Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium

by Robert Rodgers

  It was an orange that Count Orwick now worked upon, peeling it with great relish. Miss Primrose could not prevent herself from shifting uncomfortably in her chair; the Count had a way of making you pity his breakfast.

  "A clever trick," Count Orwick observed, finishing the orange with calm delight. "Disabling the calculation engines to prevent them from resetting."

  "Mr. Daffodil was instrumental in both the realization and execution of the plan," Miss Primrose explained. "I have requested in my report that he be recognized for—"

  "Done," Count Orwick said, waving his hand dismissively.

  "Mr. Daffodil will be taking over the Steamwork, filling in for the now-deceased Mr. Eddington. He will be instituting the very same plan that Mr. Copper had proposed—wiring all calculation engines together so we may prevent these sort of financial disasters in the future."

  "That brings me no small degree of comfort."

  "Of course. The next order of business, please."

  "Just a matter of clarification," Miss Primrose said. "We wanted to know exactly where you were during these recent, ah, events."

  "Mr. Peabody foresaw my interference and sought to eliminate me as a potential threat. He poisoned me shortly before launching his insidious plan's final stroke," Count Orwick said.

  "You were poisoned?" Miss Primrose said. "But then, how did you—"

  "Poison is a regular occupational hazard in my profession. I carry several different antidotes on my person at all times," Orwick said. "It was a simple matter to ferret out which poison Mr. Peabody had employed. Although he had done well to hide his true loyalties from me, I knew him enough to realize he would choose his instrument of murder on the basis of absurd irony."

  "He poisoned you with hemlock," Miss Primrose said.

  Orwick's smile grew several sizes larger. "Indeed."

  "But, ah," Miss Primrose said, hesitating. "Sir, there is no cure for hemlock."

  "Oh, yes," Count Orwick agreed. "That is what those botany books say, isn't it?"

  Miss Primrose fell silent for quite a while.

  "If that is all, Miss Primrose—your check is, as they say, in the mail."

  "That's it, then?"

  "There is still the matter of Mr. Peabody's accomplices, and the matter of Professor Hemlock himself, as well as the damage this whole affair has done to our already lagging economy—but yes, Miss Primrose. As far as you are concerned, that is 'it'."

  Orwick paused, then added with a wickedly gleeful smile: "Unless, of course, I could interest you in a job. Mr. Peabody did leave a rather unfortunate vacancy."

  The speed with which Miss Primrose left Count Orwick's room could not be described with any term besides legendary.

  ~*~

  Snips waited for her outside of Count Orwick's office.

  Above them, the morning airships swept up into the sky to peddle their wares. Below, marketplaces buzzed with life; steam-driven devices hummed as they trudged down the streets. Over, under, and through it all, the trains began to move—pumping equal parts prosperity and corruption through the city's brass-lined veins.

  Miss Primrose noticed a growing pile of discarded bandages at Snips' feet. The thief was unraveling the wrappings that Orwick's men had put on her.

  "That is not particularly wise, Miss Snips."

  "Probably not."

  Miss Primrose stepped forward. Rather than press on with her complaint, she thought it over, and reached to up to unwind the bandage that had been placed over her own forehead.

  "Count Orwick could likely have been convinced to grant you some manner of reward," Miss Primrose said as she folded the bandage up. "You have gone above and beyond the call of duty, Miss Snips. Perhaps you should seek audience with him."

  "I don't want to encourage him," Snips said. "I hate his type. He wants to control everything. Maybe he's the best person for the job; maybe he should control everything. But it still ticks me off."

  "Hm. I think that I might be starting to understand your point of view," Miss Primrose admitted.

  Snips sighed. "Listen—don't get any wrong ideas. It was fun, but I just wanted to get that devil off my back."

  "I see. I imagine, then, that you would never consider coming to work with me."

  Snips looked at Miss Primrose. "Huh?"

