Bloody Business

by Ash, C. B.

  "Well, that being the case, he did give us this tidbit of data to go on," Thorias held out the small brass valve for the others to see. "But a clue is a clue, I suppose."

  Rodney reached out with a hand for it, the paused, "May I?"

  "Certainly," Thorias replied. "I've completed what investigations I can into the device."

  Rodney gingerly picked up the valve and studied it intensely. "It's a pressure safety valve," he said after only a moment's study.

  The doctor chuckled, "Precisely, lad, and it only took me the better part of a day to fully realize what you've uncovered in a few seconds. However, the next trick would be determining what it's a pressure safety valve for, given it was found in the chest of an unfortunate victim?"

  "I ... well ... it's based on a boiler safety valve ... " Rodney said after a moment, then lapsed into a confused silence while he studied the valve for any clue as to its intended purpose.

  "My conclusion also," Thorias admitted with a small wave of a hand towards Rodney's puzzled expression.

  Moira looked confused, "I don' understand?"

  Thorias took a drink of his stout, then set the pint down on the table. "While that bit of brass Rodney's holding is indeed a very tiny pressure safety valve, I haven't the first, faint clue as to what it, or any others like it, would be doing implanted inside anyone. What pressure would they regulate? I can't think of what would generate quite that much pressure naturally in a body."

  Suddenly, Moira set her drink down on the table and searched her pockets. Finally, she located a small, folded piece of stained linen. She unwrapped it and placed the small gear on the table in front of Rodney. The metal of the gear glinted cleanly in the light from the window. He set down the tiny pressure valve and looked at Moira curiously.

  "Other than being one of the thinnest herrin'bone gears I've ever seen, I was wonderin' if ya knew of a good use for it?" Moira folded her arms across her chest, watching Rodney consider, then look down at the gear with an intense expression in his eyes.

  Finally, Rodney picked up the gear and studied it. "Being a herringbone tooth design, typically I'd assume it's for use aboard a ship or a larger steam engine. However, it's very thin in comparison to the ones I'm used to seeing. Something this size," he hesitated, turning the gear that was as large around as a person's fist over in his hands, "might just barely fit an opti-telegraphic. It would definitely be useful in an automata servitor. Although, it would be quite an unusual servitor."

  "How do you mean?" Hunter asked curiously.

  Rodney shrugged and set the gear down on the table. "Well the size, for one thing. It'd have to be large, larger than the message owls, or even the servitors used for scribing copies of manuscripts."

  Hunter reviewed a memory in his head, specifically what Hiram had written in his journal about the contents of a hidden crate. "Would you say, similar in size to perhaps a dog? Like an Irish setter?"

  The young man considered the idea a moment, then nodded, "Indeed. About that size, yes."

  Moira glanced over at Captain Hunter, "Ya've got somethin' in mind, Cap'n, what is it?"

  "I've little doubt that Detective MacTaggart will get more information from Dr. Belker, however, I'm less convinced it will be at all useful in tracking down William's whereabouts," Hunter replied. "I asked about the dog, as Hiram mentioned a dog with an artificial, metal leg."

  "The gear would be the correct size to fit in a mechanical leg, but it would have to be a leg for a person or a rather stout dog," Rodney interjected.

  It was Hunter's turn to nod, "Precisely what I wondered. You see, the gear was one of a handful found alongside Miss Newt's cart at the cattle market. In his journal, Hiram wrote about a hidden cache he found at the south end of Leith Docks, where he found along with some glass bottles the dog I just mentioned. Someone was blackmailing him to keep him quiet about the cache and one of the dead victims he found, while at the same time forcing him to watch over that hidden cache location."

  "So, Miss Newt might have had some contact with the same people that blackmailed Hiram?" Thorias asked aloud to confirm his suspicions.

  "Not just that," Moira said quickly, "Tell 'em what ya told me, Rodney. About that night and what Allison saw."

  As all eyes looked to Rodney, the young inventor turned a shade of bright pink from the direct attention. Glancing around at the others, he cleared his throat with a shy smile, "Well, as I was telling Miss Wycliffe earlier, Allison and I were conducting tests of a new type of opti-telegraphic. One that can send, receive, and to a lesser extent store, imagery. To make a long story brief, Allison was using one late in the evening when she observed two figures carrying a large bundle - a carpet she said - out in the dead of night. She said she was going to show me using our modified device, but ... I accidentally broke mine. I've no idea if she took the image or not."

