Withdrawing a handkerchief from a pocket, Charles exhaled and accepted the flaky turnover. “Much obliged, Duke. A bracing cup of Assam wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Pot’s already tempered and brewed. Now off with you before you tip over, lad. Get yourself properly caffeinated before the day’s first clients arrive.”
After a trip to the back room, Charles returned with a plated turnover in one hand and a steaming cup in the other. He lowered into his chair, placing his repast to the right of the neat stack of documents he’d organized before clocking out yesterday. Putting on his reading spectacles, he set to tackling the day’s tasks. Supplies, inventoried and ordered. Paperwork, sorted and filed. Both were clerical basics he’d mastered as a boy at the family law office, thanks to Father, who’d extolled the importance of learning a trade in addition to music. Accounts, checked and balanced. Schedule, examined and updated. These were logistical skills he’d honed as a youth during his travels, thanks to Mother, who’d insisted he plan his own tour dates and manage his finances. Little had he known how invaluable his parents’ foresight would prove. Without the educational foundation they’d laid, Charles wouldn’t have absorbed the Magi’s training and taken to secretarial work with such ease.
Next on the agenda, correspondence. Securing a stack of envelopes, Charles began sorting the day’s post, only to pause at the sight of his own name where the firm’s should be penned.Not again.A glance at the return address confirmed the missive was from another firm, this time Clod and Croft. Dispatching the seal with a letter opener, he found a cordialinvitation to join them for a night at the symphony, enclosed with a ticket. At least Clod and Croft had bothered to conduct a bit of research before attempting to poach his secretarial services. The other firm’s gifts of cigars and brandy had been far easier to return. With a sigh, he penned a brief refusal, tucked it in the envelope with the invitation and the ticket, then sealed it with fresh wax before placing it in the pile of mail to be posted. One of these days the other barristers would realize that nothing would sway his loyalty to the Magi.
Not even tickets to the symphony.
Charles resumed the task of correspondence. In his periphery, clients came and went, mostly conducting business with Bailey, who handled the firm’s interactions with the living. Of the three partners, he was by far the most agreeable to the general public, and the frequent appearances of Maya’s wagging tail helped set the grieving at ease as they navigated the difficult decisions to be made before and after a loss. On the rare occasion when a growl emanated from Maya’s desk-cave, Charles smirked, knowing either a troublesome client was about to be given directions to another firm or a stray cat had dared to saunter past the lone office window.
The workday progressed as it was wont to do. Uneventfully. Tediously. Lunch was consumed without ceremony and only a modicum of well-meant bickering. Then Charles resumed his labor, proofreading his way through a stack of will and testaments he’d alphabetized before lunch. Wise his Magi might be, but horrendous spellers all. Finishing yet another proofread, he moved the last wishes of one Mr. P.Mortem from the stack on his left to the stack on his right, which he’d need to type on official Bailey, Barton, and Westland letterhead. Tomorrow, most likely. For the afternoon light was now lethargically waning through the office window. Elbows on his desk, Charles indulged a yawn.
“Working too hard again, I see.”
Charles gave a start but then chuckled at the sight of his favorite client. “Why, Mr. Harrison! I didn’t even hear you approach.” He must be more tired than he’d granted. “Shall I fetch you a cup of tea, sir?”
“Only if you’ll fetch one for yourself as well. You look as though you could use a bracing cuppa, my boy.”
Indeed, he could, at that.
By the time Charles returned with the steaming brew, Mr. Harrison had made himself comfortable in the seat across from his desk, one lanky leg crossed over the other. As the founder of a successful mechanical empire, Mr. Harrison had quite the estate to settle, and he’d chosen the Magi’s firm for the job since they were as renowned for discretion as he was for innovation.
After placing a cup in front of Mr. Harrison, Charles fortified himself with a swig and then adjusted his spectacles. “How can I be of service today, sir? Have you another list of beneficiaries to be included in your will?”
A sheepish grin quirked Mr. Harrison’s face. “That predictable, am I?”
