Margaret grinned. “While I always appreciate your book recommendations, I’m here on society matters. You were to read me in on my alias, remember?”
Louisa’s shoulders sagged slightly, but then her eyes flashed with recollection. “Oh, yes! I finished developing your character last night.” Taking to the ground with a leap, she rushed across the room to her desk, causing Jaime to stoically bob about like a parrot on the shoulder of a drunken pirate.
Moving a stack of books, Louisa uncovered a pile of files buried beneath. She snatched up the topmost folder and proceeded to read aloud. “Character Profile—also known as “Alias”—also known as “Nom de Guerre”—for Lady Margaret Kingsley, assigned as lead inspector on Case #626, that being the matter of the purloined patent. Inspector Kingsley will be posing as one Miss Margaret Eloise Knight, a journalist employed atThe London Dispatch, a newspaper owned by Inspector Larrimore’s uncle. Inspector Larrimore will serve as a contact at theDispatchto authenticate Inspector Kingsley’s alias. Alias, Margaret Eloise Knight, is an only child who resides with her parents.”
Here Louisa paused, glancing up from her folder. “Infusing elements of truth into a fictional alias makes it easier for inspectors to avoid exposing their true identities. I also find it makes a character feel more developed.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Are there elements of truth infused into A. M. Barnard’s characters, then?”
Louisa flushed crimson and took to sputtering. “Let’sstick to the business at hand, shall we?” Her gaze retreated to the folder. “Miss Knight is an only child who resides with her parents, but in defiance of societal expectations, she’s a career-driven new woman looking to make her way in the world. She’s been assigned to cover AlvanT. Harrison, Incorporated’s upcoming fiftieth anniversary gala, giving theDispatch’s readers a behind-the-scenes look at preparations and the event itself.” Here Louisa glanced up again. “This provides your character with motivation to sniff about Innovation Park and a plausible reason to request access to their records.”
Margaret nodded, leaning back in her wheelchair to ease the strain on her aching muscles. The alias Louisa had constructed seemed rather straightforward. Aside from a change of career and surname, she’d essentially be able to play herself, which should make it easier to conduct her investigation. Why then was she still so trepidatious?
“Where in the Sam Hill did you get off to, Maggie?”
Margaret rotated her chair clockwise to face Lady Iva Leene Oakland, the only dowager countess in the whole of England with an Appalachian drawl and a pair of six-shooters on her person at all times.
Iva Leene’s auburn mane had been corralled into an upswept coiffure, though a few untamed curls had bucked free from their pins. Demure fists rested her on hips, just above a double holster of tooled leather, which blended into her black crape widow’s weeds. Pearl-handled revolvers, with engraved barrels of nickel-plate, gleamed in dangerous contrast against the matte attire that proclaimed her mourning for the English lord she’d loved and lost all too soon.
“There you are, sugar! I’ve been wandering nigh on a lifetime trying to track you down. Sakes alive, I was starting to wonder if the good Lord had commenced with the rapture and plumb left me behind. Reckon you’re ready for anotherstrictly precautionary lesson in the womanly art of self-defense? Today we review knife throwing, hog-tying, and tips for hiding a pistol in your petticoats.” With lightning-fast reflexes, Iva Leene withdrew a third gun from the folds of her skirt and spun it round her finger a few times before deftly returning it to a concealed holster. She grinned broadly. “Then I get to break in a brand-new lesson I’m right proud of—a dozen and one ways to incapacitate a man with a hatpin!”
Margaret gulped. Perhaps the “strictly precautionary” lessons in the art of self-defense had something to do with her lingering feeling of unease. The mere thought of speaking to a man—let alone incapacitating one—filled her with consternation. God willing, the case would function like a well-oiled machine, and both activities could be wholly avoided.
Chapter
9
May6, 1895
The moment was now. Eight weeks of D.O.G.S. training had been condensed into a four-week overview of protocols and procedures. Jane had utilized her connections at theLondon Dispatchto establish Margaret’s assumed identity, and Mama and Papa had spent the better part of last night assuaging her pre-case disquietude with the bolstering prayers and comforting reassurances only the unique love of a parent could dispense.
Now, with every piece in place, it was time to flip the switch. Time for the well-oiled gears of their plan to commence rotation. Time for cautious Margaret Kinglsey to become confident MargaretE. Knight. A feat easier to accomplish on the pages of a character profile than in real life.
Oh, Louisa had done an admirable job, to be sure. Not only in crafting her alias, but in outfitting Margaret to look the part of a “new woman” à la Sarah Grand. Gone was her customary attire of loose-fitting tea gowns in serene shades ofblue, with flowing skirts and demurely puffed sleeves. In its place marched a wardrobe of starched white shirtwaists and tailored suits in business black with capacious gigot sleeves that required infrastructure to keep them aloft. Power shoulders, Louisa had called them.“They’ll imbue you with poise and aplomb,”she’d promised, and she’d not been wrong. The new ensemble cut a strong figure, notably when finished off by a well-styled coiffure and topped with a jaunty hat.
