Maddie Hatter and the Timely Taffeta

by Jayne Barnard

  “Scottie? You mean Doctor McHoughty? Don’t tell me you’ve thrown over that dashing young Irishman for the absent-minded professor.”

  “Quit dodging the question. Who did you kidnap Scottie for?”

  Sarah set her cup down with a snap. “I didn’t kidnap him.”

  “Then what?”

  “I was hired to lure him to a public place. Someone wanted to outbid Frangetti for the fabric research.”

  “Who?” Time was ticking past, and Maddie was sure there was something she needed to do by noon. “Who hired you?”

  “A Russian syndicate.” Sarah looked away from Maddie’s shocked eyes. “I never intended to work for Russians. They may be Her Majesty’s relations but they are not England’s friends.” She sighed, and looked up with an air almost of defeat. “I was out of options. Mrs. Midas-White had me blacklisted with American industries. I’m still slightly wanted by the English police. My services are a risk that English companies are unwilling to, well, risk. It was either the Russians or the Germans, and the former offered better terms.”

  She retrieved her cup but didn’t drink. “I swear I didn’t know they’d kidnap him. They asked me to make an initial contact, so they could invite him to talk further with them. When I brought him, they bundled him one way and dragged me another.”

  “I saw you,” Maddie said, “in that little square across the bridge, where there was dancing. But I didn’t see Scottie or the Foxes at all. How could they vanish so fast?”

  “Did you see a float in the shape of a shark?”

  Maddie thought back. The men under the bridge, calling up rude suggestions to Serephene. “Don’t tell me. Scottie was inside the shark.”

  Sarah nodded. “I saw them building it, in a boathouse further along that canal. I can take you to it, but I don’t know if they’ll go back there. Shall I lend you clothing? I doubt yours will be ready for hours yet.”

  “They had all day yesterday to find another hiding place for him. But maybe we can pick up the shark’s trail from there. I’ll summon my gondolier to . . .” Maddie stopped. A message to Fanto before noon, or he’d go to the English Consulate to send word to Obie. TD must get a message off toward Ireland first. She looked around the room. No turban, no mask, and no bird. They’d fallen off when she was pushed into the submersible last night. The hat and mask were probably at the bottom of the water-gate but TD would have got clear and hidden himself. She must retrieve him immediately. She flung back the coverlet and scrambled to her feet. “I must go. Can you spare a dress? And shoes too. Mine are probably still soaked.”

  “Take a breath, darling. I’ve said I’ll come with you.”

  “No. I’ll go alone. Meet me in Piazza San Marco, by the lions, at noon.”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Fanto’s clockwork ran down. The gondola drifted into the strip of canal directly behind the Frangetti fashion house. Maddie tucked back her windblown hair and pulled Sarah’s borrowed shawl over as much of her face as she could. Only one of the businesses had its gate open. The owner, within, glanced up from his loading as they passed, and went back to his work. The heavy curtain shrouded Frangetti’s gate behind the lowered grill. Was TD still inside? Would he be able to get out on his own? She put up her hand and Fanto slowed until the gondola was barely moving.

  When they were abreast of the gate, Maddie scrambled to the walkway. She whistled two notes, and waited. The early morning breeze stirred the narrow waterway, shifting debris against the walls. A steam-whistle sounded out on the lagoon. No sound that she could discern came from behind the curtain. She whistled again.

  From inside came an answering whistle. As she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, she spread her skirts wide enough to block Fanto’s view of the gate. The tiny clockwork sparrow crept from under the heavy drape. He fluttered weakly, his brass eyelids flickering over eyes milky from energy loss. He must have had an adventurous night.

  She reached one hand down and TD walked on. A squeeze of his toes stopped the silent missing-mistress alert he’d been sending, and his eyes closed completely. Resisting the urge to talk to him, to say how glad she was to have him back safely, she tucked him into the pocket of her borrowed gown. Let Fanto think what he might about what she had picked up here, and from what helper hidden behind the curtain. She could not explain about the birds. They were not her secret to share. Scrambling back into the gondola, aware of his curious gaze, she said, “Home to the Gritti, please.”

