The Transference Engine (19 page)

“Did Violet say anything else?” My head came up so fast my neck cricked.

Jane pursed her lips into a pretty pout. I wondered if she'd practiced the expression. “She . . . she wished me luck and said she wouldn't be a shop girl much longer. I thought at the time she'd found the same luck as me, a man to marry and take her away from . . .” She blushed, also prettily. “I'm sorry, Missus. You gave us all wonderful opportunities to better ourselves. Without you and this café, we'd all be nothing better than slatterns with no hope. If we still lived. Life is short and brutal on the streets. Even with the Bow Street Runners doing their best to catch criminals.”

“Running away for a better life . . .” I mused. “Was she lured away with false promises?” I didn't think so. Violet had been loyal to me from the first day. The first of my rescued children. She often hugged me with utterances of gratitude and hopes she could always work with me.

My fingers flipped pages to the most recent map of the southern coastline. It showed the ancient Roman roads as well as the newest addition of rails for the iron horse steam engines. Beyond the crossed hatch marks indicating the rails, another fainter line extended toward the rocky and broken coast of Cornwall.

I checked the date on the map. Charted in 1832, printed in 1834. Four or five years for the rails to expand toward the mines of Cornwall to fuel modern industries.

Cornwall, land's end.

Cornwall.

A haven for smugglers. The place was riddled with tiny coves surrounded by tall cliffs. I hadn't spent much time in the area, but the one time I'd stood on a tall promontory, I'd spotted caves in the cliff below. Caves to hide French brandy and silk during the recent war and embargoes.

Caves that could harbor a necromancer's secret laboratory when London's Bow Street Runners became too curious about an abandoned warehouse on the river.

A cavern like the one in my vision.

“Congratulations on your marriage, Jane. Please know that if life sours for you, you are always welcome here. Now, Mickey, you and I need to discover who owns that warehouse.” I grabbed a bonnet and shawl, oblivious to Jane's protests that her life would not sour; she and Freddy loved each other too much.

“Just make sure you and Freddy register your marriage here in London to make certain it is legal and his father can't have it annulled.” I swept away, preoccupied with the people still missing, not with the one prodigal who had returned.

Some of the girls might have followed the lure of a brighter future. Toby wouldn't. Toby liked routine. Routine was safe. My Book View Café was his safe haven. He hadn't left voluntarily.

Chapter Eighteen

A
DRIZZLING MONDAY MORNING, June 22, 1837. King William IV had died a few days before. Victoria had already distanced herself from her mother and her mother's lover. She'd gathered her Prime Minister and other advisers she trusted—meaning her mother didn't trust them—about her like a tight cloak of protection.

I did what I always did on Monday mornings. I scrubbed my stoop. Violet was off to see her mother and hated getting her hands wet and dirty. So I did it myself, while I thought through the last week and what I needed to do to improve my business, to watch over the ailing Lady Ada, to observe patterns in the news both at home and abroad.

Already, after only a few days, I sensed the shifting of the power players in Parliament, and the money men. Caution all around as they weighed and assessed the nature of the new power on the throne. Would young Victoria become an independent thinker? Or would she become a puppet of the Prime Minister?

The sound of weeping, quiet like the crying child was afraid of being kicked in the ribs for the crime of hopelessness, off to my left, around the corner in the narrow alley, kept me on my knees and moving my scrub brush long after the slates were clean.

Patience,
I told myself. Feral children were very much like cats, skittish and untrusting. They could lash out with flying fists or thrown stones in their hunger and desperation.

Slowly, I dropped my brush and drying cloths into the bucket of soapy water and levered myself up to my feet, moving as if stiff and sore. Well, I was; crouching on my knees and washing the grime of hundreds of muddy boots and shoes off of slate isn't easy. But I still had enough ease in my joints to run, or fight if I had to.

The crying became muffled sobs. I suspected the lost one was aware of my movements and watched carefully, face covered by an arm, while trying to stop the tears that still controlled him.

Did I know for sure it was a boy? No. But I suspected. Girls learned early on that tears and wide-open eyes softened the heart of those who could take care of them. Boys hid their uncontrolled emotions as if they were a sign of weakness.

