Moonlight & Mechanicals

by Cindy Spencer Pape

  “I’m afraid my gift today is only chocolates,” he said with a twinkle in his blue eyes. “But the box is a little something I thought you’d enjoy.” He handed over the ribbon-wrapped trinket with a flourish.

  Wink unwrapped the package and laughed at the wind-up monkey that dispensed chocolates at the press of a button. She popped one treat into her mouth and handed another to Connor, who shared her sweet tooth. “It’s adorable. Thank you.” Setting the gift on the hall table, she waved good-bye to Dorothy who’d come downstairs to see them off. Once outside, she allowed Connor to help her mount.

  “You look lovely, by the way. That’s a clever mask. Your own design?” After setting Wink on her mare’s back, Connor mounted a large roan gelding and donned his own mask—a sturdier leather model that covered his nose completely, but only had a thin film of gauze over the mouth to allow for speech.

  “The hat is Nell’s, but thank you, I did make the miniaturized filter.” The actual filter was in the crown of the hat, while soft rubber plugs—changed and cleaned of course with each wearing—attached to thin tubes went directly into her nose. The discreet design allowed the veiling of the bonnet to almost completely hide the necessary device.

  “Melody will be envious. She’s working on dirigible engines up in Edinburgh, but sends her love. I telephoned her last night.” Connor’s sister had gone through Lovelace College alongside Wink, part of the first class of female students in Oxford’s prestigious halls.

  “I agree about telephones being a great improvement over teletext—at least for those who can afford them. In fact, I spoke to Melody just last week,” Wink said. “And I’ve already put a mask like this together for her—with Nell’s help on the hat. We’re sending it up for her birthday next month.”

  “I should have guessed you’d be one step ahead of me.” They rode at a steady walk toward Hyde Park, not too far from Hadrian House, which was just off St. James’s Square.

  A short ride later, they turned into the park and Wink looked sadly at the black scrubby grass, the stunted trees and scraggly shrubs where once there had been so much green.

  “What’s bothering you, Wink? Something more than which wires to use on the inter-office network. You don’t look like you slept, and you’re chewing a hole in your lower lip.”

  “Doesn’t it depress you? Look around. Where are the flowers that were here just six or seven years ago?” In the short time she’d lived here, London had gotten so much worse, and nowhere was that more evident than here, the once-famous Rotten Row. “Five years ago we’d have passed dozens of other riders. Even two years ago we’d have passed ten or twelve. Now there are maybe five others in the entire park. The plants are dead or dying and the Serpentine is little more than a mucky drainage ditch.”

  Connor nodded. “It is dreadful. And I know you’ll find a way to solve it—if not with electricity, then some other way. Now, come on, tell me what’s really wrong. Something more personal than London’s soot problem.”

  “You know me too well.” But was that a bad thing? Really? She’d promised to give him a chance, and perhaps he could help. “All right. Did Tom ever tell you about Mrs. Miller? The lady who runs a tea shop in Wapping?”

  “The one you lived above? Of course. Is she ill?” Connor’s genuine concern wrapped around Wink like a hug. Yes, there were worse things than to spend time with a man who knew all your secrets and liked you anyway. As they rode, she told him the whole story of the missing Eamon Miller, ending with, “Liam telephoned this morning. There are no unknown men in any of the hospitals, morgues or prisons who match Eamon’s photograph. So he’s likely been press-ganged or is at the bottom of the Thames.”

  “That’s awful. I imagine Tom is already hard at work?” Connor sent her a kind smile that twitched the corners of his mask. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Tom left this morning for Plymouth,” Wink said. “A new assignment. He’s excited to finally be given his own, without a more experienced Knight to mind him.”

  Connor nodded. “I feel the same. It’s such a relief not to have someone frowning at you all the time.”

  “So what about you? Off anywhere exciting soon?” She always worried when they were gone, but she also envied them the freedom and the chance to make a difference in the world.

