Chapter 8
Chapter
As Margaret progressed through her morning routine, the gears of her mind jammed, struggling to turn with comprehension around the abnormal deviation thrown into the workings of her life.
She still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to assume the role of lead inspector on the purloined patent case.
Let alone that she was now tasked with investigating the mechanical empire of Alvan T.
Harrison—the only inventor for whom she had no respect.
The man was a skilled entrepreneur, she’d give him that. But the most prolific genius the world had ever known? The man, most certainly, was not, regardless of what the newspapers reported and the general public believed.
To be fair, the only reason Margaret knew otherwise was because Mr. Harrison had once approached Papa to work for his industrial research laboratory, Innovation Park, after hearing him speak at an engineering symposium.
She’d never heard tell of anyone receiving a personal invitation from Harrison before or since.
Normally, inventors applied to work at the Park in droves, as it was the first such institution of its kind, purported as a hub of ingenuity.
The prospect of having the time and resources to tinker while providing a comfortable living for their families was sufficient incentive for most inventors, who were often idea rich and cash poor, to sign the new employee contract placed before them with naught but a cursory glance.
Papa, however, was not like most inventors.
He was a marquess and a successful businessman in his own right, which meant he’d no need of Mr. Harrison’s connections or resources.
It also meant he’d the freedom of a gentleman of leisure to spend hours perusing the contract placed before him with a magnifying glass.
A contract that, upon closer inspection, contained a troubling clause in fine print—any and all inventions developed on Innovation Park grounds would be considered the legal property of the company and thus patented under the founder’s name.
Thereby, the Invention Factory model credited more patented innovations to Alvan T. Harrison than he’d actually invented. A fact that remained a company secret due to a confidentiality agreement inventors were required to sign prior to being granted access to the new employee contract forms.
Because Alvan T. Harrison was the name on public record at the patent office, people assumed Invention Factory employees were naught but a living gadget mill for Harrison’s bubbling font of genius—rather than geniuses in their own right—and Mr. Harrison inexplicably allowed his reputation to benefit from that faulty assumption.
A distasteful practice made legal by the rights forfeiture and additional confidentiality clauses buried amid pages of legal jargon in the inventors’ worker contracts.
It was for this reason Papa had turned down Mr. Harrison’s job offer and Margaret still turned up her nose at Harrison himself.
While she’d never imagined the man would stoop to brazen thievery, the notion was by no means beyond the realm of possibility.
Yet whether she could find sufficient evidence to prove her suspicions remained to be seen.
Since accepting the case three weeks ago, Margaret had undergone a thorough refresher course of standard D.O.G.S.
training. By strict order of the Widow, not a single precautionary measure was to be overlooked before her first undercover assignment at Innovation Park.
Therefore, every member of the D.O.G.S. had been recruited to aid in her education.
Jane had taken to schooling her on covert operations, Iva Leene was charged with oiling the rusty defensive skills Margaret hadn’t used since completing basic training five years ago, and Helena served as a constant support every time she threatened to quit.
Which had been approximately eleven times thus far.
Today, upon completion of her requisite music therapy, Margaret had an appointment at D.O.G.S.
headquarters with Lady Louisa Mayfield, the skillful producer of aliases utilized for clandestine assignments.
Of all the lady inspectors, none was more qualified for the task of crafting fictitious people and false names than their resident novelist.
At precisely a quarter past two, Margaret rolled into Louisa’s office, which looked rather more like a library.
Built-in bookcases stood along every wall, towering all the way to the ceiling.
Despite what would be considered adequate shelf space for the casual reader, books were stacked in leaning towers in every nook and cranny of available floor space.
The books buried the desk so completely that it seemed to be made of volumes.
Come to think of it . . . Margaret couldn’t recall what the desk even looked like, so long had it been entombed in works of literature.
Behind the desk, or rather tucked inside it like a cave, Louisa lay flat on her stomach upon a lush rug, blanket over her head like a shawl and nose stuck in a book that she paged through rapidly, thanks to her unusually swift reading capabilities.
Margaret waited in patient silence, knowing well that to interrupt Louisa in the midst of a bookish adventure was futile at best and dangerous at worst.
Soon enough, Louisa read the final pages, closed the book with a contented sigh, and hugged it to her chest as though thanking the tome for allowing her to experience the story contained within its leather binding.
Margaret gently cleared her throat.
Louisa met her gaze with a happily dazed expression.
“Ah, Maggie! Have you come for another book recommendation? I just had a shipment arrive yesterday.” Scrambling to her feet, Louisa dashed to the rolling ladder attached to the bookcases.
With a dramatic wave of her arm, she kicked off the nearest shelf and sent the ladder flying across the room from one bookcase to another.
“If you’re in the mood for something wonderfully romantical, I suggest the works of Jane Austen, P. D. Basham, or Antonia Shiloh.”
Before Margaret could respond, Louisa had glided to another wall of shelves.
