by Ash, C. B.
"Always going on about missing people and other such nonsense." Gilbert said with a heavy chuckle. "Bollocks, if you ask me."
"Well, a good friend of hers has gone missing, of late." Hunter started to explain, but Gilbert interrupted him.
"Captain, please," Mr. Monkhouse said with another shrug. "I'm sure her plight is sound enough, but you strike me as a man of means. A fellow man of the world. I've a business to manage here. Besides," he added with a conspiratorial smile that reached his little chestnut eyes, "their kind are often wandering off. One must take steps to protect one's own, in such circumstances."
Hunter, who had started to say more, closed his mouth abruptly. His jaw slid to a rigid pose and anger flashed across his eyes. With a force of will, he kept his temper at bay. Anthony pushed out a pleasant smile onto his face. "Pardon, Sirrah, I'm not sure I quite follow. 'Their kind'?"
Gilbert sat back, his smile wide. "Why the poor, of course. Those immigrants that seem to continuously wash ashore. An excellent renewable resource, provided you can keep their attention on the job."
Hunter glanced away as he felt his temper surge again. He fought it under control and looked back at Gilbert. "I see. Sirrah, if I might be so bold, if they are so 'renewable'," Hunter said with the touch of an acidic tone on the last word, "Why did your men call upon Miss Olivander in her own room and assault her?"
The smile vanished from Gilbert's face. "What's this? I know nothing of that." He leaned his bulk forward and put his forearms on his desk. "I'll admit my men have standing orders to check on workers who 'forget' to return to work. But I know nothing about beatings." The portly man's entire body shook a little while he chuckled. "Conor and Liam can be a bit overachieving with their methods, I'll admit..."
"They beat her, Sirrah." Hunter said firmly, letting his voice grow hard and brittle. "Beat ... her." He slowly repeated the words for emphasis. "Their actions, while you may call them 'overachieving', were uncalled for. And then there is the 'why'? Why would they care what she was doing in the evening?"
Gilbert's chubby face turned a faint shade of angry crimson. "How I conduct my business and my employees is my right! How dare you come here to bark at me like some alley mongrel about my employees. They are mine to do with as I see fit for my business."
Hunter gripped the arms of the chair tight, his clockwork left hand compressed the wood despite the leather glove he wore. The wood faintly moaned in protest. "Yours? I daresay I challenge that, Sirrah. I believe the laws of the land challenge it, as well. I saw children operating a CASS outside. Children. Such machines are dangerous, even for a grown man under the right circumstances. I came here to ask if Miss Olivander might retain her position, as she's unfit to report for work due to the 'overachieving' actions of your employees. Perhaps instead, I should return with the constabulary over the treatment of your workers?" Hunter paused, his temper boiling into a fine, bright light in his eyes. "Simply put, Sirrah, how you retain your license to operate is beyond my knowledge!"
Immediately, Gilbert Monkhouse was on his feet in a flash, despite his portly bulk. The motion was so swift that Hunter instinctively sat back in his chair defensively. Gilbert quivered, his face a mask of rage and fear. Finally, the factory owner adjusted his vest and suit coat. "Now see here Captain, we've started on the wrong foot. We are gentlemen here. Let's be reasonable. You came here with the intent to speak for what's her name? Olivander, yes, Miss Olivander. Very well, she can retain her job, no harm done! She'll merely need to work a few days with no payment to make up for the slight loss to the business but after that, all will be well." Gilbert smiled again in a way that Hunter thought resembled a snake. "No need to involve anyone else."
Hunter pounded a fist against the arm of the chair. "You are foul, Sirrah." Hunter said nastily, his disgust blatant. "I will not play games with Miss Olivander's livelihood. The right thing would be to allow her the grace to heal and then return to work, no questions. In addition, you will curb your two jackals from further mischief! That would be what you ought to do! If ... if you were even remotely related to a gentleman, much less be one!"
Gilbert's smile vanished abruptly, his eyes flying open wide with shock and anger. "What? Preposterous! This is extortion! All for that dollymop of a girl!"
Almost on cue, muffled shouts came from beyond the office door. Someone frantically knocked hard enough that the door shook. The handle turned, only to find the door unable to be opened. The handle spun frantically one way then the other, with no effect.