  “I’m on vampyre detail here in London, which means there’s no reason I can’t help you search by day.” He paused. “I’m not on duty until after midnight tonight, however, and I managed to borrow a friend’s box at the opera. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come?”

  He sounded so hopeful that Wink bit off her automatic refusal. She’d promised Nell. “You know I don’t much care for opera.”

  “I know. Neither do I, if you recall. We can watch the crowd and laugh together.” Over his mask, he winked. “Make quiet fun of the stage effects. Nell and Dorothy are invited as well, of course. Nell, at least, will appreciate the music.”

  “How can I argue with that?” She took a deep breath through her filter plugs and offered him a smile. “The opera it is, then. Is it at least in French or Italian? My German is execrable.”

  “Sorry, Spanish,” he said. “Though I suppose you speak that as well.”

  “No, I never lived in Spain.” Not that she could remember, at any rate. “As you said, we’ll simply roll our eyes at the crowd and chuckle about the awful theater technology.”

  The corners of his eyelids crinkled. “I look forward to it.”

  She wished the heat in his eyes could warm the cold in the pit of her stomach. Why couldn’t she want him the way he wanted her? If she was subdued for the rest of their ride, he must have put it down to worry over Mrs. Miller, for he didn’t ask again and kept up a cheerful, if mostly one-sided, conversation.

  Tonight. She waived him good-bye from the doorway of her home and promised silently to be better company at the opera. Maybe I’ll even let him kiss me again. And this time I’ll kiss him back, just to see if I can. She was sure Dorothy and Nell would conspire to give them a few moments alone. Wink went upstairs to change, trying to convince herself that sounded romantic and appealing.

  * * *

  Liam studied the Babbage engine printout sent over from the Richmond police station. The photographic reproduction was grainy, and the man had been dead for a couple of days, but since the body had no tattoos, it wasn’t Eamon Miller, who according to his mother sported a large anchor on his left forearm. Another dead end. Liam had uncovered reports of several disappearances in Wapping over the last few weeks, but none of them had been deemed unusually suspicious. Bad things happened in the slums, and most of the time, there was little the police could do. Not only were there no leads about these disappearances, the cases were barely being pursued, if at all.

  Liam had spent the morning conferring with the Queen’s bodyguards, the captains of the Household Cavalry regiments and Ascot officials over security for the upcoming royal display. By afternoon, he was more than ready to go do some actual police work. So when he spotted, “Woman foils abduction by automaton,” on the printout of all reports from the Wapping precinct, he decided he might as well investigate. It was just a short jaunt by streetcar to the brothel where the improbably named Miss Lolly Luscious purportedly worked, so he put on his uniform-issue mask and made his way to the steam tram.

  Other inspectors had their own coaches or steam cars and drivers, but Liam preferred to mingle with the rest of the population as much as possible. Conversations overheard on the tram or sidewalk had led to arrests more than once in his career—especially since his lupine heritage meant he had better-than-human hearing.

  On this trip, though, he gained nothing more useful than the rocking motion of the tram soothing him into a near doze as he stood, leaning on a pole. He hadn’t slept much since the duke’s ball last night, his mind busy with a series of overlapping problems. The threat against the royal family at the Ascot races. Winifred Hadrian. The missing sailor, Eamon Miller. And
again, Wink. Was he doing the right thing encouraging MacKay to court her properly? The wolf inside his chest howled at the prospect of her in another man’s bed. But Liam couldn’t have her for himself, and better Connor than another man, one Liam didn’t know or respect.

  He’d done the right thing, he assured himself as he walked the last few blocks.

  His thoughts drifted back to his university days, to the one serious relationship he’d ever had. She’d been a sweet young thing, daughter of a local shopkeeper, and Liam had been a hairsbreadth away from offering marriage—until he’d caught her behind the pub with another man. They were laughing about the expensive gifts Liam had given her, debating how to spend his money. Worst of all, the girl was going on about how dreadful it was to have to bed down with a disgusting, hairy werewolf.