  The trip back took a bit longer, threading through the morning vegetable barges and dodging the spouts of under-canal waste boats. Each time she saw a periscope Maddie shuddered. That long, slow ride under the water last evening, when she’d feared she might not be able to get away before the submersible docked with some French ship. Would the French have ransomed her back to England? Traded her for an English spy? What a scandal that would have been for her family.

  But it hadn’t happened. The blasted rat had tracked her down and opened the hatch enough to cause the leak. Where was it now? At the bottom of the Grand Canal, most likely, complete with its belly-full of Scottie’s taffeta samples. The rest of Scottie’s work was now in the hands of the helpful Cricket who, although he spoke the English of Britain’s noble universities, might not be working for England at all. If, as she increasingly suspected, Cricket was the same Henry Wellesley who had long ago sent the automaton rat to spy on the navy airship, he’d be working for his own best interests. As usual.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE RAT WAS in Maddie’s wardrobe, looking up at her with no expression whatsoever. He appeared to have been dried and polished since last night’s swim. She lifted out her dark blue day dress with one hand and picked him up with the other. Setting him on the desk beside TD—but nose-first to the wall—she turned away and pulled on the dress. No way was she sitting around in her under-slip with those beady eyes upon her.

  TD, who was quietly recharging after a breakfast of power pellets, uttered a hiccup. A light, English, male voice said, “Good morning, Miss Madeleine. I trust you are no worse for your dip in the Grand Canal.”

  Maddie spun around.

  The rat had turned its head, but only far enough to see TD. It was from the bird’s beak that the voice issued. It went on, “When I acquired the submersible last night, the rat was still aboard. I’ve taken the liberty of adding a homing device to it. Should you find yourself in a similarly uncomfortable position over the coming days, you have only to tell it, “Go to Henry,” and it will bring me to your assistance.” After a pause, it added, “Should you, perchance, discover the whereabouts of the missing Doctor McHoughty, I would be most pleased to render aid in recovering him.”

  Maddie glared at the rat. “I just bet you would, Henry Wellesley. You’ve over-steamed your upper works if you think I’ll ask you for anything. And if you think I’ll leave your homing device in that rat’s belly you’re mistaken.” She spoke the order but what fell from the rat’s belly was neither a miniature device nor the tight bundle of fabric samples. Instead, the rat’s wicked claws snatched a yellow, silk rosebud and held it up toward her.

  “Gah,” she said, and dropped the rat, rosebud and all, into her hatbox. She closed the lid, tied up the ribbons, and shut the whole thing into the wardrobe. This time, she locked the door. No more following her. Not now that it was once more Henry’s creature.

  It wasn’t quite noon when Maddie left the gondola at the bridge behind San Marco, where she and Serephene had lost Scottie two nights ago. Fanto set off at once to follow the canal deeper into the city, asking other gondoliers in passing if they’d seen the shark float coming or going. She had no doubt the word would spread that he was looking, for the gondolieri gossiped like geese on market day. With luck and a favourable tide, he’d have the shark’s new hiding place before Sarah had finished showing her the old one.

  She strolled along the narrow lane, past the shop-front where the flatfish had knocked down the amorous clown, and out into the Pi
azza dei Lioncini. It teemed with tourists gawking at the artisans’ displays. She couldn’t see Sarah past all the banners and buskers. Finding a vantage point on the fountain surround, she pulled her little oculex from her pocket and scanned the heads, hats, and masks.

  With the aid of that small magnification, Sarah was easy to find, perched on one of the lions for which the square was named. Her walking dress was of a vibrant peacock blue, with beaded peacock-feather eyes around the hem and on the skirts of her figure-hugging jacket. Real feathers curled across her tea-tray of a bonnet, and a humungous muff, also of real feathers, cascaded over her lap. As Maddie approached, she saw and heard admiring men vying to buy Sarah flowers, buy her luncheon, take her for a gondola ride, take her up in a viewing balloon. What was next? A world cruise on an air yacht?

  Maddie cleared her throat. “Scusate, signori.” They cleared a path at once. One dashing fellow bowed over her hand and insisted that the friend of La Bellissima must also be in need of a luncheon. She removed her fingers from his and shook her head. “No, thank you, signor. The lady and I have an appointment. Come, Sarah.”

