by Emma Newman
The last screw removed, the magus dropped the screwdriver back into his pocket, lifted a plate of metal that was a half yard square and rested it against the inside of the nearest bars. He reached down inside—further than the depth of the cell base, presumably through a hole in the floorboards beneath?—and with a grunt, he lifted something up until it clunked into place and remained elevated without his effort.
It was unlike anything Charlotte had ever seen before. A mechanism of some kind, reminiscent of the internal workings of the timepiece she’d sketched, but with fewer cogs and more vials of liquid, connected to each other in a complex array of copper and lead piping. There was a central dial that the magus examined, marked at intervals with symbols too small for her to see properly and some sort of ratchet that held it in a particular position.
“See, told ya it were all where it should be.”
“I still have to check, Pa. This stuff is dangerous.”
“Don’t I know it, son! I’m the poor bugger who ’as to come in here with that doctor when ’e signs ’em off.”
Knowing that this was something desperately important, Charlotte committed as much of the mechanism to memory as possible. She wanted to sketch it then and there, but was too afraid they’d hear her rooting about in her satchel for the notebook and pencil. So she stayed as still as she could, noting all the tiny details, closing her eyes for a second to visualise it and then opening them again to fill in the parts that were hazy in her memory. By the time the son had satisfied himself that whatever that dread machine did was still in working order, she was confident she could remember it.
“When’s the next one in?” the magus asked.
“That’s the Friday one who wrote the letter. Got some others on the boil, but they’ve got a bit more time.” The man lowered his voice, as though he was fearful of being overheard. “Listen . . . you can tell your old man. What’s all this for?”
“I told yer, Pa, I can’t say.”
“That thing . . . that magical stuff . . . It’s what makes their tickers stop, innit?”
The magus didn’t answer, but Charlotte knew it was true. The numbers didn’t lie, as George had told her several times, and far too many people died here for it to be coincidence. Whilst he attributed it to stress, now she’d seen the device, she knew foul play was at work. But why? It obviously had some purpose other than killing people. What could it be?
Charlotte withdrew from the gap in the curtain, letting it fall shut when the magus replaced the metal lid after dropping the machine back into place. She held her breath as the cell was closed again and the two men left the room. It wasn’t until she heard their footsteps leave the house, the slam of the front door behind them, and the turning of the locks once more that she allowed herself a moment to sag and draw in several deep, steadying breaths.
After waiting a few minutes, just to be certain they had truly left, Charlotte left the foul cubby and lit the candle once more. She sketched the mechanism then and there, kneeling on the floorboards whilst it was fresh in her mind, followed by a quick sketch of the magus, before taking one last look at the cell.
Charlotte didn’t know how, but she was going to put a stop to this. Not just for her father, but for all the other poor souls these evil men would target in the future. She tucked the notebook and pencil away, blew out the candle and headed for the window. It was time for this rude young woman to make a difference.
Chapter 9
ON THE WAY TO New Road earlier that night, Charlotte had looked over her shoulder every minute or so and glanced fearfully at dark windows, scared that some unsavoury creature would spot a young woman out alone and pursue her. The bark of a dog or the slamming of a door had been enough to make her jolt and sometimes almost stumble into the gutter in her nervousness.
The way back from New Road felt so very different. She was too angry to be afraid of imaginary threats in the shadows. The Royal Society crowed about how they kept everyone safe, how they regulated the use of magic to ensure the good citizens of the Empire were never at risk. And now she had firm evidence that one of their order—no, two!—were involved in the deaths of so many misfortunate people, damned because they had borrowed money and been unable to pay it back.
She’d report all she’d discovered to the local magistrate first. George had told her he was a decent chap and all she needed to do was show him what she’d found and tell him about the cluster of deaths.
But magi were involved. Should she instead go to Master Judicant with her discovery? His job was to see things done properly and fairly wherever the magi were involved. And he would be impartial whereas the magistrate—
She collided with a man who stepped out of nowhere. Charlotte was so lost in her furious planning that it knocked her over. She banged her head on the pavement and cried out, more in surprise than pain, then realised a gloved hand was reaching down to help her up.
“I’m so dreadfully sorry, miss, it was my fault. Oh, Miss Gunn! What a surprise!”
Charlotte blinked away the momentary dizziness to focus on Magus Hopkins, dressed in white tie, top hat and evening cloak. She felt dreadfully underdressed as he pulled her to her feet. “Magus Hopkins? What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
“Walking back from a soiree.” He looked her up and down, noticing the absence of crinoline, no doubt. “I might ask the same of you. Do your parents know you’re stalking the streets of Whitechapel in the small hours of the morning?”
“Hardly ‘stalking,’ sir.”
Too ashamed to look at him dressed as she was, Charlotte brushed her coat off instead.
“What’s this?”
She looked up to see Hopkins picking up her notebook, which must have fallen from her satchel. He opened it and flipped through, looking at the sketches beneath the pool of gaslight from the lamppost.
“That’s mine!” She rushed over and tried to grab it, but he turned as if he were in a waltz with her, keeping the notebook out of reach.
