Copper Cove

by Robert Dahlen

  “Well…”

  “There's tea. And possibly a biscuit or two.” Sophie winked.

  I rolled my eyes in mock annoyance. “Fine,” I said. “My arm has been properly twisted.”

  “Marvelous! Shall we?”

  I nodded and stood. I was glad to get more time with Sophie, but she seemed a little too eager to bring me to the Courant’s office. I hoped that it wasn't only for the interview, that maybe, just maybe, it was because she fancied me and wanted to spend more time with me.

  I'd been wrong before about these things. And it ended with my heart broken, every time.

  The Courant occupied a good-sized warehouse at the end of Workmans Lane. Most of the space was filled with the printing presses, the stable for delivery carriages and their horses, and the garage for the motorcars that were used for express deliveries, quick coverage of breaking stories, and picking up late dinners for the night shift. The newsroom took up most of one side, and was bustling with activity as Sophie and I arrived.

  The guard at the front desk, a troll of some years and much more muscle, looked askance at me as we walked up to him. “Friend of yours?” he grunted to Sophie.

  “Breaking story,” she said. “She’s here to be interviewed.”

  “Fine,” he said. “But if that weasel she’s carrying makes a mess, she cleans it up.” Sophie thanked him politely and headed into the newsroom; I restrained the urge to heap sarcasm on him as I followed.

  “My desk is over here,” Sophie said as she weaved through the newsroom.

  “The messy one?” I asked.

  Sophie laughed. “They’re all messy. It’s just a matter of figuring out whose mess is whose.”

  “Which mess is yours, then?”

  “The one that smells like takeaway fish and chips—”

  “Good afternoon, Sophronia.” I looked over at the middle-aged man with the spectacles propped up on his forehead. He squinted at me. “Is that the new copy boy?”

  “I beg your—” I started to say.

  “Alcroft!” Sophie said loudly. “Your spectacles!”

  He reached up to his forehead. “Oh! Right!” he said. “Forget my own name if I didn't write it down.” He pulled his spectacles onto his face and studied me carefully. “Not a copy boy,” he said. “So why is she here?”

  “Big story. There's been a murder.”

  “Someone famous?”

  “Chad Whitlock.”

  Alcroft whistled. “Your friend didn't do it, did she?”

  “She found the body,” Sophie said.

  “Oh dear. Must have been a fright. Interview?”

  “Exclusive. We agreed it would be anonymous.”

  “You ask the questions,” Alcroft said. “I'll tell the printer to hold for a new front page.” He sprinted off.

  The interview was shorter than I expected; Sophie already had some idea of my reaction, and knew better than to insert too many clues to my identity. “So what now?” I said as I stood.

  “I check with Alcroft,” Sophie said, “to see if he has anything else to add. Then we try to keep Jones from murdering everyone around her when we tell her that her profile of Lord Oakton is off page one—”

  “Haverford!” Sophie looked over at Alcroft, who pointed at her and the door to his office.

  As he walked off, Sophie glanced at me. “He didn't point at you, so…”

  “I had a feeling,” I said, trying not to pout.

  “It should only be for a few minutes. The kitchen’s next to Alcroft’s office if you want somewhere less messy to sit.”

  “Is there tea?”

  “Of a sort.” Sophie grinned. “See you in a bit.”

  The kitchen was clean, except for the parts where so much dirt and other filth had accumulated that no mortal could help. There was one other person in there, a man with so many ink stains you could fill your pen by running it along his overalls. “Hullo,” he said cheerfully. “New here?”

  “I'm waiting for someone,” I answered. “She shouldn't be long.”

  “Right. Care for a cuppa? There's some spare mugs over here.”

  He gestured at the vat on the counter. I recognized it as a smaller version of the ones they used at the Pot Perfected. “Is it any good?” I said hesitantly.

  “Oh Hell no. Pardon my language. But at least it's tea. And you know what they say about tea…”

  An idea struck me as he spoke. I touched the vat’s spigot with a fingertip and let my sensing work. “Do you happen to have a wrench?” I asked.

