Chapter 9
Chapter
The moment was now. Eight weeks of D.O.G.S.
training had been condensed into a four-week overview of protocols and procedures.
Jane had utilized her connections at the London Dispatch to establish Margaret’s assumed identity, and Mama and Papa had spent the better part of last night assuaging her pre-case disquietude with the bolstering prayers and comforting reassurances only the unique love of a parent could dispense.
Now, with every piece in place, it was time to flip the switch. Time for the well-oiled gears of their plan to commence rotation. Time for cautious Margaret Kinglsey to become confident Margaret E. Knight. A feat easier to accomplish on the pages of a character profile than in real life.
Oh, Louisa had done an admirable job, to be sure.
Not only in crafting her alias, but in outfitting Margaret to look the part of a “new woman” à la Sarah Grand.
Gone was her customary attire of loose-fitting tea gowns in serene shades of blue, with flowing skirts and demurely puffed sleeves.
In its place marched a wardrobe of starched white shirtwaists and tailored suits in business black with capacious gigot sleeves that required infrastructure to keep them aloft.
Power shoulders, Louisa had called them.
“They’ll imbue you with poise and aplomb,” she’d promised, and she’d not been wrong.
The new ensemble cut a strong figure, notably when finished off by a well-styled coiffure and topped with a jaunty hat.
The problem was . . . Margaret wasn’t strong.
At least, not in body.
Yes, the new apparel did wonders to ready her mind to play the role of an intrepid journalist. However, in the time it took a hansom cab to transport her from the Dispatch to Innovation Park, the clothing had grown steadily uncomfortable.
A mere inconvenience for most was exacerbated tenfold by a pain-riddled body that already existed in a constant state of discomfort.
She’d become so unaccustomed to tailored garments and structured fabrics that being forced to maintain proper posture caused her muscles to spasm and tense.
After many failed attempts, Margaret gave up trying to recline against the cab seat.
Somehow, her body must endure. She’d no time to return to headquarters for a wardrobe change, not without missing her appointment, and that she would not do.
Not on her first case as lead inspector.
Today she’d no time to be a burden. She took a stilted breath, willing her taut muscles to loosen and the pain to lessen.
Lord, please help me not to let everyone down.
The cab took her past the guarded front gates of Innovation Park, then beyond the neatly ordered rows of employee housing and the company schoolhouse.
It was a little unnerving how isolated the Invention Factory’s workforce and their families were from the rest of the city.
Not that anyone seemed to agree with her on that point.
Most Londoners seemed to view the Park as a veritable utopia for tinker hearts.
As the hansom halted before the Invention Factory’s main entrance, the hum of active machinery buzzed through the air, quickening her breath.
Gingerly, Margaret descended from the cab.
The ground vibrated beneath her boots, pulsing with the mechanical heartbeat housed within the enormous ten-story building’s rib cage.
Balancing with the aid of a walking cane, she waited for the driver to remove her collapsed wheelchair from the cab roof.
She’d briefly considered attempting to make do without, but the consideration had been a hollow whim.
With all the unknowns leading a case presented, going without the chair wasn’t viable.
The surest way to let everyone down was to not assess her limits honestly.
If she miscalculated her daily allotment of teaspoons—if her body were to unexpectedly break down and leave her without means of mobility—the consequences could be disastrous.
The driver placed the folded chair on the ground and accepted his fare.
Margaret pressed a button concealed among the brass filigree of her cane’s handle, triggering a hiss of hydraulics as the wheelchair began to unfurl from its compact transit mode.
Parts snapping and clicking into their proper places, the chair rose upon its wheels and reassembled, albeit with the left handle missing its match.
Slipping the walking cane into an opening to the right of the backrest, the cane’s handle became that of the wheeled chair.
She twisted the right handle clockwise, so it matched the positioning of its partner, locking all the pieces securely.
Just like that, her mechanized chair on wheels was ready to ride.
From her cushioned seat, Margaret studied the industrial building’s gleaming metal walls, her reflection looking woefully small in comparison with the imposing structure.
She fortified herself with a breath and then rolled forward.
Before she could employ the Arm of Chivalry, the factory’s doors swung wide of their own volition.
Margaret gawked as she entered, unaided.
There must be a sensor somewhere, activated by the heat of her body or the proximity of her weight, perhaps?
Papa could probably guess at a glance, having modified the staircase at home.
The building was a massive factory, unpartitioned and rather airy.
Polished wooden floors gave way to walls constructed of concrete and iron, with vaulted ceilings above.
Huge paned-glass windows on the east wall harnessed the natural light.
Wooden desks were configured in rows, and at them worked dozens of men, goggles over eyes, white shirtsleeves rolled to elbows, black waistcoats unbuttoned and wrinkled from labor.
Machines and gadgets in various states of construction littered the desks.
The hum of machinery and clanking of tools combined with the drone of an electric current conducted through a network of copper piping laid out along the walls and ceiling.
Dropping down like vines over each desk, the pipes branched off into fixtures bearing lightbulbs.
The west wall bore a series of shelving and tiny drawers, the former bearing numerous glass jars and vials of chemicals, while the latter were labeled with the names of tools and parts.
Following the directions provided by Jane, who’d conducted a covert assessment of the facilities two weeks prior, Margaret rolled down the center of the room betwixt the rows of desks.
The inventors paid her no mind, so absorbed were they in their experimentation.
She took a left at the door to the factory foreman’s office on the ground level and made for the steam-powered elevator Jane had mentioned.
A thrill surged through Margaret as she entered the gleaming conveyance.
It’d been ages since she’d ridden in an elevator!
She’d been eleven, accompanying her parents to Switzerland for a summer holiday at their home in the countryside.
At her insistence, they’d taken Great-Grandfather’s owl machine so they could fly over the Alps.
The elevator concealed in the owl’s breast was a third of the size of this lift, but when she pressed the brass button for level two and the machine ascended, the odd sensation of her stomach being suspended in midair felt wonderfully familiar.
How long ago that final holiday in Bern felt now.
With a ding, the elevator halted, and Margaret’s stomach plummeted, gravity yanking her musings from the heights of nostalgia to the heaviness of reality.
The doors whooshed open. Squaring her power shoulders, she rolled onto the second-story balcony overlooking the vast factory.
A single office occupied the floor, and she stopped before its door, marked with a brass plaque reading, Mr. Noble—Event Coordinator.
No doubt the man was a stodgy old clerk with spectacles and no-nonsense jowls.
Thankfully, she shouldn’t have to converse with him for long.
Just give him the credentials Jane acquired from the London Dispatch and ask to be directed to the records room.
Simple and straightforward.
Once blissfully alone, Margaret could make quick work of locating the Invention Factory’s copy of the Chatsome Catherine design.
According to Papa’s recollections of the company’s mode of operation, blueprints of inventions created on park grounds were filed in the corporation’s confidential records.
That paper alone bore the name of the device’s true inventor while the patent application filed on public record with the patent office attributed the design to Alvan T.
Harrison, Incorporated. Having accessed that confidential blueprint, she’d photograph it for evidence and add another name alongside Harrison’s on her suspect list. She could then investigate both suspects, determine whether they were working together, and how the thief—or thieves—had come into possession of the noblewoman’s original patent application.
Simple and straightforward. Barring any unforeseen complications.
Suppressing a wave of overwhelm, Margaret rapped upon the door. There was a shuffling of papers, the scraping of chair legs across a hardwood floor, footsteps growing steadily louder, and then the door opened. Her jaw dropped. Well, one of her speculations had proven correct.
Mr. Noble wore spectacles.