Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  Foster struck me as none of these things. I would have to test this theory.

  "Your mother," I said.

  "What about me mam?" he asked.

  "Your mother is a whore."

  "What?" Surprise at my words ate up any other response he might have had.

  "Your mother is a whore," I repeated, "And your father was a river rat who wept to produce such a strut noddy from his loins."

  His face reddened. "I'll have your eye in a sling--"

  I spat in his face.

  With a roar he proved my hypothesis correct as he flipped the table from between us and launched himself like a cannonball at me. Large, meaty hands gripped me by the jaw and throat before I could move to defend myself. He was strong, prodigiously so, and soon had me slammed up against the near wall. I was thankful for its padding.

  I didn't have much room to move, but I brought my own fists to bear and slammed into his gut twice. I might have well been attacking the padding for all the did it good. Make no mistake, this was a hard man, and he barely exhaled as I brought a knee up between his legs.

  The vision at my periphery began to fade.

  Suddenly he was off, hauled away by the Giant. He held my opponent, no small man himself aloft and struggling as a housewife might a kitten. Foster beat his fists against the giant's arm, to no avail.

  "What, you think because I've got my limits I murdered Paddock?" he demanded.

  "No," I straightened my jacket. "I think it proves you haven't. Or at least, that you haven't been abusing the patients."

  Foster's struggles lessened, though he kept his glare upon me. "What's this then?"

  I set the table right, along with the chairs, and gestured towards one of them. The Giant lowered Foster into his, keeping his hands firmly on the orderly's shoulders, disturbingly close to his neck.

  "You think I've been taking liberties with my charges?"

  "No," I said, breathing hard as I sat across from him. "You're the sort of man who'd make his spite clean, not back-handed."

  "You might've asked, you topsy gump."

  "People lie," I said. "Their actions do not."

  "So are we done here?"

  "Not quite. I have heard that you'd had words with the Director."

  "And? Sometimes people see differently."

  "Paddock has been murdered."

  His demeanour changed instantly, into one of weary sorrow. "Oh what? Not the old man? Oh, naw."

  "You seem upset. Weren't you arguing with him?"

  "Oh, yeah, but he was a mate. Mate's sometimes have at it, but they're still mates."

  "Your friend?" I said. "I'm sorry, but you don't seem terribly... compatible."

  "That's what you get when you take things at face value," Foster said. "No. He was a good man. I respected him. He taught me chess. Introduced me to the works of Kierkegaard."

  I chided myself for making assumptions about the man. That was not science.

  "I'm sorry for your loss."

  He lowered his face into his hands. "Oh, lord, Arthur. He was like a father to me. You know? How'd he die?"

  "Someone stabbed him to death. You were mentioned as having argued with him--"

  "Arthur was... he was having problems with someone. I was calling him a coward for being so passive about it. Trying to, you know, work him up."

  "Who?"

  "He wouldn't say." A small chuckle escaped Foster's lips. "Knew I'd see to it if he did."

  "I'm sorry, I--"

  "No, no." Foster relaxed and gazed at me levelly. "You're an odd duck, but I get what you were trying to do. It's like what Kierkegaard says... truth is subjectivity, right? And you're trying to catch Arthur's killer. If there's any way I can help..."

  I sighed. "Unless you've an idea who might have done it..."

  "Sorry. I wouldn't take anyone here... patients or staff... for a killer." He patted the Giant's hand. "Right Dunstan?"

  I stood. "Well. If I do need anything..."

  "Just find Arthur's killer. He was... he was a good man. Not like me. Not like you, I'd wager."

  "No," I said. "Not like me."

  20 September, 1911 - 1:30 pm

  "So Mr. Bartleby and Mrs. Fiske don't live together?" Doctor Teague asked once we had returned to Bartleby's townhouse, gazing about the foyer.

  "Not yet, at any rate," I said, handing my coat to William, Bartleby's houseboy. "I am to understand that they prefer to keep separate accommodations, though if you ask me neither is willing to give up their home to move in with the other."

