Revolutionary Magic (with Bonus Content)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

"Might? Of course. I cannot forget what I've seen this last year," I said, then added to it with a hint of schoolmarm lecture. "But until we've narrowed the cause, we must keep open the possibility."

  Ever the statesman, Ben rolled his eyes.

  We arrived moments later. The Solomon's place was modest, a brick front with two white columns built around the door frame. The planter box out front was dirt and weeds, indicating they'd been away for some time.

  Ben was wearing an outfit typical of the merchant class, not too lavish but still exuding a competent functionality. I'd chosen a black dress to match my hair, eschewing the pistol and rapier on my hips for a pair of knives beneath my skirt, accessible through a secret gap, though I didn't expect trouble.

  Ben rapped his knuckles against the door. A man in a tan vest and long black trousers, with a cravat around his neck, answered.

  "Sir, if you please, may I speak with you for a moment?" asked Ben.

  Mr. Solomon's gaze bounced between us, a question on his brow. He was probably trying to decide if we were Quakers on a proselytizing mission or salesmen of a scurrilous nature.

  "I am Temple Franklin, sir," added Ben, "here on matters of the government. This is Katerina Carmontelle, my assistant."

  "Temple Franklin? As in...?"

  Ben nodded. "He was my grandfather. A man of uncommon wisdom—I pale in comparison."

  "You've got that right," I mumbled softly, so only Ben could hear.

  Mr. Solomon tugged on his cravat uncomfortably. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Is it about my trip?"

  Concern was evident in his shaky tone.

  "May we step inside? I'd prefer not to air our questions to the common man," said Ben.

  We followed Mr. Solomon inside. There was a faint odor of ozone in the air. He offered us a seat, but we declined.

  I expected Ben to ask about the wife. His question surprised me.

  "What was the purpose of your trip, Mr. Solomon?" asked Ben.

  Mr. Solomon glanced behind him before answering. "I am a man of business. I had hoped to acquire technologies to bring back to the States."

  "You were unsuccessful in this endeavor?" asked Ben.

  "Quite," said Mr. Solomon. "The Ottoman Empire guards its new technologies jealously."

  "Did this technology have to do with the study of electricity?" asked Ben.

  "How did you know? Oh right, your grandfather. Yes, the Turks are making delightful things with electricity. The lamps on the street light up by wire alone," said Mr. Solomon, amazement in his voice. "In the evening, Constantinople rivals the sun. The gods are surely jealous."

  "I would like to visit Constantinople someday," said Ben. "Not only because my grandfather Benjamin had a fascination with Leyden jars and lightning, but because I've heard so much about the city," said Ben.

  Mr. Solomon glanced behind him again towards a back room. "Does the government have an interest in electricity? Is that why you're here?"

  "Actually, good sir, we need to speak to Mrs. Solomon about another matter entirely," said Ben.

  "Mrs. Solomon?" His question hung in the air. "I am confused, but I shall call upon her." He turned his head. "Wife, come down, we have visitors."

  Moments later, Mrs. Solomon appeared. Samuel had been right, she was an uncommon beauty. Her cheeks were apple red on pale skin. Her hair, the color of autumn, bounced against her shoulders.

  Her fierce green eyes flitted around the room. She gave a curtsey in her light blue muslin gown.

  "I am your humble servant, good sir and madam," she said in an Irish brogue. "Husband, in what matter may I assist?"

  "This is Mr. Franklin, of Ben's lineage, and his assistant, Miss Carmontelle. They have questions for you, the matter I know not," he said. "They are with the government."

  Mrs. Solomon's head ticked to the right, as if she'd stopped herself from looking over her shoulder.

  "My humblest apologies for bothering you on this morning," said Ben. "We are investigating a strange matter and need your assistance."

  "I am your servant," she said, her lips like faint red wine.

  I could see why Mr. Redford had been smitten. In her presence, I realized that he'd been flattering me with his compliment, since Mrs. Solomon was a beauty by any measure.