  A gallant at once held out his hands to assist. Sarah stepped down, smiled charmingly at them all, then slipped a hand through Maddie’s arm and drew her away. She went, not back to the bridge, but through a passageway barely wider than their skirts. It came out on the same canal, several buildings further from the bridge. A rickety water-gate hung drunkenly from one hinge.

  “Here?” Maddie peered dubiously into the dim.

  “This is it. They were building the float when I reported to them here. After those Cat-masks interrupted my attempt at luring Dr. McHoughty from the English Consulate, we made a more flexible plan. Each evening, someone would watch the square. If McHoughty was with me, or following me, they’d meet us at the bridge. Until they grabbed him, I thought the shark was merely cover for moving around Venice to spy on Madame Frangetti. You can go anywhere during Carnevale if you’re carrying costumes or towing a float.”

  “You said they were Russians. Connected to the Consulate?”

  “They never went near the place, nor mentioned it either. If they’re a private company trying to get ahead of their competition, the last thing they’d want is the Tsar’s security services interfering.”

  “Russian women make very subtle spies. I’m surprised they didn’t have one of those make a play for Scottie.”

  Sarah looked behind her at the deserted passage. “They wanted an English woman. Or maybe they’d already tried with a Russian one. How much longer must we remain here? It’s clear they’ve gone.”

  “Maybe they left a clue.” Maddie stepped into the gloom and waited while her eyes adjusted. She took note of a pile of scrap canvas and a bucket with dried plaster, some wood scraps and splatters of shiny gray paint. The door leading into the building proper was ancient wood, the steps up to it coated with the dust of many weeks. Across the lock was a multi-generational spider-web, some strands of which looked almost thick enough to spin into silk taffeta. She blew on it. A fat spider came from a crack in the door to investigate. Nobody had snuck through this exit recently.

  As she was coming down the dusty stair, something skittered along one wall and dived under the pile of canvas. She crossed the room in two strides and yanked the rough fabric aside. There was the automaton rat. It still had the yellow rosebud, now tattered, clutched in one front paw.

  “Is that a rat?” Sarah’s voice rose. “By the cog, Maddie, don’t aggravate it. Come away! Quickly.”

  Maddie glared at the rat. It turned away and moved along the wall, almost like it was sniffing. She dropped the canvas and walked out. Her hatbox was probably in shreds, and likely the wardrobe door as well. Blast that rat, and double-blast Henry Wellesley.

  There was no hiding place for the shark anywhere along the canal behind San Marco or the Doge’s Palace. The rat hadn’t followed them that Maddie could see, but she was sure it was back there somewhere, tracking her for Henry. Well, she had to find Scottie, even if that meant Henry found him too. She might be able to delay the rat when the time came.

  Sarah insisted on stopping to eat luncheon, and veered into a café filled with gleaming brass, steaming urns, and enticing aromas. When they were seated, with cups of thick, creamy cioccolata warming their chilled hands and the waiter gone off to organize their antipasti, she said, “I don’t know where to look next. I’m so sorry, Maddie.”

  “You still haven’t told me how you found me last night.”

  “I followed you.” At Maddie’s stare, she added, “Once I knew you were involved at Madame Frangetti’s, I had to find out everything about you. Where you were staying, what you were after. Except I thought you wanted the McHoughty fabrics for yourself, or maybe your father. All’s fair in a bidding war.” She fluttered her long, dark eyelashes at the waiter, waited while he placed sizzling plates of rolled sarde before them, and continued, “After the snatch, I thought you might be in danger. So, I hired a gondolier to make friends with your gondolier and keep me apprised of your travels. When my, er, assistant reported you’d been left at Frangetti on your own, at night, well, I could hardly leave you to your fate. I came at once and hung around until I heard Madame discussing what to do with you. Then I followed.”

  Maddie watched her while she ate one tiny, crispy sardine roll. “You just happened to overhear, in that watery cellar that I never once found despite exploring the building for two weeks?”

  “Oh, I’d been in several times on my own.” Sarah picked up her second sarde.

  “You had Madame’s keys. I knew it.”