  "I've begun to think that the Watts Detective Agency could do with a little illegitimacy," Miss Primrose admitted. And then she waggled her eyebrows.

  "You're—are you serious?"

  "Quite."

  Snips laughed. "One condition."

  "Name it, Miss Snips."

  "No more 'Miss'. Just Snips."

  "As you wish, Snips." Miss Primrose said. "Don’t you have somewhere to be?"

  "Yeah," Snips said. "I’ve got an appointment with a mummy." She made a face.

  ~*~

  William stared with slack-jawed shock at the smoldering wreckage of Napsbury Asylum.

  A hole had been torn through the side of the facility; behind it lay a rubble-strewn path occasionally interrupted either by a bruised and groaning asylum inmate or a dazed looking feline dressed in smart formal attire.

  William followed the path for as long as he dared; when he realized where it was going, he turned and hunted down the first doctor he could find.

  "My grandmother," he said, pinning an elderly physician to the wall. "What did she do?!"

  "D-Daffodil?" the gentleman stammered, wheezing. "We couldn't stop her! She was like—she was a demon! She was atop of some monstrous, mechanical thing—"

  "But that's impossible," William said. "How could she have powered it?! There's nothing here to run a machine on—nothing but potatoes and—"

  He cut himself off as he felt something brush up against his feet. Looking down, he caught sight of Mr. Snugglewuggums; the feline in the tophat and monocle busily purred and shoved his face against William's ankle.

  It was then that William noticed the smell of singed fur mixed with fried potatoes. He reached down and touched Mr. Snugglewuggums' head. Immediately, a burst of electricity crackled up from between the cat's ears, shocking William's fingertip.

  "It couldn't be," William said. "She couldn't have—"

  Sensing his distraction, the doctor used the moment to slip away from William. Rather than pursue the man and continue with his interrogation, William turned back toward the path of destruction and followed it to its source. When he arrived at his grandmother's room, he found the blueprints for the machine underneath her pillow.

  The paper described an immense ambulatory engine powered on one side by a cauldron of potatoes and on the other side by a barrel full of static-generating cats. A stick-figured version of Mrs. Daffodil sat at the engine's helm, beside what William assumed was Mr. Brown and Mr. Wanewright.

  Mr. Snugglewuggum meowed. William carefully folded up the designs and placed them in his pocket, then reached down and pulled the cat up into his arms. As he carried the feline to the door, William started to twitch.

  By the time he left the room, the twitch had become a spasm; by the time he reached the asylum's exit, the spasm had become a giggle.

  By the time he was walking down the street, the giggle had become a genuine mad cackle.

  ~*~

  "He has been expecting you," Starkweather said, leading Snips into Nigel's study.

  "I bet he has," Snips replied.

  Starkweather waited by the door until Nigel waved him away.

  "Can I help you, Arcadia?" Nigel asked, pressing his bandage-wrapped hands together.

  "You already did."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You meddled," Snips said, her voice like a frost drenched dagger.

  Nigel spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "And exactly how did you reach that conclusion...?"

  "Peabody. Even if he hadn't said what he did, there was no reason for him to keep me alive back on the train. Not unless you cut him a deal."

  "I see. And what if I did? My actions may have saved your
life."

  "Maybe," Snips said. "No, not maybe. Definitely."

  "And so you came here to reprimand me, then? For

  'meddling'?"

  "No," Snips said, her eyes drifting to the jars that lined the shelves of his study—as if the answers to her questions could be found among the preserved remains of extinct species. "No, I didn't come here to reprimand you. But I didn't come here to thank you, either. I'm not sure what I came here for. I just wanted you to know that I know. And that it doesn't change anything."

  "Why would I think otherwise?"

  "I don't know," Snips said, shaking her head. "Look, what do you want from me? Do you want me to to forgive you? On behalf of the thousands upon thousands you've killed? Do you want me to give you a big, warm hug? Put on a dress, act like a

  'good daughter'? Do you want me to come back home?"

