I thought he was going to give me the letter, but he didn’t. He just placed it on a nearby table.
“Can I count on your complete discretion, Edward?”
I told him that he could.
“Then I want you to swear an oath that what I say goes no further than this room.”
“On the Word of Munsell.”
He looked around, then lowered his voice. “My appearance at East Carmine is not simply about magenta leaks and conducting Ishiharas.”
“No?”
“No. National Color takes the illegal sale of hues very seriously, so Robin Ochre’s theft is of considerable interest. One of his accomplices was Zane G-49, whom you met. He died before we could ask him to account for his actions. We think he posed as a Purple, selling ‘surplus’ swatch hues to various Paint Shops around the Collective. Naturally, since he seemed Purple, no one thought to question him or his motives. Conservative estimates place the value of the stolen swatches at twenty thousand merits.”
“Goodness,” I said, wondering if I could remain convincingly naive until the end of the conversation.
“But that’s not the end of it,” continued the Colorman. “We think there was someone else involved.
Someone who may still be hiding here, in East Carmine. Someone who is a very grave danger to the Stasis.”
“A fanatic?”
“Of the very worst sort. I don’t wish to panic anyone, but once monochrome fundamentalism gets a hold, it can be hard to eradicate without harm to other residents.”
I wasn’t sure what the term meant, but if it was hating the system, then Jane was definitely part of it. I just didn’t know if it was a bad thing or not. After all, ignoring the prescribed dress code was also considered “most serious,” but I would be hard-pressed to say I felt it actually was. The Apocryphal man seemed no worse for wearing no clothes at all, and us for having to see him, even if we pretended we didn’t.
“Surely the prefects would be the best people for you to ask?” I said warily. “There are over three thousand people in this village, and I’ve met barely thirty.”
The Colorman shook his head. “Prefects are good people but can only be trusted to maintain themselves and their bonuses. You saw Zane at Vermillion, so are involved in a way, and you have been here two days and have a reputation for curiosity, so can nose about with impunity. Tell me, have you seen anything unusual?”
Five things sprang to mind immediately. If I’d been given a little longer, I probably could have made it the round dozen.
“There is little in this village that isn’t unusual,” I admitted, “but of the matters of which you speak, nothing springs to mind.”
He stared at me for a long time, then picked up the envelope from the table. “Don’t disappoint me,” he said, and handed it over.
He left me sitting at the window seat, my understanding of Jane, while not transformed, at least open to reappraisal. She was involved with the theft of the swatches, along with Ochre and Zane. There were twenty thousand merits kicking around somewhere, and they didn’t end up with Ochre—Lucy had told me they didn’t have a bean. Three people in on the scam, and only one still living. My mind started to crowd with unwelcome thoughts. I knew from personal experience that Jane was capable of doing the murder and didn’t like my asking questions. She was up to something, that was true; but the question was: What? And should I snitch on her and take the buckets of bounty that would come my way?
Meet the Chromogentsia
9.7.12.06.098: Anyone above 50 percent receptive is given the designation “Chromogentsia” and is eligible for such privileges as listed in Appendix D.
My father straightened his bow tie for the tenth time and pressed the doorbell outside Mrs. Ochre’s house. I hadn’t seen him so fastidious with his appearance for a long time, so presumed he was interested in her. I knew for a fact that he was lonely. He and I never talked about my mother, as it was too painful, but he, like me, carried a picture of her in his valise.
“Speak when spoken to at the Chromogentsia,” he said as we heard someone come to the door, “and don’t do anything that might jeopardize my chances with Velma.”
“Velma?”
“Mrs. Ochre.”
“Ah,” I said, not realizing this had gone as far as it had, “right.”
The door opened.
“So good of you to come!” exclaimed Mrs. Ochre, who was dressed in a particularly stunning red evening dress. It hugged her body tightly, and looked as though it had been adapted from a Standard Strapless #21. I saw Dad’s eyes look downward when he thought she wasn’t watching, but I think she noticed, and was flattered.
“We wouldn’t have missed it for anything, Mrs. Ochre,” said my father. “I brought you these.”
“Roses!” she exclaimed. “How too, too divine.” She turned to her daughter, who was hovering nearby.
“Lucy, my dear, would you find a vase and some water? Too wonderful to see you, Edward—is that the rice pudding? How marvelous. Would you put it in the kitchen? Lucy will show you.”
I walked into the kitchen with Lucy and watched as she selected a vase, then ran some water into it, making something of a mess.
“Did you hear that my mum and your dad took tea at the Fallen Man?”
“I’d not heard that, no.”
“They were even laughing together. Uproariously, some say—and they may even have held hands under the table. Look,” she added, “cards on the table and all that. My mother is interested in your father. And not just for the odd cup of tea and a stroll around the Outer Markers. She’s vulnerable at present, and I don’t want her hurt. If your father thinks he can take advantage of a grief-stricken widow, he’ll have me to contend with.”
Mrs. Ochre wasn’t exactly acting like a grief-stricken widow, what with laughing uproariously at the Fallen Man on a date with her dead husband’s replacement.
“Likewise,” I replied. “I don’t want anyone taking advantage of my father’s good nature and lonely disposition to effect a union that is not in his best interest.”
“Hmm,” she said, “I think that makes them both pretty much equal in the parental vulnerability stakes.
Perhaps we should just give them free rein and see where it goes. We can meet again to discuss whether to throw a spanner into the works or not.”
“I agree. Do you have any loganberry jam, by the way?”
“Ooh!” she murmured, “chasing knowledge, are you?”
“You’ve spoken to the Apocryphal man, too?”
She smiled. “I managed to reconstitute some loganberry from a dried-out jam pot I found at the back of the cupboard. It wasn’t very good, but enough for half a question.”
She opened the cooker and checked the chicken vol-au-vents.
“If you find some jam, I’ll come in for half the cost in exchange for a question.”
“Deal.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry to bring this up,” I said, “but your father—did he have much to do with the Grey, Jane?”
“Whyever do you ask?”
I had to think quick, but couldn’t, so said the first thing that came into my head. “It’s part of my, um, chair census.”
“Oh. Well, no. Not that I know of. But he would have seen everyone at some point—he would have been there when she was born. Unless—”
“What gorgeous flowers!” said Mrs. Ochre as she walked in. “Lucy, would you mind pouring the tea while I greet guests with Holden—I mean, Mr. Russett—at the door? Edward, be a dear and make yourself useful with the coats, and after that you might like to hand the sandwiches around.”
I picked up the cucumberesque sandwiches and walked into the large, wood-paneled drawing room.