  Doctor Teague handed her hat and coat to the boy, stifling a small grin.

  "Their disagreement suits me just fine," I said. "Eventually, I assume, Bartleby will have to concede the matter, and I will have to find my own appointments. It will be a tremendous bother. In addition to transporting my meagre personal possessions, the entire lab will have to be disassembled and reconstructed in a new place. You can imagine that many landlords are not terribly keen on renting to engineers, despite Guild-offered insurance programmes."

  "Is it just the rearrangement of your lab that troubles you?" she asked.

  "Isn't that enough?"

  "You're forgetting that I'm a psychiatrist, Mr. Wainwright. I've only known you a short time, but I can see there's some unresolved tension between Mr. Bartleby and yourself."

  "I don't know anything about that," I said, leading her from the foyer towards the kitchen and, below it, my workshop. "My own studies are in the physical studies. And, really, we haven't much time to tarry into tangental subjects, such as my relationship with my partner and his bride."

  "I didn't bring up Mrs. Fiske. Are you afraid of being replaced?"

  I opened my mouth to snap at her, as I had when Doctor Tucker had been doing his analysis, but remembering how that had turned out, shut it again. "We've other matters to attend to, Doctor Teague. Please try and stay focused."

  She nodded pleasantly. "I am quite keen to see this laboratory of yours."

  For reasons I'm not entirely sure of I suddenly became quite self-conscious about the ramshackle nature of my facilities, and quite insecure about how Doctor Teague might view them. It didn't make any sense, really – the woman was not acquainted with any of the engineering sciences, and the finer points of array and disarray would be quite beyond her. Nevertheless, this sudden fear that gripped me caused me to nearly falter in my hesitation. I found myself looking for an excuse, any excuse to delay her while I – at the very least – tidied up a bit.

  "Would you care for some tea?" I asked her. "Or a spot of luncheon?"

  "Actually, I am rather hungry," she said.

  "I'll have the cook fix you a bit of something," I said, "while I prepare the lab."

  "Nonsense, we're not done talking yet," Doctor Teague said, taking my hand. "I insist you join me."

  "Oh," I put my coat back on the hook. It kept slipping, and I felt the heat rising under my collar. "Very well, then."

  Mrs. Hoddie fixed us some mutton dripping sandwiches. Doctor Teague made me unaccountably nervous, and I ate with considerably less gusto than I am acquainted.

  "I hope the fare isn't too paltry," the cook said. "Only Mr. Bartleby is not partial to luncheon, and Mr. Wainwright's tastes are, well, a bit common."

  "It's perfectly fine," Doctor Teague said. "I grew up on such."

  "Oh?" I asked. "With your education I would have assumed a privileged background."

  "I was most fortunate to have a number of generous academic patrons, but I grew up the humble daughter of a seamstress. Drippings and bread were often all we could afford."

  My esteem for the Doctor expanded. "I could say much the same. I imagine that our struggles were similar, competing against our social superiors."

  She made a face. "I'm unfond of that term. Accidents of birth and upbringing do not make one superior."

  "Indeed, I've often found the opposite to be true," I said.

  She smiled at me, and I felt a flutter in my chest. "So, it's you
and Mr. Bartleby here in this home, then?"

  I nodded. "I've got a room, so he tells me, but I can't say I see much of the house beyond my workshop."

  "Doesn't that lead to... well, all sorts of rumours?"

  "What sort of rumour?" I asked, dipping my sandwich into the bowl of drippings.

  The cook made her hasty exit to the pantry.

  "Well, you know." Her hand gestured vaguely. "Two men. Bachelors. Living together. You're quite close, always seen as such in public..."

  I chewed the sandwich, trying to understand what she was implying. "I'm not one for the wagging of tongues, I'm afraid. We live and work together, yes, but it's an established fact that we're business partners in this consulting detective venture. What are you getting at?"