  "Are any of those things on the table, Arcadia?"

  "No," she said, and there was a murderous force behind the word. "No. None of those things are on the table."

  "Good," Nigel said.

  "Good?"

  "Good," he repeated. "As for your question, I will answer it, in exchange for you answering one of my own."

  Snips glared, but nodded. "Go ahead."

  "Why do you hate me?"

  "You're a murderer."

  Nigel snorted. "Have I killed anyone you knew? Have I killed someone close to you? Your hatred is far too intimate for the callous scorn we heap upon killers and tyrants."

  Snips shook her head. "Do you know what it was like, growing up and admiring you? Reading the articles about all the wonderful things you'd done, the wonderful things you built?

  Hearing all the stories? Wanting to be like you?"

  Nigel grew silent.

  "And then do you know what happened, Nigel? I ran away to find you. I ran away to meet the man I had read about in newspapers and scientific journals; I ran away to find the kindly, brilliant philanthropist. And do you know what I found?"

  Nigel turned his head away.

  "I found a man who had murdered thousands in the name of moral righteousness. A man who cloaked himself in shadows and secrets; who manipulated others as if they were mere tokens in a grand game. I went out to find my father. Instead, I found you."

  "And that's why I hate you, Nigel. Maybe it's spiteful.

  Maybe it's unfair. But I really don't care. I hate you because you aren't the man you were supposed to be."

  "And so that's what all this is about?" Nigel asked, turning back to Snips. "The cheap hat, the dirty coat, the silver tooth? Just a little girl rebelling against a father who failed to live up to her expectations?"

  Snips was upon him in an instant. Her hands seized either of his wrists, pinning them to the chair; Nigel writhed in pain, but did not cry out.

  "You know that's not what this is about," Snips hissed, leaning forward into him. "You damn well know that."

  "Arcadia," Nigel whimpered. "Pl-please—"

  Snips released him, stepping back. Nigel coughed, rubbing his wrists.

  "What I did with my life has nothing to do with you, Nigel."

  Nigel wheezed and straightened back in his chair, slowly recovering. "You answered my question, so I will answer yours.

  You wanted to know what I want. It is only this: For you to flourish."

  "Why?"

  "Because you are my daughter."

  "No," Snips replied. "I'm not your daughter. And you sure as hell aren't my father." She turned, moving toward the exit.

  "Didn't you hear? My father is dead. He died in a fire."

  ~*~

  When she met him at the Steamwork, Snips insisted on going in first; William patiently waited outside of Mr. Eddington’s office until he heard her shout out to him.

  "All right," she told him. "Come on in."

  When he stepped inside, he was confronted with the familiar scene of his previous employer’s belongings. But then he noticed that the bookcase on one side of the room had been shifted over, revealing a hidden passageway that dived deep into the Steamwork. Straightening with surprise, he crept forward and peeked down the stairway.

  Snips’ voice arose from below. "Come on, William," she shouted. "I’m waiting."

  William took the stairs one step at a time. As he did so, he felt his throat clench; he did not know why, but he felt as if he was on the verge of something familiar.

  The air was heavy and wet, ripe with age; whorls of dust were whipped up with every step. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard a gentle click and electric hum; light after light flickered on, revealing to him a sprawling laboratory of marvels long lost to time.

  His mouth went dry.

  Snips stood behind one of the tables, smiling at him. For the first time that he had seen, she wore the expression without a hint of malice or contempt; it was the smile of someone who was sincerely happy.

  "Welcome to your parents' laboratory.”

  ~*~

  Starkweather dipped his hands in the basin, washing them clean of blood. His scarf had been removed, leaving the metal bolts in the side of his neck exposed.

  "Fascinating," Nigel spoke, leaning forward in his wheel chair to inspect the figure who lay upon the table. "The sheer number of his scars is daunting. And now his missing eye... No wonder the man sought to numb himself with drugs. He must be in constant physical pain."