“I’d use the wordconsistent, but yes, quite.” The elderly inventor had become a regular in the firm over the last year, popping in every other week with a new list of names he wished to anonymously gift a portion of his fortune upon his death. Charles opened the bottom right drawer of his desk where the will amendment documents were stored. “Shall I begin drafting the paperwork?”
“Not today, son. But that sort of anticipatory efficiency is one of the many reasons I have stopped by today. The excellence of your work has made quite the impression on me, Mr. Noble. Which is why I’ve come to offer you a position at AlvanT. Harrison, Incorporated.”
Chapter
4
In an unassuming townhouse covered in vines lived one little spinster with a brilliant mind. Independent by means of wealth and disposition, said spinster was well known throughout Greater London. To the blue-blooded elite, she was known as Lady Elenore Quimby, sole heir of the deceased Duke and Duchess of Whiteacre. Among London’s academic set, she was known as Dr. Quimby, sole female professor at Cambridge University and head of the linguistics department, with a PhD in Greek. Yet to Margaret and her D.O.G.S. sisters, she was known simply as Professor Quimby, sole chief of the Daughters of Genius Society and delegate of their mysterious benefactress, the Widow.
Professor Quimby stood at the covert organization’s helm within the vine-covered walls of her townhouse, which served as its headquarters. Her duties included running background checks on prospective recruits and managing the selected recruits’ training, promotions, and dismissals. Functioning as the Widow’s elegant right hand, the chief enforcedthe society’s code of conduct and rules of protocols as outlined in the officialHandbook for Lady Inspectors. She also maintained the society’s façade as an intellectual club for bluestockings and briefed the lady inspectors on their assignments.
Which was precisely why Margaret should not be here, waiting quite nervously in Professor Quimby’s office. Yes, she was technically a sworn member of the D.O.G.S. However, she was most definitely not a lady inspector. Well, not technically. For she’d never actually ... you know,inspectedbefore. A sneeze caught her off guard, triggering a spasm in her side. She winced, exhaling a controlled groan.
A prime example of why she’d never inspected. A mere sneeze doubled her over in pain.
Beyond the four walls of her workshop, Margaret was a liability, not an asset. Why, then, had she received the oh-so-official summons resting in her lap? Professor Quimby’s penmanship assured her it wasn’t a prank, so therefore it must be a mistake. A whopping, regrettable, and rather obvious mistake. With a capitalM.
“Before the ‘this must be a mistake’ speech commences ... no, Inspector Kingsley. You were not summoned by mistake.” Professor Quimby glided through her office door, silent as a Great Gray Owl in flight and thrice as wise, though only twice as tall. Her faithful shadows, I.Q. and Penny, pranced at her heels. Gracing her canine children with an approving smile, the chief shut the door and turned the lock, rendering the office a secure fortress.
Margaret swallowed. Great gadgets, she really was here for a briefing!
The chief paused beside Margaret’s wheelchair, meeting her gaze at eye level. “You’re not being sentenced to the death of Socrates, Inspector. Take a deep breath and get some color back in those cheeks before you solidify into a marble bust.”
Obeying the command of her superior, Margaret inhaled slowly.
Professor Quimby hung her boater hat and the jacket of her practical navy-blue walking suit on a diminutive rack customized to accommodate her petite stature. She wore her standard pale-blue shirtwaist, navy tie, and suspenders—a uniform that fit her no-nonsense personality and demanded respect from her male peers at the university. “You have many questions, I’m sure, all of which shall be answered in due course.”
The real question was, would she care for said answers? As Margaret gnawed her lip, soft fur brushed against her hand. I.Q. and Penny positioned themselves on either side of her chair, facing the door in a protective stance, restoring a modicum of ease to her countenance.
Professor Quimby sat at her desk.“Last week, I received a communication from the Widow requesting our services on a case of inventions and intrigue. It seems the Widow is acquainted with a woman of noble birth and great intelligence, much like yourself. This noblewoman is in possession of the means and leisure to amuse herself as a hobbyist inventor. She’s also of a generous and reserved nature, preferring to keep her accomplishments private. If she invents something potentially profitable, she gifts the design and model to someone in need—often a member of her household—instructing them to file a patent in their name and make use of the financial renumerations of which she has no need or interest.”