  Her face reddened and she seemed suddenly very interested in her lunch. "Oh, it's nothing. We'd best hurry. I'd love to see your analysis of the knife."

  I could hear Mrs. Hoddie laughing from the pantry. Odd woman.

  ***

  Oh yes. The laboratory.

  My workshop is in the basement of the house, in a walled off portion of what used to be the servants' dwelling when Bartleby employed more than two. At my request he moved the house boy and cook up into the suite of rooms that had initially been intended for me, but which I'd only seen the once. Having separate quarters is not conducive to my work habits; a hammock stretched between pylons is far more convenient. Should my zeal for invention outstrip my bodily energy, I need only stagger a few yards from my workstation before collapsing into exhaustion.

  That is, I believe, far more efficient than climbing all the way up to the kitchen, walking to the main hall, then taking the stairs up to the second floor and all the way to the bedroom. Can you conceive of how tedious that would be?

  Workstation is as accurate an euphemism as anything else. While I do have benches and a desk designated for the purpose, I have noticed a tendency for my work to creep and expand like ivy, iron and copper piping crossing through workspaces, gears and cogwork sectioning the laboratory in half. While eventually my work does shape itself into something concise, while in the midst of a creative fugue I work like a gas, expanding to fill my available space, often threatening to snake up the stairs to the kitchen and interfere with Mrs. Hoddie.

  That's the second benefit to my workspace; twice a day the cook sends down a meal. I've little doubt that if Bartleby had not commanded her so I would only remember to eat when the hunger pains outgrew the urge to craft. As it is, when my bodily frailties do compel me to consume, I often find two or even three plates worth of meals stacked together.

  Perhaps there is some truth to Bartleby's admonishment that I need to take better care of myself.

  "It's a bit more... festive than I would have assumed," Doctor Teague said, gesturing at the pastel-wrapped boxes among the machinery.

  "Wedding gifts," I said.

  "You mean Mr. Bartleby and Mrs. Fiske's?"

  "Yes."

  "Stored here? Down in your laboratory?"

  I cast her a side glance. "Not by my choice, I can assure you."

  "I should assume not," she said. "A man's environment is a reflection of the state of his mind. Everything else here sings your name, but these boxes..."

  A wry grin forced itself onto my lips. "I've done what I can. Stacking the boxes into partitions, you see."

  "Very clever," she said. "An engineer's gift, to incorporate what chaos fate bestows into structure."

  I had no response to that. Unlike Bartleby, I am not the braggart, though I must admit that I was curious to see if stoneware and samite could keep what energies I'd produced from mingling, and indeed discover the effects of long-term N-Ray exposure upon common household goods.

  She stopped by the dress doll, examining its articulate clockwork. "Is this a design of yours?"

  "Good word, no," I said, moving it further into its dark corner. "Another gift, to the bride."

  "It looks like an engineering work."

  I sighed. "It's bloody useless. There's a segment of the leisure class that has developed a taste for the trappings of technology, ever since the 1905 St. Louis World Fair when an American sculptor displayed some fifty-foot-tall iron automaton. It was typically American, an impressive feat of engineering of questionable utility."

  "And what does this do?"

  The dress-form was likewise useless. "Wind it up, and it moves its torso in a pattern identical to the normal range of motion typified of a member of the London season. Dancing and fopping about, I don't know. A novelty valued by those without an understanding of engineering."

  "Ah," she said, tracing a pale finger along one of the pipes running the length of the rear wall. "What's this for?"

  "It's a heat dispersal apparatus." I swept a collection of cogs and springs from the top of the drafting table and into a wire basket.

  "What does it do?"

  "It disperses heat." I turned to glance back at her blank expression and decided to elaborate. "To extend the duration a mechanical engine can run without overheating."

  She was leaning against a bare spot of wall, one knee bent, hands behind her back. "So... the knife?"

