Moonlight & Mechanicals

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Moonlight & Mechanicals Page 4

by Cindy Spencer Pape


  Wapping.

  The place where Wink had spent roughly the middle third of her life. She wiped the grime from the coach window with the lap blanket she wasn’t using, and looked out at the streets she’d once called home.

  She ought to feel nostalgic, perhaps, but she didn’t miss it, not one stinking little bit. A few people had been kind to her, so yes, she occasionally thought of them. One such person was the purpose of today’s visit. Every time Wink came to town, she made a point to call on Mrs. Miller, the woman who had probably saved her life.

  “Thank you, Watkins.” She allowed him to help her down from the coach, though she certainly didn’t need the assistance. She’d learned to accept and appreciate courtesy since becoming a Hadrian. “You can wait with Debbins and the carriage if you like.” No harm was going to come to her in the tea shop. “I’m sure Mrs. Miller will send someone out with a mug and a bite.”

  “That would be right nice, Miss Wink. Mrs. Miller’s shortbread is the best I’ve ever had, at least in London.” The footman held the shop door for Wink, saw her inside and then retreated to help guard the horses and coach, both of which could be stolen in a heartbeat in this part of town. Less than a decade ago, Wink might have been one of the thieves. Coming back always reminded her of just how lucky she was.

  Inside, the familiar scents of oolong, Earl Grey and fresh scones brought back waves of memory. The shop was tiny, consisting of a few shelves filled with inexpensive pewter or earthenware teapots, strainers, tins, mugs and bins of loose tea, while half the space was devoted to six wrought-iron tables where customers could sit and have a cup of tea and one of the pastries Mrs. Miller baked in back. About half the tables were occupied this morning. One held a trio of elderly women, knitting and gossiping as they sipped. Wink smiled. That same trio had been coming here when she lived above the shop, though in those days there had been four, and their hair had been just going gray, rather than mostly white.

  A pair of storekeepers chatted at another table, and a young couple—perhaps a clerk and a shop girl, made calves’ eyes at each other over a shared scone at the third. As the bell tinkled over Wink’s head, announcing her arrival, a plump woman with steel-gray hair and a flour-dusted apron bustled out of the kitchen in back.

  “Winnie, as I live and breathe. Aren’t you a sight?” Agnes Miller drew Wink into a warm hug. She was the only living soul who got away with calling Wink Winnie. Her voice still had the lilt of her native Ireland, though she’d been here in Wapping for more than twenty years. “Look at you, all grown and ladylike. Have you found a husband yet, girl? You’re not getting any younger.”

  “No, not since you asked me six months ago,” Wink said on a laugh. She thought briefly about her proposal from Connor the night before. Mrs. Miller would call her mad for refusing an honorable offer from a future baronet. “It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Miller. All the machines in working order? Is there anything for me to fix while I’m here?”

  “Not a thing, dearie. That nice young man who comes around keeps everything almost as well as you did.” Years ago, Merrick had arranged a regular mechanic to stop by, since he’d, as he put it, deprived the woman of Wink’s services. Mrs. Miller still boasted the best-automated tea shop in Wapping, just as she’d done when she traded Wink and the others rooms above the shop in return for cleaning and maintenance. “And Nellie came by just last month. Grown into a beauty, she has, just like you.”

  After agreeing that her sister was certainly beautiful, Wink studied her friend’s face. The lines that had developed gradually over the years seemed to have doubled in the last six months, and the dark circles beneath Mrs. Miller’s deep-set eyes stood out starkly against a paler-than-usual complexion. Worse, if Wink wasn’t mistaken, those were tear tracks in the dusting of flour on Mrs. Miller’s cheeks. “Then what’s wrong? I know there’s something. How can I help?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Mrs. Miller wrung her hands in her apron but shook her head, looking up at Wink with a forced smile. “Don’t mind my worrying. Come on in back and have a nice cup of the new orange pekoe.”

