Chapter Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
There were no signs that marked the place where the neighborhood of Shalescreek began, but Vesper still knew the moment they’d entered it.
She peered out the window of Maximilian’s coach and watched the cityscape change before her very eyes. With every passing block, the streets grew filthier, the buildings more dilapidated. A group of hard-eyed young men stared as they rolled by, and she backed away from the window quickly.
“Do you really think this is going to work?” Across from her, Maximilian was sitting as he always did, one ankle crossed over his knee. His eyes, mahogany brown today, were intent.
“I think we’ve got to try,” she said. “Elizabeth Duxley and Charles Belver led us to dead ends. The Thally Rousers are the only other compelling lead left.”
“And you really think they were the ones who killed Francis Gladwell?”
“I don’t know for sure,” she said honestly, “but there’s some compelling evidence to support the theory.
I’m almost certain that the server I ran into at the exhibition before it started was a Rouser, and Chief Stettner said his men saw a bunch of them lurking around the maze after Mr. Gladwell’s murder.
Add that to his brother’s testimony, and it certainly looks like Francis got mixed up with the wrong people and paid the price for it. ”
“You think the Thally Rousers had an interest in the Gladwell Machine?” Maximilian asked.
“It’s possible. They’re all about profit.” Vesper leaned in. “Did you know that, last year alone, the Thally Rousers took in an estimated two million gild in illegal revenue?”
Maximilian whistled low. “How’s a street gang pull those numbers?”
Vesper shook her head. “They’re not just some street gang. The Thally Rousers have been around for years. They consider themselves more like a company, Basalton’s premier merchants of contraband materials.”
Maximilian frowned. “How do you know all this?”
“Stettner,” said Vesper. “He’s been on a special task force tracking them for years. There have been a few inroads, but they always hit a dead end. Apparently the Rousers are fiercely loyal, especially to their leader.”
“What’s his name?” Maximilian asked.
Vesper shrugged.
Maximilian sat back in his seat. “I suppose it makes sense,” he said. “If this Stanley guy you talked to was telling the truth, the real Francis Gladwell—or, Frankie—would have been an easy recruit.”
“I have a working theory,” said Vesper. “Francis joined the Rousers and agreed to be their proxy so that he could take the Gladwell Machine out on their behalf. They set him up to look like some legitimate scion of a wealthy family and gave him the money to back it up so that he could pass the Gladwell Machine off as his own. It would explain how he lived so lavishly, and why there’s no record of him as an actual inventor. ”
“One question,” said Maximilian. “You said the Rousers have plenty of money. If that’s the case, why would they have needed Francis to court high society investors to finance his machine? They could have done it themselves.”
“Because the Rousers are still an illegal operation,” said Vesper. “If they wanted to go public with the machine, they’d need the kind of legitimacy high society investors offer.”
“So why kill Gladwell?”
Vesper drummed her fingers against the coach’s window ledge.
“I think something happened,” she said. “Maybe Frankie got greedy once he figured out how much money was to be made and tried to double-cross them.” She gave Maximilian a significant look.
“Stettner told me Rousers are infamous for the punishments they dole out to turncoats.”
Maximilian nodded. “You know, if the Rousers really are responsible, they’ll never admit it.”
“We don’t need them to confess to the actual murder,” said Vesper. “We just need enough information to prove they could have done it.” She inclined her head. “Did you bring it?”
Maximilian reached into his trousers’ pocket and withdrew something wrapped in a plain handkerchief. Slowly, he unfolded it, then held the item aloft for Vesper to see. She leaned forward and a sigh escaped her.
The brooch Maximilian was holding was the size of a kiwi, oval shaped and inlaid with gold with a large ruby at its center. For a few seconds, she could only stare at it in wonder.
“You’re sure you want to use this?”
Maximilian nodded. “It was my great-grandmother’s,” he said. “Lovely woman by all accounts, but her taste in fashion was questionable at best. I found this in the back of a drawer. No one was looking for it. Will it do?”
Vesper took the brooch and pinned it to the shirt under her coat before she nodded. “I suspect it will.” She looked out the window again. They had all the pieces in place now, but she still didn’t know if her plan would work.
It has to, an internal voice said. You only have eleven days left.
“Uh, Evans?”
Vesper looked up. “What?”
Maximilian’s brows had knitted. “You’re torturing that handkerchief.”
