Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium

by Robert Rodgers

CHAPTER 10: IN WHICH OUR TITULAR PROTAGONIST MAKES AN ILL-CONCEIVED FAVORITE COLOR, AND AN ASSASSIN LEARNS A DREADFUL SECRET

  ~*~

  Snips nearly walked right into Miss Primrose as she bolted out of Basil's workshop. The detective clutched a metal-rimmed flask filled to the lip with a frothing cyan chemical.

  "Blue, Miss Snips!" she cried out. "It turned blue! Do you know what this means?!"

  "You're expecting?"

  Snips considered the error of her ways from the workshop's floor.

  "Quite sorry, Miss Snips," Miss Primrose announced dryly, shifting her weight back to the tips of her toes. "My elbow seems to have slipped into your abdomen. Did you say something?"

  Snips coughed and spluttered, dragging herself back to her feet. "Where did you learn to, ah, 'slip' like that?"

  "Miss Muffet's Finishing School for Ladies," she said.

  "Blue indicates the presence of an explosive agent."

  "So he blew himself up," Snips said.

  "He was ‘blown up‘. We do not know by whom. Did your interrogations bare any fruit?"

  "Mr. Eddington mentioned checking out Basil's house to see if he left any blueprints for his current project. Otherwise, he's not aware precisely what Basil's experiments meant, except they involved electricity."

  "Then I agree. As this is a simple task, I will entrust it to you, Miss Snips. See about securing the location of Mr. Copper's home at the front desk. Meanwhile, I will investigate the patent office to see if—"

  "This sounds like something important," Watts said, suddenly appearing behind Miss Primrose. "Is this something important? Because if it‘s important, I should probably do it. I mean, after all, I am a very important person."

  Miss Primrose instantly went pale. "Err—important, Mr. Watts? N-no, not at—"

  "It is of great importance," Snips interrupted, her voice slipping through the conversation like a greased dagger. "In fact, it is of such immense importance that neither Miss Primrose nor myself can be trusted with it. To say that this matter is critical to the case would be an understatement of incredible proportions."

  Miss Primrose glared at Snips; meanwhile, Detective Watts looked supremely interested. "Whatever could it be?"

  Snips leaned in towards Detective Watts, glancing from side to side to ensure that no one else would overhear. And then, in the hushed tone often reserved for conspiracies of the utmost secrecy, she whispered: "Books, Detective Watts."

  Watts gasped. Miss Primrose spluttered.

  "Books?!" He asked, then dropped his voice. "Do you think that—"

  Snips pressed a finger to her nose and shook her head.

  Detective Watts immediately snapped his mouth shut and nodded, glancing around the room to eye any nearby books with nervous suspicion.

  "Think about it," Snips murmured. "They're everywhere, aren't they? Always just sitting there. Full of words."

  "Yes, yes," Watts nodded. "I've always said that books are full of words, haven't I, Miss Primrose?"

  Snips cut in before the speechless Miss Primrose could reply. "This requires a more thorough investigation, don't you think?"

  "Yes. Yes! I will get to the bottom of this matter immediately!"

  "To the library," Snips cried.

  "To the library!" Detective Watts replied, then with a swoosh of his long coat, he ran off.

  Miss Primrose stared after his retreating form for quite some while before turning to Snips. "How did you—"

  "I'm fluent in crazy. Where should we meet once I search Copper's house?"

  Miss Primrose withdrew a small plain card from her medical purse; on it was a neat and legible print. It said 'WATTS

  AND SONS DETECTIVE AGENCY' at the top, and listed an address in the upper ward beneath it. "We will meet here in approximately four hours' time, Miss Snips."

  "Right," Snips said, taking the card and tucking it in her coat. "Four hours."

  ~*~

  Daffodil's workshop was a confused jumble of engine parts, diagrams, equations plastered to the walls, and old books on medieval knights. The young man looked more disheveled than ever, holding an ink-pen and scrawling down numbers at his desk.

  He did not even look up as Mr. Eddington entered.

  "Busy," Daffodil announced, eyes transfixed. Mr. Eddington had long learned that the man was absolutely unbendable when he was working on a sufficiently difficult problem. "Finishing up some final equations."

