The Left Hand of Justice (16 page)

But that wasn’t important.

The button had come from a man’s garment—likely from livery. But who would have lost a button inside the carriage? Drivers and footmen wore livery but had no business inside a carriage. Those who did, like Claudine Fournier, would not wear livery. Perhaps Madame Boucher had been having an affair with Lambert or Bertrand. Perhaps the button had come off during some late-night assignation.

She set the lantern on the floor of the carriage and sat down beside it. From that position, the window frame looked even more warped than it had from the outside. Her gaze traveled over the new upholstery, across the overstuffed seat, and stopped. The seat cushion opposite the window looked normal, but the one beneath the window looked lumpy and odd. In a new carriage such as this, where the leather upholstery was still stiff, the stuffing should have been evenly distributed. But it wasn’t. One side was visibly higher than the other.

Tucking the button into her trouser pocket, Corbeau slid onto the floor of the carriage and felt around the underside of the seat where it hung over the base. A few of the tacks that held the leather to the seat stuck out unevenly. They rocked in their holes under gentle pressure from her fingers. Someone had removed them, Corbeau realized, and replaced them none too carefully. Closer inspection revealed visible holes in the leather where the tacks held the leather to the wood. The leather had stretched to accommodate the greater bulk of whatever was beneath the leather. Someone had indeed removed the tacks.

Corbeau worked the tacks out one by one and placed them on the floor beside her. Then she plunged her hand under the leather.

“Good God.”

She had reached inside, expecting the horsehair that generally filled carriage cushions. But her fingers met silk instead. Carefully, she enticed the gown out from beneath the leather. She shook it out and held it up, squinting at it in the dim light of the lantern.

“I’ll be damned.”

Glinting crystal beads formed an intricate design over champagne-colored silk. It was the same dress Hermine Boucher had been wearing in the newspaper sketch that appeared the day after she vanished. Corbeau glanced again at the window, whose frame sat so unevenly in its place. She felt the livery button pressing against her thigh. Immediately, she knew exactly what had happened.

Hermine Boucher’s preference for simple, straight gowns uncomplicated by whalebone hoops, extra petticoats, or bustles—dresses her mother might have worn in her youth—had been a boon to newspaper satirists. Her dislike of skirts a carriage could hide beneath had been described as old-fashioned, eccentric, and unfortunate.

But had Hermine Boucher subscribed to the fashions of the day, she never would have been able to make herself disappear in such a spectacular manner.

The scene came together in Corbeau’s mind, as clearly as if she were watching it happen. Hermine Boucher had entered the carriage in her gown, accompanied by her companion, Claudine Fournier. Michel Bertrand had been driving. Footman Lambert had helped the ladies inside, and then he had run along beside the carriage once it started, as was the fashion. Inside, Mademoiselle Fournier had helped Madame out of her gown and into the livery they had placed there earlier. At some point, the carriage passed under a bridge or through a sparsely populated area. Dressed in livery, Madame had exited the carriage through the window—witnesses at the party had reported the footman had locked the door behind her as she entered. Anyone watching when the carriage emerged would have seen Hermine Boucher—by all accounts a tall woman with a mannish, athletic build—in livery, and assumed it was the footman. Lambert left the carriage long enough for Madame Boucher to duck into the shadows, then rejoined it before it reached the house.

Which proved Lambert and Fournier, and probably Michel Bertrand as well, had been accomplices.

And Maria Kalderash was innocent. There had been no kidnapping at all.

Prefect Javert was trying to frame Dr. Kalderash for a crime that never happened. For surely if he had been serious about investigating Madame’s supposed disappearance, he and his men would have gone over the carriage in great detail and come to the same conclusions she had.

But why would Madame Boucher want to disappear? And why did everyone else want Dr. Kalderash to hang for it?

It was clear why Sophie would benefit from having Dr. Kalderash out of the picture. Kalderash had been a rival for Madame Boucher’s affections, and even if Madame didn’t return to Sophie’s embrace, Sophie was just vindictive enough to rejoice in her rival’s ruin. Obviously, Sophie had known about the entire operation. As much as her heart was breaking over Hermine Boucher’s rejection, she hadn’t seemed a bit worried about her disappearance. She had known, and she hadn’t said anything. In fact, like Javert, she had gone out of her way to implicate Dr. Kalderash.

