Firebrand by A. J. Hartley

Author:A. J. Hartley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

CHAPTER

18

VIOLET FARTHINGALE HAD ROOMS above a draper’s shop on Saint Helbrin Street in sight of the statue of King Randolph II on his charger. It was a pleasant street lined with tantu trees, where hornbills and fire-eyed grackles called to each other. The apartment itself was compact, elegant if a little old-fashioned, and scrupulously clean: good, white, middle-class housing, modest in its way but safe and comfortable, the kind of place in which few of the city’s black or Lani population could ever realistically expect to live. The curtains and chairs looked older than the lady herself, so I guessed the place came prefurnished. Violet Farthingale had been reluctant to speak to Andrews and had kept him at the door, claiming to be too busy to see him, till he said that he had not come on police business.

“I have brought a lady who wishes to speak with you,” he said, carefully hiding any doubts he had about what we were doing.

The young woman was clad in a simple and uncorsetted tea gown of soft mauve, which made her look, if anything, even lovelier than she had the night before, though her eyes were shadowed and still showed signs of weeping. She had cracked the door open a little, and blinked in surprise at the sight of me standing in my Istilian finery in the hallway. She had let me in more out of bafflement than decision, and I had done my part by giving Andrews a pointed look, till he—reluctantly—stepped back outside.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Inspector,” I said, “take the police vehicle around the corner and wait for me there.”

Andrews opened his mouth to speak, but then just nodded stiffly and left. Violet looked relieved.

“Would you care for tea, my lady?” she asked, nervous and confused. She was perhaps five or six years older than me, but looked suddenly like a child, hesitating in front of the bay window and watching the police coach roll away. Its departure seemed to calm her nerves, and she turned back to me, gesturing to a chair.

“No tea, thank you,” I said, in my Istilian lilt. “I will not be staying long.”

“I’m afraid you’ve caught me rather … I mean, I did not expect visitors.…”

“There is no reason you should,” I said as kindly as I could. Whatever her crime, I doubted she deserved the crippling malice of Bar-Selehm’s high society as Dahria had painted it. Unless, of course, she really was involved in Agatha’s murder. “I wanted to speak to you about what happened last night.”

“Why?” she asked. She had a small girlish mouth without makeup.

“Partly my own curiosity,” I said, “and because I suspect that you are being badly treated in ways you do not deserve.”

“Whether that is so or not,” she said, clasping her hands together in her lap, “I do not believe there is anything you can do about it, though your kindness is appreciated.”

“Perhaps not,” I said. “But then the support of a lady such as myself … Well, you know best.

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