  "I simply wanted to check in on you and insure that this

  'Miss Snips' had not gleaned too much information from you, Mr. Daffodil."

  "Didn't tell her much," he said, licking the tip of his pen and dipping it in the inkwell. "Favorite color."

  For the second time that day, Mr. Eddington raised his eyebrow.

  "Your... favorite color?"

  "Green," William said, and then—quite to Mr. Eddington's surprise—he sat the pen down and looked up at him. "What do you know about women, sir?"

  "Only that they are monstrous and inscrutable creatures, best avoided at every opportunity."

  "I see, sir."

  "Have a good night, Mr. Daffodil. Remember to lock your office up on your way out."

  "Yes sir."

  Eddington left. Shortly after the door closed, William glanced back down at the equations he had been furiously solving.

  At their center lay Snips' name, which—so far—had resisted all attempts at subtraction, multiplication, or division.

  Even by cat.

  ~*~

  Smoke rolled up from the tip of the assassin's cigarette. His bronze nose winked and glimmered in the dim light of Dead Beat Alley's spluttering and outdated gas lamps.

  People in Dead Beat Alley minded their own business; it was assumed by everyone that everyone else was a puppy-murdering sociopath and the less they had to do with them the better. This philosophy had turned out quite well, and had made it a haven for several depraved puppy-murdering organizations throughout the city.

  He arrived at Snips' apartment—a fire-trap shoved in between two larger fire-traps soaked in grease and placed next to burning lamps. He pulled out his pistol and kicked the door down with a solid whump, striding in and taking aim.

  Motes of dirt floated in sluggish whorls through the book-lined room. But there was no one present; no one downstairs, no one upstairs. Realizing that his quarry was not home, he decided to do a little research.

  The assassin hummed to himself, glossing over the titles of several books. Most of them were concerned with some matter of science that applied to the art of breaking and entering.

  Upstairs wasn't much different. He considered ransacking the place, but didn't want to leave any clues of his presence; it would probably be best to do a search, wait to see if she was coming back, then move on. As he was scanning the top of one bookshelf, he heard a tell-tale creak beneath the sole of his boot.

  "Hn." The assassin crouched down and peered at the floorboard. It didn't take much to pull it up; among the dust and cobwebs that inhabited the niche below, he discovered a small wooden chest wrapped in linen. Sitting down on Snips's lumpy bed, the assassin brought the chest to his lap and opened it, carefully rifling through its contents.

  A folded paper butterfly. A small locket with a picture inside of a woman—he assumed it was Snips's mother. Several old post-cards that contained little of interest. A dusty book about medieval knights. But at the very bottom of the chest was a faded yellow photograph that caught his eye.

  On its front was a little six-year-old girl with long dark hair and an extravagant dress—likely Snips—and a tall, handsome gentleman in a coal-colored suit and vest. They stood in front of a large machine that had the appearance of a horse-drawn carriage, except without the horses. It had an assembly of contraptions weighing it down and what looked to be a steam-engine attached to its back.

  He flipped the photograph over. It read: 'NIGEL AND

  DAUGHTER'.

  The assassin whistled low. He put the objects back in the
box, returned it to its proper place, and then quietly made his way out.

  ~*~

  "I'm afraid we don't have Mr. Copper's address," the secretary explained.

  "Listen, Sue—"

  "My name is Michelle, ma'am."

  "Right, Sally. Like I was saying," Snips explained. "I need to know where the poor bugger lived. I mean, how in the world am I supposed to investigate his house if I can't even find it?"

  The long-suffering secretary sighed. "His place of residence changed not too long ago, ma'am. He never submitted his new residence to us. I can give you the address for the previous house where he lived."

  "Is there a problem, Miss Snips?"

  Snips turned to find herself face-to-face with William. The young mathematician had donned his evening coat and held a folder full of what looked to be important documents.

  "I'm just trying to explain to Sabrina, here—"

  "Michelle," the secretary corrected.

  "Right," Snips said. "I'm just trying to explain to her that I need to find out where Copper lived."

  "Well, I could take you to his apartment, if you liked."

  "Really?" Snips asked, waggling her eyebrows. The expression clearly made William uncomfortable.

  "Er, yes," he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I'm just getting off work now."