  Thorias shook his head in disbelief as suddenly several disparate pieces began to settle into place. "If the figures carrying the carpet were also the same people who purchased the gears from Miss Newt, as well as being the same ones who were blackmailing Hiram - that would explain Miss Newt's kidnapping."

  "Also it explains why Hiram was so agitated when I asked after Miss Newt," Hunter added thoughtfully. "She sold those specialized gears, and Hiram knew it. He would've recognized them right off, and likely theorized as we did over the body of the dog." At a sudden revelation, Hunter sat back, the wood of his chair squeaking in protest. "Fire and damnation, that's it! If we take it for certain that Miss Newt both sold the gears to the very same people that blackmailed Hiram, then wound up witnessing the same individuals carrying off a carpet with what may have been a body or more items for the hidden cache, that would explain more than just her kidnapping. Far more. Poor girl is merely the catalyst."

  At the confused looks around the table, Hunter continued, "They steal the girl and take her opti, however, they don't know who she might have been talking to over it. An opti has no means to expose the last person contacted. Therefore, to find out whom that might have been, naturally, they would go to someone that Miss Newt may have spoken with."

  Moira's eyes widened in surprise, "People she bought and sold parts to and ... oh hell ... her friends and people she knew."

  "Quite," The captain replied. "Likely associates would be Hiram, and we know of her friends ... Miss Olivander and Rodney here. Fortunately, Miss Olivander is upstairs, being watched by a constable. However, through Miss Olivander would follow an association with Mrs. Carpenter. Mrs. Carpenter was attacked once in the Grassmarket, which William put an end to, then later at her boarding house, which Hiram tried to prevent but lost his life in the process. Now, Miss Olivander was likewise attacked, which we interrupted right as soon as it began. Those two were the Irishmen, Conor and Liam, who both match - roughly - what Dr. Belker babbled on about at the cemetery." Hunter paused for a moment to make sure everyone was still following his train of thought. No one interrupted, or appeared confused, so the captain pushed on.

  "I'm convinced Conor and Liam were the two that attacked Detective MacTaggart and myself at Hiram's boat, just as I'm convinced they may have been the ones who attacked Mrs. Carpenter." The captain admitted.

  "By heaven, they're 'resurrection men'," Thorias said in utter amazement. "Its the West Port murders all over again, just for that damnable bloody business of selling corpses." He then frowned at a new thought, "Ah, but wait, there's more, isn't there? They are not just working for themselves, they've an employer."

  "Yes, another doctor according to Dr. Belker," Hunter confirmed. "That would be their actual employer. Someone who also would be quite focused on locating who Miss Newt had spoken with about what she saw."

  Rodney, who had long since drawn the conclusion that his life was very much in jeopardy, had turned a faint pale. "They can just sell whom they kill to make them quietly go away."

  "Quite possible," Hunter admitted. "If their employer doesn't use them for that ghastly project."

 
Moira, who had been sitting mostly still through the entire explanation, finally spoke up, frustration evident in her voice, "I understand it all, and while I'm wantin' to go hunt down them two Irishmen and drag 'em by their heels to the constables myself, how does knowin' all this get us any closer to findin' William?"

  "By giving us an idea of how far they are likely to travel in pursuit of their grisly duties," Hunter replied. "We know Conor and Liam are gathering victims for their employer. Of late, they are cleaning up a threat to the entire operation that began with Miss Newt innocently testing the new opti on which she and Rodney here were working. Now, they seem to be preying on the inhabitants of West Port and Grassmarket. Yet bodies, for the most part, have been found near the Leith Docks or near Grassmarket."

  Thorias frowned in thought, "Anyone carrying a body, even at night, would be quite conspicuous. They dare not take anything like that very far. Even if by wagon, they'd risk a chance of being seen when the wagon's unloaded."

  "Exactly my thought as well," Hunter agreed.

  "So if they've not been caught doin' this so far, they're takin' them to and from someplace close to both here and Leith?" Moira asked.