  While Catherine had often remarked that I would have received more offers for my hand if I wasn't so serious, I knew a left-handed compliment when I heard one. I knew I could look the part in the right dress and womanly paints when the moment needed the proper presentation, but I had more important things to do with my time than bother with those accoutrements on a daily basis.

  Ben reacted to Mrs. Solomon as I expected he would, puffing his broad chest up and taking the stance of an impish rogue. Were we at the estate, and Mrs. Solomon not married, he surely would have taken her by the arm for a leisurely and cunningly braggadocio tour, ending with an enchanting performance on his glass harmonica.

  "Madam," I cut in, deflating Ben, "do you recall the events of yesterday when you visited the Immigration Office at the Camden Yards?"

  "Why yes, is something the matter?" she asked, fingertips resting on her long neck.

  "I'm afraid my next question may seem odd, but humor me," I said, receiving a pair of curious glances in response. "While your husband was speaking to the immigration officer, did you smell or see anything strange?"

  She blinked, as if surprised by the question. "Yes, indeed, it was a horrible smell. It took me unawares."

  "What was the circumstance of the smell? Did you identify its source?" Ben asked.

  "A man passed me. It was awful," she said, her face screwing up. "Like rotting oranges, except worse. The smell made me feel like I was coated in a sticky substance that would never wash off, that I was lost and would never be found. I've never smelled anything so vile before and hope to never smell its like again."

  "Interesting," said Ben.

  "The man," I began, "that passed you. Do you recall him? Did you see his face or anything on his clothing that might identify him?"

  She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closed it as if the thought had disappeared. "I don't know. I remember that he passed me, but nothing else. It's like the smell stole into my mind through my nose and erased him. My apologies, I know that doesn't make sense."

  "Actually, it does," I said. "He came from the back room, didn't he?"

  "Yes," said Mrs. Solomon. "How did you know?"

  "Descartes principles," I replied. "Was there anything about him that you can recall?"

  "How did you even know it was a him?" asked Ben.

  "How did I know?" asked Mrs. Solomon, placing her slender fingers on her chin in a thoughtful pose. "He had a cloak of some kind. But it hid his face."

  "A cloak in that room? Wasn't that odd?" I asked.

  "Not really," interjected Mr. Solomon, who seemed perturbed that he wasn't the object of interest. "Transcontinental flights are brutally cold. We spent the majority of our trip huddled under blankets in our private room. Everyone was in their winter garb. It wouldn't have been remarkable to be wearing a cloak in that room, especially with everyone going in and out, letting out the warm air from the stove."

  "Did this cloaked gentleman come over on the airship?" I asked.

  "No," replied Mr. Solomon with a forced surety. "On a trip of that length, you get to know everyone. I think we would have remembered a man like that."

  "Did you smell him?" asked Ben.

  Mr. Solomon cleared his throat. "Well, no, but I would have remembered such a smell."

  "Thank you," said Ben, thoughts passing across his eyes. "I think that will be all."

  Mrs. Solomon spoke. "Was this helpful?"

  "Absolutely," said Ben with a grin. "Though we'll be in touch if we have further questions. By your leave."

  Mr. Solomon showed us to the door. Before we left, Ben made one final comment in a hushed tone.

  "As benefactor of the Franklin Estate, Mr. Solomon, I can make purchase of your
device, if you are inclined to sell, at quite generous terms, which would be enough to make your trip worth it," said Ben.

  Mr. Solomon reacted with guarded surprise, scrunching his face up in an unattractive way. "Mr. Franklin, I know not what you speak of."

  Before Ben could reply, Mr. Solomon closed the door, leaving us to return to the idling steam carriage.

  "What was that about?" I asked.

  "His trip was successful in one way," said Ben. "He either stole or purchased an electric device of some kind."

  "How do you know?" I asked, curious that I'd missed the clues, though Ben was more knowledgeable about those sorts of things.

  "The smell of ozone suggested he was experimenting with an electric device, and he kept glancing back into the other room," he said.

  "Do you think this has anything to do with the missing memories?" I asked.

  "Probably not," he said, "but we should stay aware."

  "You really want to purchase it, don't you?" I asked.

