Free The Left Hand of Justice by Jess Faraday Page B

never understand. It was difficult enough just being a woman, with all the attendant expectations of family, society, and church. But the moment-by-moment grind of being a woman in a man’s sphere was enough to make anyone hostile.
    The original Sûreté had been a network of reformed criminals like herself. Quite a number of women had been employed as informers. A few, like Corbeau, had specialized knowledge that allowed them to carve out a place for themselves as agents and eventually, in her case, as a detective inspector. But that didn’t mean that everyone accepted her presence. From most, grudging tolerance was the best she could expect. Corbeau would have bet money that Kalderash had experienced much the same in the scientific sphere.
    As Dr. Kalderash turned in to the front room, Corbeau paused to shut the front door and to pick up Javert’s umbrella and lean it against the wall. When she entered the room, Kalderash was on the other side, tending the fire. Glancing up, Kalderash replaced the poker in its rack and shut a lacquered box on the mantel.
    “Sit. Please, Inspector.” The inventor nodded toward a pair of chairs flanking the fireplace.
    The front room had once been outfitted for receiving. A wooden privacy screen stood along the wall opposite the window. Next to it sat a table with implements that could have been either medical or mechanical. Near the doorway was another table with a silver tea urn; Corbeau could hear the soft burbling of the water as it reached a boil. But a long time had passed since either patients or customers had come with any frequency. A guest chair sat abandoned in one corner. An untidy writing desk dominated the front window. The bookcases that lined two of the walls were crammed with books and monographs. Even the surface around the tea urn was losing its fight against stacks of journals, sketches, notes, and metalworking tools.
    Corbeau took the proffered chair. It had been expensive once, but the fabric was worn shiny, and the wood had recently met with violence. She watched as Kalderash crossed to the urn and filled two cups with steaming water. She decanted concentrated tea from the pitcher on top of the urn, then set the cups on saucers. Bringing one of the cups to the table at Corbeau’s elbow, she pulled another chair near the fire to face her.
    “The French are a coffee-drinking people, I know.” The doctor had regained some of her composure, but Corbeau could tell she still wasn’t happy entertaining her. “But I have so few indulgences anymore. Tea reminds me of home. So you’ll allow me this one comfort before you arrest me.”
     
    *
     
    “Arrest you?” the constable asked. Not a constable, Maria reminded herself. A detective inspector. That kind of mistake could cost her a beating, or worse.
    “You’re here because you believe I had something to do with Hermine’s disappearance.”
    Whether the inspector believed it or not was immaterial. Javert had noticed the missing plans and was marshaling his considerable resources to recover his property, and probably to punish her for good measure. The inspector was wearing the insignia of the Department of the Unexplained, and that meant trouble.
    It was a nice touch sending a handsome woman to do the deed, Maria thought. Inspector Corbeau had taken her lumps recently, but beneath the dirt and bruises lay a regal bone structure, strong muscles, and a hint of rather nice curves around the chest and hips. The dress was dreadful, but probably police issue. With a little attention, she would probably be striking. Not pretty, exactly, but attractive, and just Maria’s type.
    Maria had never discussed her personal life with her colleagues, but considering she was an unmarried female who supported herself with her hands and her brain, assumptions had been made nonetheless. She supposed it was unfair of her to make the same assumptions about the inspector, but it was human nature, was it not?
    “Doctor, I fear we’ve