Chapter 6
Chapter
Act normal. That was the grand advice Margaret had received from the D.O.G.S.
’s resident intelligence expert, Lady Jane Larrimore, when she’d begged for a bolstering word of guidance over yesterday’s cup of tea.
What dear Jane had failed to explain was exactly how one was to “act normal” when one felt so distractingly abnormal.
Perhaps the first logical step was to refrain from tossing up one’s accounts.
And breathing a quick prayer surely couldn’t hurt.
Dear God, please steady my heart and sundry organs.
A brisk April breeze gave Margaret an encouraging push into the lobby of the patent office, where she promptly froze, gloved hands clutching the wheels of her chair.
Clerks strode about, focused on their duties.
Bearded chins propped upon stacks of files.
Spectacles perched atop heads gleaming with pomade.
Masculine grunts of acknowledgment were exchanged in passing, but not one of them veered from their task. Not one of them paid her any mind.
Down here, beneath their notice, Margaret was essentially invisible.
Which was quite normal, indeed.
Margaret released a pent-up breath. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. You’re not embarking on your first-ever case. You’re simply running an errand for a friend.
Margaret rolled down the familiar corridor leading to the file room.
Stopping before the closed door, she pressed an upholstery tack on her wheeled chair.
A wooden partition on the chairback slid open with a clack, followed by a series of metallic clicks, indicating the deployment of the Arm of Chivalry device.
The gadget’s mechanical hand, resembling a knight of old’s gauntlet, reached over Margaret’s shoulder via a telescopic metal arm and grasped the knob, opening the door with ease.
While the Arm of Chivalry held the door ajar, Margaret manually rolled inside the office.
Once she was clear of the doorway, the gauntlet automatically shut the door behind before returning to its hidden barracks.
Behind the room’s lone battered desk sat the records clerk, Mr. Glidden.
Graying whiskers framed his wrinkled face, and his lanky frame was slumped like a question mark, due to a lifetime of hunching over file cabinets for hours on end.
The latest model of typewriter was a prized new addition to the office, one he carefully polished at the end of every workday.
Crossing the tiny workplace, Margaret rapped her knuckles upon the desk to get the hard-of-hearing man’s attention. “Good day, Mr. Glidden.”
A pair of cloudy eyes raised at the sound, going cross behind the lens of his pince-nez spectacles before coming into focus with a gleam of recognition. “Ah, Lady Margaret, my favorite inventress. What brings you to the labyrinth today?”
Act normal. “I’ve a new device I’m interested in patenting, but I’ve heard whispers around my favored machinist’s shop—”
“Cogsworth’s Workings, if memory serves?”
“Indeed. They produce the highest quality machine parts in Greater London. Anyway, as I was saying, I’ve heard whispers around the shop that a gadget like mine has already secured a patent and is soon to be on the market.
I’d like to go through the records to verify those whispers before I subject myself to the lengthy application process—and before I burden you with potentially pointless paperwork. ”
“That’s what I like about you, Lady Margaret.
You’re as thoughtful as you are full of thoughts.
” Creaking to his feet, he withdrew a single key from a waistcoat pocket and unlocked the unassuming door behind his desk, of which he was the sole guardian.
Mr. Glidden held the door open for her, gesturing her inside with a wave of a gnarled hand.
“Best of luck to ye in the labyrinth, m’lady.
Keep your eyes peeled for the minotaur.” He chortled, tossing her a wink.
Margaret grinned. The well-worn quip was not nearly as humorous as the man’s enduring amusement at his own jest. “As always.”
“Oh, and make sure to—”
“Sign the logbook before I leave. Will do, Mr. Glidden.”
Margaret proceeded down the vacant hallway to the records room, or as Mr. Glidden so aptly called it, the labyrinth.
Innumerable filing cabinets stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a dense forest of furniture on either side of her as she followed the lone pathway, which looped in concentric circles towards the vast room’s interior.
The first time she’d entered the labyrinth’s dark and dusty passages she’d felt so overwhelmed, so small. Now, the place felt rather cozy.
Every cabinet contained approved patents, organized first by invention type and then alphabetically by the patent applicant’s name.
Margaret located the section of cabinets that stored patents for children’s items, working her way to the toy section, and then spied the cabinet labeled Dolls.
She pulled out the cabinet drawer, her eyes glazing over at the sheer number of files.
Great gadgets . . . this was going to take longer than she’d anticipated!
With a determined sigh, Margaret began to peruse the doll patents individually.
Who knew there were so many different types of dolls?
Dolls cast in porcelain. Dolls sewn from cloth.
Wide-eyed dolls that winked and blinked.
Curly-headed dolls that toddled and cooed.
File after file, cabinet after cabinet, she looked for the patent she sought.
Soon her muscles began to protest the repetitive motions.
Each time Margaret stood to reach higher drawers, her low back spasmed.
When she yanked open a rolling wooden drawer laden with myriad files, pain flared in her side.
After combing through the tenth cabinet, she was out of breath.
She collapsed into her chair, wincing against the pain pulsating through her body.
Was this little errand for a friend going to prove too much for her after all?
Tears welled in her eyes. How she hated to fail such a simple task .
. . how she loathed the notion of letting everyone down.
Margaret inhaled a shallow breath that warred against the pain and exhaled, swiping the moisture from her eyes with her sleeve.
Give me strength, God, for just one cabinet more.
Surely, I must be getting close. Surely, I can do this much for my friends.
Gritting her teeth, Margaret opened the next drawer. A doll that tilts her head. Alas, no. A doll that eats and . . . oh my, “realistically mimics the processes of an infant’s digestive system.” She scrunched her nose. Most definitely not. Ah, here . . . at last, one that appeared promising!
Patent Number 423039: Chatsome Catherine, a talking doll, says words, all sorts.
Margaret set the patent on her lap and withdrew the noblewoman’s original design from the pocket of her tea gown.
She compared the two sketches side by side.
Not a single deviation. The rejected design was, in fact, identical to the design on file.
A statistical impossibility—except in cases of theft.
Reaching back into her pocket, she secured an unassuming pocket watch and clicked its crown.
The case opened, allowing the hidden camera’s retractable lens to expand like accordion bellows.
Quickly, she snapped a few pictures, documenting the identical designs, which would be logged as evidence once the photographs were developed back at headquarters.
Snapping the retractable camera watch shut, she stowed it out of sight before Mr. Glidden chanced to enter the room.
Before returning the file to its place, she shifted her inspection from the design itself to the approved applicant’s name. Her jaw came unhinged.
The patent was held by none other than Alvan T. Harrison, Incorporated, meaning London’s most famous inventor was now Margaret’s number-one suspect.