Chapter 10
Chapter
How to incapacitate a man with a hatpin, that Margaret had practiced and perfected.
How to conduct a covert search while being overseen by a man possessed of twinkling eyes .
. . that had not been covered in the Handbook for Lady Inspectors.
Why hadn’t the chief or the Widow or somebody accounted for this sort of contingency?
She’d assumed her overview of D.O.G.S. training had thoroughly prepared her for anything she might encounter in the field.
Then again, she’d also assumed Mr. Harrison’s event coordinator would have no-nonsense jowls.
In reality, Mr. Noble’s rather striking jawline was far from jowl-like.
Great gadgets, Margaret, concentrate! Pinching the bridge of her nose, she shut her eyes and sighed.
She wasn’t going to get anywhere if she allowed distractions.
She must focus on the task at hand, the mission that had brought her here.
Locating the Invention Factory’s copy of the Chatsome Catherine voice-box design.
Now, how was she to manage that in the company of Mr. Noble?
A lady inspector must maintain an air of serenity whilst undercover.
The line of instruction Margaret had memorized from the handbook unwound her tightly coiled muscles, albeit ever so slightly.
She was more prepared than she gave herself credit for.
She’d been taught by seasoned inspectors.
She’d studied with utmost diligence. She just needed to maintain an air of serenity and recall her training.
Whilst engaged in active fieldwork, a lady inspector must never neglect to thoroughly examine her surroundings, lest she fail to observe a crucial piece of evidence or an object that may prove imperative to defense or escape.
Of course! In her preoccupation with the anomalous Mr. Noble, Margaret had neglected to inspect his office properly.
After reassuring herself the event coordinator’s head was still bent over menus, she rotated her chair about manually.
Feigning what she hoped was an air of journalistic curiosity, she took a turn about the room, all the while making mental notations.
The door she’d entered was the lone means of ingress or egress.
There were, however, windows on either side, which framed a view of the second-story gallery and the industrious main floor below.
This allowed the office to take advantage of the sunlight streaming through the factory and provided a secondary means of exit should an emergency arise, one that warranted the breaking of glass and dispelling of discretion.
Not that there was much to break said windows with by way of furnishings, just Mr. Noble’s desk and chair.
And to their left, a table pressed against the far wall, covered from end to end by boxes.
Dare she hoped they contained patent records?
Nearer the table Margaret rolled, her focus narrowing on the mysterious boxes, each one neatly labeled with dates spanning the last ten years and arranged in chronological order.
Gooseflesh pricked along the nape of her neck, a physical response triggered by a subconscious awareness of being watched.
Resisting the urge to whirl about, she looked over her shoulder.
Mr. Noble observed her over the top of a piece of paper in his hand, cheeks reddening when their gazes met.
He cleared his throat. “At the anniversary g-gala, I intend to feature commemorative displays of the company’s technological innovations throughout the years.
Allow those in attendance to compare the iron models submitted for patent alongside the finished devices after production.
I excavated those patent files from the records rooms so I can select which invention models to pull from storage.
Ideally, I’d like to feature an invention from every decade of the company’s fifty-year history, starting with the most recent and working my way backward.
But I . . . uh, I haven’t had a chance to go through them yet.
The menus arrived earlier than expected, y-you see. ”
Margaret did see, indeed. In His mercy, God had seen fit to place the very files she needed to peruse right under her nose.
“Might I take a peek whilst you’re otherwise occupied?
This is just the sort of behind-the-scenes exclusive my editor assigned me to provide our readers.
Perhaps I can even help you winnow down your options? ”
“Of course. I’ve been instructed to grant whatever access you require, so long as I’m present to maintain the integrity of the company’s intellectual property. Aside from the well-being of his employees, security is Mr. Harrison’s top priority.”
“Of course,” Margaret echoed, oiling the hinges of her demurest smile. “I’ll leave you to your work, then.” And Lord willing, you will leave me to mine. Wheeling her way to the table, she removed the lid from the box labeled 1895 and commenced with her mission.
