Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium

by Robert Rodgers

  "Master Arcanum," Starkweather said, standing at attention.

  "Arcadia is here to speak with you."

  The man struggled to pluck up one of the bookmarks on the table besides him, working to push it between the pages. When he at last succeeded, he slapped the book shut and awkwardly put it aside. His eye and lipless mouth were the only things that were left of his face; one eye had been burned away, but the other was kept safe inside a lubricant-filled goggle that fitted neatly over the socket.

  "My dear," he spoke in a moist rasp. "To what do I owe the visit?"

  Snips wore a tight-lipped expression. Rather than explaining herself, she reached into her pocket and drew out the scrap of burnt, colored paper, holding it up.

  "Ah," he said. "Business."

  "Business," Snips agreed.

  "So, then. The scorched remains of a paper butterfly. Where did you find it?"

  "At a murder scene. An engineer named Basil Copper.

  Employed at the Steamwork."

  "I was unaware," he said, suppressing a cough, "that you were investigating murders, now."

  "Not much of a choice. It's a long story and I'd rather not fill you in on the details. I just want to know one thing: Is the Society involved?"

  "I have little relevance in the Society these days, Arcadia,"

  Nigel Arcanum said, reaching down for his rubber gas-mask. He brought it to his face, releasing a nearby valve with a hiss and drinking deep of the nourishing oxygen it released. "Mmn. I'm afraid I could not tell you. As far as I am aware? No."

  "Was Copper a member of the Society?"

  "Again, not as far as I am aware. But such knowledge is outside of my purview. I find it unlikely, however, as the Steamwork is notoriously worthless," Nigel said.

  Snips raised an eyebrow. "Howso?"

  "At one time, beneath the guidance of its once esteemed founder and his wife, the Steamwork was a factory of innovation,"

  Nigel explained. "It has long since lost such notoriety."

  "All the inventions Mr. Eddington mentioned the Steamwork being responsible for are things we've had for at least a decade," Snips said, agreeing. "I assume, then, he's incompetent?"

  "Entirely. He has been steadily losing money since half a decade ago. He clearly commands only a trivial understanding of science."

  "How has he stayed in business all this time?" Snips asked.

  "I am afraid that I have not researched this particular mystery thoroughly," Nigel said. "I only know that Mr. Eddington's books do not properly add up. As for the past two years, the Steamwork’s profits have taken an even deeper nose-dive."

  "If I find out that you have any connection to this—"

  "Yes, yes, you'll turn me over to the authorities or some such nonsense," Nigel said. "I assure you, this is not some long-winded gambit on my part. If the Society is involved, it is an affair outside my knowledge."

  "If you aren't involved in this, fine. But don't interfere.

  None of your meddling."

  "Of course, Arcadia."

  Snips turned and left. As her footsteps took her towards the door, she heard Nigel's voice rise up from behind:

  "Arcadia?"

  Snips turned. "What?"

  "If the Society is involved, then—you know well enough to be careful, my dear, do you not?"

  "I'm not your dear."

  She stepped out, slamming the door behind her.

  William was waiting for her in the study, staring at one of the objects on the shelves; Snips silently marched past him, her face as rigid as rock. As William rose to follow, she failed to notice what it was that the young mathematician had been looking at so intently.

  An umbrella identical to his sat among Nigel’s curiosities.

  ~*~

  Miss Primrose boarded the car to find that all available seats had been taken by other passengers; she was forced to stand, gripping one of the bronze handlebars located high over the seats as the train lurched forward.

  The train had not been long in moving when one of the passengers—a burly older gentleman in a top-hat and powder-gray suit who was in clear need of a shave—looked the strong-jawed woman up and down and cleared his throat.

  "Yes?" Miss Primrose said.

  "Pray, are you an advocate of woman's rights, ma'am?" he asked, doing his best to suppress a devilish smile.

  Miss Primrose scowled. "Yes, sir, I most certainly am. Why do you ask?"

  "Because ma'am," he replied, his face splitting into a broad, toothsome grin. "I was about to offer you my seat; but of course you claim the right to stand!"

