22
July2, 1895
Having Mr. Noble at her disposal had proven to be most pleasant. Almost too much so.
Margaret had come to look forward to the daily excursions to Innovation Park, around which she’d renovated her routine. If said anticipation were merely sparked by her investigation, she would not feel this odd conglomeration of confusion, delight, and apprehension. Yet as days turned into weeks and weeks rolled over into a month, it had become apparent the keenness she felt to complete her morning rituals and venture to Innovation Park posthaste had more to do with a certain person than a purpose.
At first, she’d attributed this anomaly to gratitude. Accepting Mr. Noble’s assistance with heavy lifting—along with shortening her excursions—had aided in the prevention of another crash. However, continued examination of her inner workings led her to determine that gratitude, while one part of the whole, wasn’t the central axis around which heremotions revolved. There was something else ... something there that wasn’t there before. She wasn’t just grateful for Mr. Noble’s help. She found Mr. Noble himself most pleasant. His company enjoyable.
Which was quite peculiar.
Together, they’d formed a new routine, which Margaret had settled into comfortably. Monday through Friday, at precisely two o’clock, she arrived at the factory. Then Mr. Noble accompanied her to the records room, where the table would be prearranged with boxes of patent files and tea for two. Combining their efforts had significantly sped things along, as had Mr. Noble’s dedication to skimming over the records in search of J. Dawkins on weekends while she recuperated at home. In fact, today they’d finally made it through the last of the factory’s patent records.
As Mr. Noble carried boxes back to storage, Margaret studied her now complete list of patents attributed to J.Dawkins. According to the patent records, Dawkins had worked for AlvanT. Harrison, Incorporated, since the company’s inception. After two decades of steady productivity, Dawkins disappeared from the patent records in conjunction with the retirement date listed in his personnel file. A thirty-year gap transpired in which his name was entirely absent. Then, unaccountably, his name reappeared in the patent records last year—alongside Mrs. Cogsworth’s design of a steam-powered carpet cleaner.
Gnawing on her lip, Margaret scrutinized the dates. Retirement would account for the gap, but it didn’t account for the sudden resumed productivity. Nor did it explain why Dawkins’ employment had never been reinstated in his personnel file. She needed to compare this list with the patent office rejection pile so she could determine exactly how much of the man’s work was pilfered. As the handbook stated,Accumulation of information is a lady inspector’s primary and perpetual objective.
Come to think of it ... theHandbook for Lady Inspectorsalso admonished thatTeamwork makes quick work of much work. Iva Leene was currently hosting her parents who’d come “’cross the pond” for a visit, but perhaps Margaret ought to take Helena and Louisa to hasten the cross-referencing process? That would appease the chief’s concerns about her being overtaxed. She could make a show of giving her friends a tour of the patent office, introducing them to Mr. Glidden, the only employee who really took notice of her frequent visits. Jane, meanwhile, she could task with locating Mr. Dawkins and surveilling him for suspicious activities.
Refocusing on the list, Margaret’s gaze bounced between the dates marking the gap in productivity. Why had Dawkins come out of retirement? What had driven him to resume his work—or resort to theft, as seemed to be the case? There had to be a reason. Her attention shifted from the dates to the devices. Perhaps the answer lay hidden in that quadrant. Might there be some sort of correlation between the purloined patents themselves?
“What do you think of this gadget for a gala display, Miss Knight?”
She looked up with a start as Mr. Noble appeared around the walls of shelves, holding a veritable miniature of the Silver Swan.
Margaret’s lips parted, her soul too overawed for even a gasp. The elegant curve of the swan’s neck was beautifully crafted, and the feathers comprising its wings, exquisitely rendered.
A chuckle resonated in Mr. Noble’s chest. “I thought you might like it.”
“For goodness’ sake, Mr. Noble! Don’t keep me in suspense. What does it do?”
In answer, Mr. Noble placed the swan on the cleared table and pulled it backward, triggering a delicate series of clicks.When he let go, the swan proceeded to glide forward, leisurely and gracefully, as though floating upon water. Instead of plummeting off the edge of the table, the swan turned to orbit their now empty teapot and creamer in the middle of the table as though circumnavigating the banks of a pond. As it neared Margaret’s cup, the swan slowed to a stop and raised its wings, which had been folded in repose, to reveal a hidden compartment.
“It’s meant to be filled with sugar.”
Margaret grinned with all the delight of a child. A swan sugar bowl that swam across the tea table. What a whimsical contrivance! “Oh, it’s enchanting! The grace with which it moves recalls more than one girlhood memory.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.” Mr. Noble reclined in his chair and prompted her to continue with the wave of a hand. “‘When I was a girl ...’”
Margaret laughed at his eagerness. “When I was a girl ... my parents and I were avid travelers. On our final trip abroad, in the spring of ’77, we spent time in Moscow. Mama’s quite fond of the ballet, so Papa procured tickets to the premiere of a new production at the Bolshoi composed by Tchaikovsky.”
Mr. Noble’s eyes widened. “Swan Lake.”
“You know it? Not many outside Russia are familiar with the production since it was deemed a critical failure. I never understood the negative response. Perhaps my perception was skewed by childish fancy, but I adored the production. The music is beautifully atmospheric and emotive, submerging to the depths of melancholy only to soar to the heights as love triumphs over evil, in spite of death. I tiptoed and twirled all the way to our hotel that evening. Even begged Papa to indulge me in a few dramatic lifts in the glow of the moonlight. How did you come to hear ofSwan Lake? Did you see a production?”
“One might say that. Although, I didn’t watch so much as participate.” A blush turned Mr. Noble’s cheeks crimson, andhe rubbed a hand across the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was uh ...inthe orchestra that night.”
Great gadgets!In a previous conversation, Mr. Noble had mentioned playing the piano, but he’d said nothing of performing in a professional capacity. He’d spoken as though he were a hobbyist, not a concert pianist of the Bolshoi’s caliber. “Wait ...thatnight, meaning the night of the ballet’s premiere in 1877? That can’t be possible. You couldn’t have been older than—?”
“Twelve. I was twelve.”
Twelve. He’d played the Bolshoi as a lad of twelve. Margaret now vaguely recalled whispers of a prodigy about her age joining the Bolshoi Theater Orchestra that night, upon special request. The very same prodigy who later went on to achieve international acclaim in the music world. “Gracious, you’re ...CharlesNoble!TheCharles Noble?”
Blush deepening, Mr. Noble shrugged. “Guilty as charged.”
Margaret didn’t know what was more fortuitous—that she andtheCharles Noble had both been at theSwan Lakepremiere all those years ago, or that their paths had crossed a second time due to an undercover assignment for the Daughters of Genius Society. “This is a most unexpected turn of events. I followed your career for years.” She always perused the morning paper for stories regarding music as well as mechanics. Even now, she could recall a front-page article bearing the headlineRenowned Concert Pianist Cancels Upcoming Tour. After that, his name had vanished from the entertainment section without so much as a farewell concert.
A dramatic departure that now suddenly made sense. Margaret’s heart sank to her stomach. “Your withdrawal from the stage . . . it was because of your father’s stroke, wasn’t it?”
