Chapter 26
Chapter
“Gilbert and Sullivan, what does he mean by—”
Fingers clamped over Charles’ mouth, snapping his attention to Lady Margaret, who quite literally held him in the palm of her rather soft hand.
Awareness of her proximity solidified his question into a lump in his throat.
He gulped. Begoggled as he was—observing the scene unfolding in Flaversham’s residence through the automaton owl’s eyes—he’d not realized just how close Lady Margaret had drawn to his side.
The woman was pressed right against him, and . . . she smelled of lilies.
“Just what do you mean by leverage, Flaversham?”
An older gentleman shifted beside Tinkerton on the living room sofa, tossing Charles an anchor to secure his wayward focus.
Flaversham hooked a thumb into his suspenders.
“I’ll be keeping the details to myself for now.
There’s risk in knowing what I stumbled across, and it don’t feel right to burden others with that risk.
I’ll not see the whole union fall. Not if I can help it.
” He shook his head with dogged resolve.
“Suffice to say, the same money that makes a man’s fortune can just as easily spell his ruin. ”
That pronouncement settled over the gathering with all the clarity of a fog rolling in at dusk, but it’s underlying timbre of consequence and credence seemed to satisfy the others. Exchanging nods, handshakes, and brisk farewells, the men began to take their leave.
Lady Margaret’s hand withdrew from Charles’ lips. “We’ll not be learning any more tonight.” She shifted away from him on their shared seat. “I’d better fly the surveillance automaton back to the carriage.”
Removing the goggles, Charles passed them back to Lady Margaret. She slipped them over her head, and taking up the purse controller, set about the business of retrieving her clockwork owl.
Assured of her attention being diverted, Charles raked a hand through his hair and tugged at his collar. The warmth of Lady Margaret’s touch lingered on his lips. A sensation he’d do well not to linger upon.
Professionalism, man. Utmost professionalism. And propriety. That was a safe and sound thought too. He’d think of professionalism and propriety and—Paganini, this would be easier if the woman didn’t smell so dashed enchanting!
The tawny owl landed on the carriage door with a delicate clink of metal claws. Lady Margaret took off the goggles and assisted the mechanical owl back into its birdcage before draping it once more in velvet. “This evening has been most productive.”
Charles nodded. Productive, yes. That was another safe and sound thought. Professionalism. Propriety. Productivity—
“I wonder how Mr. Flaversham caught wind of Harrison’s crimes.”
“Pardon?” Had she said Harrison’s crimes?
With a rap upon the roof, Lady Margaret signaled Mrs. Hackney, and the carriage rolled forward, turning in the direction of London before setting off at a fast clip.
“I said I wonder how Mr. Flaversham discovered Harrison’s crimes.
Knowledge of the patent fraud makes for compelling leverage.
I’d wager Flaversham’s contingency plan is to blackmail Harrison with threats of exposure and ruination. ”
Charles huffed. “That’s quite the leap, Inspector, seeing as you’ve yet to find evidence to conclusively prove Mr. Harrison’s guilt.
From where I sit, it’s just as likely that Flaversham’s contingency plan is to frame Mr. Harrison for crimes of patent fraud.
Threatening to sabotage the company’s good name would make for equally compelling leverage, would it not? ”
“I . . . I suppose it would, at that.” Lady Margaret gnawed her lip and busied her hands, transforming her gadgets back into commonplace items.
Setting the purse and reassembled opera glasses in her lap, Lady Margaret took to tapping her fingernails on the latter, matching the steady rhythm of the clattering carriage wheels.
“You’ve made a valid point, Mr. Noble. I shall keep your theory in mind—alongside my own—as we proceed with the investigation.
Not because I agree with your suppositions, but because the Daughters of Genius Society’s handbook counsels that ‘A lady inspector should never leap to conclusions, lest she risk an unsound theory and a sprained ankle.’ However, as I keep an open mind, I ask you to do likewise.
Just as it’s possible that Mr. Harrison is innocent, it is also quite possible that your relationship with the man is skewing your perception. ”
Charles’ jaw clenched, but he nodded his acquiescence.
Nothing more was said as they traveled back to London.
When Charles bid Lady Margaret good night outside his home, the woman’s annoyingly sound argument escorted him up the stoop and sent him to bed with a headache.
The following morning, said headache accompanied Charles to the Invention Factory, where it proceeded to join forces with a colleague of self-doubt.
Was Lady Margaret right? Might his professional relationship with Mr. Harrison be clouding his judgment?
After all, until last night, he’d no idea how discontented the older inventors were with their contracts.
Such bitterness didn’t just spring up without reason.
And yet the younger generation of inventors adored Harrison, looked up to the man like a grandfather.
How was one to reconcile such a disparity of feeling?
The workday dragged. Every task on Charles’ list was made more difficult by the thoughts weighing heavy on his mind, and of course, today of all days, things would go wrong.
Stifling a yawn, Charles glanced at the clock on his office wall, confirming he was officially burning the midnight oil, thanks to the expected delivery of gala invitations being delayed due to a jam at the printers.
The printer had refused to reschedule, lest he be called to make good on his shop’s highly publicized promise of “Quality printing in half the time or half the price.”
Once the shipment had finally arrived, narrowly avoiding the half-price time window, Charles spent several hours personally inspecting each and every invitation by hand.
No matter how much the courier complained, he’d refused to accept the shipment with the required signature of receipt until assured the debacle at the printer’s shop hadn’t negatively impacted the quality of his rather large order.
Thankfully, the invitations had passed muster, and the courier had been sent on his not-so-merry way.
The grumble grouse wasn’t the only one eager to get home.
Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, Charles headed out the door, flicking off the lights on his way out.
As the elevator conveyed him downstairs, he whispered a prayer that the note he’d dispatched had made it to Mother promptly.
He hated to think of her worrying or sitting up late to keep his dinner warm.
The elevator doors parted, and he hastened across the dark factory.
Moonlight streamed through the windows, creating eerie shadows out of the sleeping machines. Then he heard it.
That high-pitched metallic screech.
Charles froze. His gaze wandered the factory, alert and wary.
Once again, the inventors had all gone home for the day.
Once again, the machines before him were unmoving.
Yet another mechanical sound commenced, lower and deeper, with a distinctive vibration.
Rumbling and clattering. Rumbling and clanging.
Somewhere in this building, machines were burning a midnight oil of their own, playing the undeniable and unmistakable symphony of industry.
Another rumble sent vibrations coursing through the soles of his shoes.
Crouching to the ground, Charles placed an ear to the floor, and the resonance intensified.
The noises emanated from one of the lower levels, and from down here, he could make out other softer sounds.
Voices. Too far away and muffled to recognize. But enough to confirm he wasn’t alone.
Gooseflesh broke out on Charles’ skin as he clambered to his feet. Could Flaversham be enacting his contingency plan, and if so, what was he doing?
Now would be a great time to have an automaton surveillance owl on hand, but since that wasn’t an option, Charles would have to make do with his own eyes and ears. Lady Margaret required conclusive evidence, and for her sake, he’d prove himself a valuable covert asset.
Opting for stealth over speed, Charles took off for the stairwell instead of the elevator.
With every downward step, the noises grew louder.
Once in the basement, he used his keys to check every room.
The gentlemen’s necessary, empty. The janitor’s storeroom, vacant.
The personnel room, unoccupied. The records room, deserted.
He swallowed. That left the model archives room .
. . where Charles was storing items for the commemorative displays.
Would Flaversham go so far as to sabotage the anniversary gala?
Charles charged into the room and flipped on the lights.
Nothing. Not a living soul.
And the machines . . . the voices . . . had gone deafeningly silent.