  As the train came to a hissing halt at the platform, passengers fought with one another to climb out of the car. They were soon followed by a stern-faced Miss Primrose, who was in turn followed by a very sullen and scruffy old man sporting a fresh black eye.

  The marble facade of the East Crown bank fitted over the intersection of 3rd and Maple like a comfortable hat. The two story office had scarcely a single edge to it; this had the effect of making the building seem as if it were giving the corner a warm hug.

  Miss Primrose stepped past the threshold of the entrance and into its austere lobby, where tellers and bureaucrats were busily shuffling about in the quiet desperation of Aberwick's various financial disasters. The trail of patents she had busily been following since leaving the Steamwork had lead her inevitably to Mr. Tweedle, who had cosigned several of them; she now tapped her finger on one of the countertops, drawing the attention of the woman behind it.

  "Yes?" The teller snapped.

  "I need to speak with Mr. Tweedle," Miss Primrose said. "It is a matter of great urgency."

  "Yes, I'm sure it is," the teller said. "And, like all the matters of great urgency that Mr. Tweedle is facing, it will have to take a number and get in line."

  "Madame, this is—"

  "Let me guess!" the teller shouted. "You want to take your money out of the bank, don't you? Got a whiff this whole Hemlock business and now you want to slip out the back before your money's all gone, eh?"

  Miss Primrose furrowed her brow with displeasure.

  "Madame, I—"

  "You people make me sick!" The teller threw her arms into the air. "Take it! Take all your blasted, misbegotten money! We don't want it anymore! We don't need it anymore! Ooh, you people and your fearful terrors. I've—I've—oh, I think I'm going to faint, I think I'm—"

  The woman collapsed with a thud. Instantly, someone across the aisle rang a silver bell; a small group of appropriately dressed physicians stepped behind the counter with a stretcher in tow. They proceeded to load her up and march out of the office.

  Shortly after, another bank teller was shoved in front of the blinking Miss Primrose. This one was rather short and had a pair of fancy glasses. "Hullo!"

  "Uh, good evening, Madame," Miss Primrose began. "I'd like to—"

  "Deposit money? Very good, then. How much will you be depositing?" The girl's eyebrow began to twitch.

  Miss Primrose frowned rather sternly. "I am not depositing any money."

  "Shall I write you down for a ten-note, then? A hundred-note, perhaps?"

  "Madame, I repeat: I am not depositing any value."

  "Oo, a thousand-note, is it?" The girl started to giggle.

  "How very industrious of you. A working woman, are you?"

  "Madame!" Miss Primrose slammed her left arm down on the countertop, making a very loud sound. "I do not have an account at this bank! I have never had an account at this bank.

  And, God willing, I will refrain from creating an account at this bank any time in the near future! I only wish to speak with Mr. Tweedle on a matter concerning a recent criminal affair—"

  "Oh," the girl said, drawing back meekly. "I understand."

  Miss Primrose sighed with relief.

  "You'd like to open a new account, then?"

  Now it was Miss Primrose's turn to twitch. "Fetch me your manager."

  ~*~

  CHAPTER 12: IN WHICH MR. C
OPPER'S APARTMENT IS SEARCHED AND A TRAP IS SPRUNG

  ~*~

  Despite his prestigious career at the Steamwork, Basil Copper had long been burdened by a family debt that had left him destitute. This meant he lived in the only place where a man could manage to get by on a handful of pennies and a quick smile: The Rookery.

  For Snips, it remained nothing more than a visit home. She had spent most of her childhood here among the dirty faced street-urchins and fast-witted card sharks—cheating and being cheated, stealing and being stolen from.

  Snips sucked in the Rookery's stink as if it were a breeze of fresh country air. Meanwhile, William covered his nose with a handkerchief and did his best not to retch.

  "Sweet as treacle, eh? It'll put hair on your chest."

  "I'm not exactly looking for a hairy chest, Miss Snips,"

  William mumbled. "Now I remember why I've only visited Mr. Copper once during my time at the Steamwork. This way."