A lump of rags huddled in the dim alley—only wide enough to admit one person at a time. A big lump of rags that nearly filled the passage. One slow step at a time I edged up to him.

He dropped his face between his bent knees.
I can't see you, so you can't see me.
Very catlike.

With my back against the brick wall of my shop, I slid down to sit beside the lump.

He froze in fear.

“I won't hurt you,” I said quietly.

“Yes, y' will,” he mumbled.

“I have no reason to hurt you.”

“Yes y' do.”

“What have you done?”

“No'what.”

“Then why should I hurt you?”

“'Cause.”

“Because what?”

“Old man give me somewhat for y' and t'others stole it. Said it was too good for the likes o' me.”

That sounded interesting. An old man had given this big boy something for me. A message perhaps? “Which old man?” I coaxed, edging close enough to put my arm around his thin shoulders. His shoulder blades felt prominent and his arms too thin.

He froze again. But as I tugged him in invitation to put his heavy head on my shoulder, he gradually unstiffened, then gave in to the force of my grip. A new spate of tears followed, and he succumbed to place his head in my lap.

In that moment I caught a glimpse of his round face with poorly defined features and up-tilted eyes, cheeks slightly darkened with the downy beginnings of a fair beard. A child of low intelligence probably. He'd always be a child. If born into a poor family, his parents would kick him out of the household as soon as he demonstrated an inability to learn. With any luck, his mum might continue to feed him for several years if she could. Not recently, though.

I hugged him tightly, sad for his condition, and sadder for the mother who had to give him up when he became a drain on the family, both financially and emotionally.

“What old man?” I asked again.

“T' one in the woods.”

That could be anyone, homeless outlaws, highwayman or Romany. I hoped for Romany. “Where in the woods?”

“By t' pond.”

More likely Romany. “Did he have horses?”

“Lots. Pretty little things. Sturdy, too.” He let go of the sobs as he lost himself in the memory of pretty Romany ponies.

“What did the old man say to you?”

“He . . .” hiccup . . . “he said I was to take his gold coin and give it t' you. Said you'd know it, and help me. But t' others, the bully boys, threw stones at me and stole the coin. Said it was too good for me. But they didn't know about you. They didn't hear what t' old man said.”

Of course it didn't all come out in a gush like that. He had to pause and think between phrases, and to choke back more tears as he remembered the cruelty of those who didn't understand his weakness. Bullies who thought themselves better than him. But they were no better off, and no better in my mind because they had no heart or compassion.

“I know the old man in the woods,” I reassured the boy. “I know what he wanted me to do.”

“You do?” He lifted his head and smiled at me with hope.

That smile transformed him. He looked more cherub than lost idiot. I wondered if the sun had finally penetrated this dark and dirty alleyway.

“Do you have a name?” I asked, still holding him close.

“Aye.” He answered my question, not realizing I needed more information.

“And what is your name?”

“Toby.”

“Toby,” I affirmed. I didn't elaborate on the origin of the name: Tobias, meaning The Lord is Good. Sometimes He was. He brought me this child in a man's body when we both needed something to cherish.

“Well, Toby, I have chores to do and you could be a big help to me if you'll fetch and carry for me.”

“But I lost t' coin!”

“Never mind about the coin. It was only a token to tell me I should help you. But I'll help you. I promise. You'll help me enough to earn a good breakfast. And I'll watch over you, make sure the bully boys don't come back.”

“I . . . I smelled fresh bread.”

“Yes, you did. And fresh bread you shall have. With butter and jam. Now come along, there's trash to carry to the dustbin, and floors to sweep.” I stood and walked to the back of the alley and thus into my courtyard and the back stairs down to the kitchen, where we both belonged.

“Missus,” Mickey whispered at my elbow. I held up one finger to suggest he pause while I finished counting and sorting the keys in the discard basket behind the carousel. Fifteen in the last three days, only two large, deep search keys, but five were medium and the remainder quick and easy. Quite a few, all told. My library was gaining in popularity. Fortunately, not all of them were queries into Archbishop Howley‘s treatise. I'd left those books on a shelf behind the carousel.

The upcoming coronation had brought many folk to town. They added more than a bit of chaos to my relaxed and genteel café.

“Yes, Mickey?”

