Free The Left Hand of Justice by Jess Faraday Page A

to pity, and Corbeau realized what she must have looked like. Her face was battered and swollen. Her coat was soaked, her hems muddy, her hair a straggly, tangled mess.
    “If you can sew, I’ll have work for you toward the end of the day.”
    “I’m sorry, there must be some mistake. My name is—”
    But suspicion had returned. Kalderash’s eyes widened with panic. Corbeau followed her gaze to the insignia pinned to her lapel. “Wait,” Corbeau said.
    Had the inventor trafficked with the Bureau before? It would have to have been recently, and Vidocq hadn’t mentioned it. Corbeau pushed through the door just as Kalderash tried to slam it shut. She grabbed for the inventor’s wrist, but Kalderash twisted, gave her a push, and fled down the hall. Tossing the umbrella aside, Corbeau sprang after her. The hallway wasn’t more than five long steps. As Kalderash’s hand reached for the back doorknob, Corbeau dove. They hit the floor hard, skidded across the worn floorboards, and crashed to a stop against the door in a tangle of hard-muscled limbs, damp skirts, and velvet.
    “I just need to speak with you.” Corbeau panted as she pulled herself on top of the struggling woman. She twined her legs around the inventor’s and held her arms down. Kalderash was strong for her size, and Corbeau had to hold her wrists against the floor so she could catch her breath. Corbeau’s pulse raced. The thrill of physical pursuit had been one of the better parts of police work—and her favorite part of affairs. It had been a long time since she’d experienced either. She found the comparison disconcerting. Swallowing hard, she calmed her breathing.
    Javert would have considered Kalderash’s flight an admission of guilt and hauled her off forthwith. But Corbeau no longer had the authority to make an arrest. Besides, it had seemed that Kalderash had reacted to the Bureau insignia specifically, rather than to the general idea of police.
    “My name is Elise Corbeau. I’m a detective inspector of the Sûreté. I’ve come to ask you a few questions about your acquaintance, Hermine Boucher.”
    The inventor stopped struggling and stared back up at her, her natural eye wide, the lenses of the mechanical one frantically adjusting and evaluating. Her scars weren’t as disfiguring as Javert’s description had led Corbeau to believe—just two raised, pinkish lines across tea-colored skin. Her lips were lush and dark. Corbeau became acutely conscious of the soft flesh bruising beneath her fingers, the heart beating rapidly through the velvet robe, and the mingled scents of cinnamon, machine oil, and fear. Corbeau cleared her throat.
    “Just a few questions. Please, Doctor.” She sat up, slightly embarrassed, and freed the inventor’s hands. When Kalderash still didn’t move, her embarrassment went from personal to professional. The Paris police had no love for Gypsies. Perhaps Corbeau had misread the situation. Perhaps Kalderash would have run from any government official—especially if she had crossed their paths when she first arrived in Paris. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Corbeau rolled off and sat next to her on the floor. “But I’m not leaving without your statement.”
    Kalderash slowly pulled herself up. She patted her cropped hair into place and adjusted the Eye. Her hands were trembling, but she nodded.
    “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
    “The front room.”
    Corbeau rose and brushed herself off. She held out a hand, but Kalderash waved it away and rose slowly to her feet.
    Even if Kalderash was innocent, Corbeau thought, as she followed her back down the hall, she had more reason than most to fear the police. The scars that marred her round face—even the blinded eye—might well have been the work of Corbeau’s colleagues. Her chin-length hair could have grown out from a shearing, a favorite police method for welcoming Gypsies to Paris. Something else lay behind her hostility as well—something Javert would