Captain Anthony Hunter slowly drew himself up to his full six feet, towering over Gilbert's five and half. "You are a base mongrel, Sirrah." Hunter growled angrily. "I've seen your factory, I can guess how you get away with the treatment of your workers. If you frighten them, they won't speak out against you to instigate the attention of the constabulary. However, I was there when your thugs assaulted Miss Olivander. I saw what they did. I will not stand idly by while you seek to protect them!"
With a sharp crack, the door broke free of the frame and flew open. It slammed against the office wall with the sound of a gunshot. Conor and Liam immediately poured inside, jaws set and fists clenched, ready for a fight. Both men glared knives at Hunter. Captain Hunter spun on his heel, his left hand firmly latched onto the back of the wooden chair he had sat in a moment ago, ready to use it as a bludgeon. Beyond, in the factory, most of the workers had stopped what they were doing out of curiosity. Several had stood up and craned their necks to peer through the narrow door opening and watch the scene inside.
"Is there a problem?" Conor asked Gilbert with a sharp, obvious look at Hunter.
Silence fell as Gilbert took several slow, deep breaths. "No," the portly man said at last. Slowly, Monkhouse resumed his seat. "The good captain was just leaving, actually. Show him the way out, if you would."
Hunter's eyes never left Conor or Liam. He slowly released his grip on the chair. The wood was distorted in the shape of his mechanical fingers. Anthony smiled coldly, yet politely at the two Irishmen. "Don't bother. I quite know the route I'll take. Good day ... gentlemen. I'll see you again soon."
Chapter 7
Mid-morning came and went with the sun perched high above the clouds and a smog that drifted south from the iron gristle of factories and woolen mills. The smog filtered quietly through the tree-lined greenery of the Queen Street Gardens and then south across High Street - the main road that bisected the smoke-covered, bricked heart of Edinburgh itself. Talkative firehawks, having eaten and performed their usual morning ritual in defending their territory from nearby seagulls, drifted lazily through the air overhead. In the filtered sunlight their typical orange, white and red plumage almost glittered like actual flame.
Along High Street, crowds moved between the few merchant shops, churches and government buildings. At regular intervals, the consistent cobblestone road was broken up by narrow closes that separated one block of tall, spindly buildings from another.
Upon leaving Captain Hunter at Dundee Street, Moira had made her way back south. She had been tasked to find any and all information about the parts Allison sold, and Moira could think of one place in Edinburgh that might easily allow her to find out. A few minutes' walk later, Moira quickly crossed High Street ahead of a black-hued carriage, then turned right at the dark chestnut front of Digby's Pub. She paused for a moment to get her bearings. Ahead of her, High Street began its modest rise towards Edinburgh Castle. To her right sat the four story, gray stone Edinburgh city hall. She looked past the crowd and smiled when she saw a small brass sign next to a stone archway. It read 'Tinkers Close' with a welcoming arrow that pointed down the yawning mouth of the stone tunnel next to it.
Down the close, Moira nodded a polite greeting to two men dressed in grease-stained coveralls. One carried a partially assembled clockwork messenger owl. The other held what appeared to be a repaired opti-telegraphic for a longskiff. She winced, remembering she had yet to get the spare parts to repair the one she had taken apart sever
al months ago in an emergency. Despite that, she felt confident this was the right place to look for the information they hoped to find about Allison Newt.
The short, dark tunnel emptied out into a modest courtyard surrounded on all sides by the familiar tall, narrow Edinburgh buildings that comprised Edinburgh's 'Old Town'. Almost flat and only partially paved with cobblestones, the courtyard was lined with booths where parts merchants and tinkers peddled their wares. On the ground floor of at least two of the buildings, the small apartment that opened only to the courtyard had been converted into a tiny shop. In the windows hung a macabre display of small clockwork body parts, all sized for the more popular types of automata servitors, such as a small clockwork drake, monkey or house cat.