“Robbie an' Joe an' Kit Doyle just reported, they did, t' beggar with t' . . . weak 'and was seen down on t'docks, he was, three days a-running. Always about tea time.” He gulped for air after the headlong spate of half-formed words.

“Slow down, Mickey, and tell me proper.” Already my mind spun around ways to trap the man.

Mickey repeated his report, this time pausing for breath and finishing most of each word.

“Tea time,” I cursed. My busiest time of day and short staffed. Jane was a properly married woman now and wouldn't return to work, though I suspected her young husband had little income as a barrister yet and they could use the cash she'd earn. The new girls couldn't yet be trusted working out front and Emily knew only a few recipes, though she showed quite a talent for baking. This morning she and I had started making bread and pastries before the sun came up. We should be well stocked for the day. She could fill in with sugar buns, and jam biscuits if things got too busy. That would free Emily to help Lucy maintain order out front. And Mickey was proving a dab hand at grinding and brewing the coffee beans. The few orders for tea Lucy could handle well.

Nothing for it. “Mickey, where on the docks?”

“Where no lady ought'nt to go. No nobs neither, with or without a carriage and stout footmen.”

“Typical. A place where beggars walk with impunity but civilized folk can't.” I wondered if the Rom could explore there and be overlooked or run off like everywhere else. Prejudice knew no boundaries or class lines.

“What you goin' t' do?” Mickey asked, wide-eyed with curiosity.

“What I should have done days ago. I'm going to ask direct questions of the one person I know is involved in more than one side of whatever conspiracy surrounds us.” Decisively, I withdrew to my private parlor.

Mickey followed me. “Remember last time you run off on your own? I'm going with you.”

“I need you here to protect the girls.” I proceeded into my more private bedroom and closed the door, only to find Mickey's foot in the way. His boots were still a bit big for him, so even if I slammed the door, I'd likely only hurt the leather, not his toes.

“Protect them from what? You taught us all how to kick and scream and scratch where it'd do most good. Now if I had a pistol and knife and some of those little metal stars, I could do a proper job beating off robbers and such.” He was careful to speak properly now that he needed to argue with me.

I couldn't think of a single thing that would keep the boy here, safe. I'd grown to depend on him too much. Maybe I should have cut him off and left him feral rather than bring him inside as my own apprentice, where he'd become a target for anyone out to hurt me.

“Two's safer than one. You always taught us that when I was running the streets with the rest of your crew. Three's better so's one can run for help—meaning you. But what if you's the one needin' help? Inspector Witherspoon would come with me, but I don't always know how to find him quick. I'm going after Kit Doyle. Don't you go nowheres without us.” He stomped out of my quarters and back down to the café.

He acted like we all owned each other. That's not how my life was supposed to work.

I'd best hurry if I wanted to slip away while Mickey sought his companions.

What was this? Emily had tied my laces in the back in a complex knot I couldn't hope to unravel myself; not without time and a sharp pick to loosen the knots. I stamped my foot in frustration, ready to cut the cords with my embroidery scissors.

“Mickey says you might need some help,” Lucy said from the doorway that Mickey had left open.

“He does, does he?” I fumed as I tore at the knot and only made it worse. Did the girls know I'd need to leave abruptly in the middle of the day so they conspired to keep me home long enough to summon reinforcements?

“Mickey also said not to let you leave until he returns even if we have to tie you up. I doubt it will take that to make you see the sense of exploring the docks with silent companions who slink from shadow to shadow and don't appear to be with you.” She applied nimble fingers to the massive knot and had it unraveled in only a few breaths.

“I deal with enough conspiracies in London's shadows. I don't need my own apprentices and helpers forming another.” My wardrobe revealed only clean and ordinary day gowns. “Where are my . . . ?”

“Hidden in the back of the upper shelf behind your bonnet boxes. Right where you left them.”

“I used to like living on my own with only Violet to help.”

“And she didn't help much, a little here, a little there, never finishing anything because you gave her too much to do, taking care of you and running the café as well. Good that you've hired more help if you intend to spend so much time investigating ‘London's shadows.'” She hung back while I reached down the noisome pile in the back corner of the top shelf. I could easily stretch to pull them down. She'd need a stool or small ladder to even see the shelf, let alone the back of it.