The Clockwork Menace

by Bec McMaster

  “Not unusual. Most mechs don’t advertise their disability.”

  For good reason. Most mechs were trapped in the walled enclaves the Echelon owned, where they were forced to work off their ‘mech-debt’ to the government in payment for their new limbs or clockwork organs. Sometimes those debts took fifteen or twenty years to pay back.

  “Do you think it belongs to Miss Tate?” If it did, then how the devil did the actress afford to pay for such a creation? The sheer artistry of the limb dictated at least a twenty-year stint in the enclaves.

  “Not certain.” Garrett traced his fingers over the joints, searching for the numerical stamp that would indicate which enclave and mech the limb had been registered to. “If it is Miss Tate’s, then I doubt she would have mentioned it to anyone.”

  The ruling Echelon might have thought humans a lesser class than blue bloods, but at least humans had some rights. A mech on the other hand, was considered not completely human, with their mechanical enhancements.

  “If it is Miss Tate’s, then I doubt she had a blue blood lover,” Perry said. "She couldn’t have kept something like this secret, and he’d have been disgusted.”

  “There’s no serial number.”

  “What? Every mechanical limb is required by law to be registered.”

  “Unless it wasn’t created in the enclaves.”

  “But… the only other blacksmiths belong to the Echelon and they’re kept under lock and key.” Only the Echelons blacksmiths knew the secret to creating truly functional bio-mech limbs, where flesh combined with steel, tendons fusing to hydraulic cables as if they were one. And this limb, as fine as it was, had never been fused with flesh. The hip socket gave it away.

  Garrett frowned. “The other question is: if this is Miss Tate’s, then why is it here? And where is she? There doesn’t appear to be another case, so we have to presume this is the only limb she owns.”

  “If it isn’t, then I think I ought to become an actress.” It certainly seemed to pay better than a Nighthawk.

  “I’d like to see that,” Garrett drawled. “You on stage, trying to feign emotion.”

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t spent the past six years hiding everything. Perry snorted under her breath. If only he knew just how good an actress she truly was.

  He smiled, then surveyed the room. The smile died. “No sign of a struggle, apart from the blood."

  "Think they hit her from behind?"

  "Perhaps. Either way it indicates someone she knows."

  "How did they remove her then?" Perry glanced at the bloodied screen. "Nobody claims to have seen anything unusual."

  "The whole place is a warren," Garrett replied. "I don't think I could have found my way here without Miss Radcliffe to guide us. Perhaps it's easy to slip about unseen?"

  “Let’s do a thorough search here then, just to be certain there's nothing we missed,” she said, turning back to the vanity and the letters there. “Then we’ll see what else we can find in the rest of the theatre.”

  They spent the next couple of hours thoroughly interviewing the actors and actresses. Garrett took the lead. He was far more comfortable with making an interrogation seem like a conversation, and he swiftly put the suspects at ease, flashing quick smiles at the ladies. Perry watched, with her arms folded over her chest and her eyelids lowered sleepily. People’s expressions and the tone of their voice were often far more telling than they thought, and if they were hiding something she might be able to pick it up.

  Her first instinct of Miss Radcliffe made her back bristle. The pretty young actress had a wealth of naturally curly, red-gold hair and she blinked earnestly at Garrett as he questioned her. Garrett’s smiles grew a little deeper and Perry glanced away as she felt the mood of the room shift. Miss Radcliffe’s anxious expression relaxed, replaced by a slightly coy smile, and when he asked her if Miss Tate had been ‘seeing someone’, she rested her hand on his sleeve.

  The woman was beautiful. It shouldn't have mattered. She was exactly the type of waifish, pretty blonde that usually caught Garrett's attention. And it was clear it was caught. Perry shifted against the doorjamb, scowling a little as she looked away from the pair of them.

  "I couldn't say," Miss Radcliffe said in response to his question. "Nelly... well, I've not realized until now, but she was the sort who always asked questions about you, rather than telling you anything about herself." A pretty blush stained her creamy cheeks. "Some of the other girls have... well, admirers, but not Nelly. Nor myself."

