Chapter 36
Chapter
Lady Margaret Kingsley knew two things for sure and certain.
First, that the correlation between the beneficiaries in Harrison’s will, the Benevolence Legacy’s charitable recipients, and the list of robbed inventors was no coincidence—it was evidence.
The information Charles had uncovered proved that patent thief Mr. J.
Dawkins was none other than world-famous inventor Mr. Alvan T.
Harrison. Second, Mr. Alvan T. Harrison was behind Papa’s disappearance.
What Margaret didn’t know for sure or certain .
. . was why. Why had Harrison built this complex life of duplicity and guile?
And why had he abducted Papa?
If the authorities had been swiftly dispatched to arrest Mr. Harrison and Papa safely returned home, Margaret probably could’ve come to terms with not knowing why.
Alas, behind her enigmatic mourning veil, the Widow remained adamant that her powerful influence could not yet be wielded.
While the body of proof they’d accumulated was sufficient to prove Harrison’s guilt conclusively and quite satisfactorily to the Daughters of Genius Society, it was insufficient in the eyes of the law.
The evidence that Harrison was Dawkins, circumstantial.
The suspicion that Harrison had taken Papa, conjecture.
For nine long days, Charles had endeavored to console Margaret, who in turn, endeavored to console Mama.
For nine long days, the rest of the D.O.G.S.
endeavored to procure further evidence and locate Papa’s whereabouts.
Covert assets and lady inspectors, dispatched in pairs for safety, conducted searches of the Invention Factory, the grounds of Innovation Park, and even Mr. Harrison’s private residence.
All to no avail. No trace of a secret passageway leading to an abandoned network of underground tunnels.
No sign of Papa’s location, and most troubling, no new clues to follow.
Margaret had all but given up hope.
Until the tenth day, when I.Q. and Penny delivered a missive penned in invisible ink:
Code 2319: All lady inspectors report to D.O.G.S. headquarters for an emergency conclave at precisely straightaway and POSTHASTE. Tea will be on tap.
Burn this and get moving!
Quite urgently,
Professor Quimby
Promptly at straightaway, before the clock struck posthaste, all the lady inspectors were gathered at headquarters, along with Professor Quimby, Charles, and Mama, who staunchly refused to remain at home—a breach of protocol the chief permitted without remark.
Positioning her wheelchair beside Mama in the parlor, Margaret took hold of her hand and squeezed it three times.
Her mother wasn’t the only one who cared little about adherence to procedure at present.
Although the conclave hadn’t officially been called to order yet, she needed answers. And she needed them now.
“Jane, did your investigation into Mr. Flaversham uncover anything that might give us an advantage? Perhaps we can use the leverage he has on Mr. Harrison to secure Papa’s release?”
Looking quite unlike herself in a dress the color of mud, Jane shook her head from her seat on the adjacent settee, her eyes rimmed in shadows.
“Flaversham’s leverage turned out to be naught but a misconception derived from partial information.
Having discovered that J. Dawkins was receiving checks for new inventions despite being retired, Flaversham traced the checks to the Benevolence Legacy and concluded that Mr. Harrison was engaged in company embezzlement.
While I thought his conclusion unlikely—given the additional information uncovered by the D.O.G.S.
—I asked Louisa to pick up where I’d left off and scrutinize the charity’s finances more thoroughly with fresh eyes. ”
Margaret’s gaze darted to Louisa. “And?”
Wringing her ink-stained hands, Louisa heaved a sigh.
“And my findings confirmed Mr. Flaversham’s leverage was a mirage caused by overheated vexation.
The Benevolence Legacy is a legitimate organization.
All of their charitable recipients are real people, and they do, in fact, receive the funds designated for them.
No monies are diverted back to Mr. Harrison.
Any blackmail attempt on Flaversham’s part will prove futile as there is no embezzlement scheme to expose. ”
“I see.” The words were as heavy as the disappointment sinking in Margaret’s stomach. No embezzlement to expose. No leverage to apply.
