mind. Then she slid from under the covers and stood.

  Shivering in the evening chill, Corbeau fumbled across the room to the wardrobe for a linen shift. Sophie had told her to take what she wanted, and in the dim light of the outside streetlamps, she considered three different dresses. But Sophie had guessed right, that Corbeau would try to lose herself in the downstairs bustle rather than walk in through the front door. If the Church of the Divine Spark was throwing a party at Madame Boucher’s house, they would probably have hired outside help for the evening. And none of Sophie’s dresses, designed, made, and bought under the watchful supervision of her wealthy benefactors, would be appropriate to the task. But she would help herself to a clean shift, she thought, selecting the best one. She stole a glance at herself in the mirror near the vanity. The garment was too short and too big in the bust and hips, but the linen felt divine against her skin. It would do. She padded back out to the main room to gather her things.

  At some point while Corbeau had slept, Sophie had carefully laid out her dress and stockings to dry. She had put away the basin and accoutrements, hung the kettle back up on its hook, and returned the soaps and oils to their places. The fire had died to coals, but the room was warm. Corbeau didn’t look forward to being back outside pounding the wet pavement without Javert’s umbrella. On the other hand, part of her had been itching to leave since she’d awakened. These little trysts were fun, but every time she left, the empty ache inside grew darker and deeper. They were using each other—no one was being deceived. Yet Corbeau couldn’t deny they both wanted—they both deserved—more than this. Sophie wouldn’t be satisfied to go back to near-poverty, nor to the poverty of attention that was the lot of police wives. As for Corbeau, she could hardly take care of herself. She needed a partner who could entertain herself—someone who would be happy to look after her own needs, and maybe some of Corbeau’s needs as well.

  Her shoulder bag lay atop the dress. Corbeau drew a sharp breath when she saw Javert’s papers had been gone through then straightened again, a little too much, as if to compensate for the trespass. She checked her bottles and prayer book. The bottles—both the ones she had brought from he
r apartment and the one she’d found under Lambert’s bed—were intact and accounted for. The prayer book, not surprisingly, was untouched. Irritation flared in her chest. Sophie had always been one for prying—subtly, by manipulating the conversation, as well as through plain snooping. It was what enabled her to collect the most valuable information for the newspapers. But on a personal level, it was irritating as hell. Considering the degree to which Sophie had mixed herself up in the case, it was dangerous as well.

  Cursing under her breath, Corbeau tugged on her now-stiff stockings and pulled the scratchy wool dress back over her head. She checked the contents of her bag again and swung it back over her shoulder. She shuffled into her boots and coat.

  She still couldn’t figure out why the Church of the Divine Spark would be throwing a party when their leader was missing. A meeting, she could understand. If the organization had come to the same conclusion that Corbeau had—that Hermine Boucher had met with a bad end—they would have to decide whether, and how, to carry on her work. Leadership would be reconfigured. But a dinner party—that was bizarre.

  But what if the party was concealing a meeting? If there had been a conspiracy to get rid of Hermine Boucher, perhaps it wasn’t a case of disgruntled servants. What if certain members of the Divine Spark had decided to take the organization in a different direction? The Church had made a name for itself doing good works, but it had also begun to involve itself in what Sophie thought of as suppressing demonic activity. What if the differences between these two functions had widened into a schism? Moreover, the Church’s deviation from Catholic doctrine had made Madame Boucher an enemy—or at least an irritant—to the King. Could a few enterprising members of the Church of the Divine Spark be aiming to give the movement a political edge?

  Could a power struggle within the organization have resulted in Madame Boucher’s disappearance?

  Corbeau glanced at the bedroom door, behind which Sophie slept on. It was tempting to wake her and ask her opinion, as someone so close to the situation. On the other hand, Sophie was close enough to the situation that any answers she did offer would have to be weighed and examined accordingly. Corbeau didn’t have the time.

  No. She would go to the party as planned, though she wouldn’t ask for Madame Pettit, as Sophie instructed. It would be good to have a name to drop if she found herself in a pinch, but she would find her own way inside and draw her own conclusions.

  Corbeau gave the room one last glance before buttoning up her coat. The coals smoldered gently behind the dragonfly screen. Her eyes traveled over the familiar shapes of the furniture, the neatly folded canvas, where she’d had what would likely be her last bath for a long time, across the statues on the mantel.

  And then she saw something she was certain hadn’t been there before. It was a small, stopper-topped phial, similar to the one she had found in Armand Lambert’s room. The liquid inside it glittered in the lamplight.

  Corbeau crossed the room quickly. She snatched the bottle from the mantel and popped off the cork. She could identify several ingredients by smell, but she’d no idea what they could mean in combination. A chill shivered through her.

  “What are you playing at?” she asked, glancing at the door, behind which Sophie slumbered.

  Sophie had placed the phial there. Placed it there for Corbeau to find, along with her dried clothes and obviously examined documents. Was Sophie telling her that she, too, had figured out the connection among Lambert, Bertrand, and Fournier? Or perhaps she was telling her Paris had a new alchemist. The Montagne Ste. Geneviève victims had to have gotten their little phials from someone—someone lacking either skill or patience, from the side effects Corbeau had witnessed. Or it could have been a coincidence. But true coincidences were rare. The fact that Corbeau had protected Sophie while she and Vidocq had dismantled Corbeau’s criminal network damned both of them. But what exactly was Sophie’s role in this? And what was the purpose of revealing the depths of her involvement to Corbeau?

