Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium (16 page)

For a very long time, William only stared. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and meek, addressing Jacob in much the same manner one might speak to the dangerously insane. "Your second in command, sir?"

"Yes," Detective Watts said, setting his teacup down.

"Exemplary service record. I know it's not protocol to make an enlisted man your second-in-command, but damn protocol—he deserves it."

"Quite," Miss Primrose muttered, tight-lipped. She threw a quick look Snips' way, as if daring the thief to contradict her.

Snips cleared her throat. "Are these—huh. Are these messenger pigeons, Mr. Watts?"

"Messenger pigeons? Oh, no. These men are not mere 'messengers'. They are
couriers
."

"I, er, see," she said, despite the fact that she actually did not.

"During the last war, they delivered critical correspondence across smoke-choked battlefields despite an abundance of mortar fire and the ever-constant hawk menace," Jacob explained. "And after the war, what was their reward to be? Honorifics and medals?

Fame and respect?"

Snips and William both admitted that they did not know.

"They were to have a roast," he said, and now a dark disdain crept into his voice—disdain of the sort often reserved for crimes of the most horrific nature. "And they were to be the

'guests', as it were. Disgusting, no?"

Despite their many reservations toward entertaining this particular type of madness, Snips and William were forced to agree; the thought was indeed disgusting. Both neglected to add that this was mostly since neither would have eaten a roast pigeon except under the most dire circumstances.

"So I did what any honorable man would do for those who had served his country. I used my considerable family fortune to purchase them in mass and bring them here, where they could retire with full honors. Here, in these elysian fields," he gestured to the fields about him, which Snips could now see were thriving with pigeons—dozens, hundreds, perhaps even
thousands
. "On occasion, of course, they have taken up certain causes—minor messages for the banks or a local business, little more than skirmishes—to keep the blood moving, you understand." He lifted his teacup, taking a small sip. "Some of them are still imprinted for several key locations throughout the city."

"Mr. Watts has cared for them for at least a year," Miss Primrose quickly added.

"Oh," Detective Watts said, placing the cup back down.

"Has it been a year? I haven't even noticed—"

Something plopped into the steaming tea. All four of them looked up and realized that the culprit was one of the pigeons circling above.

Watts' reaction was immediate and furious. "Curse you, Private Jenkins!" He roared, leaping to his feet and shaking his fist at the offending pigeon. "Curse you and your rebellious streak!

We'll make a proper soldier out of you yet!"

"Uh—" Snips started.

Watts shook his head and sighed, sinking back into his seat.

"Doesn't know the meaning of authority, that one. Impulsive and head-strong—but no pigeon flies straighter or more true. That reminds me," he said, sitting up straight. "I have considered the matter we spoke of earlier." He pressed a finger to the side of his nose and winked to Snips. "Shall we discuss it further?"

"It's a bit late," Snips said. "I'd hate to interrupt—"

"No, not an interruption at all. I've already taken the liberty of throwing out all the books in the house," Detective Watts said.

Miss Primrose suddenly grew quite pale. "Erm. All the books, Mr. Watts?"

"Yes, before you returned, Miss Primrose. One cannot be too careful when dealing with conspiracies, my dear. Full of rubbish, books."

"But some of those books—your priceless collection of botanical tomes—" Miss Primrose began, rising to her feet.

"Dastardly things!" Watts shouted with great force. "Sitting upon the shelves, waiting to be read—only to ensnare you with their fiendish deceits! I must thank you, Miss Snips, for revealing this plot to me. Countless evenings have I spent beside the fire, held enthralled by the whimsies of a long-dead liar. But now, at last, I am free!"

William balked. Miss Primrose shot a glare at Snips, who provided a helpless smile. Miss Primrose then turned to Watts.

"Where, may I ask, did you throw the books out? Not in the pond, I hope?"

"Oh, no. Nothing like that," Watts said, huffing. "I wouldn't think of getting them wet."

Miss Primrose's face immediately flushed with relief.

"I burnt them all," Watts continued. "Far more efficient."