  "Without a doubt," said Ben. "The Turks have made great strides on the study of electricity. Don't forget that it was the Ottoman inventor Taqi al-Din who conjured the steam engine from his mind, without which we wouldn't have won the war against England. If our enemies gain technological superiority then our freedoms might be at risk."

  Part of me wanted to argue that this constant race for new weapons was a deadly cycle, but the practical side knew that Ben was right. A weak military was seen as an invitation for invasion.

  "Nothing we should worry about since we're at peace right now," I said, "leaving us to focus on our mystery."

  "Do you have thoughts on how we should proceed?" asked Ben.

  "Only one and a poor one at that," I said. "My experiences as Director of the Academy of Science taught me about the importance of mid-level functionaries. While the heads of such organizations took undue credit for their successes and failures, it was the lifelong bureaucrats that made things function. And if they didn't believe in your cause, your efforts would die on the vine."

  "I, too, thought it curious as to the level of government positions of our victims," said Ben.

  "Yes. The gears of government turn on men such as these, and if they are somehow incapacitated, then the wheels will cease to function," I said.

  "An advance guard sent to sew chaos?" pondered Ben. "Low enough not to be noticed, but important enough in their organizations to matter. The implications are quite serious. Care to take back what you said about peace?"

  My gut hurt with the knowledge that I could not share the presence of the Russian spy-master. I had to lead Ben to where I thought things might be headed without revealing my shaded history.

  "Yes," I said. "It seems we have enemies that seek to weaken us."

  We shared a serious glance. Ben was coming to the same conclusions I had.

  "Then we must canvas the other members of government. Maybe we can find this spy that erases memories before too much damage is done," said Ben.

  Before he returned me to my new abode, we made a list of government functionaries to observe and split the names between the three of us, if we included Adam Smith. As I stepped out of the carriage, I almost revealed my troubles with the Russian spymaster, but lost the nerve when Ben winked before he closed the door.

  The steam carriage sped away on iron-wrapped wheels while my gut shrunk to the size of a walnut. I knew explaining my predicament to Ben would be the right thing, but the likely withering disappointment I would receive made my resolve weak.

  I had the horrible suspicion that this decision would be my undoing.

  Chapter Six

  The trouble with dresses was the way they caught on the thorns of bushes and errant tree limbs from unkempt gardens. I wore a dark, nearly black, skirt with pleats.

  I would have preferred to wear my riding skirt, as the thick material resisted ensnarement like a handsome bachelor, but its color was a pale cream, and I had skullduggery to perform that night. I'd also considered the men's attire I'd worn the previous week, but in my dress I might more easily sell the lie that I was merely looking for a lost dog should I be discovered.

  Dappled silvery light from the moon shone through the branches of the tall oak tree in the backyard of Cornelius Bennett, the Continental Army's provisioner. Mr. Bennett acquired the goods and services required to maintain a functioning fighting force. He was fourth on my list of government officials to investigate. I'd already surveyed the homes of a water bailiff, the dockmaster, and the city enumerator.

  The provisioner was a handsome man of dark complexion, far more interesting than the walrus-like Theodore Cooper, or the drowned rat visage of Augustus Tundlelittle. I gathered Cornelius had once worn the Continental blues before becoming its head provisioner.

  Through the brightly lit windows, I'd spied him scribbling in his ledgers as I crept through the tangled bushes of his backyard. By the late hours he kept at his books, I assumed he had no time for yard work, a blessing and a curse considering my need for stealth—my arms bled from the jagged thorns.

  After sucking coppery blood from the meaty flesh of my thumb, I pulled out a glim—a dimly burning candle common to thieves—so I could examine the back door without drawing notice.

  Mr. Bennett lived alone, which left him quite exposed should our mysterious fiend decide to visit upon him. Using the faint light, I sprinkled talcum powder around the handle and doorframe.

  Between the report from Mrs. Solomon about the smell of sticky rotten oranges, and the comment from Mr. Cooper's physician that a glue-like substance had been found on his arm, I conjectured that our creature secreted something adhesive, the purpose I had yet to uncover.