  “Right here.” He pulled one from his pocket. “But I don't think hitting it will help.”

  “We'll see.” I grinned.

  “What the devil did you do?” The man, whose name had turned out to be Clyde, sipped at his tea.

  “I fixed it.” I took a drink from my borrowed mug. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “Well, I adjusted the valves and the filter, but you really need a better class of tea. You should talk to someone about springing for it.”

  Clyde shook his head. “You know how some bosses are—”

  “Haverford!”

  I carried my mug to the doorway, peering out carefully. “What—” Clyde started to say; I shushed him.

  Sophie had marched out of Alcroft’s office. She was standing by a desk, looking down, clenching her fists. “How could you?” she said.

  “It's just a small delay,” Alcroft said. “The police just want us to wait until the next of kin are notified.”

  “He doesn't have any living relatives, Alcroft.”

  “Co-workers, then?”

  “Putnam is trying to cover this up.” Sophie looked at her editor, and I could see the anger in her face. “We can’t let him do it. We can’t set a precedent.”

  “It’ll just be until Monday’s edition,” Alcroft said. “Be patient for once!”

  “Patient?”

  “Not every story needs to be reported right away. We’ll still sell plenty of papers!”

  “The sales aren’t what’s supposed to matter,” Sophie said, biting back her fury. “The truth. The stories. That’s what matters, Alcroft.”

  She spun and ran out of the newsroom. “Haverford!” Alcroft shouted.

  “I’m going to do my job,” Sophie snapped. “I’ll be back.”

  Alcroft snorted and walked into his office, mumbling to himself as he closed the door behind him. “Those two fight all the time!” Clyde said with a chuckle.

  I nodded absently as the realization hit home. “I see,” I said as I set the mug on the counter.

  Clyde glanced at me. “Is everything all right?”

  “I…” I looked away. “I suppose I should go. Thank you for everything.” I avoided his gaze as I left the kitchen. I didn’t want him, or anyone, to see the sadness in my eyes, how heartsick I was that Sophie had gone off without me.

  No one approached me as I left the newsroom. The troll guard just glared at me as I passed. I walked out of the Courant building feeling beaten, numbed. I tried to push away the pain, the realization that Sophie didn’t want to be around me, that she had been just using me to get her story.

  Stories are what matter to her, I thought. I don’t. I’ve been a fool for thinking I ever could.

  I walked all the way to Henry’s Crossing, letting myself stew in disappointment and shame. I stopped there long enough to check for notes, but there weren’t any, and in any case I wasn’t in a mood for more tea. I needed something stronger.

  At the Crabby Kraken, I plowed through my fish and chips even though I didn’t feel like eating. I didn’t want to drink on an empty stomach. I then started my planned night of alcohol consumption with a elfin pear brandy before I ordered a pint. I tried to sip my ale slowly, as I was planning to wait until Neil showed up before I got really soused.

  I'd had lovers and suitors cast me aside before. Sometimes, it brought anger or even a bit of relief. But this one was tearing at my head and my heart the more I thought about it
. Sophie was amazing. I had come to think that she fancied me, that perhaps we had a chance to be something special. Knowing that she didn't care a fig about me was hurting, almost too strongly to bear.

  I gave up on trying to restrain myself. My ale mug was half full, and I finished it with one long careless swig.

  As I set my mug down, Darjeeling woke up and jumped off my shoulder to the table. I had saved her some chips, and I wordlessly slid them over to her. She ignored them and looked at me with big sad eyes. I reached over and scratched her between her ears, since it was the only thing I could do that kept me from crying. I was saving that for when I got home and could give in to my misery with no one else watching.

  The telephone rang. Thorton took the call, but most of what she said was drowned out by the Friday night ruckus. She hung up and walked over to me. “Miles?” she said.

  “Don’t tell me Neil’s skipping out,” I muttered.

  “It’s worse than that.”

  “What?”

  “That was your landlady on the phone. Someone’s broken into your flat.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. I jumped off my stool and threw some coins on the bar. “Let Neil know what happened when he shows up,” I said as I grabbed Darjeeling and hurried out of the pub.