No means to free Papa.
Mama squeezed Margaret’s hand four times.
“Take heart, Inspector Kingsley. There is good news to relay at this conclave, which I’d now like to officially bring to order.
” Professor Quimby fortified herself with a long sip of tea and cleared her throat before addressing the assembly.
“As you know, at the time of Lord Marlow’s disappearance, the covert asset assigned to tail Mr. Harrison reported having lost sight of the man exactly one hour prior.
Mr. Harrison wasn’t spotted again until the following day, when he arrived at the Invention Factory for his customary rounds.
To avoid losing track of Harrison again, I reassigned his surveillance detail exclusively to the society’s most experienced tracker, Inspector Larrimore.
Inspector, please proceed with your findings. ”
Jane handed Iva Leene a stack of photographs to distribute.
Then she stood slowly, as though her muscles were stiff and sore.
“Yesterday, Harrison deviated from his routine to visit a paupers’ cemetery.
There, he spent forty-five minutes tending to a particular grave secluded beneath a willow tree.
He pulled weeds, trimmed the overgrown grass, and even polished the headstone.
When he finally departed, I approached the grave to investigate and snapped the photograph you now hold. Note the headstone’s inscription.”
Holding the photograph in her free hand, Margaret studied the image.
The headstone in question seemed to spring from the very earth near the trunk of a weeping willow.
Roots, protruding here and there from the soil, curled about the stone like gnarled fingers staking a claim.
The willow’s grasping bid for possession had tilted the stone askew and forged a jagged crack, darkened from exposure to the elements.
In memoriam,
The Dodgers
“You were brought up bad. I will make something of you, though.”
“That quotation is from Oliver Twist,” Louisa announced. “It’s been altered, but it’s still recognizable as one of the Artful Dodger’s lines of dialogue.”
Gooseflesh rose on Margaret’s skin. The Artful Dodger as in J. Dawkins.
Below the literary quotation, the stone’s inscription continued with a series of odd words: Bumlets, Crutchie, Mush, Nibs, Racetrack, Slightly, and Tootles.
Names, presumably, each paired with a set of dates, birth and death.
Margaret’s heart ached. The Dodgers had been young at the time of their passing, with the oldest being seventeen, and the youngest, Tootles, only fourteen.
All still children, and all perishing on the exact same day—July 23, 1839.
Fifty-six years ago. It appeared Mr. Harrison had visited the grave yesterday to mark what would’ve been Slightly’s birthday.
“Inspectors, do you understand the significance of that day in 1839?”
Jane answered the chief’s inquiry. “From research I’ve conducted at the London Dispatch archives, I recognize it as being amidst the First Anglo-Afghan War. Was that date a battle?”
“Indeed, Inspector Larrimore. The Battle of Ghazni, during which my father served as a translator for the British military.” Somberness weighted Professor Quimby’s voice.
“Gunpowder was detonated in the night at the gates of Ghazni, and once the explosion exposed the city stronghold, a hand-to-hand battle ensued. While considered a victory for England, two hundred British soldiers were killed—including, according to this headstone, the Dodgers. I wouldn’t be surprised, judging by Harrison’s tender care of the site, if these fallen soldiers were his comrades.
Since all casualties were left behind in the desert, this headstone would serve as their sole memorial. ”
Helena chimed in. “Based on the willow’s root growth, this headstone was placed long before Mr. Harrison’s rise to fame and the construction of Innovation Park.”
Professor Quimby replied, “If Harrison served with the Dodgers, that timing could coincide with a return to London from Ghazni.”
“I hate to be callous . . .” Mama began. “But what does this have to do with my husband’s disappearance?”
“Or the stolen patents?” added Iva Leene.
Margaret wasn’t sure, but she’d a feeling this photograph had just given them the final pieces needed to assemble the puzzle of this case and see the larger picture.
The why that drove Mr. Harrison. She released Mama’s hand and placed the photograph upon her lap.