  Garrett glanced up from his notebook and the faintest of smiles curled over his mouth as their eyes met.

  Good grief. Perry pushed away from the door. Garrett shot her a look, and she made a circling motion with her finger, letting him know she was going to have a look around.

  What did it matter if he was flirting with a witness? It wasn't the first time she'd seen him take an interest in a young, attractive woman. It certainly wouldn't be the last.

  Perry prowled her way across the stage, pushing the thought from her mind. She spoke to several of the stagehands on her way, gaining a good appreciation for Miss Tate. The results were conclusive.

  'Kind-hearted.'

  'Not like some of those actresses you get, who usually play the starring roles...' 'I couldn't possibly fathom who would actually want to hurt her.'

  "What did Miss Tate do after hours?" she asked the man who managed the lighting. "Was she... walking out with anyone?"

  "Couldn't rightly guess." His gaze slid away. "She kept to herself a lot." A frown, before he looked at her earnestly. "You don't think she's in trouble, do you?"

  "Well, she did get them flowers, remember, Ned?" One of the stagehands called. "Six months ago, on her birthday." He tipped his head to Perry. "I'd almost suspect she had a beau, though she never mentioned one, but she were awful excited about the flowers. Showed 'em to everybody and they was only peonies. Considering she gets sent roses all the time from the patrons, you wouldn't think they was much, would you? Gets 'em once a month now."

  Perry jotted that down. Interesting. No doubt theatre rumor had been all over that little titbit. "When were they delivered? After a performance?"

  "Nope, during rehearsal. First time she's ever stopped a rehearsal." The man shook his head. "Wanted to get 'em straight in a vase before they wilted."

  Very interesting. Perry tapped the pen against her notebook.

  It looked like Miss Tate had a beau.

  And, she thought, her eyes narrowing slightly, it hadn't taken Garrett's rapport with people to work it out, which was a good thing, considering his current distraction...

  2

  “Something bothering you?” Garrett asked, as they hopped down from the omnibus, a half-mile from Nelly's home.

  Stormy gray eyes the color of thunderclouds glanced up at him, but Perry looked slightly distracted. “What?”

  Garrett shifted the case with Miss Tate’s leg inside it, getting a better grip on the handle, as they turned toward Nelly's house. “You seem distracted.”

  A long moody silence ensued. “No. Just… some things never change, do they?”

  “I’m not certain what you mean.”

  Perry finally looked up from her boots, her strides long and loose-hipped, and her hands hiding in the pockets of her long leather coat. “I was just thinking about human nature. It rarely changes, especially on a case like this.”

  He had the feeling she'd deflected the answer, but he didn't push her. “So who do you like for this?”

  “It’s too early to tell,” she replied. “There’s something going on with Rommell, however. Both Miss Radcliffe and Mr. Fotherham grew distressed in slightly different ways, when you brought up his name. Perhaps it’s monetary? Mr. Fotherham certainly seemed focused on the theatre’s finances.”

  “And Miss Radcliffe?”

  She took her time in answering. “My read on her is… uncertain. But I think she’s hiding something. She dropped her gaze and glanced to the side when you
brought up Rommell, so I think there’s something there – but then that could also have been the fact that you were the one asking that question. She changed the subject fairly quickly.”

  He digested this. “Why would I have anything to do with it?”

  Perry rolled her eyes. “Good grief, Garrett. She was practically cooing at you. Though I’d be mightily surprised if you hadn’t noticed that.”

  He had noticed. His eyes narrowed. “Are you complaining about the way I ran that interview?”

  “Of course not. You had her eating out of your hand.”

  “I’m not there to be the enemy,” he said. “People respond better to a more reasonable approach. If they think I suspect them, then they tend to think they might have something to hide.”

  “I’m not talking about people.”

  That pissed him off and he stopped in his tracks. “You think I stepped over the line with her?”

  Perry took another two steps before realizing he’d stopped. “Let’s not discuss this here.”