  I ran all the way back to my flat, adrenalin pushing me past my weariness and sobering me up good and proper. Ms. Higgins was standing in front of my door when I got there. “Miles—” she started to say.

  “When did it happen?” I said. I looked past her at the door, and it seemed just fine, no cracks, no broken lock, no signs of a robbery.

  “It wasn’t your apartment,” Ms. Higgins said. “The bartender at the pub must have heard me wrong.”

  “What?”

  “Someone broke into your workshop.”

  My eyes widened. “Cogs and gears.”

  I darted up the stairs to the roof and the shed. I gasped when I saw the door. The wood around the lock was in shards and splinters, almost as if some beast had slashed through the door. Royce, a second cousin of Ms. Higgins who happened to be a carpenter, was inspecting the damage. “Your shed?” he said.

  “Right. What happened?”

  “See up there?” Royce pointed up towards the ceiling. There was a hole there, large enough for a troll to climb through. “Someone made themselves a door and jumped to the floor.”

  “Jumped?” I said. “I doubt it. They would have hurt themselves jumping that far.”

  “Maybe they climbed down, then. Goblins. They’re sneaky like that.” Royce scratched his head. “That don’t explain the door, though.”

  “What could?”

  “Well, Mr. Galvis from number 512 says he heard a weird sound on the roof before the break-in. Sounded like wings. Of course, that could’ve been his bottle of brandy talking.”

  I nodded. “Could I go in and see what was taken?”

  “Don’t see why not. I’m just replacing the door tonight. I’ll get to the roof tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” I stepped past him and into the shed. As I looked around, my heart sank.

  The workbench had been swept clean. The commission I’d been working on for the late Whitlock, the blueprints he’d given me - all gone. A quick glance, however, showed that my tools and equipment were still there, as was, to my faint relief, my secret project.

  I sat down hard by my workbench and rested my head in my hands. I had worked so hard on that commission. Now it was gone. The money I had invested from my savings was gone. Even the blueprint…

  My head sprung up as I remembered what Darjeeling had found in the alley. I dug into my pocket and pulled out the copy I had made of the blueprint. Maybe there was something I could salvage out of this. I unfolded it and set it on the table in front of me.

  There was something odd about it, and I couldn’t place it at first. Then my eyes fell on one corner, and the craftmark there - not mine, but two “J”s next to each other, the one on the right reversed. It wasn’t my blueprint. It was Jacob Jenkinson’s.

  I puzzled over the blueprint for a moment. It was for the harness I had seen in his workshop, and I noticed that the rear had four brackets, two in each strap. I wasn’t sure what it was for…

  And I remembered that the two pieces of my commission had tabs that could fit in the brackets. Whitlock had hired me and Jenkinson, through Rostall, to work on commissions, and they were to be assembled together. And if I had been burglarized, and Whitlock killed…

  I gasped as I realized I had to warn Jenkinson. He could be in danger.

  Darjeeling looked up at me. “You need to stay here, my sweet,” I told her. “This could be dangerous. I don’t you to get hurt.” I bent down, kissed her nose and scratched her between her ears. She bumped my hand with her head before she ran over to the wall and climbed up into the rafters. I blinked a tear away as I left my workshop, rushing toward Jenkinson’s.

  I had to dip further into my savings to pay for the cab to Jenkinson’s house, but that didn’t matter to me. He didn’t have a telephone, so this was the only way to get to him and give him a warning. He wouldn’t appreciate it, I suspected, but I’d deal with that when the time came.

  It was starting to get dark when I reached the old barn. I dug into my pocket and pulled out one of those small portable lamps that the Double-C crafts. I flicked a switch on its side, and while the light it gave off wasn’t too bright, I could see that the barn door was ajar.

  I had to fight away my misgivings as I swung the door open, as quietly as I could. In the lamp’s light I saw the workbench in the center of the shop, and the person slumped in his seat there, his back to me.

