Chapter Fifteen #2
The patent archive was a windowless room lined with nondescript metal filing cabinets.
If Francis Gladwell had maintained his false identity as thoroughly as she believed he had, that meant that the patent for his machine would be in the G section.
Easy enough. Vesper’s hand hovered over the cabinets as she walked until she reached the one she was looking for.
She unbuttoned her custodian’s uniform to pull a handkerchief from her skirt’s pocket, then wrapped it around her hand.
That would prevent any fingerprints. She pulled the cabinet drawer open and withdrew a stack of folders, before taking them to the room’s lone desk.
Her eyes tracked down the folders’ tabs.
Gannis, Geldart, Gillick … Gladwell.
Vesper’s pulse quickened. She stared at it a moment, breathing relief, then froze at a sudden sound.
Footsteps. Someone was coming down the stairs.
She looked around the room, frantic. There weren’t many places to hide, but she eyed a small gap between the wall and one of the cabinets and ran for it.
She’d just wedged herself into it as far as she could when the door opened. Her pulse leapt.
Harold Deakins was standing in the doorway, frowning.
Vesper slowly pressed herself farther into the wedge, grateful that her hiding spot was slightly out of direct light.
Why on earth was the old man still here?
And why had he come to the patent archive now of all times?
She didn’t have time to dwell on either question as Mr. Deakins entered the room.
Vesper’s breath caught as he eyed the cabinets a moment, then the desk where Vesper had left the folders.
He studied them for a moment, deliberating, then scooped up the entire stack and headed back out the door.
Vesper silently swore. Francis Gladwell’s file was in that stack.
She watched with dismay as Mr. Deakins closed the door behind him, then listened as his footsteps faded up the stairs.
For several seconds, Vesper remained in her hiding place, trying to think.
If she went after Mr. Deakins and he caught her, she’d be arrested for trespassing in a government building at the very least. But if she gave up now, she gave up seeing anything in that patent file, and her time to solve Francis Gladwell’s murder was running out. It was now or never.
Vesper slipped from her hiding spot, and headed back up the stairs.
The north corridor was still mercifully dim, as was the main lobby once she reached it.
She headed down the east corridor, and noted a spot of light at the top of the stairs.
Deakins was back in his office. Carefully, Vesper rose to the balls of her feet, praying the steps didn’t creak under her weight.
It seemed to take ages for her to climb the same steps, but eventually she reached the landing.
As she’d expected, the only light came from the Department of Trademark’s office.
She crept closer. Its door was slightly ajar, and past it she could just make out Mr. Deakins at his desk.
He was thumbing through the stack of folders.
Blood roared in Vesper’s ears as he pulled out one folder and started to open it, then stopped.
The old man’s nose twitched, as though he’d smelled something odd, and then he sneezed so violently Vesper jumped.
Her eyes focused on something, and she drew in a sharp breath.
Her handkerchief.
It must have gotten stuck among the folders, and no doubt it was covered in cat hairs.
He’s allergic, she remembered. Her mind began to race. If Mr. Deakins had touched that handkerchief and then touched any part of his face …
Mr. Deakins sneezed a second time, then a third. He began to aggressively rub at his nose.
“Damn cats,” he grumbled. He rose from his desk, and Vesper barely had time to duck behind a coatrack before he barreled out of his office and raced down the stairs, presumably to a bathroom. If her guess was right, he’d be in there rinsing his eyes for at least a few minutes. This was her chance.
Vesper stole a final glance over her shoulder, then darted into Deakins’s office.
She circled the desk, snatched Gladwell’s folder from the stack, then dashed back down the stairs.
A strip of light peeked from beneath a bathroom door, but she sprinted past and barreled out the building’s front doors without looking back.
Only once she was outside again did the wild pounding in her chest ease.
Vesper retreated into a narrow alley, then crouched to open the folder.
There was only one paper inside of it. The nearest streetlamp’s light was dim, but she still made out the words PATENT APPLICATION FORM. She kept reading.
APPLICANT NAME: FRANCIS GLADWELL
APPLICANT COMPANY: Gladwell Enterprises, Ltd.
INVENTION NAME: GLADWELL MACHINE
APPLICATION DATE: 03 NOVEMBER 1898
Vesper stared at the final line of Francis Gladwell’s patent application, and her mouth went dry.
APPLICATION STATUS: PATENT REQUEST WITHDRAWN (04 NOVEMBER 1898)
By the time Vesper reached Pierce Street, it was nearly midnight.
This late at night, she knew she should have been more vigilant, more aware of her surroundings, but her thoughts were scattered.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the patent application.
Francis Gladwell had submitted a patent for his machine on November third, a day before the exhibition and his murder.
Then, on the day of his death, it had been withdrawn.
New questions began to form in her mind.
Clearly, Francis had wanted a patent for his machine submitted before he presented it to the public, but why had he then withdrawn the request the very next day, before it could even be approved?
Had he had a change of heart, or had someone coerced him?
Vesper thought of what Maximilian would say, and Charles Belver’s name came to mind.
He remained the most viable suspect so far, but there were still too many holes, too many threads that didn’t connect. Vesper gnawed on her lip, frustrated.
The Globe’s office was empty by the time she reached it, and she was surprised to find, once she’d let herself in, that a wrapped box had been placed on Nell’s desk. It was tied with purple silk ribbon, and a name tag was taped to it.
To: Miss Vesper Evans
From: MK
MK. Maximilian. Vesper carried the box up to her apartment, then laid it on the bed while she lit her small woodstove. Once she had a small fire going, she tugged its ribbon away, lifted its top, and peered inside.
The box contained a package wrapped in tissue paper, and a small envelope. Vesper unwrapped the package first. Inside was a bloodred dress with black lace trim and a beaded bodice. Definitely Bisan’s handiwork. Next, Vesper opened the envelope and pulled out a note.
Dear Miss Evans,
We have been invited to the opening of the Belver family’s private aviary tomorrow at 11:00 a.m. sharp.
As I believe the event could be relevant to your ongoing work, it is my wish that you attend with me as my guest. I have included a dress made by Bisan for you to wear, and I will send for a coach to collect you at half past ten tomorrow morning.
Regards,
M
P.S. Please note that this letter is ensorcelled and will incinerate within exactly one minute of being opened. I would advise that, upon reading it, you avoid standing near anything particularly flammable.
Vesper was still reading the last line of the letter when its edges began to smolder. She stood and yelped, flinging it away from her quickly. There was a pop like a firecracker, and then the entire thing was gone, only wispy gray remnants of smoke remaining to prove it’d been there at all.