———
The distinct rattle of a porcelain cup on a saucer drew Margaret’s attention.
Having abandoned his desk at some point, Mr. Noble now made his way toward her, laden with a tray bearing a pot, a pair of cups, and a plate of biscuits.
He halted on her left, and his throat bobbed as though the high collar of his shirtwaist was altogether too snug.
Her lips parted. Why had the man donned his jacket, and why was he standing before her now like a newly hired footman?
“I . . . I thought . . .” Mr. Noble’s neck bobbed again, and he cleared his throat. “I thought you might appreciate that cuppa now, Miss Knight. I usually take mine at this time of day.”
Glancing at the watch pinned to her jacket, Margaret blinked.
Three already? Had she truly been absorbed in combing through patent files for nearly two hours?
She sighed, leaning back in her wheelchair, noting the increased soreness in her low back.
The tension in her neck. The pinching of her ribs.
Rusted cogs, at this rate, her strength would give out before she found what she sought.
Reserving one spoon of energy for the journey home, Margaret calculated she could remain an hour longer . . . if she took a break and accepted the proffered refreshment. “Actually, a cup of tea sounds just the thing.”
Mr. Noble smiled, which lit that twinkling spark in his brown eyes again as he placed the tray atop one of the boxes.
Margaret angled her head to the right. Why was the man smiling at her so?
And twinkling? And pushing his chair this way?
Oh no . . . he didn’t expect to . . . surely he hadn’t perceived her acceptance of tea as an invitation to take tea with her?
Good gracious, he did! For the man was now seated across from her, shifting boxes left and right, and serving tea, which could only mean he would expect—
“So, Miss Knight, find any promising candidates for the gala display?”
Small talk. Trifling conversation about one’s work and the weather interposed with pleasantries.
Margaret abhorred small talk and its companion, pretense.
But Miss Knight . . . perhaps Miss Knight could muddle her way through the social convention better than young Margaret had been able to long ago.
“Indeed, several.” Unfortunately, none of them included the elusive Chatsome Catherine.
“I knew the Invention Factory had a prolific output, but I failed to fully comprehend the magnitude until I began to physically page through them. In the past two hours, I’ve barely managed to peruse half the patents from this year alone, and it’s only early May.
How goes your . . . menu selection?” Margaret sipped her tea to cover a cringe.
Great gadgets, now she was as awkward as Mr. Noble.
Not that he seemed to mind. If anything, the man appeared to delight at her response. He must really enjoy his job.
“Quite well. I’m leaning toward Lumiere’s Fine Dining as their cheese soufflé and pudding en flambé sound delicious.
Although I’ll reserve my final decision until after I put their service to the test with an official menu tasting, which I need to schedule straightaway.
But arranging such logistics isn’t nearly as interesting as your journalism work, I’m sure.
How long have you worked for the Dispatch? ”
Odd, if Mr. Noble found his job a bore, why had his expression brightened at her inquiry?
“Five years.” Suddenly she understood Louisa’s stance on infusing as much truth as possible into her character narratives.
It prevented her from hesitating overlong in her answers.
For she had, in fact, worked for five years—albeit for the Daughters of Genius Society.
Mr. Noble nodded. Ate a biscuit. Drank some tea.
Countenance stiffening as the silence lengthened, awkward tension sputtering between them as their conversation ran out of fuel and stalled with an almost audible hiss of exhaust. Apparently, Mr. Noble was no more skilled in small talk than she.
Very well, she’d rather let the conversational engine sit idle and resume her work.
Setting aside her cup and saucer, Margaret picked up where she’d left off in the 1895 box of files.
Skimming over the remainder of February, she moved on to patents from March.
Midway through the stack, Margaret located her quarry at last. The Chatsome Catherine voice-box design, which allegedly had been developed on the premises of Innovation Park by an inventor named . . . Mr. J. Dawkins. She had her second suspect!