  Corbeau slipped the new phial into her shoulder bag. The formulae inside the two phials would give her a better clue about what was going on. She would analyze them at home. But first she had to find Javert. And before that, she had to pay a visit to the home of the missing Hermine Boucher.

  In the back room, Sophie stirred again. Guilt, responsibility, suspicion, and affection wrestled uncomfortably in Corbeau’s chest. It was always so good in Sophie’s soft, wide bed. So easy to forget all her troubles. But the moment she pulled the covers back, the emptiness wrapped around her like a suffocating cloak, and she knew she had to leave, for both their sakes. Outside, rain was falling—curtains of cold, black drops as large and as hard as bullets. And her with no umbrella.

  Silently, so as not to wake Sophie, Corbeau crept back across the main room and through the bedroom door. She lingered a moment, almost hoping that Sophie would wake at her touch. She bent down and kissed her forehead.

  She turned abruptly and left before it was too late.

  Chapter Nine

  Hermine Boucher’s house rose from the street in a bold display of light stone, ironwork, and rounded arches. Three stories high but not very wide, it stood apart from its neighbors and was separated from the street by a curving paved driveway fronted by an iron gate. It was an attractive, well-built home, recently erected, though Corbeau could see how both the design and the newness would strike Sophie’s sensibilities the wrong way. Some of Paris’s most prominent citizens lived on the surrounding streets. However, the nearby houses seemed to bask in the rude ostentation of new wealth.

  The rain had slowed to a heavy drip, and Corbeau caught sight of the carved stone above the front door, just like Sophie had said. Disappointingly, the darkness obscured the details of the design. But Corbeau had seen plenty of emblems like it. Modeled on the coats of arms that had fallen out of fashion before Corbeau was born, the design doubtless featured a distorted shield, a weapon, and some fierce-looking animal. Many would have considered such a thing gauche, but for Madame Boucher, her family’s marginal nobility—bought by an ancestor’s bribe and maintained over generations through careful idleness and avoidance of taxes—would have been her primary contribution to her marriage. Her late husband had likely seized with both hands the opportunity to bring whatever prestige he could to his new money.

  The windows glowed warmly, two on each side of the front door, revealing the silhouettes of elegantly dressed guests. Corbeau wondered how many of them had given a thought to the mistress of the house, currently being held against her will somewhere out in the cold, dark night. Were they carrying on because they thought the widow Boucher would have wanted it that way? Did they have faith, as Sophie did? Or did the swirling shadows and strains of sedate music hide a darker intention?

  Corbeau removed the Bureau insignia from her collar and pinned it to the inside of her coat pocket. She’d learned her lesson in Dr. Kalderash’s doorway. This was a household steeped in the occult. No doubt someone she encountered would have had traffic with the Bureau before it had been disbanded. She kept walking past the gate until she found the gap where the hedge that bordered the neighboring property met the stone pillar that held the gate in place. Just as Corbeau had expected, the gate was more for show than security. She slipped through the gap. Keeping in the shadows of the hedge, she made her way around the side of the house.

  Muddled snatches of conversation sounded faintly through the thick glass. Corbeau shrank back into the shadows. She didn’t expect to encounter anyone outside at this time and in this weather but kept Madame Pettit’s name on her lips just the same. She followed the driveway around the side of the house, then dashed across wet grass to the back entrance. The driveway led to a single-carriage carriage house on the back corner of the property. It occurred to her that behind its wooden doors, the structure might conceal the very carriage from which Madame Boucher had disappeared. She would have a look, after getting the information she needed from inside the house.

  Crouchi
ng in the shelter of the back stairs, she made quick work of the back-door lock and let herself inside. The stairs continued down a dark passage toward the kitchen. Voices echoed up from the depths of the servant areas below the stairs, accompanied by the aromas of roasting meats and fresh bread. Corbeau’s stomach growled. It had been a long time since her breakfast at Oubliette. She wished she trusted Sophie enough to go look for the housekeeper directly. She might well have been given a bite to eat at that point.

  Off to the right, a narrower staircase led up to the main house. Floorboards creaked above her head, and the walls hummed with conversation and laughter. If only she had an easy way of mingling with the guests—what information she might have gleaned there! On the other hand, servants were the unseen eyes and ears of every house, and often prone to gossip. If she could pass herself off as help hired for the evening, she could learn what she might from the staff, then possibly find an excuse to poke about upstairs.

  “Who are you? How did you get in here? Where do you think you’re going?”

  Corbeau flinched at the voice suddenly at her shoulder and was just quick enough to stop herself from dislocating the hand that closed over her elbow. It was a woman’s hand, work-hardened but with thin bones. No threat there.

  Corbeau turned slowly, deliberately, calling up her story. “I’m looking for Madame Pettit, the housekeeper. I’ve come to work.”

  “You found her.” Madame Pettit was fiftyish, all angles and points, with a dark uniform and salt-and-pepper hair pulled up severely. She looked Corbeau up and down. “You’re Moreau the Alchemist?”

  What? Corbeau’s heart raced.

  The woman continued without waiting for an answer. “Mademoiselle Martin told us to expect you tonight. She didn’t say you were a woman, however. And she didn’t say you’d look like you’d been in a fight.”

  Corbeau’s heart stopped altogether.

  Sophie had set her up.