  “Only long enough to copy them.” Sarah dabbed at her lips. “What are those hideous creatures Frangetti keeps in her cellar? Some nightmare experiment in cross-breeding?”

  So, Sarah didn’t know the spider-bats were essential to the new fabric? Good. She wouldn’t be able to sell that part of the secret to anyone else. “Then it was you who broke in that night after the keys went missing?”

  “Gracious, no. What do you take me for, some common thief? Madame herself arranged that, taking advantage of the missing keys to stage a raid on the laboratory. That’s when I knew she wasn’t playing straight with her inventor either.”

  “You were there?”

  Sarah nodded. “One of her minions almost caught me. I played costume dummy under a Pinocchio head for an hour before they all retreated to the cellar.”

  Maddie speared one tiny rolled-up fish and chewed it while adjusting her ideas. Madame had always planned to send Scottie’s fabulous fabric to France, but she had hoped to do so without damaging her business or reputation in Venice. If someone broke in and stole the invention, that was terrible but hardly her fault. She’d had to move fast once Scottie was kidnapped, though, as he could be spilling his secrets to some other nation’s agents. That explained the full day of constant weaving, and why she’d stripped his airship-laboratory of every scrap of potentially informative paper or machinery. With only his verbal explanations to go on, anyone else would be starting far behind her to recreate his process.

  “Did you know about the submersible? That I was inside it?”

  “Not until I heard them discussing it through an air vent on the floor above. You were gone by then, and one of those nasty little men was arguing that Madame should not have sent you away in it. The men on the ship, he said, would not treat you kindly. They might even dispose of you, so it would look like you drowned in a Carnevale mishap. As soon as I figured out where the submersible had to cross the Grand Canal, I set off in pursuit. I thought I could summon the polizei once they transferred you to the ship.”

  “You would have gone to the police?” Maddie didn’t say “for me” but Sarah answered it anyway.

  “I owe you, Maddie. You gave me a chance last year when you didn’t have to. No woman has ever done so much for me since I grew into my beauty.” Sarah shrugged. “But this is not getting your Highland laddie back. Let’s ask this charming waiter about the shark
, and then work our way along the lagoon-facing shops. It had to go somewhere from the canal mouth.”

  The waiter, who spoke a scant few words of English, brought out a cook who spoke more. Although none of the workers had noticed a shark float, they all agreed the beautiful ladies should ask about lo squalo, the shark, at other cafes along the embankment. After luncheon and many admiring farewells from the all-male staff, Maddie and Sarah set off on their hunt once more. In each business, they took turns mentioning the shining shark float they’d “so admired in the parade two nights ago.”

  Their persistence didn’t pay off in the first few establishments, but it did, at last, an hour later. They were standing at a tiny pastry counter, ostensibly debating what to take home as a treat for their mythical mama, when the neighbouring shopkeeper came in for his post-riposo cappuccino, and mentioned, in the midst of a rapid-fire gossip with the old lady behind the counter, the word “squalo.” Italian for shark.

  Maddie leaned over. “Scusate, the shark? The squalo? Dove e lo?”

  The man looked at her, and at the old lady, who muttered something with a wink, about girls falling for the boatmen. He repeated, “Dove e lo squalo?”

  Maddie nodded. Where was the shark?

  The man shrugged, pointed out the back of the pastry shop, then told the old lady something. She translated. “Is go now. Pay three night, stay one.” She held up fingers to make the situation clearer. “No shark now.”

  “Can we see where it was?”

  Another conference, then the shopkeeper shrugged again and led them outside, down a weedy passage, and pointed to a sagging wooden boat-shed almost at the choppy open water.

  The rat reached it before they did, slipping like a brown streak through the rotting door. Sarah hadn’t seen it but insisted she wasn’t risking her peacock beading in that filthy place. Maddie walked in alone, and heard at once the faint skitter of the rat’s bronze claws along the aged planking. It stopped in a slice of angled sunlight and looked at her, then at the wall. After two more repeats, she got the message. It wanted her to look at something. She went over and bent down. On the wall, about knee-height, was a protruding nail. On the nail was a twist of fabric. She pulled it off and took it out into the sunlight for examination.