  "Lead on, good sir." Snips paused, before adding:

  "Actually, I need to make one little stop on the way, first. If you don't mind."

  "Erm, not at all," William said, flustered.

  ~*~

  "It's a bleedin' travesty, s'what it is."

  "Unghunh."

  "Succession of bleedin' governmental authority through bloodlines? Since when is bleedin' heredity any significant demonstration of legitimacy to rule?"

  "Unghungh."

  "Naw, we ain't bleedin' got that. I mean, th'boss—the real boss, I mean—he ain't possessin' no authority on the bleedin' basis of who hooked up with his ma. We thugs are bleedin' civilized, see."

  "Unguh?"

  "Aye. He's in charge 'cuz he could kick our bleedin' arses."

  Mr. Cheek and Mr. Tongue paused in their conversation, having made their way up to the front counter. The teller stared at the two mismatched collection of body parts and proceeded to do the only sensible thing: she fainted.

  A moment later and the bank manager had taken her place, providing the two ruffians with a smile. "Hello, gentlemen," he said with a nervous titter. "I'm Mr. Caddleberry, the bank manager.

  If you give me just a moment, I'll be happy to open the vaults for you. No need for any violence," he quickly added.

  Mr. Cheek narrowed his one eye; Mr. Tongue proceeded to gurgle with indignation.

  "Unghungh!"

  "Aye," Mr. Cheek agreed. "We ain't here to bleedin' rob you, stupid git. We want to open an account."

  "Oh—Oh! Oh, of course!" Mr. Caddleberry exclaimed, throwing his hands atop of his heart with shock. "How absurdly ridiculous of me. An account—yes, yes! We'd be happy to have your business, Mister—"

  "Just make an account followin' these specific bleedin'

  instructions," Mr. Cheek announced, thrusting a card out to the bank manager. "Absolutely no bleedin' deviations, understand?

  Exactly as the bleedin' card says."

  "Of—of course," Mr. Caddleberry said, accepting the card with great reluctance. He read the instructions and assumed a rather confused look. "This is a bit... Erm, well, I mean—opening an account here under these conditions... It's quite unusual. You'd stand to lose more money than you'd gain, and—"

  "Did I ask for a bleedin' opinion? I can't recall. Mr. Tongue, did I ask for a bleedin' opinion?"

  "Ungunh."

  Mr. Cheek turned back to the bank manager, bringing one immense fist down to tap on the counter. "No, I didn't bleedin'

  think so. So if you don't mind, Mr. Babbleworry—"

  "Caddleberry," he corrected, and instantly regretted it. "Er, although Babbleworry is quite fine. My closest friends often call me Babbleworry. Kind of a nickname, really."

  "—we'd like it very bleedin' much if you'd just open an account followin' those specific bleedin' instructions."

  "I'll input these numbers into the calculating engine right away," Mr. Caddleberry said. "I'll do it myself. This instant!" He nearly tripped over the still-unconscious bank-teller on his way to do just that.

  ~*~

  ACT 2

  ~*~

  "Professor Von Grimskull's monocycle roared beneath him as it thundered through the crimson night-sky, the wheel forged from sheer awesomantium snarling its way across the flaming dirigible's upper frame. The legion of steam-powered zombie air-pirates had all ready taken control, their engine-ladened frames churning out thick choking whorls of vaporized smoke; soon, the zeppelin would crash into the swirling energies of the temporal anomaly, completing the necrocthulthic ritual and fulfilling the eldritch prophecy — bringing an end to the universe.

  The bronze-nosed Von Grimskull made a low, deep-throated snarl. "The Doctor is in... VINCIBLE! ""

  —Professor Von Grimskull and the Zombie Sky-Pirates, Page 5

  ~*~

  CHAPTER 11: IN WHICH OUR TITULAR PROTAGONIST MEETS WITH A SINISTER CRYPTOZOOLOGIST AND MISS PRIMROSE FAMILIARIZES HERSELF WITH ABERWICK'S ESTEEMED BANKING SYSTEM

  ~*~

  Snips was unaccustomed to traveling by anything other than foot; she had always preferred the feel of cobblestone beneath one's toes to the well-cushioned luxury of a hansom cab. But William seemed rather tired, and Snips was worried about officers in the upper ward recognizing her face. When he sent for a cab, she didn't complain.

