A Price for Truth

The air in Inspector Davies’ office hung thick with the scent of stale cigar smoke and an unspoken authority that pressed down on Eleanor like a physical weight. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight slicing through the grimy windowpanes, illuminating the starkness of the room. A large, worn map of Northern Rhodesia dominated one wall, dotted with pins and hastily scrawled annotations that spoke of control, of dominion. Davies himself, a man whose jowls seemed to perpetually sag with the burden of upholding the Empire, sat behind a formidable mahogany desk, his eyes, small and sharp as a bird of prey’s, fixed on her.

“Miss Vance,” he began, his voice a low rumble, devoid of any warmth, “your… inquiries… have come to my attention.” He let the word ‘inquiries’ hang in the air, laced with a thinly veiled accusation. “There are certain matters best left undisturbed. Matters of governance. Of order.”