  Liam had seen red. He’d thrown the bastard across the alley, smashing him into a stone wall. He’d actually raised his hand to her, only at the last minute managing to turn it away and slam it into the back wall of the pub. When she ran screaming that he was an animal, he damn near shifted and proved her right.

  That’s when he’d known he was just like his father. A good woman wasn’t something Liam could allow himself. Hurting a scheming tart like his first lover would have been a bad thing to do. Hurting someone kind and true—that would be tragic. Liam wasn’t going to put himself in a situation where that could happen.

  He shoved the memories away when he reached a tidy red-brick building with garish scarlet awnings. Madame Toussaint’s Lounge for Discerning Gentlemen. He peeled off his mask as he climbed the chipped granite steps. The odor of cheap liquor, bad perfume and sex met his nostrils even before he knocked. Ha. No one with discernment would be caught dead here.

  His first look at the servant who answered the door nearly confirmed that thought. The man was so emaciated it looked as if he’d died some years past and been propped in a closet full of mothballs. Honestly, he rather smelled of mothballs too. Liam concentrated on breathing through his mouth as he held up his identification in one hand and used the other to proffer his calling card. “I’m here to speak to a Miss Luscious on the subject of her assault last evening.”

  “Of course, Inspector.” The man moved aside with such creaky stiffness that Liam was afraid he’d fall over at any moment. His voice was little more than a rasp. “Right this way if you please.”

  Liam followed the butler through a hall covered in surprisingly clean flocked silk—the place had some income, clearly. The carpets on the polished wood floor were worn, but good. Near the back of the house, Liam entered a tidy and entirely businesslike office, where a middle-aged woman in a simple peach day dress and gold spectacles worked over a ledger with the help of a small Babbage accounting engine. Her plump, ringless fingers fairly flew over the keys. She paused and smiled politely as he approached. “Merci, Alain. That will be all.”

  “As you wish, Madam.” The creaking butler made his way out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Madame Toussaint, I presume?” Liam made a small bow before the desk. “Inspector Liam McCullough. I’d like to speak with one of your ladies, if you don’t mind. You’re welcome to stay if that would make her more comfortable.”

  She studied him with keen eyes and must have seen something she approved of, for she gave a nod. The French accent vanished. “Good afternoon, Inspector. Have a seat.”

  When he did, she said, “No need to maintain formalities. Nettie Hawkins at your service. Madame Toussaint is a business.”

  “And Mrs. Hawkins is a business woman. I’ve no grief with that.” He held out his hand and shook hers. Yes, prostitution was illegal, but Liam wasn’t here to harass the madam or her employees. This house seemed cleaner than most—and it was a damn sight safer for all concerned than a darkened street corner. “I just want to know more about this automaton that attacked a young woman last night. I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

  “Good, then.” She pressed a small buzzer on her desk. “We’ll get Lolly down straight away. Can I get you coffee? Brandy? A drop of the Irish?”

  Before Liam could answer, the servant reappeared at the door. “Yes, madam?”

  “Thank you, Allen. Fetch Lolly, if you would, and…” She broke off and studied Liam again. “Coffee. For three, please.”

  Liam nodded. “Thank you. I prefer not to drink spirits during business hours.” Not that alcohol affected him much, but it was Yard policy. “Feel free, yourself, however. And Miss Luscious, if it makes her feel more comfortable talking to me.”

  A tap on the door several minutes later revealed the butler with an automated tea cart and a woman of perhaps twenty, though she looked older at the moment. Dark circles pooled beneath tired brown eyes. An ugly bruise bloomed across one cheek, another on her slim throat. A rumpled velvet dressing gown showed she hadn’t expected company this early. Long henna-reddened hair hung in a thick braid down her back and she hid behind the butler as he poured three cups of dark, rich coffee into delicate china cups. The robust aroma of the coffee overpowered the tang of cheap perfume.

  Liam stood and held the other chair for the woman. “Come in, miss. My name is Inspector McCullough, and I believe you can help me with an investigation.”

  “Inspector, meet Lolly Archer. Lolly, have a seat and drink some coffee. The inspector isn’t here to cause trouble.” Mrs. Hawkins removed her spectacles and accepted a cup before once again dismissing her servant.