  She gave the man directions and turned to William, her eyes drifting to his umbrella. He had drawn it off the coat rack moments before leaving the Steamwork; Snips could not wrest her gaze away from it.

  "Is something wrong, Miss Snips?"

  "Your umbrella," Snips said. "Before, you mentioned it was your father’s—"

  William grimaced and sighed. "Yes. Professor Daffodil."

  Snips nodded. "So you're—"

  "I'm afraid so," William said dejectedly, shifting awkwardly in his seat. "I am William Daffodil; Jeremiah Daffodil and Abigail Daffodil's son."

  "I heard of them," Snips said, which was at least half of the truth. "Big scientists, right? Ran the Steamwork?"

  " Mad scientists," William corrected her. "Responsible for endangering nearly half the city in that awful affair a decade ago."

  Snips bit down on her lip, turning to stare out the window.

  Sensing her sudden distance, William tried to put her at ease.

  "I'm well aware my father and mother were villains,"

  William explained. "But I am nothing like them. Mr. Eddington and the others have been especially kind, granting me an opportunity to prove myself at their old business, the Steamwork."

  "It's not that," Snips said. "Just, uh. It's complicated."

  "I understand. It is not easy to accept the fact that I have no connection to my parents beyond biology," William began. "It's just—"

  "Whatever your parents did or didn't do has absolutely nothing to do with you," Snips said, cutting him off.

  The horse at the front of the cabby gave a whicker as it stopped at the front gates. "Come on," Snips told William, stepping out of the carriage and toward the black iron gates. "You can wait in the lobby."

  "What is this place?" William asked.

  "Just a guy I know," Snips answered, her voice hollow.

  The Arcanum Estate occupied a small block of land in the upper ward; it was surrounded on all sides by metal fencing and signs that made it clear that trespassers would be shot, mauled by angry dogs, and then shot again. It was probably one of the only places in Aberwick that you couldn't have paid Snips to sneak into.

  She and William walked past the front gates and straight to the stout oak doors. Snips gave them a solid knock.

  The well-dressed servant that answered the d
oor fit the definition of human only in the strictest sense. It was as if a creature with no conception of what a person looked like had been handed a basic description and then asked to craft one out of stone.

  The final result had gotten the basic gist of it, but there remained several fundamental flaws.

  His face was composed of an assembly of harsh angles and drastic, stark edges; it was several inches longer than it should be and was devoid of facial hair. He was as white as chalk and looked just as brittle. His expression was as stoic as rock and had all the cheer of a child's funeral; Snips had never seen the man smile and at this point didn't think that he was capable. A large black scarf swallowed his throat like a constricting serpent of linen.

  "Evening, Starkweather," Snips said. "I'm here to see him."

  "This way," he said, stepping into the house's dining room.

  The home had very little light; neither Starkweather nor its owner required much. What illumination did flow in through the windows shone down upon every manner of curiosity the mind could conceive—glass jars stuffed full of strange and impossible creatures, varying from the naturally occurring to the wholly artificial. William stared in wonder, while Snips resisted the urge to peek in the bottles. She knew there were things inside them that, once seen, were very hard to put out of your mind without a month of steady drinking.

  "You can wait here," Snips told William, leaving the young mathematician to make himself comfortable on a couch. William shifted nervously in the seat and threw Starkweather and Snips a meek smile.

  The man she had come to see was inside the study. Neatly arranged diagrams of impossible machines framed under glass and pine lined the walls, with books littering the desk and floor.

  Several of them were opened, with various passages highlighted or underlined by a careful pen. Scarcely a shred of light penetrated this deeply into the home, making it hard to make out the silhouette that sat at the back of the room.

  He was a wretched figure; nothing more than a burnt husk swaddled in antiseptic soaked bandages from head to toe. Despite his horrible affliction, he appeared to be reclining in a comfortable chair, wearing a pair of crimson bathrobes, a cherry-red fez, and holding a book in his lap. The cloth-wrapped claw that used to be his hand would occasionally swing over to brush across a page, dragging it from one side to the other; years of practice had turned this once clumsy gesture into an act of casual grace.