  “That sounds like the best offer I’ve had all day.” Wink followed Mrs. Miller back through the tea room, pausing as the other woman stopped to check on the customers at the tables. When the two men left, Wink helped clear the table without so much as thinking about it. Her elevated status in the world hadn’t turned her into a snob. Carrying the dirty dishes, the two women went into the kitchen.

  After sending a boy of about ten out to deliver tea and shortbread to Debbins and Watkins, Mrs. Miller sent her other helper, a girl of maybe twelve, out to mind the shop. “Their parents used to run the little cobbler shop around the corner, but they both died in last winter’s influenza outbreak. Your old room was empty, so they help out here for room and board.” She poured tea for Wink and herself, and they both sat at the small corner table, nibbling on scones with marmalade.

  “I remember the cobblers. I’m sorry to hear they passed. But that’s not what’s bothering you.” Wink looked her former landlady in the eye. “Tell me. And don’t try to fob me off.”

  Mrs. Miller sighed and pushed her untouched scone around on her plate. “It’s Eamon,” she finally said, naming her only son, who was a merchant marine. “His ship came in two days ago. He sent a lad around from the dock, saying he’d be here for supper, but he never made it. I sent a message to his ship this morning. His captain hasn’t seen him since that first night.”

  Wink had met Eamon Miller a time or two while she’d lived here. He’d seemed a nice enough sort, a big bluff sailor, who thought the world of his mother, and had been kind enough to the waifs she occasionally took under her wings. His behavior must be unusual if Mrs. Miller was this upset about it. “Does he have a lady-friend, perhaps, who he might have stopped to visit on his way home? If he’s been out at sea for a while…” Wink could see how a mother might not be the first port of call, so to speak.

  “His wife and kiddies are up in Liverpool,” Mrs. Miller said. “He’d just come from there. Not one to have a piece on the side, my Eamon.”

  So much for that thought. Wink sipped her tea and tried to think of possibilities, other than the obvious. Wapping wasn’t a nice part of town, especially right by the docks. Shanghaiing did happen, as well as more straightforward robbery and murder. If someone had killed him for his wallet and watch, then tossed his body in the Thames, odds were, he’d never be found.

  On the other hand, if a body had been found, Wink knew Mrs. Miller would rather know than spend the rest of her life in the dark. “Come take a ride with me.” She reached across to squeeze the older woman’s hand. “I know someone who might be able to help.”

  Mrs. Miller bit her lip. “But the shop…”

  “Can close for a few hours.” Wink would buy a couple pounds of tea for the Hadrian household. Maybe even some extra as gifts. That should make up for any lost income. “I want you to meet a friend of my family who works for Scotland Yard.” Liam should be able to find out if any bodies matching Eamon’s description had been found in the last two days.

  “A constable?” Mrs. Miller’s eyes flew wide. “They don’t usually bother much with the likes of me, ducks.”

  “An inspector,” Wink corrected. “And this one will take the time. I promise.”

  “Well, then. I suppose I should fetch my hat. Just see those last customers out the door, will you?” Her double chins jiggled as she nodded, showing the most life she had since Wink walked in. “I imagine you can still take care of a sale if you must.”

  Wink suppressed a chuckle. If her society acquaintances could see her now, they’d be horrified. “I’m sure I can, ma’am.” She marched out into the shop and politely told the only lingering customers—the lovebirds—hat the business was closing for a few hours and they needed to go.

  She packaged up a variety of teas and paid for them by the time Mrs. Miller returned. The older woman wore a relatively hideous pink bonnet, with a turquois
e paisley shawl—a gift from Tom—over her purple gown. Wink said nothing. Nell, who was far more knowledgeable about fashion than Wink, had tried buying Mrs. Miller a new bonnet once. The woman had thanked her kindly, and then added a bouquet of clashing paper flowers to the tasteful dark silk. Refusing to be ashamed of her friend, Wink took the older woman’s arm and escorted her to the waiting carriage.

  Once they reached Scotland Yard, Wink glared down her nose at the officer guarding the entry when he tried to turn them away. “Tell Inspector McCullough that Miss Hadrian is here to see him, or my father, Lord Northland, will be most displeased.”