From her pocket she took out the list of inventions stolen within the last year, which she’d spent about a week analyzing before becoming distracted by Papa’s disappearance.
She placed the list by the photograph, reading over the purloined devices again while keeping in mind the most recent information learned by Jane.
A miniature steam engine for a portable carpet cleaner.
A voice box for a talking doll. A hinge to improve mobility of prosthetic limbs.
A piano string of superior strength and elasticity.
A special lens that would allow a camera to photograph in day or night.
A moldable metal alloy to craft bulletproof carriages for currency transport.
Margaret gnawed her lip. Something was still missing.
A pivotal piece required for everything else to click into place.
Charles, who sat on her other side, peered to glimpse the list of stolen patents holding her attention.
“Oh, that reminds me.” He reached into his coat pocket, removing a paper.
“Yesterday, between preparations for the gala, I thought to look over the patent applications in the records room for anything new attributed to J. Dawkins, and I found this one. Filed just two days ago.”
“Great gadgets!” Margaret snatched up the new patent application.
The invention sketch drafted the design of a complex music box that could house numerous polyphon discs at once and play through them in succession.
But the sketch had a design flaw. The dimensions on the pressure bar were off by a slight, but problematic, margin.
This flaw would result in the disc bouncing when the plectra attempted to engage with the comb.
Her breath stalled as Papa’s voice echoed in her mind.
“This is why I needed you, my girl. You’re the music-box expert. ”
Relief coursed through Margaret like an electric charge, accelerating her heart rate and charging her mental powers of realization.
Mr. Harrison had taken Papa, an inventor with a reputation for fixing unfixable machines, because he’d an incomplete machine in need of one final part to make it functional.
A part Papa had acquiesced to invent, knowing Harrison would file for a patent on his design under the name J.
Dawkins and thus catch the vigilant eye of the D.O.G.S.
Papa had used this device sketch to send a message only Margaret would understand—she need not overcomplicate a simple fix.
Wherever Papa was being held by Harrison, he was in no danger.
Instead of exerting energy trying to rescue Papa, a veteran of the Crimean War who could more than handle himself, Margaret needed to focus on solving the case.
She’d a mechanical puzzle to assemble, and Papa had just sent her the final piece.
“Margaret?” Charles asked. “Is something wrong?”
“Shhh, Noble! Her wheels are starting to turn. Let my dear one think.”
Grinning at Mama’s whispered reprimand, Margaret shut her eyes in an attempt to block out the superfluous noise and intensify her focus of the pertinent facts.
While Mr. Harrison was certainly no genius, the man also wasn’t an idiot.
From what she’d read in his newspaper interviews, Harrison started off in life as an orphaned newsie on the streets of London.
To climb to his current heights in life would’ve required a certain measure of intellectual savvy.
A quickness to learn and adapt in order to survive.
With this base, he’d then spent the last fifty years surrounding himself with brilliant minds.
It stood to reason that Harrison would’ve eventually learned a bit of mechanics in that time.
Perhaps enough to spark an original idea he needn’t pilfer.
The noises at night in the factory—Harrison was trying to build on his own!
Margaret gnawed on her lip. The escalation to kidnapping was a big, incongruous leap for Mr. Harrison.
A huge risk. Which would indicate Harrison had grown impatient and desperate for some reason.
Sudden desperation could imply an impending deadline on his machine’s completion.
Like, perhaps, an impending gala celebrating Harrison’s legacy of innovation.
A legacy he’d been trying to redeem by finally inventing something himself.
Something in memorium of the Dodgers. Something that would ensure Mr. Harrison never ended up like them—forgotten in death.
A world-changing invention for the history books.
Margaret straightened as the tiny pieces started click-click-clicking into place to form a cohesive whole in her mind. To form a clear picture.
Camera lens, eyes. Piano strings, ligaments. Hinges, joints. Steam engine, heart and lungs.
Assembled within a bulletproof metal body and given a voice by a desperate, misguided man still grieving his old mates who’d died tragically young on a field of battle.
Like toy soldiers.