  "It would make the most sense," the doctor replied. "It would have to be far north of here." He hesitated with a glance to Hunter, "or someplace where regular shipments could come and go with little suspicion. A business lax enough that a wagon could be borrowed without anyone raising a fuss."

  "Any of the wagons could have been borrowed from the factories north of the Queen Street Gardens," Hunter said, half to himself and half to the group. "Which explains why Conor and Liam work for Gilbert Monkhouse. They would have completely unrestricted access to any wagon there." The captain glanced around at the others sitting at the table. "It's very likely Will is being held among those factories. Quite likely with the others, as well. If that irritating man, Monkhouse, keeps any sort of accurate records as to the coming and going of his equipment, we might could discern a pattern."

  "If he lets us see it," Moira said grimly. "Last time, ya didn't exactly part on good terms."

  Brian, the tavern owner, cleared his throat as he approached the table. The broad-shouldered man looked quite put out at having to be there. "Cap'n Hunter? There be a lady – an Anita Monkhouse – that wishes to be havin' a word or two. Ah told her she could be walkin' over herself, but," the man hesitated, then continued, "the lady by the door wished herself to be introduced." He said with much overemphasis on 'lady' and 'introduced'. It was apparent to all that Brian's patience had just been sorely tried by the newcomer.

  Anthony turned in his seat to look over his shoulder at the front door of the tavern. In the doorway stood a lady dressed in a fine white blouse, a wine colored skirt with matching vest, gloves and a wide hat that didn't quite conceal her long locks of dark blonde hair. She looked around the tavern with no small amount of distaste, as though she were uncomfortable to even breathe the air.

  Moira leaned over to look around both Brian and Captain Hunter. "Looks like a fussy sort. Wonder what she wants?"

  "She looks uncomfortable," Rodney commented.

  Moira gave Rodney a look, "Ever try and wear a corset along with the rest of that? Bound all up like a wrapped goose from market, you'd look unhappy too."

  "Ah, a socialite," Thorias said disdainfully after a brief glance towards the door. "Anthony, if you need an assist, don't fear to run up a signal flag. We won't be far away."

  With a sigh, Anthony slid back from the table and stood up. He brushed out the worst of the wrinkles from his shirt, adjusted his sleeves, then tossed his long coat over one arm. “Thank you, Sirrah, I’ll deal with whatever she’s about.”

  With a near-wordless grumble, Brian turned away and walked back to the pub’s bar, muttering. “She coulda walked ten feet over to that table her own self, but no, there had ta be ‘introductions’. Took her longer to be walkin’ over to ask me, then march herself back to the door.”

  Hunter ignored the man’s grousing and walked over to the lady at the front door, “Begging your pardon, Madam, you must be Mrs. Monkhouse? I’m Captain Anthony Hunter.”

  Mrs. Monkhouse daintily held out a gloved hand. “Why, Captain Hunter, yes, Ah’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” She replied with only the barest hint of a Scottish accent. “Ah do believe we’ve rather much to discuss.”

  Chapter 27

  Captain Hunter glanced around the White Hart Tavern's common room and selected one of the nearby tables. "Please, if you would?" he asked, gesturing toward an empty chair.

  “Certainly,” Mrs. Monkhouse replied, walking gracefully to where Hunter pointed. Her general demeanor suggested an air of importance, perhaps even self-importance. She smiled politely enough, almost pleasantly, but with the glint in her eyes, she could not quite conceal the icy look of distaste for her surroundings.

  Hesitating a step as the manners and etiquette from his younger days came back to him, Anthony walked over and pulled out a chair for Mrs. Monkhouse.

  She paused, regarding the chair with a mild contempt, then eventually lowered herself into it with a very soft and resigned sigh. "Thank you, Captain," she said. Her polite yet stiff smile returned, almost pleasant but not quite.

  Anthony reciprocated her smile with a similar one of his own before walking around the table to the opposite side. After dropping his coat into a free chair next to him, he nodded to the barmaid.

  "Changin' dance partners, Cap'n?" Mary said saucily as she walked up.

  When Hunter shot a sour look her way, Mary cleared her throat, "Oh, uhm, right. A couple of stouts for ye both, then?"

  "Tea," Mrs. Monkhouse said flatly in her mild Scottish accent. She never so much as glanced at Mary.