  My hypothesis was rewarded when a clumping of talcum appeared on the handle. Ben's theory that the source of the lost memories was magical in nature was becoming more likely by the moment. It appeared the creature was in the house.

  Testing the handle, returned a stiff rattling. The lock still held, though I supposed that after entering, the creature could have set the door behind it.

  Without warning, the gas lights inside the house began to systematically disappear as Cornelius moved through the house. It appeared he was finished for the evening. Beneath my breath, I cursed my timing. If the creature was in the house, then poor Bennett would soon be bereft of his memories.

  When I was back at the estate, Ben had told Adam Smith and I that, should we encounter our foe, we should not confront it, but return to gather forces. His command sounded sensible in the civilized light of his parlor. Now that I was crouched beneath the darkened windows of a potential victim, I knew I had no time to return, and I could not conscionably leave without trying to save Mr. Bennett.

  Using a bit of hot wax from my glim, I adhered the candle to the brick wall to provide light while keeping my hands free. Then, after slipping a leather wrap from the secret pocket in my jacket, I unfolded it to reveal my lock picks.

  With ear to door, I jiggled the locks, feeling my way through the tumblers. Wolfgang would have been proud at how quickly I circumvented the door, especially considering that it was military grade.

  I returned the picks to their rightful and hidden place, producing a compact dueling pistol and short-bladed knife in their stead. I leaned down and blew out the candle with a puff of breath.

  Easing the door open with only a slight hinge whine, I stepped into the house of Cornelius Bennett. I gave the air a tentative sniff, hoping to catch a whiff of the telltale rotting orange smell, but only detected the fading scent of coffee.

  The layout was simple. I stood in the kitchen, a compact room containing a stove and a place to prepare meals. Beyond the hallway were a study and a front room for entertaining guests. The upstairs would consist of a bedroom and a guestroom.

  Before I moved on, I considered my options. Should I stay silent and try to detect my foe without notice from Cornelius? Or should I take the iron pot hanging neatly out of the way and bang on it like a drum to announce my arr
ival, and hopefully warn Cornelius that he might be in danger?

  Ben had instructed those of us in the Society to keep these arcane encounters quiet so we wouldn't upset the populous, and because we didn't understand the reasons for their existence, but did that command make sense when bodily harm was intended?

  Of course, if I was wrong about the threat, then Mr. Bennett might prosecute me as a burglar, and a crazy one at that, should I dare to voice the reason for my intervention.

  Without the proof of danger, I decided I would proceed with caution until I could determine the truth of the circumstances.

  Creeping forward with pistol in right hand and knife in the left, I kept my head on a hinge, setting my feet down gently as to not awaken the wood floor. Lithely did I move across the downstairs until I reached the narrow staircase.

  My whole body vibrated with the intention of listening. I heard Mr. Bennett readying himself for a restful bedtime. The faint light beneath his bedroom door suddenly disappeared.

  Content that he was safe for the moment, I leaned into the study. The desk was set up like a museum piece. The quill and ink placed neatly to the left indicated his handedness. A sheaf of paper was stacked parallel to the edge of the desk. The organization of it would have made a general proud.

  The desk commanded a location that protected Cornelius from attacks from behind. Any intruder would not be able to come upon him unawares while he was at his desk.

  The upstairs was another matter. If the creature had snuck in and hid in the guest room, it could wait until Cornelius was asleep to siphon his memory.

  Standing at the threshold between the parlor and the study, I heard wood squeaking above. It'd been thirty minutes or so since I'd snuck in and maybe ten minutes since I'd heard Cornelius busying himself for sleep.

  Taking time to move silently, I made my way to the imposing stairs. They went up at a steep angle. Getting to the top without inciting the joints in the steps to desperate squeaks would be nigh impossible.

  I almost decided to leave Cornelius' house when I thought I saw movement at the top of the stairs in the darkness of the hallway. With my ear leaned in that direction, I strained for confirmation that my eyes had not been deceived, but heard nothing but the beat of my heart surging through my veins.