Chapter 4
Chapter
In an unassuming townhouse covered in vines lived one little spinster with a brilliant mind.
Independent by means of wealth and disposition, said spinster was well known throughout Greater London.
To the blue-blooded elite, she was known as Lady Elenore Quimby, sole heir of the deceased Duke and Duchess of Whiteacre.
Among London’s academic set, she was known as Dr. Quimby, sole female professor at Cambridge University and head of the linguistics department, with a PhD in Greek.
Yet to Margaret and her D.O.G.S. sisters, she was known simply as Professor Quimby, sole chief of the Daughters of Genius Society and delegate of their mysterious benefactress, the Widow.
Professor Quimby stood at the covert organization’s helm within the vine-covered walls of her townhouse, which served as its headquarters.
Her duties included running background checks on prospective recruits and managing the selected recruits’ training, promotions, and dismissals.
Functioning as the Widow’s elegant right hand, the chief enforced the society’s code of conduct and rules of protocols as outlined in the official Handbook for Lady Inspectors.
She also maintained the society’s facade as an intellectual club for bluestockings and briefed the lady inspectors on their assignments.
Which was precisely why Margaret should not be here, waiting quite nervously in Professor Quimby’s office.
Yes, she was technically a sworn member of the D.O.G.S.
However, she was most definitely not a lady inspector.
Well, not technically. For she’d never actually .
. . you know, inspected before. A sneeze caught her off guard, triggering a spasm in her side.
She winced, exhaling a controlled groan.
A prime example of why she’d never inspected. A mere sneeze doubled her over in pain.
Beyond the four walls of her workshop, Margaret was a liability, not an asset.
Why, then, had she received the oh-so-official summons resting in her lap?
Professor Quimby’s penmanship assured her it wasn’t a prank, so therefore it must be a mistake.
A whopping, regrettable, and rather obvious mistake. With a capital M.
“Before the ‘this must be a mistake’ speech commences . . . no, Inspector Kingsley. You were not summoned by mistake.” Professor Quimby glided through her office door, silent as a Great Gray Owl in flight and thrice as wise, though only twice as tall.
Her faithful shadows, I.Q. and Penny, pranced at her heels.
Gracing her canine children with an approving smile, the chief shut the door and turned the lock, rendering the office a secure fortress.
Margaret swallowed. Great gadgets, she really was here for a briefing!
The chief paused beside Margaret’s wheelchair, meeting her gaze at eye level. “You’re not being sentenced to the death of Socrates, Inspector. Take a deep breath and get some color back in those cheeks before you solidify into a marble bust.”
Obeying the command of her superior, Margaret inhaled slowly.
Professor Quimby hung her boater hat and the jacket of her practical navy-blue walking suit on a diminutive rack customized to accommodate her petite stature.
She wore her standard pale-blue shirtwaist, navy tie, and suspenders—a uniform that fit her no-nonsense personality and demanded respect from her male peers at the university.
“You have many questions, I’m sure, all of which shall be answered in due course. ”
The real question was, would she care for said answers? As Margaret gnawed her lip, soft fur brushed against her hand. I.Q. and Penny positioned themselves on either side of her chair, facing the door in a protective stance, restoring a modicum of ease to her countenance.
Professor Quimby sat at her desk. “Last week, I received a communication from the Widow requesting our services on a case of inventions and intrigue. It seems the Widow is acquainted with a woman of noble birth and great intelligence, much like yourself. This noblewoman is in possession of the means and leisure to amuse herself as a hobbyist inventor. She’s also of a generous and reserved nature, preferring to keep her accomplishments private.
If she invents something potentially profitable, she gifts the design and model to someone in need—often a member of her household—instructing them to file a patent in their name and make use of the financial renumerations of which she has no need or interest.”
“Why hasn’t this woman been recruited? She sounds like a valuable asset.
” Certainly much more valuable than she, assuming the lady was possessed of an able body as well as a bright mind.
Perhaps if this hobbyist inventor joined the D.O.G.S.
, Margaret might withdraw into an assistant’s role, putting yet another safeguard between herself and fieldwork.