William made a move to catch Miss Primrose as she showed signs of fainting, but she proved to be robust enough to resist the urge. Instead, she threw another withering glance Snips'

way and turned to her employer. "Mr. Watts, obviously, Miss Snips and Mr. Daffodil are clearly in dire need of baths, a fresh set of clothes, and a good night's rest. If you would not mind, shall I see to delivering them to separate quarters?"

"Of course, of course," Watts said. "And if you see any books I might have missed—"

"Rest assured, we'll dispose of them in the safest method possible," Snips cut in.

Watts smiled. "Good lass!"

~*~

Despite the manor house’s dejected appearance, there remained a considerable portion of the house that had been untouched by the disaster that had rended it in two—William and Snips were not only able to get separate hot baths, but change into fresh clothes in privacy and peace.

When they were finished, they met with Miss Primrose in a smoking lounge that had been meticulously scrubbed down until all traces of pigeon dung were absent. They made themselves comfortable in cushioned chairs, speaking of what they had discovered.

"I believe it may be wise," Miss Primrose observed, "to either allow William to sleep here or send him home."

"Why's that?" Snips asked.

"Well, if you are to discuss matters concerning the case—I work at the Steamwork myself, and may be a suspect," William observed.

"Quite astute," Miss Primrose agreed.

"Oh, come off it," Snips said. "William couldn't hurt a fly.

The boy's perfectly harmless."

William gave Snips a look, but didn't argue. Miss Primrose was about to say something in response, but Snips quickly continued:

"Besides, unless you're intimately familiar with matters of engineering, we need him to tell us what this is about," Snips said, producing Basil's blueprints from her coat pocket. "We found it in Copper's apartment. Along with a bunch of really advanced looking doodads." She threw the blueprints to William's lap.

Miss Primrose sat up with interest. "How curious. My own investigation at the patent office followed by a discussion with the bank administrator, Mr. Tweedle, has led me to several extraordinary conclusions."

"This is all quite complex," William said, investigating the blueprints for the first time. "This is—hm."

"What sort of conclusions?" Snips asked.

"For starters, Mr. Eddington is in debt," Miss Primrose said.

"His company has been regularly losing money for the past five years. He has taken loans out of Aberwick's banks, using patent licenses on several improvements for their calculation engines as leverage to secure a low interest rate. However, at the current rate, he will soon be unable to even pay back the interest."

"This is
really
fascinating. Copper was really onto something here," William said.

"So the whole pneumatic tubing thing—the new calculation engine—this whole business model of his. It's a last stand sort of deal," Snips said. "If this doesn't go through, he'll be finished."

"Utterly," Miss Primrose agreed. "As will Mr. Tweedle. The loans that were given to Mr. Eddington far exceeded the boundaries of common sense; should he fail to pay them, several of Mr. Tweedle's banks could go down with him. So the pneumatic pipework's success is a necessity for both Mr. Eddington
and
Mr. Tweedle."

"I mean, this is nothing short of brilliant," William said, completely immersed in the blueprints.

"That explains why the banks are so complicit in letting someone else crunch their numbers," Snips said. "What I don't understand is how Copper's involved. We discovered some sort of machine that allows you to send signals over galvanized wire, but I don't see how that's an issue."

"Even if Copper found a way of communication superior to the pneumatic pipes, it wouldn't threaten the business model," Miss Primrose agreed. "I don't see how this invention threatens Mr. Eddington's idea, either."

"Oh," William said casually, "It completely blows it out of the water."

Both Snips and Miss Primrose stopped talking, their eyes turning to the young mathematician.

William flushed underneath the sudden attention, swallowing. "Well, I mean, uh—"

"Please, Mr. Daffodil," Miss Primrose said. "Enlighten us."

"Copper didn't just invent a way to communicate over long distances more effectively," William said. "He invented a way for
machines
to communicate over long distances more effectively.

These plans—the process he's suggesting—it's completely automated. There's no human involvement, just electrical signals being sent between calculating engines."

Both Snips and Miss Primrose exchanged glances. Snips spoke first. "So?"