Moira smiled. Most all major ports had a Tinkers Close, and while in most major ports she did her best to find it - if she did not already know where it was. Unlike those times, however, this visit was not for relaxation. Between the small mob of patrons, flying servitors shaped like young, miniature drakes, and the ping and grind of gears that seemed to bounce chaotically off the surrounding walls, she mentally inspected those merchants she could see . When she was done, she picked one of the closest, pulled the gear Hunter had given her from her vest pocket, and went to work.
After a half-hour of walking, talking, and asking questions, Moira found herself frustrated and standing on the far side of the courtyard behind a tall wagon that sold a wide assortment of mainsprings, turn-cranks and refurbished parts for crow-foot batteries. She leaned back against the wall of one of the few buildings in the clockwork menagerie and let out a heavy sigh. Her search had turned up only two things: either the merchant had never met anyone that looked like Allison Newt, or they did know her but had not seen her for nigh onto a week. In fact the latter had assumed she had moved on to another marketplace or even city. Either way, it was not helpful.
"Are you quite certain you’ve not a Collins Turnscrew Rewinder? Allison's been keen on finding one." A young man said aloud a few feet to Moira's right.
Moira looked over and around a rather large collection of copper coils in search of the speaker. What she saw was a tall, thin young man, dressed in a faded tan long coat, sensible weathered work shoes, cotton trousers and an oil-stained white shirt. His sandy hair seemed perpetually askew, and his glasses were precariously perched at the end of his nose.
The merchant he faced was a tall, thin man with a long face, brown hair and a kindly, almost jovial smile. He shook his head slightly and replied in a modest Scottish accent. "Don' be havin' one, Rodney. Gonna have ta tell Allison ye both will be waitin' till next week."
"Thank you, Eli, I'll do that." Rodney said with a slow sigh. "Whenever I see her again."
Eli frowned. "What? An here ye both were gettin' along so well."
Rodney shrugged. "We were ... are … well, we’ve been busy of late."
Eli gave Rodney a reassuring smile. "Don't ye worry 'bout it none. That turnscrew'll be in afore ye know it."
In excitement, Moira nearly ran out of hiding to snatch away the young man and question him thoroughly about Allison. Instead, she took two slow, deep breaths, then walked casually, but still with an air of concern about her, around the cart towards the merchant, Eli. When she stepped up beside Rodney and in front of Eli's booth, a dimpled smile flashed brightly across her face.
"My name's Moira. I sure hope ya can help me." Moira said by way of a hurried introduction. "I been all over the 'Close and I'm just comin' up dry."
Eli wiped some grease from his hands on a nearby towel that seemed meant for such purpose, then placed his hands on his hips. "Sure and for certain, Miss Moira. How can Ah be helpin'? Got a wide variety o' parts here, an if'n ye need it, Ah'm na against helping with repair if ye have the device along."
"I'm hopin' so." Moira said cheerfully. "A nice lady I met named Allison Newt was tryin' ta find some parts for a model J-12 Opti-telegraphic. I'd not seen her and it'd been awhile since she and I spoke. I went lookin'. Some suggested I stop by here, so I did.” She looked from Eli to Rodney and back. "Have either of ya kind gentlemen seen her any? I'm really needin' that part. My Cap'n's gonna be right angry if I don't get it fixed."
Next to Moira, Rodney fidgeted, as if uncomfortable in his lanky frame. He pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose. "Uhm, hello. I know Allison, I ... I might could help. The J-12 is outdated, but quite the workhorse, Miss."
Moira turned and beamed at Rodney. "I'd love nothin' better than some help! I had ta pull apart the power couplings. I needed them for ... something else I was working on at the time. Anyway, ya said that ya know Allison though.” She gave Rodney a skeptical look. ”Is she runnin' about here today? I'd love ta be payin' her for her trouble of tryin' ta find the parts. It'd only be fair."
Rodney shook his head, then crossed his arms. "No, Miss. Eli and I were just talkin' about that. Allison's been out and about. I saw her two days ago, but not since." He glanced between Eli and Moira. "Which that's quite odd you know. She's often punctual."
"Punctual? Ya be meetin' regularly? Like for tea?" Moira asked curiously.
