The Pearl Crucible - A Dardana Fenek Mystery - AZZOPARDO - (part 3)

Chapter 5, part 3

The front doors of the State Gallery are made of bronze, which just goes to show you how much money is tied up there: metal isn’t exactly cheap on Iphigenia, even with mining in the asteroids. I contemplated its portrayal of the Muses as Barsina took her sandals from her girdle and put them back on, then we walked through the firebush plantings to a bench where I sat down.

Barsina sat slowly next to me, knowing that I’d insist, and I took out my tin of tobacco and papers and made a cigarette.

“So what did you make of all that?” I asked.

She watched me lick the paper and seal the slender paper cylinder. “It seems unlikely, even impossible, that she murdered Mist’ Fortunato,” she said as I closed the tin and put it back in my girdle.

“Yes, and she made damned sure we knew she was motivated to do it.”

She seemed faintly horrified. “Why did she do that? It would be better not to say so.”

“She knows we could find out; if we didn’t, Mardonios would. Her assistant knew enough to dislike him. I’m sure there are rumors in the Gallery.”

“Perhaps he used her assistant as well.”

It hadn’t occurred to me. I’m sure he bent over all his servants, so why not the citizen employees? Did that make the assistant a suspect? Or was she loyal enough to Azzopardo to kill for her? Were the women lovers?

I looked back at the gallery. No going back there just then. I’d have to find her and talk to her away from the place, anyway. I wished I’d asked her name.

I struck a match, ignited the paper and tobacco, drew in a rich blue breath, and let it flow from my nostrils. Barsina turned her head slightly. She’s still not used to some of my habits.

“Perhaps he did. If she shows her cards, she proves she has nothing to hide.”

“If those cards mean what they seem, Miss.”

“True. There could still be a plot, but her role is hidden.”

She pulled a pale foot from her sandal and thoughtfully scratched her arch, then took her notebook from her girdle and paged through it.

“Miss.”

I took it from her. There was the copy of the paper tag she’d drawn, with the reinforced but torn punch hole. And there, in her precise imitation of the handwriting—

Meisje met de parel.

I knew I’d heard that name. “So what—?”

“A key,” she said

“A key,” I repeated, handing the notebook back.

“Yes, Miss. When I was Miss Giray’s girl, she kept each key for the rooms and cupboards on a row of hooks in Housekeeper’s office, and each key had a tag like this.”

I flicked ash. “This was a key to that museum case. The murderer killed him and took the key.”

“A second key. A duplicate. The Miss the Sub-Director can open the case with the painting of Meisje, but the Sir the Director had a spare key.”

“Shouldn’t you say Miss Meisje?”

“No, Miss. She looks like a servant. Her eyes look out from the picture like my eyes look at you, Miss. I think she was an indentured.”

I closed my eyes and thought. The gaze was … right.

Did they even have tank-girls back then? I had no idea. They had to make clones after they started to settle Iphigenia. Who knew when it started?

I inhaled smoke again, savored it, and reluctantly let it out. I closed my eyes, imagining hers. I opened them again. “Meisje then. Miss or maid, she’s been dead over a thousand years. So this missing key … someone else wanted it. Wanted badly enough to kill for it?”

“What would the key do, Miss?”

“Open the case.”

Barsina nodded and took her graphite stylus out, and wrote slowly. “The Sir … knows two keys, has one key, the other is in its place. The Miss … knows of at least one key, using it from its place. The murderer knows at least one key exists because the case exists, and guesses at the other.”

“Miss Azzopardo is not the murderer.”

“Not directly, Miss.”

“So we can’t rule her out as being involved. She has motive.”

She drew an interrogative mark on the page … ? … And, for emphasis, circled it, then wrote, as she said aloud, “The Director … used her body … without permission.”

“Citizens call it rape.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“And then … then there’s this painting. I don’t see how this fits in. And since the key is involved, I don’t see how she fits in without it. But she doesn’t need it!”

I finished the smoke while Barsina idly made dots and marks in regular lines down the edge of the page. Stubbing it out carefully on the bench and placing the butt under a green leaf, I pulled the wanted poster out of my girdle and unfolded it. “Then there’s this.”

She closed her notebook and looked at it, shoulders hunched.

“I don’t want to think about it,” she said, looking away.

“I don’t either, but I have to.”

I’ve mentioned I’m nearly thirty. I should’ve had a predictable life. Most women like me do. Busy, busy, keep your head down, and someday, finally, you get out with a patron and a bit of time to live your own slice of life. I’m almost halfway there … except I’m not. Things went nice and orderly for years, just like I was always told it would. You take some slaps and some beatings, and that’s fine, it’s proper, and I should endure it, yah? Sure. It’s what I’m there for. I don’t get damaged permanently, I keep my eyes down. But.

I’m a bit … odd, even for my sort of woman. I’ve always been. Not odd enough to make a specialist insist that I be, well, given a few too many doses of seda-t. Or maybe just get strangled. I don’t know how they do it when you’re little. Just understand I’m a bit off-center. It was hard for me, despite how I was made to be and despite all my training, to … put up with it. It didn’t get easier. And I think the slaps and beatings I was getting were more than most girls were dealt.

I’m told that when I was five, I wandered off from … where I was supposed to be. Just got curious and walked off. No reason. Followed a butterfly, I dunno. When I was twenty, I found myself doing the same thing, but I had a better reason.

It’s no fun when they take you back, I’m here to tell you. A lot of things can be done to you without ruining you. It gets a lot worse the second time, even if you thought about it for a few years and made some actual plans. They can hire a professional and work you over on and off for a couple of weeks. You notice the difference.

So, did I do the right thing and keep my eyes down and my hands busy? Not for long, not me. I scarpered a third time.

It’s traditional among the smart set that when they take you back the third time, your neck gets a tight cord, and you get a shallow hole.

I’ve been in Aulis for two and a half years, with Barsina for two. I’m as happy as I’m likely to get.

And now.

“It doesn’t mean you’ve been seen, Miss.”

“No.”

“And you are not distinctive, Miss, in your face.”

“Kind of you to say.”

“You understand me.”

“Yah, I do.” I looked at the picture and touched my hair. “Maybe you can lighten it. We’ll keep it up and not like this at all.”

“Yes, Miss.” Barsina likes to be doing, and the thought of an action that would help seemed to lift her spirits. “You could go to another city.”

“I hate this place,” I said. “But this is where I work. What contacts would I have? I’d have to start over. No one notices me. No one sees me, even when they pay me.”

She nodded reluctantly. “What next?”

“Commissariat first. Then we need to find out about this painting. Why it’s so important.”

( … This way to Chapter 5 part 2 … ) ( … This way to Chapter 6 part 1 … )