“Well, this is very interesting,” he muttered at the last pages. “Where did you sketch these, Miss Gunn?”
“That is none of your business, sir.”
“Oh, but I think it is. This is a contraption with an esoteric purpose, and a terribly dangerous one, by all appearances. That’s assuming that this drawing is accurate.”
“Indeed it is, sir!”
“So you saw it with your own eyes, did you?”
Charlotte clenched her fists. Why, of all the people in London, did this awful man have to bump into her right now?
Hopkins looked back at the sketch. “Very interesting indeed. Of course”—he pulled a pencil of his own from inside his tailcoat breast pocket—“it would be rendered utterly harmless should this dial be changed to this setting here, and the pin that holds that ratchet was repositioned to . . . here . . .” He drew little arrows to illustrate his comments. He stopped and looked wickedly mischievous, just for a moment, before smiling at her and tucking the pencil back in its place. “But I forget myself in my fondness for delicate mechanisms. I shouldn’t speculate about such matters in the presence of the uninitiated. Which brings me back to my question. Did you see this? No, that much is obvious. Where did you see it?”
She reached for the notebook again and he held it out of her reach, pulling it away in the last moment so she stepped close enough to him to smell his scent again. He tilted his face towards her, now closer than they had been in the kitchen. Charlotte’s rage, briefly knocked out of her with the air in her lungs, sprung back with a fearsome burst. How dare he toy with her! She stamped on his foot and he cried out, dropping the notebook, which she retrieved triumphantly and stuffed into her satchel. She buckled it tightly shut as he hobbled to lean against the lamppost. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Magus Hopkins. Did I tread on your toes? I do beg your pardon.”
He scowled at her, and then threw his head back and laughed so heartily that she had to fight the smile that threatened her own face. “Miss Gunn, it is I who shou
ld apologise. Let us begin again. Please, will you permit me to escort you home? These really aren’t the streets a decent young woman should walk alone at night.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but agree with his appraisal. “Thank you. I’d like you to escort me to wherever I might find Master Judicant, if you’d be so kind, sir.”
Hopkins frowned. “Is this regarding the sketch I saw in your notebook?”
Whilst she was fairly certain he wasn’t involved, given his encouragement to look into the property at New Road, Magus Hopkins was still a Fellow of the Royal Society and so she had to tread carefully. But the connection between the sketch and her desire to see Master Judicant was so obvious, she would seem foolish to deny it. “It is. And I don’t wish to be rude, sir, but I cannot discuss this with you, being a Fellow of the Royal Society yourself.”
He adjusted his hat, patting it back into place after his exertions and extended his arm to her. She hesitated, wondering if it would be appropriate to accept. “I think any patrolling Peelers are far less likely to question my motives if we walk thus, Miss Gunn. And I assure you I have no inappropriate intentions towards you, especially as you are engaged to be married.”
She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and decided that if she didn’t walk as close to him as she did George, her conscience would be clear. “Do you know where to find him?”
They started walking. A carriage went past, then another. Charlotte looked at the magus, waiting for the answer. “Miss Gunn, I beg you to consider how it would appear if you went to Master Judicant with the drawing you have and . . . perhaps I’m being presumptuous . . . some rather serious allegations against a Fellow of the Royal Society.” When she didn’t deny it, he continued, “You are a young woman from a respectable household, granted, but your brother is currently going through the process of being tested.”
“My brother has absolutely nothing to do with this!”
“Gosh, you are so very protective of him, aren’t you? My dear Miss Gunn, I disagree. There is ample evidence already to suggest he is a Latent, and I am fairly certain that by the end of tomorrow he will have proven his potential. Imagine that you lodge a complaint against the Society at exactly the same time he is recruited. Don’t you think that could make things difficult for him?”
Charlotte frowned at the pavement. “It shouldn’t. He has done nothing wrong. It’s my duty to report what I’ve discovered! I cannot stay silent when people’s lives are at risk. Besides, surely Master Judicant will root out the evil within the Royal Society and the rest will be grateful that this has been exposed.”
“When what has been exposed?”
“Murder!”
As soon as she said it, Charlotte knew she’d made a mistake. His grip on her hand tightened in the crook of his arm and he stopped, forcing her to do so, too. “Miss Gunn, I am about to offer you some advice that you will not want to accept. I beg you to listen to me and even when you want to argue against it, to listen anyway. You must not go to Master Judicant and make these accusations.”
“But—”
“If you were to go there now, he would no doubt listen to you and he may believe you. You have formed a good impression upon him. But then should anything further escalate from your actions, you and your family will be at terrible risk. The Royal Society will close ranks and will seek to destroy your reputation. They will ask how you came to have such a drawing. I presume you were not shown this, but instead obtained the intelligence by . . . unorthodox means? Breaking and entering, perhaps?”
Charlotte’s cheeks burned and he nodded, satisfied. “But it should not matter, sir! What matters more is that people are dying and it has something to do with that mechanism, I know it! There’s some sort of . . . of—”
“Conspiracy?” he asked, gently. “My dear lady, there have been dozens of accusations of conspiracy levelled against the Royal Society over the years. Do you know how many have actually resulted in a prosecution?” At the shake of her head, he said, “None. Precisely zero. Even if you managed to make enough people believe you to investigate your claims, nothing, save the destruction of your reputation and most probably worse, will come of it.”