  The young officer blanched. Wink’s father was well-respected and occasionally feared around the Yard. “Right away, miss.” He pressed a button on his desk and spoke into the microphone. “A Miss Hadrian to see you, Inspector.”

  Moments later, Liam strode down the hall toward them. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

  “Pleased to see you too, I’m sure.” Wink crossed her arms over her chest and tapped one booted toe, tipping her head toward her companion. Her voice softened. “This is Mrs. Miller. She runs a tea shop in Wapping. You may have heard of it. We have something we’d like to discuss—in private, if you don’t mind.”

  He blinked, but his frown smoothed into a polite, professional smile. He shook Mrs. Miller’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’ve heard a great deal about you, all of it good. If you’ll follow me?”

  He took Mrs. Miller’s arm and left Wink to follow as he led them down the corridor to a small room, boasting nothing more than a steel table and four plain wooden chairs. “My office is too small to hold the three of us.” He held a chair first for Mrs. Miller and then for Wink. “I hope this will do?”

  “It’s fine.” Wink laid her hand on top of Mrs. Miller’s on the table. “Now tell him what you told me about Eamon.”

  “Who’s Eamon?” Liam used a pencil to write the name on a small notepad he’d pulled from his pocket.

  “First mate Eamon Miller, of the schooner the Susan Jane. My son.” Under Liam’s careful questioning, Mrs. Miller explained everything she’d told Wink, as well as giving a detailed description of her son the last time she’d seen him. She handed over an inexpensive photograph with a frown. “I’ll get this back, won’t I?”

  “Of course.” Liam studied the portrait, his full lips drawn thin. “I’m not sure there’s too much I can do to help. It’s possible he stopped off to visit a friend, or is simply drinking away his pay with some shipmates.”

  “My Eamon isn’t like that.” Mrs. Miller drew herself up to her full height of perhaps five feet. “Sure, he likes a drop now and then. What good Irish lad doesn’t? But he wouldn’t disappear like this. I told Winnie you wouldn’t be able to help.”

  Winnie? Liam mouthed the name with a suspicious twitch to his lips.

  Wink glared. He’d better not even think about using that name. Ever. “I thought perhaps you could check the hospitals and so forth—see if anyone unidentified has been admitted matching Eamon’s description.” And the morgue and the prisons.

  “Absolutely,” Liam said. A slight tip of his head seemed to indicate he’d thought of those other places as well. “I can take some time this afternoon and handle it personally.”

  “But you’re an inspector.” Mrs. Miller pulled an oversized handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “Surely you don’t have time for the likes of me.”

  “You let me worry about that.” Liam’s wince told Wink that he didn’t. Not really. Yet he’d do it anyway, as a favor to her father and her family—and to help an old woman sleep at night. Was it any wonder she’d been half in love with him for almost a decade?

  “Bless you.” Mrs. Miller burst into tears against Wink’s shoulder. “Such a kind young man, for a copper at that.” She mopped her face with her handkerchief and gave Wink a none-too-subtle elbow to the ribs. “Irish no less. And so handsome too, isn’t he, Winnie?”

  “Inspector McCullough is indeed a kind man,” Wink said. “And he’s certainly Irish.” That he was handsome went without saying. No need to swell the man’s head.

  “Why don’t I escort you home, Mrs. Miller? That way I can see the neighborhood, get a feel for the route your son might have taken.”

  “We came in my coach,” Wink said. “But you’re welcome to come with us, of course.” It would give her a chance to talk to Liam after they returned Mrs. Miller to the shop.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later a very mismatched trio found themselves in the Hadrian carriage on the way back to Wapping. Liam studied the two women sitting across from him. Even in her work clothes, Wink displayed the easy confidence of someone comfortable with her place in the world. She was at the same time the scientist and the lady, with just a hint of fire simmering below the surface—the spark that had given her the strength to survive a childhood fighting vampyres and human predators.