  “Yes, madame.” The girl had been trained to speak with a moderately educated accent, but traces of Wapping or Whitechapel lingered beneath her husky tones. The rasp to her voice was probably due at least in part to her injuries, which looked, from what Liam could see, like an attempted strangulation. Miss Archer was lucky to be alive.

  Liam leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee, hoping to put her at ease. “Miss Archer, can you tell me what happened?”

  “I told the other coppers,” she rasped. “They said I was drunk…or a lunatic.”

  Of course they had. The police liked simple answers, not complex or supernatural ones. “I promise you, I’m more open-minded than most. Whatever happened, you can tell me. No matter how strange or unbelievable you think it might be.”

  “Tell him, Lolly,” Mrs. Hawkins said in a voice that while soft, brooked no argument. “You can trust this one.”

  There was something in her tone that caused Liam to give her another look.

  “A small gift of my own, Inspector.” She slanted him a look over her coffee cup.” I can almost always tell when a gentleman is lying. That has proved…useful in both my previous and present occupations.”

  “I imagine so.” She was a pleasant-looking woman who’d probably once been more than passably pretty. Since she’d likely started in the business as a courtesan herself, knowing when a man was telling the truth could have meant the difference between life and death.

  “I screen each and every client personally. Whoever attacked Lolly, I can promise it wasn’t one of my clientele.”

  “I’ll take your word for that, ma’am.” Liam turned back to the younger woman. “In the report, you said something about the man being made of metal.”

  Lolly nodded. “He were…was. At least his hands and face. Couldn’t see nothing else, but he creaked and moved all stiff-like.”

  “And where were you when this happened?” Liam took out his notebook and pen. “Do you remember what time it was?”

  “I was down visiting my sister—she’s got a man, keeps her nice in a little flat. The bells had just chimed ten, and the streetcar doesn’t run that late. I was on Wapping Street, near the King Edward steps. He come out of nowhere, he did, grabbed me round the throat and started dragging me toward the stairs.”

  “That must have been terrifying,” Liam said with utter sincerity. Had there been a boat waiting? “However did you manage to escape?”

  “’Twas a cat I think. Or a little dog, perhaps. The man—the thing—stepped on it on the first step d
own. Squashed the poor blighter flat. But ’e was so stiff, you see, it threw ’im off balance. ’E let go of my neck to try and grab the wall, but I shoved him and he fell—arse over teakettle. Clanked the whole way down then splashed right into the water like a rock.”

  “And you ran?” Liam jotted down her words as close to verbatim as he could manage.

  “Bet your arse I did. Fast as my feet could take me.”

  “Wise girl.” Liam smiled at her. “Can you tell me exactly what he looked like? As much as you could see anyway. Was he tall? Short? Stout? Thin? Did his face look like a mask, or was it almost human? Iron or bronze?”

  She inhaled deeply, glanced over at her employer and then firmed her chin. “If I could borrow a pencil, I can show you.”

  “Lolly’s quite a good sketch artist,” Mrs. Hawkins said as she withdrew a charcoal pencil and a tablet of unlined paper from her desk drawer. “Pull your chair up, dear, and draw us what you remember.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lolly scooted her chair forward and rested her elbows on the desk, the pencil clenched between her fingers.

  Then the charcoal began to fly across the tablet and a shape began to form. Man-sized, perhaps just a bit taller than average based on the scale of the wall beside him, the creature wore a caped greatcoat that swirled around him like the mist off the river. A crumpled top hat perched on a brow that did, indeed, look almost human, but the eyes were nothing more than two dark holes in a face too round and smooth to be natural. Small bolts at the neck and temples seemed to indicate a mask clamped on over the face.

  “No gloves,” she said as she sketched the hands. “Bronze, I think. It glinted yellowish in the gaslight. Didn’t look black like iron, nor as shiny as brass.”

  He noted that on his pad. “When you pushed him—did you feel flesh, or metal?”