  I placed the blade atop the table and began taking the glassware from the cabinet below, assembling it as I spoke. "These alembics have been treated with a special phosphorescent mercury coating reactive to the N-Ray signatures present in an organic sample. Blood is particularly effective, though skin, hair, or aqueous humour would be somewhat effective if first dissolved in a strong acid."

  "Wouldn't the acid destroy the tissue?" She strode forward, eyes keen.

  "The tissue, yes." I scraped a crust of the dried blood from the knife's blade into one of the test-tubes. "But not the N-Ray energy, which would persist in the resulting slurry long enough for our purposes."

  "And we do have blood."

  "Yes." I removed the handkerchief Bartleby had dabbed in Director Paddock's blood from my inner vest pocket, and carefully tweezed some of its flakes into the other tube.

  She leaned over the drafting table. I was keenly aware of her scent, of all things, like a field of lilacs drenched in strawberries. It left me light-headed. "Will this identify the killer?"

  "Not directly," I said, leaning back out of the miasma of her pheromones. "But if the energy signatures match then we know for a fact that this is the murder weapon.

  She looked at me. "Is that in doubt?"

  "Not doubt," I said, "Never doubt. There is no place for doubt in science. Simply what has been proven, and what has been disproven."

  "And what of the rest?"

  "Possibility," I said without hesitation.

  Doctor Teague smiled, and I tried to concentrate on my task. "You are not like the others of your gender that I have known."

  I heard her shift. "Oh? How so?"

  "You pay attention. You ask the right questions, rather than wait for someone to explain what is going on to you. Your mind works in analytical ways."

  "And you say that the other women you know lack such a capability?"

  "Not inherently. Biology is not my forte, but there is no grand structural difference between the male and female mind. I have a theory that women are, in England, trained not to find the answers themselves, but instead to be reliant on men."

  She was silent.

  I continued. "It's a gross inefficiency and a detriment to the Empire."

  When she spoke again, her voice was soft, distant. "Why do you suppose this is so?"

  "I don't pretend to be able to understand people or their motives. I leave that work to Bartleby. Suffice it to say that we live in an inefficient world where foolishness is both rampant and encouraged."

  She let out a long sigh, and I tore my gaze away from the chemistry apparatus long enough to spare her a glance.

  Doctor Teague had perched on the side of a collection of wooden crates, and was now half-slung across them as if exhausted.

  "Your sex is on the receiving end of much of this
foolishness," I said. "What does your psychiatry attribute this to?"

  "Psychiatry has its theories, but for all the academic understanding, I've never had a closeness with other women. Even growing up, I saw my mother as too much the romantic. I can tell you that during my early socialization, I was constantly admonished to be more ladylike, despite such mannerisms being distinctly suboptimal."

  "You seem feminine enough to me," I said, though admittedly I am perhaps a poor judge.

  A wry smile crossed her lips, one that I found quite charming. "I have taken on what behaviours serve me more than harm, particularly where comes to the appearance I project."

  "Superficial sacrifices for common convention." I could empathize. Bartleby insisted I wear trousers. Even in my lab, even under the protective apron.

  "Where I perhaps differ from my fellow women," she continued, her voice hardening, a light gleaming in her eyes, "is the refusal to profit from weakness. I will not lower myself to using my sexuality to bargain for favours from men. I will be recognized only on my own merits."

  "As well you should be. Honestly, I've heard Mrs. Fiske suffer many of the same indignities."

  "Mrs. Fiske? She seems born to this life, these roles."

  "I have my issues with Aldora, but she's far more than what English society permits. She does, perhaps, play the role well, but it takes its toll on her."

  "I had no idea."

  "You should speak with her, perhaps. I've no doubt you'd have much to talk about."

  "Perhaps, but as I said, I've never really gotten along with other women." She seemed to catch herself. "Terribly sorry, you must forgive my passion."

  "Not at all. You've had a rough go. And passion should never be apologized for."