The problem was ... Margaret wasn’t strong.
At least, not in body.
Yes, the new apparel did wonders to ready her mind to play the role of an intrepid journalist. However, in the time it took a hansom cab to transport her from theDispatchto Innovation Park, the clothing had grown steadily uncomfortable. A mere inconvenience for most was exacerbated tenfold by a pain-riddled body that already existed in a constant state of discomfort. She’d become so unaccustomed to tailored garments and structured fabrics that being forced to maintain proper posture caused her muscles to spasm and tense.
After many failed attempts, Margaret gave up trying to recline against the cab seat. Somehow, her body must endure. She’d no time to return to headquarters for a wardrobe change, not without missing her appointment, and that she would not do. Not on her first case as lead inspector. Today she’d no time to be a burden. She took a stilted breath, willing her taut muscles to loosen and the pain to lessen.Lord, please help me not to let everyone down.
The cab took her past the guarded front gates of Innovation Park, then beyond the neatly ordered rows of employee housing and the company schoolhouse. It was a little unnerving how isolated the Invention Factory’s workforce and their families were from the rest of the city. Not that anyone seemed to agree with her on that point. Most Londonersseemed to view the Park as a veritable utopia for tinker hearts.
As the hansom halted before the Invention Factory’s main entrance, the hum of active machinery buzzed through the air, quickening her breath. Gingerly, Margaret descended from the cab. The ground vibrated beneath her boots, pulsing with the mechanical heartbeat housed within the enormous ten-story building’s rib cage. Balancing with the aid of a walking cane, she waited for the driver to remove her collapsed wheelchair from the cab roof. She’d briefly considered attempting to make do without, but the consideration had been a hollow whim. With all the unknowns leading a case presented, going without the chair wasn’t viable. The surest way to let everyone down was to not assess her limits honestly. If she miscalculated her daily allotment of teaspoons—if her body were to unexpectedly break down and leave her without means of mobility—the consequences could be disastrous.
The driver placed the folded chair on the ground and accepted his fare. Margaret pressed a button concealed among the brass filigree of her cane’s handle, triggering a hiss of hydraulics as the wheelchair began to unfurl from its compact transit mode. Parts snapping and clicking into their proper places, the chair rose upon its wheels and reassembled, albeit with the left handle missing its match. Slipping the walking cane into an opening to the right of the backrest, the cane’s handle became that of the wheeled chair. She twisted the right handle clockwise, so it matched the positioning of its partner, locking all the pieces securely.
Just like that, her mechanized chair on wheels was ready to ride.
From her cushioned seat, Margaret studied the industrial building’s gleaming metal walls, her reflection looking woefully small in comparison with the imposing structure. She fortified herself with a breath and then rolled forward. Beforeshe could employ the Arm of Chivalry, the factory’s doors swung wide of their own volition. Margaret gawked as she entered, unaided. There must be a sensor somewhere, activated by the heat of her body or the proximity of her weight, perhaps? Papa could probably guess at a glance, having modified the staircase at home.
The building was a massive factory, unpartitioned and rather airy. Polished wooden floors gave way to walls constructed of concrete and iron, with vaulted ceilings above. Huge paned-glass windows on the east wall harnessed the natural light. Wooden desks were configured in rows, and at them worked dozens of men, goggles over eyes, white shirtsleeves rolled to elbows, black waistcoats unbuttoned and wrinkled from labor. Machines and gadgets in various states of construction littered the desks. The hum of machinery and clanking of tools combined with the drone of an electric current conducted through a network of copper piping laid out along the walls and ceiling. Dropping down like vines over each desk, the pipes branched off into fixtures bearing lightbulbs.
The west wall bore a series of shelving and tiny drawers, the former bearing numerous glass jars and vials of chemicals, while the latter were labeled with the names of tools and parts. Following the directions provided by Jane, who’d conducted a covert assessment of the facilities two weeks prior, Margaret rolled down the center of the room betwixt the rows of desks. The inventors paid her no mind, so absorbed were they in their experimentation. She took a left at the door to the factory foreman’s office on the ground level and made for the steam-powered elevator Jane had mentioned.
A thrill surged through Margaret as she entered the gleaming conveyance. It’d been ages since she’d ridden in an elevator! She’d been eleven, accompanying her parents to Switzerland for a summer holiday at their home in the countryside.At her insistence, they’d taken Great-Grandfather’s owl machine so they could fly over the Alps. The elevator concealed in the owl’s breast was a third of the size of this lift, but when she pressed the brass button for level two and the machine ascended, the odd sensation of her stomach being suspended in midair felt wonderfully familiar. How long ago that final holiday in Bern felt now.