  "A stout and some tea, then," Mary replied, slightly flustered. Before any more could be said, she hastily retreated from the table.

  Hunter looked at Mrs. Monkhouse, then idly tapped the table a moment with a gloved, clockwork finger. He could hear the muffled click of gears as they turned in response to the movement. "So, Mrs. Monkhouse,” he asked, “just what did you need to speak to me about?"

  Anita Monkhouse sat forward a bit in her chair, straightened her spine, and said, "Ah've come to speak with you about a personal matter. It involves my husband. Ah do believe you two have spoken?”

  The captain's features darkened slightly: the memory of the unpleasant man was still fresh. He answered, "Yes, we most certainly have. Once.”

  "Yes, well, it's that conversation Ah'm here to speak with you about. How shall Ah put this delicately?" Mrs. Monkhouse thought a moment, a small frown furrowing her brow. "That discussion troubled my husband greatly. He's a man of great passion, you see.”

  A dozen words leaped to Hunter's mind to describe his opinion on where Gilbert Monkhouse's passions actually lay. None, though, were suitable to repeat in a lady's presence. He instead responded diplomatically.

  "Hmm, indeed?"

  Mrs. Monkhouse implored, "Captain, please don't judge my husband too harshly. He has worked slavishly to build what he has now."

  "On the broken backs of honest men and women, that is," Hunter replied, almost a bit too sharply. Mrs. Monkhouse sat back slightly, a look of surprise on her face.

  The captain took a deep breath to regain control of his temper. "Mrs. Monkhouse, while I am certain your husband has worked very hard to build his textile business, I have personal issues with some of his, shall we say, methods towards his workers. In regards to the conversation he and I shared, it centered around one particular worker, or now former worker.”

  Mrs. Monkhouse blinked but quickly regained her previous composure. "Oh, the Olivander girl," she interjected quickly. "Yes, he was ... hmm ... distraught over the whole matter, Ah assure you.”

  "He referred to them in much the same manner a farmer would recount tales of his cattle, Madam," Anthony said icily. "Miss Olivander included.”

  "Well, yes, his choice of words often isn't what it should be. However, that
isn't precisely what Ah've come to talk with you about," Mrs. Monkhouse said earnestly. "Please pardon me, but Ah did ask after you and was much pleasantly surprised to find that you are well-respected and quite dependable in what you do, what with your business of shipping cargo, that is."

  She interlaced her gloved hands on the table. "Ah thought perhaps we could engage in business. You see, we have begun to ship regularly to London, Berlin, and the Americas. Ah understand this will seem rather strange, me speaking for my husband in matters of business, but the man does all he can. He leaves some of the business arrangements, such as trade and transport, to my care,”

  "I see," Hunter replied cautiously. "That sounds to be a most lucrative trade route, if one was a party to it.”

  Mrs. Monkhouse smiled. "So you see the possibilities ahead, then? Just capital. Ah've taken the liberty of arranging the papers; we could later today to meet to sign and 'seal the deal,’ as my husband would say. Then you could begin shipping for us as early as tomorrow. Of course, that's after you apologize for the episode in the factory, being that it was just a misunderstanding and all." She finished with a light chuckle. "Just to keep good relations between business partners, of course!”

  “Mrs. Monkhouse, I’m sorry, but I’m currently already engaged in looking for … “ Hunter suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair, his face dark and terrible as a thunderstorm striking shore. "Wait. I don't believe I heard you right, Madam. Apologize? I am to ... apologize?”

  Mrs. Monkhouse, taken aback at the captain's reaction, blinked. "Why, of course,” she said. “Gilbert was horribly hurt and insulted by your attitude, especially over the subject.”

  "The 'subject' is a young girl, a living being," Anthony corrected with a dangerous snarl in his voice. "One that was horribly abused, I might add.”

  "Captain! Please, calm yourself!" Mrs. Monkhouse said in alarm, "I understand the nature of sailors and their dalliances, especially with this Olivander girl being rather comely for one of her station, I suppose. If you prefer to see that her needs are met until your next proper visit to her as part of our business dealing, we can arrange that. However, try and understand the level of grievance a man of my husband's station has suffered from your insult. An apology would be only proper.”