Rodney smiled, "Why yes, something like that. We've a project we're collaborating on. It was her idea really, I'm just helping expand on it. Quite brilliant you know, the idea that is. Not that Allison isn't, mind you. Her mind is remarkable!" He paused and blushed, then pushed on quickly. "It's all very fascinating, really. We're working on a new kind of opti-telegraphic." While he explained, an excited glimmer shone in his eyes. "You see, if one can use an opti to send their voice, why not a captured image? The signal is merely encoded electromagnetic pulses sent along to a receiver. Naturally, this receiver would be a bit different, what with it being images and all. It really should be much the same principal ... once we conquer the power requirements."
The young man shrugged with a sigh. "But that's where we are on it. Allison was looking for the right materials for the miniature turbine blades. Most today break all too easily under pressure, you know. In any case, I hoped Allison had found the material she needed. She sent me a note stating she needed to meet."
While she listened, Moira browsed the available parts Eli had to offer. Occasionally she would lift a potential part for an opti-telegraphic and present it to Rodney. While he talked, he would frown in scrutiny and either nod or shake his head no as to whether the part would be of any use as a power connector. "Meet ya here?" She prompted.
"Yes, here. Though at first, I must confess, she had quite the scare right before we last met. My first thought was she needed help over that, whatever all that was about, but then I remembered her search for the turbine blade materials."
Captured by the details of the conversation, Eli leaned forward on his booth with interest. "What put a fright inta her?”
“She was very dodgy about the whole thing, really.” Rodney explained with a his face screwed into a frown from concentration. “She mentioned it was late in the evening one night last week. She was pushing her cart along King’s Stables, not far from where it ends at the Grassmarket proper, when she spied two figures in the dark carrying a large bundle. They did not want to be seen, she said. How she knew, I’ve no idea.”
Moira looked confused. “Just a pair of blokes trudgin’ along with somethin’? What bothered her about it? Kinda odd they’d be out at night doin’ that, but still.”
The young man shrugged with his own confusion. “I don’t right know myself, Miss. She wouldn’t speak of it after that one time. Other to say she’d be peddling closer to Candlemaker’s Row in the Grassmarket for awhile.” Rodney paused then, that same stern mask of concentration on his face. “There was something else she mentioned. Now just what was that?”
While he thought, Moira returned to looking over Eli’s wares. Among the neatly organized bins, she selected a power connector that would do for the repairs she needed. With a bright smile she showed it to Eli.
“That’ll be four pence.” The shopkeeper explained.
Moira dug out the money and paid the man, then turned back towards Rodney, who was still lost in his thoughts. She smiled and touched his arm lightly. “I’ve nowhere ta run off at, why don’t we get a cuppa and ya can sort out yer thoughts?”
Rodney nodded absently, only partially aware of Moira’s offer. Before she could take his arm and guide the young man through the crowd, she heard a familiar voice two booths away.
“But ye be of a mind that the wee gears could be strong enough ta grind or cut a poor bugger up. If’n they not careful, that is?” Constable Martin sounded terse while he toyed with a gear – one of the ones Hunter had found in the shed – in his hands. The shopkeeper, a man with graying hair and a grandfatherly face, put his hands on his hips and gave the constable a stern look.
“Now, Silas, what a question be that? Ya been workin’ a might too long if anyone be askin’ me. Not that they are, mind ya, but I’m just sayin’. Why would ye wonder such ghoulish things?” The shopkeeper gently scolded Constable Martin.
Surprised, Moira slowly stepped to one side, placing Rodney between her and the constable’s eyesight. Just as a precaution in case Constable Martin turned towards her direction, since Captain Hunter did suggest they were to be subtle in their inquiries. Moira lifted the part she had bought to closely examine it while Rodney struggled to remember what it was Allison had told him. At his booth, Eli had already turned to address another customer.
Constable Martin stammered, then slipped the gear back into the pocket of his navy blue long coat. “Just for a case, ye understand. It stays on ye mind. Ah’ll take two windin’ keys and one mainspring.”
The merchant bagged the items while Constable Martin handed over the money. In exchange, the older merchant handed the parts to the policeman.
“Thanks ta ye. An thank ye fer the information.” The constable said with a tip of his helmet.
The shopkeeper waved. “Na mention it. Anytime Silas, take care o’ yeself and ye missus.”