  They arrived at Basil's apartment just as the sun was tipping its hat and making its way for the door, ushered on out by the indignant splutter of gas lamps. The beggars and con-artists didn't bother to ply their trade this deep in the Rookery; everyone here knew all their scams backwards and sideways. It was a relief to William, who had grown quite distressed at the sight of dirty-faced swindlers struggling to coax a tarnished coin from his pocket.

  Basil's apartment was a three story slum rudely crammed into a niche between a pawn shop and a dilapidated warehouse.

  Curiously, it was also the only building on the street that remained well lit. Snips stepped up to open the door, but found it locked. She paused, glanced back at William, shrugged, then knocked.

  A metal slot slid open, revealing a pair of glaring eyes. A woman's voice (one could only assume it was female; it sounded like what you'd get after smoking thirty cigarettes and swallowing a wad of sulphur followed up with an acid chaser) growled. "What y'want."

  "Why, to see the face that eyes as lovely as yours must belong to."

  The growl turned into a snarl. "You with the gas company?"

  That threw Snips off. "Eh?"

  "You have to tell me if yer with the gas company," she said, eyes bobbing away from the slot long enough to spit. "It's the law. I looked it up."

  "We are not with the gas company," William said, stepping forward. "Miss Snips is looking into a matter concerning Mr. Copper's recent demise, and—"

  "S'all right, but if yer with the gas company, I'll clock y'both," she rumbled. The slot slipped closed. Locks rattled, followed by the sound of a chain clinking to the floor and several deadbolts being released. Snips threw William another shrug.

  The door opened. The woman behind it was a solid brick of chocolate-colored muscle and fat; she looked as if she were a jigsaw puzzle made up of iron fused together with a blow torch and slapped with a layer of spackle. She wore a coral pink evening gown that had gutted and devoured the remains of several competitors on its way to her closet.

  "Name's Marge," she said. "I'm the landlord here. Gas company's been trying t'hook us back up." She waved a frying pan at them as if she were herding cattle into their pens. Snips and William followed her prompting.

  The apartment interior was surprisingly clean. The walls and floors were built of cheap lumber and showed the scars of long use, but several of the doors had been replaced and reinforced by a skilled craftsman. The gas lamps still remained in the hall, left dusty from disuse.

  But it was neither the competent carpentry nor the unused lanterns which caused both Snips and William to stop in their tracks. That honor belonged to the newly installed lighting fixtures.

  Tear-shaped dollops of pearl-white glass were arranged neatly beneath the metal braces that lined the ceiling. Each was no larger than a fist, and produced a steady near-blinding glow; the illumination they provided left the hallway basked in light to rival the sun.

  "That's—what is that?" William asked, voice quivering with sudden excitement. "This isn't a gas lamp." Despite his better judgment, he found himself dragging a chair beneath one of the fixtures and hopping up for a closer look. "Miss Snips! Have a look at this! These are absolutely remarkable. How do they work?"

  "Electricity," Snips said. "Galvanized filaments contained in glass bulbs. The entire apartment's probably strung up on them."

  She threw a look back at Marge, who now traded her harsh expression for one of surprise. "Basil's work, I assume?"

  "S'how he paid for his rent," she said, nodding. "Worked as a handyman. Fixed th'doors, got the plumbing working, and got us light too."

  "And the gas company—" Snips began.

  The woman's grip on the frying pan tightened. "Ever since he cut off them pipes—bloody buggers! They been sendin' boys down here, tryin' to turn it back on. But we told 'em, we don't want any. They keep sayin', 'it's fer your own good, missus'. For our own good!" She spat. "Like we're all babes who can't figure out what's good fer ourselves."

  "Could I—might I perhaps have one of these?" William asked, reaching to touch the glass.

  "Don't touch it!" The woman barked with enough force to nearly send him tumbling off the chair. "They're hot. And we ain't got many left. They burn out after a long while, 'afta be replaced."

  She paused here, before adding: "You're lookin' after Basil's things? Gonna find out who scragged him?"

  "Yeah," Snips said. "Yeah, something like that."