Vesper looked down and realized the handkerchief she’d been holding in her lap was twisted up. She slipped it into her pocket just as the coach slowed to a stop. “We’re here.”
They disembarked quickly, then Vesper gave the coachman instructions on where to wait. She watched the coach disappear before turning to the street sign closest to her. It was rusted and dented in several places, and read “Pike Lane.” They were definitely in South Basalton now.
“Is the Rousers’ marketplace nearby?” asked Maximilian.
“A few more blocks farther down,” said Vesper. “I didn’t want a fancy coach blowing our cover.” She turned, and for the first time surveyed Maximilian’s full attire. He was wearing plain gray trousers, a white button-down shirt, and a busboy cap. She squinted.
“What?” asked Maximilian.
“What’s on your shirt?”
“Oh.” The sorcerer grinned. “It’s shoe polish. I had Bisan smudge it up for me to look authentic. I told her tonight’s theme was urban distress.”
Vesper rolled her eyes. Leave it to Maximilian Kite to treat a high-stakes infiltration mission the same way he treated a themed luncheon.
She gave him a sidelong glance. Reluctant as she was to admit it, the new attire did add a certain roguish quality to his person.
It seemed he’d skipped shaving; a dark shadow of stubble dusted his jawline in a way she found almost intriguing.
Abruptly, she shook her head, refocusing.
“You ready?”
Maximilian nodded. “Let’s go.”
Pike Lane was empty at this time in the evening, but Vesper couldn’t ignore the feeling she and Maximilian were being watched as they headed down the road.
Every few seconds, she glanced at the sorcerer, and the longer they walked, the more uneasy he looked.
When several rats darted across the road and he jumped, she stopped and frowned at him.
“Something wrong?”
“Not at all,” said Maximilian with unconvincing levity. “Shalescreek just has slightly more … personality than I’d anticipated.”
Vesper smiled grimly. “This is how the other half lives, rich boy. Welcome.” She knew she really had little room to talk.
Her own neighborhood had been solidly working class, but it had been nowhere near as desolate as this.
Everywhere she looked, Pike Lane’s gutters were clogged with detritus and waste; the windows of most of its buildings were blackened with soot.
She glanced to her right, and noticed a harried-looking woman in a shabby dress shepherding four small children into one of the tenement buildings. Her heart sank.
“Those units should be condemned.” Maximilian had followed her gaze. “They can’t possibly be safe to live in.”
“They’re not,” said Vesper, unable to keep some of the bitterness from her voice. “Around places like this, some tenement units hold as many as three families. They split the rent.”
Maximilian frowned. “That can’t be legal.”
“It’s all they can afford,” said Vesper. “The landlords don’t care, as long as their money comes in every month.” She nodded down the road. “I think that’s the pub up ahead.”
The building they were approaching was situated on a street corner, crammed in between dilapidated buildings in an uncomfortable way that reminded Vesper of a mouth crowded with too many teeth. Her eyes flicked up to the small sign swinging above its door. Thally’s Pub.
“Not a very subtle group, are they?” asked Maximilian wryly.
“In this part of town, they don’t have to be,” said Vesper.
They approached the pub’s door together. She didn’t bother waiting for him to hold it for her—formalities like that didn’t exist in Shalescreek—so she ducked right inside. At once, she was hit with an overwhelming smell of old beer and cigarettes that made her want to gag.
At this point in the evening, Thally’s Pub was almost full, occupied mostly with working-class men clearly having just finished their shifts.
They gathered at round tables playing cards, shooting dice, or talking with their heads bowed.
Vesper moved among them carefully until she spotted a small vacant table at the far end of the room and gestured toward it.
Once she and Maximilian had taken their seats, he leaned in.
“I thought you said the Rousers ran a market,” he said. “Where is it?”
“We’re in it,” Vesper murmured. “Look around.” She discreetly pointed to two old women a few tables over.
They extended their arms and exclaimed as though enjoying a reunion, then hugged each other.
When they separated, their hands were clasped together.
Vesper caught a glint of gold, the purple of a few bills, before they walked away from each other.
She gave Maximilian a meaningful look. He opened his mouth to say something, but just then they were interrupted as a young barmaid appeared at their table.
“Drinks?”
“A white wine if you have it,” said Maximilian with a genteel smile. “Though I wouldn’t say no to a red either.”
The barmaid stared.
“He’ll have a beer,” said Vesper. She smiled brightly. “As for me, I’d like something…” She flashed the brooch. “Sweeter.”