But what was Javert’s excuse?

Damn it.

Was Madame Boucher hoping her disappearance would draw more attention to her group’s good works? Or was she hoping to escape the wrath of the Church and the King, who were busily prosecuting people who stepped out of line with their moral teachings?

Or was there another explanation?

Corbeau crammed her hated, police-issue dress into the cavity beneath the upholstery. Then, finding a weak spot in the stitching beneath the arm of Madame Boucher’s dress, she pulled and worked at the stitching until the arm came apart from the bodice. She folded the arm and stuffed it into her shoulder bag, then shoved Madame Boucher’s dress back into the cushion with her own. Finally she replaced the tacks.

She would take the evidence of Dr. Kalderash’s innocence to Javert at his home and rub his nose in it until he told her why.

Relief washed over her. Paris had not treated Dr. Kalderash well. Between Javert’s single-minded pursuit of her, the troubles with Madame Boucher, and the fact that Kalderash’s nationality would make her a natural target for anyone looking for someone to kick, Corbeau couldn’t understand why she hadn’t pulled up stakes already. Part of her couldn’t help but admire the woman’s determination, as brave, or arguably stupid, as it was. And she was relieved that she herself wouldn’t add unjust persecution to the woman’s troubles.

She sat back against the carriage bench. Rain pounded the roof, but the horses in the next room were peaceful. She found the clean smells of hay and leather calming.

Imagine the strength of character Kalderash must have possessed, for her to press on when everyone who mattered was against her. Imagine what it would be like to have someone like that in one’s corner—someone who could stand on her own and had strength to share. Corbeau had never had someone like that in her life. She imagined Madame Boucher had found her presence to be quite a comfort at times, especially when her untrained, unwanted talents flared, and she no doubt felt like her world was falling apart.

No wonder Hermine Boucher had preferred Dr. Kalderash—who had rejected her, soundly—to someone like Sophie, who depended upon her utterly. No wonder Hermine Boucher had pursued Dr. Kalderash to such a ruinous degree, even after Kalderash had left. Corbeau shook her head. As tiresome as her solitary life sometimes was, perhaps it was just as well.

Taking up the lantern, she slid out of the carriage, feet first, and shut the door gently behind her. She was almost to the door when she heard the voices.

“What’s his name?”

“Her name…don’t know…”

“
Her
name?”

“Madame Pettit said to take her a tray.”

“Well, she’s gone now. It’s all locked up.”

“Look, there’s a light inside the carriage room.”

Cursing silently, Corbeau extinguished the lantern and pressed herself to the wall beside the sliding doors. She held her breath for what felt like an hour, hoping the men would give up and return to the party. Otherwise, how would she explain what she was doing in there? Another few moments passed before she decided to venture a glance through the crack between the doors.

As she peeked out, someone suddenly pulled the doors aside. A hand grabbed her by the collar and pulled her through.

“You!”

Corbeau recognized Vautrin a split second before he slammed her back against the door. The walls of the stable shook. One of the horses bellowed in panic. She locked her arm around Vautrin’s and slammed her palm against his elbow—not hard enough to break it, she noted with disappointment. She ducked his punch, but he pulled it back at the last minute and swept her legs out from under her instead. Corbeau sprang to her feet, fists raised, while the second man—who was indeed bearing a tray of food—looked on, appearing stupefied.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Vautrin demanded.

“I might ask you the same thing.” When he made no further move to attack, she lowered her hands and brushed off her trousers.

“You’ve been relieved of your duties. You’re a trespasser here.”

“I’m here on the prefect’s business. What’s your excuse?” Corbeau wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he was following the Boucher case on his own. As much as he liked to see his own name in the papers, he would have found such a high-profile case irresistible. It certainly would have explained why he had turned up at Lambert’s place that night. If so, Vautrin wasn’t as stupid as she had assumed. It was a frightening thought. “This is the carriage from which Madame Boucher disappeared,” she said.

“Yes, yes, my men have already examined it.”