  It would hardly be the done thing for two Nighthawks to be caught arguing in the streets. Who knew what the press could get their hands on? “We’ll discuss it later, back at the Guild.”

  Just so that she knew this wasn’t finished between them.

  Still, the idea that she even considered his approach today to be less than professional riled him. He never let his emotions or his flirtations get in the way of a case anymore, particularly not with a potential suspect.

  He had once, a long time ago, on one of his first handful of cases. He’d let a few tears sway him away from a potential suspect, when the widow had, in fact, been a merciless poisoner. The memory still humiliated him, with the way he’d been so easily manipulated.

  Christ, the Guild Master - Lynch - had nearly chewed his head off over that breach and warned him that it was never to happen again.

  Garrett knew it was a weakness of his. He didn’t like to see women cry and more than once he’d stepped between a woman and her cruel husband or pimp. Every single time he saw the blank look in his mother’s sightless eyes when he’d gone searching for her that long ago morning. He hadn’t saved her then and he couldn’t save them all now, but sometimes he had to remember that women weren’t always in need of protection. Sometimes they were just as guilty as men.

  The walk to Nelly's house was silent and terse.

  Nobody answered the knock. Garrett slipped the lock again and opened the door. "Hello?" he called. "Is anybody home? Miss Tate?"

  The next door opened and an older woman stuck her head out. "Who are you?" Her gaze slid over their leathers. "Nighthawks, eh?"

  "Indeed." Garrett smoothly introduced them both.

  "I'm Mrs. Harroway, Miss Tate's neighbour. She ain't at home, if that's what you're here for."

  "When did you see her last?" Perry asked.

  "This morning," Mrs. Harroway replied. "When she left for the theatre, about half-nine. Why? What's wrong?"

  "Miss Tate is missing," he replied, jotting down the time she'd left her home. "She vanished from the theatre just before rehearsals were due to start. We're just trying to ascertain her whereabouts."

  "Oh." Mrs. Harroway clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh, what a shame. I hope she's all right. I know it ain't quite right, what she does, but she has such wonderful manners. Wouldn't think she's an actress."

  "Does she have many callers?"

  "Not a one," Mrs. Harroway told him firmly. "I wouldn't hold much with that, and I've told her too. She said she don't like having people in her home. Says it just for her, a space away from all that madness. A private woman, Miss Tate. Don't ever see her much - nor does she say much about herself."

  "Does she have family?" Perry asked.

  Mrs. Harroway frowned and wiped her hands in her apron. "You know, I've ever seen anyone. As I said, she don't talk much about herself, so I really couldn't say."

  "Thank you for your help." He slipped her his card. "If you remember anything - or see something unusual, could you please let us know?"

  Mrs. Harroway took the card and nodded.

  Garrett held the door open for Perry. The moment it was closed, he breathed in. The apartment smelled like rose petals - the kind a woman put in her drawers.

  There was no sign of Nelly, not that he'd expected to find one.

  An hour later, there was still no sign of anything at all about the woman herself. A mystery. Usually there were letters to be found, or a diary, or something to indicate the lifestyle of the person who lived in a home, but it were as though Nelly were only a mirage. The only hint to the woman's personality were the scattering of plays and books that seemed to litter the parlour.

  "It's almost as though she doesn't exist," Perry murmured, fingering a well-worn copy of poetry. "As though her entire world can be found within these pages, but there's no hint of Nelly outside of them." She surveyed the room, as if she could see something that he couldn't. "It's almost as though this was merely a place of residence for her, not a home. It's as though Nelly hasn't found her home yet, or maybe, she's still looking for it?"

  Garrett eyed her. Nelly reminded him a little of Perry. Barely anyone outside of he - and perhaps one or two others at the Guild - knew anything about her, and that was the way she preferred it.

  He was starting to gain an impression of the actress. Was Nelly Tate simply another role the woman played? Did anyone know the woman beneath the polite, young actress' facade?

  That thought led directly to another. Was Perry playing a role too? Aloof, taciturn young Nighthawk?

  What was she hiding? And for the first time, he wasn't entirely certain if he referred to Perry or Nelly.