Professor Quimby sighed as though about to pronounce a great travesty. “Unfortunately, the woman suffers from marital bliss.”
Ah, that explained it. The Daughters of Genius Society had but two rules—defend your sisters and defend your spinsterhood. For marriage, as stated in the Handbook for Lady Inspectors, precludes a lady from fieldwork, and men, as is common knowledge, make a lady’s life rather complicated.
At least . . . that’s what Margaret had heard, for she hadn’t any personal experience with men.
Being seated in a wheelchair seemed to have, quite literally, lowered her from a gentlemen’s purview.
Aside from Papa, Grandpapa Stanton, and members of household staff, no man bothered to look down and meet her gaze.
Thus, when she’d come of age, Margaret had resolutely declined her parents’ proposition of a coming-out ball, debut Season, and launch into the marriage mart.
Why raise their hopes and waste their resources?
It was senseless to offer a damaged good no man would care to buy.
“As I was saying, Inspector Kingsley, this noblewoman is in the habit of donating her intellectual property for the pecuniary benefit of those in need, but it has recently come to her attention that a person, as yet unidentified, has seen fit to rob a recipient of her charity.”
Margaret leaned forward, interest piqued.
“Said noblewoman recently invented a voice-box mechanism for a talking doll. She gifted this invention to a dressmaker living in the East End, who’d fallen on hard times following an illness.
The noblewoman instructed her to file an application for patent under her name and gave her the direction of a burgeoning new toy company that might manufacture the product.
The dressmaker followed her instructions, but a few weeks later, she received a letter of rejection from the patent office, stating that a patent had already been granted to a similar device. ”
A foreboding sensation niggled Margaret’s stomach. “Let me guess . . . a talking doll—featuring her voice-box design—hit the market shortly thereafter?”
“Precisely. The noblewoman saw the doll in a store and purchased it for the purpose of inspecting its mechanics, only to confirm that the voice box was not only similar, but identical to her own. The Widow would like you to compare the designs yourself, as an unbiased third party, and validate the claim of theft before we proceed.”
The chief produced the original rejected patent application, including a sketch of the noblewoman’s design and an iron model built to scale.
Beside these, she placed a doll, rather macabre in its state of undress and partial deconstruction, which allowed for examination of the mechanism within its torso.
Margaret was beginning to understand why the Widow had requested her expertise.
She relaxed, just a touch, in her chair.
Perhaps this case wasn’t beyond her abilities after all.
Methodically and meticulously, she studied each item in turn.
Theft, of any sort, was a serious allegation, but theft of intellectual property carried a singular sort of gravity she felt all the keener being the third in a family lineage of inventors.
Only when she was certain beyond doubt did she at last render a verdict.
“I concur with the noblewoman’s assessment. These designs are one and the same. A thief in the patent office seems a logical conclusion. Which begs two questions: Can the theft be proven, and is the thief working alone?”
“Those are the very questions the Widow has tasked us to answer by means of the utmost discretion. The noblewoman wants to keep her name and that of her dressmaker out of the papers. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, is to compare the voice-box design on file at the patent office with the rejected application. If they match, we’ve proof enough to move on to phase two. ”
“I am needed to compare the patents after one of the others has retrieved it, then?” Jane, being most experienced in clandestine work, was the obvious choice for such a job, but she didn’t have the mechanical knowledge required to validate the patent comparison.
“The Widow wants the patents compared at the patent office, lest we risk alerting the thief to our investigation or contaminating proof of a crime. Preservation of evidence is of equal importance as discretion and makes matters easier for the Widow when she passes along our intelligence to the proper authorities. That’s why you were summoned, Inspector Kingsley.
She wishes you to compare the patents personally.
Therefore, by her special request, you’ve been assigned as the lead inspector on this case of the purloined patent. ”
Lead inspector? “But, Professor, we had an agreement. Before I pledged membership to the society, you said—you promised—I wouldn’t be asked to conduct investigations.” Margaret gestured toward her wheelchair. “I’m not fit for fieldwork, ma’am.” She was hardly fit for everyday life.