“But if you fancy a gothic tale of murder and mayhem, I highly recommend something by Wilkie Collins, J. J. Wright, or Mr. Poe.” Just as she landed before one shelf, she alighted and flew in the direction of another.
“Knowing your vivid imagination, though, you’d probably prefer a story on the fantastical side.
C. C. Schroeder, Jules Verne, or S. Haron Hinck, perhaps? ”
Finally, out of breath, Louisa fell silent.
Tucking a hand in one of the many book-sized pockets stitched in tiers along her skirt, she gazed at Margaret expectantly.
Ink freckled her cheeks and stained the fingers grasping the ladder.
Evidence she’d recently been hard at work penning another sensation novel.
Her devoted readers would never suspect that Louisa, with her heart-shaped face and innocent braids, wrote A.
M. Barnard’s popular blood-and-thunder tales.
She was the very picture of a demure little woman—until the pet she’d adopted from Mumsie Stanton’s foundling home for disabled animals climbed up her dress with the aid of sharpened talons.
With Jaime the raven perched on Louisa’s shoulder, broken left wing hanging lifelessly, the dainty novelist suddenly transformed into the very mistress of the macabre.
Margaret grinned. “While I always appreciate your book recommendations, I’m here on society matters. You were to read me in on my alias, remember?”
Louisa’s shoulders sagged slightly, but then her eyes flashed with recollection.
“Oh, yes! I finished developing your character last night.” Taking to the ground with a leap, she rushed across the room to her desk, causing Jaime to stoically bob about like a parrot on the shoulder of a drunken pirate.
Moving a stack of books, Louisa uncovered a pile of files buried beneath.
She snatched up the topmost folder and proceeded to read aloud.
“Character Profile—also known as “Alias”—also known as “Nom de Guerre”—for Lady Margaret Kingsley, assigned as lead inspector on Case #626, that being the matter of the purloined patent. Inspector Kingsley will be posing as one Miss Margaret Eloise Knight, a journalist employed at The London Dispatch, a newspaper owned by Inspector Larrimore’s uncle.
Inspector Larrimore will serve as a contact at the Dispatch to authenticate Inspector Kingsley’s alias.
Alias, Margaret Eloise Knight, is an only child who resides with her parents. ”
Here Louisa paused, glancing up from her folder. “Infusing elements of truth into a fictional alias makes it easier for inspectors to avoid exposing their true identities. I also find it makes a character feel more developed.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Are there elements of truth infused into A. M. Barnard’s characters, then?”
Louisa flushed crimson and took to sputtering.
“Let’s stick to the business at hand, shall we?
” Her gaze retreated to the folder. “Miss Knight is an only child who resides with her parents, but in defiance of societal expectations, she’s a career-driven new woman looking to make her way in the world.
She’s been assigned to cover Alvan T. Harrison, Incorporated’s upcoming fiftieth anniversary gala, giving the Dispatch’s readers a behind-the-scenes look at preparations and the event itself.
” Here Louisa glanced up again. “This provides your character with motivation to sniff about Innovation Park and a plausible reason to request access to their records.”
Margaret nodded, leaning back in her wheelchair to ease the strain on her aching muscles.
The alias Louisa had constructed seemed rather straightforward.
Aside from a change of career and surname, she’d essentially be able to play herself, which should make it easier to conduct her investigation. Why then was she still so trepidatious?
“Where in the Sam Hill did you get off to, Maggie?”
Margaret rotated her chair clockwise to face Lady Iva Leene Oakland, the only dowager countess in the whole of England with an Appalachian drawl and a pair of six-shooters on her person at all times.
Iva Leene’s auburn mane had been corralled into an upswept coiffure, though a few untamed curls had bucked free from their pins.
Demure fists rested her on hips, just above a double holster of tooled leather, which blended into her black crape widow’s weeds.
Pearl-handled revolvers, with engraved barrels of nickel-plate, gleamed in dangerous contrast against the matte attire that proclaimed her mourning for the English lord she’d loved and lost all too soon.
“There you are, sugar! I’ve been wandering nigh on a lifetime trying to track you down.
Sakes alive, I was starting to wonder if the good Lord had commenced with the rapture and plumb left me behind.
Reckon you’re ready for another strictly precautionary lesson in the womanly art of self-defense?
Today we review knife throwing, hog-tying, and tips for hiding a pistol in your petticoats.
” With lightning-fast reflexes, Iva Leene withdrew a third gun from the folds of her skirt and spun it round her finger a few times before deftly returning it to a concealed holster.
She grinned broadly. “Then I get to break in a brand-new lesson I’m right proud of—a dozen and one ways to incapacitate a man with a hatpin! ”
Margaret gulped. Perhaps the “strictly precautionary” lessons in the art of self-defense had something to do with her lingering feeling of unease.
The mere thought of speaking to a man—let alone incapacitating one—filled her with consternation.
God willing, the case would function like a well-oiled machine, and both activities could be wholly avoided.