  "Well," he said, watching Perry with curious eyes as she glanced at the back of a book. No point asking her. He'd simply watch and wonder and slowly work his way through the labyrinth that protected her. "Let's press on to the enclaves and see if there's anything in here–" He gestured to the case with the mechanical leg, "that can give us a clue about Nelly's disappearance."

  After all, an unregistered mech was certainly curious.

  As he fell into step behind her, he couldn't stop himself from examining the short, blackened hair that caressed her nape and wondering about that little speech.

  Where's your home, Perry? For it felt, for a moment, as she'd been speaking of herself and not Nelly Tate.

  The guards on the gates at the King Street enclaves let them through after a brief examination of their identity cards and they found themselves ushered into the main offices overlooking the main factory. The King Street enclaves were mainly responsible for shipping, and the enormous carcasses of half-finished dreadnoughts lined the bays. Workers crawled over them, armed with welding rigs, and sparks spat across the floors.

  The overseer who met them had obviously never worked a day on the floor in his life, judging by his steam-pressed suit and immaculate tie. Garrett exchanged a glance with Perry, opening the case on the man’s desk to display the leg as he introduced himself.

  “Rigby,” the overseer replied, holding out his hand to Garrett. He shook it with a shark’s flash of a smile, virtually ignoring Perry, whom he obviously surmised to be Garrett’s assistant and therefore not worthy of any attention.

  “This is my partner, Detective Lowell,” Garrett said, directing Rigby’s gaze to her.

  Rigby’s smile slipped as he hastily offered his hand to her.

  Then it was time for business. “I’m aware that your main industry is shipping, but rumor has it there’s a handful of mechs you employ who do some finer work. I was wondering if you might have someone who could have done something like this?"

  Rigby looked perplexed. "Yes, well, I'll send for Jamison. Mechanical limbs are outside my realm of expertise, however, he transferred out to the Southwark Enclaves for a year, and they deal exclusively in bio-mech and mechanical limbs."

  He strode to the corner and pulled a lever. A throaty whistle screamed out through the factory and men lifted the
ir faces to the overseer's office. Rigby spoke into the mouthpiece, "Jamison? To my office, please."

  A man scrubbed his hands against his overalls and started toward the steps.

  Rigby introduced them to Jamison, and explained what they were there for. He made as though to hover, but Garrett shot him a look. "Do you mind if we speak to Mr Jamison in private?"

  Mechs were already second-class citizens; the man was unlikely to inform on anyone outside the trade, with his supervisor here.

  "Yes, yes, of course." Rigby looked anything but pleased when he left, however.

  “There’s only a handful of men I know who could have made that,” Jamison said, after a moment's silence. He traced his finger down over the rose template down the side of the thigh. “But this here tells me who it were. It’s his signature. Puts a rose on all his work.”

  “Who?”

  “The Maker,” Jamison replied. “Works out o’ Clerkenwell. Has a shop there, fixin’ timepieces and the like, though that’s just the front for his real business. Makes mech parts for people as can't afford the enclaves.”

  “And just how does a man have so much skill with mech parts? It’s strictly forbidden for a mech to continue this line of work once he leaves the enclaves,” Perry said, tracing the rose with her finger. “What’s his actual name?”

  “Not that we’re interested in reprimanding him over unsolicited enclave work.” Garrett offered a smile. “We just wish to know more about the missing girl’s mech leg. We're trying to establish potential motives for her disappearance.”

  Had someone realized that Nelly was a mech? Had they taken offense at it?

  It was a weak line of thought, but all they had at the moment, and someone had to know something about Nelly's background - or who her family was. If there had been an accident, perhaps someone had brought her to the Maker to be fitted for a new leg? And who had paid for it?

  Jamison considered the pair of them. One of the most difficult aspects of being a Nighthawk – a blue blood, but not one with any rights – was the distrust of the people. As far as the human classes thought, a blue blood was a blue blood, regardless of whether they were of the aristocratic classes, or simply a rogue who’d caught the virus by chance.