  Her care for the shop owner who had sheltered her did nothing to diminish her in his estimation, though some in society wouldn’t approve. For many charity was fine, so long as it was handled at distance. A lady wasn’t supposed to soil her own hands helping others, though Wink and others of her generation who’d gone to university and become professionals were starting to change that.

  Mrs. Miller, in her garish second-hand dress and horrid bonnet, was very much a sterling example of Britain’s lower working class. Though living in one of London’s worst neighborhoods, she owned a successful business, had apparently raised a son to a productive adulthood out of the slums, and had more or less taken in a pack of orphaned children. While many at the Yard wouldn’t have bothered helping her find her son, a grown man and a sailor, Merrick Hadrian felt a debt to the woman, and as a friend, Liam was honor-bound to share in that obligation.

  Once they reached Wapping, Liam rapped on the roof of the coach. When the vehicle stopped, Liam got out and climbed onto the box with Debbins, the driver. From this vantage point, he could study the area and get a feel for the streets and alleyways. He’d been posted here as a constable, but that was years ago. Shops and even buildings had come and gone. The stench of the river, horses and human waste that he remembered was masked somewhat by the thick miasma of coal smoke that now cloaked London as a whole. Liam pulled on the filter mask Debbins handed him. His lupine sense of smell wouldn’t be an asset in this part of the investigation, so there was no point in subjecting himself to the stench or in damaging his lungs. While his body would heal itself as soon as he shifted, he wasn’t sure when that would be. Furthermore, the mask was camouflage, allowing him to look more like any other inspector.

  After depositing Mrs. Miller back at her tea shop, Liam asked Wink what route the son was most likely to have used walking home from his ship. His notebook already contained the name of the ship, which dock she was in and the identity of the captain.

  “I think he’d have stopped at the pub first, to tell you the truth. He’d’ve enjoyed a pint with his mates, maybe a hand or two of cards and then come to see his mum. I’ve only met him a couple times, mind. He was grown and off to sea before I lived above the shop, but he seemed an all right sort. Never chased the neighborhood girls, which some did even though they were married. I don’t think he’d pass the pub without stopping in for a quick one, though.”

  “And I suppose you’ve no idea which pub was his usual?” He gave the coachman directions to take them past the docks on the way back to Hadrian House. Then he helped her up and climbed in behind her.

  Wink shook her head. “There are several by the wharf. It could be any of those, but I’d think his shipmates would know.”

  George, Wink’s mechanical dog, nudged Liam’s hand. If he didn’t know it was impossible, he’d swear the beast was fond of him. Did even clockwork dogs recognize wolves as kin? Given the brilliance of the woman who’d built George, Liam truly had no idea. He simply patted the bronze head out of habit while George leaned into Liam’s knee.

  Th
ey didn’t speak much during the drive to the docks, as Liam was busy examining the neighborhood, noting the changes since he’d last worked in the area. Once he’d satisfied himself that any further investigation would have to be done on foot, he used the speaking tube to ask the driver to return them to Hadrian House, just a block or so off of St. James’s Square. When Wink corrected him, he changed the instructions to the Camelot Club, headquarters of the Order, which masqueraded as a posh gentleman’s club.

  Liam leaned back against the squabs. “I’ll do what I can. You know that, I hope. But there are so many ways for a man to vanish in London—there’s a good possibility we won’t find him.”

  “I know.” She gave him a brief, sad smile. “But the fact that you’re even looking—that means the world to Mrs. Miller. And she means a great deal to me. So thank you.”

  “Is it hard, coming back to Wapping?” He studied her face, which was schooled into a politely neutral expression. “I should think most of the memories are unpleasant.”

  “Most,” she agreed. “But there are good people here too. I have fond memories of some, Mrs. Miller and the laundress next door most especially. After Tom found me, and we eventually took in Jamie, then Nell and Piers, things got better. We became a family.”

  A vampyre-hunting family, at that. His lips twitched. As a werewolf, he had no grounds for finding that odd. “What drove a handful of children to spend their nights fighting the undead? I’ve always wondered about that. I was there that night, with Inspector Dugan, when Merrick found you, you know. I know what you fought at that warehouse.”

 

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