“Really? And what did they find?”

A vein throbbed at Vautrin’s temple. He wasn’t about to share information with her, his fierce expression said. And if she really were working for Javert, she could go straight to hell. But she could also see curiosity burning behind his dark eyes. Not even Vautrin could have missed the dress inside the seat cushion. He had to have come to the same conclusions she had. Although if that was the case, she’d have expected him to sit back and watch Javert make an idiot of himself, rather than to linger in the carriage house.

Of course he might have come across information she and Javert had overlooked.

“Have you interviewed the staff?” she asked. “Did you get anything sensible out of the footman the other night—Armand Lambert?” She relished the flare of his nostrils when she mentioned Lambert’s name. “I trust he’s been given the medical attention he needs.” Vautrin lunged at her again. She feinted to the side, grabbing a shovel that had been leaning against the wall, and brandished it. “Go on. Give me an excuse.”

Corbeau couldn’t tell which set him off more, the mention of Lambert or the fact she had questioned him as a colleague might. The chief inspector always had a short fuse, but the murder in his eyes told her that something very wrong had happened to Lambert, and that Vautrin himself was likely responsible.

“Great Prophet?” the other man ventured. More of a boy, Corbeau noticed. Not more than sixteen, and possibly quite a bit less. The tray was shaking in his hands.

“Put it down and leave,” Vautrin said quietly. The boy seemed happy to do so.

“You’re the Great Prophet?” Corbeau asked as the door slammed shut. “I thought that was Madame Boucher.”

“Things change. Drop that damned shovel.”

“Not on your life.”

Shaking his head, he stepped back. He pushed a clump of hair back over his wide forehead and sighed. “You’re the Alchemist, I suppose.”

“No, I just came for the hors d’oeuvres.”

Vautrin’s mouth tightened, but he remained silent. Rain battered the roof as they glared at each other for a long, tense moment.

So this was why Javert had chosen her rather than Vautrin to investigate Madame Boucher’s disappearance. If Corbeau hadn’t found evidence to the contrary, she could have made the case that Vautrin had done away with Madame Boucher himself, in order to seize control of the Church of the Divine Spark. Oh, how she would have loved to make that case. But by all appearances, Madame Boucher had spirited herself away. And Corbeau couldn’t understand why Vautrin, the most pious, sanctimonious zealot she had ever known, would involve himself in a heretical organization in the first place.

But his involvement explained why he had been in the Montagne Ste. Geneviève the other night. He had been tying up loose ends. But was he helping Madame Boucher by getting rid of the people who could disclose that her kidnapping had been a sham? Or was he helping himself by picking off her allies?

One thing was for certain—if Armand Lambert was still alive, he was in great danger. The same went for Claudine Fournier and Michel Bertrand.

But this led back to the question of what Vautrin wanted with the Church of the Divine Spark. Did the group hold some attraction that would make it worth dirtying his hands with heresy? Or perhaps he was trying to co-opt it for a different purpose.

How much did Javert know? His case, as presented, had hinged on Kalderash’s motive rather than on physical evidence—evidence that Javert’s men would not have missed if they’d undertaken the investigation in any serious way.

Which meant Javert wanted Kalderash for some other reason.

And now that it was clear that Kalderash was innocent, Corbeau was not about to let Javert—or anyone else—get their hands on her without a very good reason.

She was surprised how quickly she was ready to rush to the inventor’s defense, considering she’d stormed away from Kalderash’s home swearing to write out an arrest warrant by day’s end. But Dr. Kalderash had already suffered so much injustice. A feeling of protectiveness swelled in Corbeau’s chest. She would be damned if Maria Kalderash would suffer further on her watch.

“Well, well, well,
Great Prophet
,” Corbeau said. The handle of the shovel was slippery with perspiration, and her voice didn’t sound as brave as she’d intended. But she pressed him to see if she could provoke him into revelation. “That casts Madame Boucher’s disappearance in a rather different light, doesn’t it?”

Vautrin’s face clouded with rage. Then he seemed to realize the position he was in. Corbeau was investigating at the behest of the prefect of police. And Vautrin had both known Madame Boucher and possessed a good reason for wanting her out of the way.