  I walked over to the bench and set the lamp down. I took the person by the shoulder, turning him to one side. I gasped, barely managing not to scream again.

  I could only hope that Jenkinson’s death had been swift and painless. His throat had been cut, not a clean slash but a wide, jagged tear. Blood covered the table in front of him. Oh Gods, I thought. Oh, Jacob. You didn’t deserve this.

  His body was warm, and I realized that the killer might still be nearby. I had to get away in case they were after me. Or, were they moving on to someone else? Who would their next target be?

  A chill ran down my spine. If they knew or found out that Rostall had hired me, and most likely Jenkinson, he might be next. I had to get to him before it was too late.

  I stopped at the pub near Jenkinson’s place and used their telephone to call the police, reporting what happened anonymously. They tried to get more details, but I hung up and left quickly. If the killer was after Rostall, there was no time to waste.

  Thankfully, the dwarven neighborhood wasn’t far away, and the cab ride didn’t cost me the rest of my cash. I was able to ride in silence and think about what lay ahead. What if I was too late to warn Rostall? He was a tough old dwarf, and even with his condition he would fight until his last breath, but the killer seemed ruthless. All I could do was hope I’d get there in time and get him to safety—a police station, maybe even a pub, somewhere public.

  I had the cab drop me a block away from Rostall’s house. As the horses pulled the carriage away, everything was quiet except for the flapping of distant wings. I moved silently along the street, stopping across from my mentor’s place. My heart sank when I saw the door was open. I hurried inside.

  Rostall was in his favorite chair, across from the door. There was a horrible bloody gash across his chest, his crafter’s robe ruined. Somehow he was still breathing, and I could see great pain and terror in his eyes. “Miles?” he said faintly. “The train...you have to warn them…”

  “Don’t try to talk.” I rushed to his side, grabbing a blanket from the couch. I slapped it on his chest, trying to stem the bleeding. “You’ll be all right,” I said, trying to reassure both of us.

  “The wings,” he muttered. “Those beautiful wings. The train. Danger. Poor Genny.”

  “You shouldn’t talk.” I pressed carefully but firmly on
his chest.

  “They—” Rostall coughed up a bit of blood. “They promised me arm bracers. To—to fix my condition. I should never—”

  “Get away from him!”

  Two pairs of hands grabbed my arms and pulled me back. I saw two policemen kneeling by Rostall. “He’s in bad shape,” one said. “Lost some blood.”

  “Haskell! Get an ambulance!” One of the policemen straightened up, nodded and ran out. Putnam walked up to me and said, “You have a bit of explaining to do, Miles.”

  “I didn’t do it!” I shouted. “I got here and found him like this!”

  “Killer’s remorse? Did you have an argument? Did you slash him and regret it?”

  “No! I was trying to help him!”

  “Some help.” Hutchins, in a corner of the room, pulled a bloody pocket knife out from under a chair and brought it over.

  “It’s not mine!” I said.

  “Really?” Putnam glanced at the knife’s handle. My craftmark, the T atop the M, was engraved there.

  I gasped. “It—it was stolen from my workshop! Someone broke into it earlier tonight!”

  “A likely story. Take her to the station for questioning.”

  “Wait—”

  “And put the cuffs on her. We can’t take any chances.” Putnam smiled.

  The other officers, without any gentleness, pulled my arms behind my back. I felt the chilling pinch as the handcuffs were slapped on my wrists. The officers flanked me, each grabbing an arm, and led me out the front door of Rostall’s house to the waiting police carriage.

  My face was a fierce red as I tried and failed to avoid the stares of the crowd that had gathered outside. I was pushed into the carriage, and I bowed my head in shame and anger and disbelief as we set off.

  At the police station, I was forced to empty my pockets, placing everything in a small box. They yanked the hat off my head, and laughed at my discomfort. I could hear them joking about how I dress, asking if I were a girl who thought she was a boy, or the other way around.

  They locked me in an interrogation room, my hands still cuffed behind my back, strapped in a wooden chair. There was no food or water. The lamp in there was set to shine down directly on me, leaving me dehydrated.