She turned to look at him properly, examining his face for any sign of deception. All she saw were sadness and concern. She could hardly trust her appraisal, though, for even now she couldn’t help but be swayed by his beauty. Was he telling the truth or merely trying to protect his own? She couldn’t remember any news about accusations against the Society; in fact, that was why she had been so interested in the man at Speaker’s Corner. No one ever said or printed anything like what he said. Now he was being prosecuted, rather than the Royal Society, as he had been insisting should happen.
Then the futility of her position hit her. As tears welled, she realised there was nothing to be done about evil people with the wealth, power and influence that a fellowship of the Royal Society bestowed upon them. She was nothing, a girl who secretly earned a paltry amount of money compared to theirs, waiting to marry a sensible man and be one of the millions trying to make a decent life in this harsh, unforgiving city. She had to hide what made her special, be it her artistic talent or the burden of her magical affinity, and neither could serve her here.
“But my father,” she whispered, looking down as the first tear broke free. “I must do something, or he will die! And others after him.”
What was she doing, standing on a street corner with a magus she barely knew, weeping in front of him? This simply wouldn’t do. She sniffed and tried to find a handkerchief, oscillating between despair and frustration. “If I can’t act,” she said, giving up on her search and using the back of her hand to wipe the tear away, “can’t you? You already suspect—”
“I’ve said far too much already,” Hopkins declared, starting off again and pulling her with him. “I think it’s best that we speak of something else, in fact. Tell me about your fiancé.”
“No. You knew the house I spoke of this afternoon was in New Road. You have suspicions, you can’t deny that.”
“Do you have a date for the wedding?” he asked cheerily, as if they were chatting over a cup of tea and a bun in some tearoom. “Waiting for the spring, perhaps? A spring wedding is such a delight, after all.”
“Stop mocking me, sir! I’m not some simpleton, happy to be distracted by talk of weddings and happy endings! I am talking about my father’s life and I am begging you for help!”
He stayed maddeningly silent, doing nothing except closing his left hand over hers in the crook of his elbow. When she tried to pull away, he held her hand tightly and practically marched her along the street. She looked for a Peeler, for anyone, but the street was empty save a stray dog sniffing in the gutter ahead.
“I understand the concern you have for your father, Miss Gunn,” he finally said, just as she was about to call out for help. “But I beg you to consider the fate of your brother.”
“Are you threatening—”
“No,” he said sharply. “Nothing of the sort. But if you act openly against any Fellow of the Society on the brink of your brother’s training, you will do nothing but encourage your enemy’s allies to make his life a misery. I do not envy your position, Miss Gunn, and I am not without sympathy. But I will not, I cannot, act against my fellow magi.”
They were only one street away from home now. She stopped pulling at her hand, allowing him to guide them across the road, hoping she could persuade him. “You refuse to act, even though people are being murdered?”
“There’s something you need to understand,” Hopkins said. “I am just as powerless as you are, Miss Gunn. You probably think me a despicable chap, unwilling to assist a helpless young lady in distress. And in some respects, I am. But you are not a helpless young lady. You are more resourceful than you want anyone to believe. Perhaps you have forgotten that. Perhaps you have started to believe your own lie about yourself. Either way, I urge you to consider what you can achieve, rather than what I refuse to
do.”
He stopped and she realised they’d reached the end of her road. He released her hand long enough for him to clasp hold of it and press his lips to her skin. The breath caught in her chest as he looked up at her, his lips still pressed against her hand for a moment that seemed to last far longer. She could only breathe again when he released her. Her toes were aching.
“I bid you good night, Miss Gunn. I will see you in the morning. May I suggest you remain at home, until then?”
She backed away and then ran to her house, desperate to get away from the way he made her feel. How could she be so furious with someone and yet so disarmed by a single kiss? Urgh! She hated herself almost as much as she hated him and his refusal to help. What a cowardly man, knowing what he did and refusing to do a single thing—
She stopped at the bottom of the steps, remembering what he had said when he first looked at the sketch of the mechanism. She was such a fool! She’d been so distressed by the fact that he’d seen it, that she hadn’t fully taken in what he was doing in. She unbuckled the satchel, pulled out the notebook and checked the drawing. There were the arrows he’d drawn! Whilst he was unwilling to expose what was happening, Magus Hopkins had given her a way to “render it harmless.” It would be enough to help her father in the short term whilst she worked out the best way to bring those men to justice without harming her brother.
Smiling, she looked for the magus at the end of the street, but he’d already gone. She was tempted to go back to the cage now, get it over with, but from what the men had said, it wouldn’t be in use until Friday. She had another night to go back and alter it, and she had to get some rest now. Tricking the magi was going to take all the energy she could muster; otherwise, her family’s fortunes were never going to change.
Chapter 10
THE NEXT MORNING, everyone was up bright and early, or rather just early in Charlotte’s case. If it weren’t for her nerves about the day ahead, she was sure she could have slept for hours longer.