"So," William said, sitting up straight. "The problem with our model is it requires so much work. You get a message over the pipework that has the account information, then you input it manually. But with Basil's model, the information exchange is
instant
. You could just tell one machine to send all the information on it to another."

"So, it's faster and more convenient," Miss Primrose said.

"But—"

"Not just faster, not just more convenient," William said, voice accelerating to an excited pitch. "There’s just so much more you can
do
with it. In our model, if the main engine fails, all the other engines are in danger—our engine is the safety net. But with Basil’s model,
every
engine is a safety net. If one engine fails, you can send all of its calculations to the others—if all the engines but one fail, you can send all of its calculations to the one that’s still operational."

"Repeat that in English?" Snips said.

"It is simple, Miss Snips. Because all the machines can work as a safety net, there is no need for a single safety net," Miss Primrose said. "Mr. Copper's system renders Mr. Eddington's engine redundant. Thank you, Mr. Daffodil. You have been of inestimable aid in this matter. We now know why several people would wish to suppress such an innovation. And we know that at least one of them is low enough to stoop to murder."

~*~

The silver pocket watch was a remarkable thing; as large as a fist, it possessed three ivory faces. The largest and central face tracked the current time, while its two sisters functioned as a stopwatch and count-down timer. It purred in the assassin's palm like a contented tomcat, measuring seconds in steady ticks. When it at last reached zero, he hauled back the length of rope, spinning a pulley overhead and drawing a spluttering Agrippa out of the water.

He had seen better days; one eye was swollen shut and a trickle of fresh blood was beginning to flow from his recently smashed nose. The assassin twirled the rope around a peg protruding from the wall, keeping the dark-skinned giant's torso hanging over the barrel.

"As a rule," he explained with an air of casual boredom, "I don't engage in torture. Not that I object to it on moral grounds," he quickly added. "I just find it doesn't get you anywhere. You rarely end up getting the truth; just what you want to hear."

Hacking and coughing, Agrippa spat a wad of phlegm at his face. It fell several feet short, prompting the assassin to smile.

"No, getting the truth requires something special. You have to make the person want to tell you the truth," he said. "It's just a matter of motivation." He drew one of his pistols from the holster, setting it down on the table in front of him. It was a heavy and graceless thing, built for function instead of style; its hilt was covered in iron treads for an easy grip and its trigger was nearly impossible for a layman to pull. He preferred it that way; those who were hesitant to kill could rarely manage to fire his guns. It required a determined finger. "So let's talk about your motivation."

"Bastard," Agrippa gasped.

"For starters, you probably want to survive," he said. "But let's be honest—that's just not going to happen. I know it, you know it. Regardless of whether you tell me what I want to know, you're going to be dead when I walk out of this room."

Agrippa grew silent and sullen, allowing his eyes to do much of the talking.

"So if you know you're going to die, what else could possibly motivate you?" he asked. "What could I ever offer you that would convince you to tell me what I want to know? Well, that depends. Do you want a quiet funeral? Or a noisy one?"

Agrippa's eyes narrowed.

"Because if you tell me what I want to know, then I'll just kill you quick and painlessly and walk out of your life. But if you don't tell me what I want to know—or even worse, if I find out you lied to me—then I'm going to be angry. And when I get angry, I go to funerals. You don't think there'll be anyone you care about showing up at your funeral, hm? Do you?"

A low and rumbling growl escaped from his throat. "You sonofa—"

"So what will it be? A quiet funeral? Or," and here he tapped the pommel of his pistol with his index finger, "a noisy one?"

A long and tense moment stretched out in the quiet of the house's basement. At last, Agrippa grunted and closed his eyes.

"What d'ya want to know."

"My contacts tell me there was a little barbecue in the Rookery the other night."

"What about it?"

"Apparently, a couple was in attendance. One of them was Arcadia Snips; the other I don’t know. Introduce me."

"William," he said, spitting. "William Daffodil."

"What are they doing together?"

"Investigatin' something. About Basil Copper, an engineer who worked at the Steamwork. Got 'imself killed a few days back, Snips is out to find out by who."