  "Since you're anglin' to find some justice fer Basil—you can 'ave one. But just one," she added. "I'll take you to his room."

  Snips and William followed Marge as she strode down the hall towards the stairs. As they walked, William started peppering Snips with questions.

  "How did you know about the bulbs, Miss Snips? Are you familiar with the fundamentals of galvanization?"

  "Eddington mentioned it as one of Basil's side-projects,"

  Snips said. "Called them a silly idea. Completely useless."

  William frowned. "Mr. Eddington seems to have gotten it wrong. They don't appear useless to me."

  "No," Snips agreed. "Provide better light. No spluttering, no vapors, no explosions."

  "Of course, electricity is still a dangerous element," he confessed.

  "Is it explosive?"

  "Hm? Oh, no. Electrical currents alone could not cause an explosion. The danger is in contact; electrical currents cause seizures and burns."

  Marge drew out a ring of keys from beneath the neckline of her tattered dress and counted down from the first brass one. She jammed it into the stout iron-plated door ('In case he blew 'imself up,' she said) and opened the way to the basement.

  A wild jungle of geometrically arranged chaos greeted them. Pipes zigzagged every which way, veering off into perfect right angles at the drop of a hat; strange machines with rolling metal coils sat in dark corners, gathering dust as they patiently awaited their deceased master's return. Suits and pants were hanging from one high pipe, with Basil's mattress spread between two that ran into the wall at hip-level. All about the room were brass fixtures with bright bulbs that extinguished all but the most clever of shadows; at its center was a looming steam-engine that steadily chewed away at a feast of coal and wood. The smell of grease clung to every surface.

  Snips pressed forward into the room, hopping across pipes and furniture on her way to Basil's workbench. Meanwhile, William did his best to fight through his amazement and ask Marge questions. "How does the electricity—"

  "Through the pipes," Marge cut him off. "He said he dipped

  'em in rubber. Turned the gas valves off, fed the wires through.

  S'got a generator hooked up to the engine on the level above."

  Basil had arranged several planks of wood atop of a heated pipe to serve as a makeshift table. Atop it were several of his experiments; while Snips scavenged his work desk for information, William inspected each device in turn.

  "There's a bulb, you can 'ave that one," Marge said, pointing to one of the bulbs on the table. William politely than
ked her and placed it inside his coat.

  One device in particular caught William's fancy: a small metal lever had been attached by insulated wire to a light bulb that was fitted into an iron frame. He pressed the lever down and watched with rapt fascination as the bulb immediately hummed to life; when his finger left the trigger, the bulb instantly turned off.

  He repeated this action several times, puzzling over what the device could mean. Then he looked up.

  "Miss Snips."

  "Where did he put his blueprints? Nothing like that in any of these drawers," Snips said. "Just tools, tools, more tools—what is this? Is this a screwdriver? This doesn't look like a screwdriver."

  "Miss Snips."

  "It's got a spring on it. What sort of screwdriver has a spring on it? We're dealing with a deranged mind here. I think—"

  "Miss Snips!"

  Something about his tone drew Snips away from the desk.

  She turned, looking at William. His head was tossed back, his gaze glued to the ceiling. Snips followed his eyes and noticed just what it was he was staring at.

  The insulated wire that ran from the lever to the light bulb did not travel directly to its target. Instead, the wire went from the trigger to the ceiling—where it curled over itself in several dozen bundled loops, cluttering the ceiling in coiled bundles that must have been at least a mile's worth of cord. The wire eventually dropped back down, leading up to the bulb.

  Staring up at the extraordinary length of wire, William pressed the trigger again. The light bulb reacted instantly.

  "Miss Snips," he said, his voice stark and quiet. "Do you know the stories of Professor Hemlock?"

  "Bits and pieces," Snips said, eyeing the bundles stapled to the ceiling. "I've heard them, anyway."

  "A brilliant inventor so far removed from the common day that his creations resemble magic more than science," he said, voice hushed with awe. "A man who, driven by the fear that his genius would be misapplied, sought to hide it from the world."