  Mr. Starkweather and Nigel Arcanum discuss the current situation while the rescued assassin rests.

  "I would not think you would find the matter of another's scars to be fascinating," Starkweather coldly rebuffed him, finishing his work at the sink. "In any matter, his wounds have been tended to, and the grafts completed. He will survive."

  "Yes, yes," Nigel said, sounding distracted. The assassin was stretched across a slab of iron beneath the Arcanum estate, stripped of his clothing and eyepatch. His injuries had been grievious, but a quick intervention had brought him underneath the cryptozoologist's care. "Your steady hands and my sharp mind have provided a second chance for our little friend."

  "I find it surprising that your minions managed to accomplish the task of bringing him here without incident,"

  Starkweather confessed. "So far, they have proven themselves otherwise incompetent."

  "I could not disagree more," Nigel said. "Why, armed only with my instructions, Mr. Tongue and Mr. Cheek singlehandedly prevented the collapse of Aberwick's banks while simultaneously maintaining their cover as instruments of Mr. Peabody and the Society."

  Starkweather raised an eyebrow, finishing at the sink. "Oh?

  And yet the newspapers report that it was Mr. Daffodil's quick thinking that accomplished this task."

  "As it should be. I will allow the boy his well-deserved accolades; he provided a clever solution to a problem he was unaware had already been addressed," Nigel said. "I knew of what the Society had planned for Aberwick's financial district since I first investigated Hemlock's mysterious attacks against the banks. I sent my dear creations out to each of the banks a day prior, placing account exploits of my own to counter Mr. Peabody's."

  Starkweather's never-ending scowl only deepened. "Why did you not inform your daughter of this from the beginning? Why the duplicity?"

  "If I had told her that I had plans to diffuse the situation, she would have left the matter alone," Nigel said. "And if I had asked her to investigate it, she would have refused. Instead, I presented her with a mystery and allowed her to draw her own conclusion."

  "But why?"

  "Because my daughter is immensely resourceful, and a clever investigator. She could discover something I had missed,"

  Nigel said. "And she did. I was unaware that Mr. Peabody had one of my bombs in his possession—never mind that the man was determined enough to attempt and use it."

  "Then I assume this matter is closed."

  "Not at all, my dear conscience. The account exploits used against the banks were Mr. Peabody's creation, but if your fellow constructs are to be b
elieved—and I am sure they are—he was working under the authority of Professor Hemlock, a man I know nothing of. And I assure you," Nigel added, his voice growing dark, "that a man who can elude my eyes and ears is a dangerous man indeed."

  "You have defeated him, however. The bomb is lost,"

  Starkweather pointed out, "and the banks shall soon be rendered immune to attack. The Society can do nothing to bring Aberwick down."

  "There is still one bomb left."

  "Where? You built a third bomb?"

  "In a manner of speaking," Nigel said. "I built three devices in all; two after studying Jeremiah's model, and one with his aid."

  Starkweather stiffened. "William's heart."

  Nigel slowly nodded. "And that is why we must keep our eyes upon William and Arcadia. For if Hemlock still wishes to destroy the city of Aberwick—and I have every reason to believe he does—surely, he will seek out the clockwork heart."

  ~*~

  The Detective Watts & Sons Agency is back in business!

  Table of Contents

  Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium: Being A Wholly Accurate Historical Account Concerning Matters Of Steam, Skullduggery, And The Irresponsible Application Of Reckless Mathematics In The 19th Century

  ACT 1

  CHAPTER 1: A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO OUR TALE OCCURRING 20 YEARS PRIOR

  CHAPTER 2: IN WHICH TWENTY YEARS HAVE SINCE PASSED

  CHAPTER 3: IN WHICH OUR TITULAR PROTAGONIST MEETS

  CHAPTER 4: IN WHICH WE MEET THE SCION OF THE DAFFODIL LEGACY

  CHAPTER 5: IN WHICH WE RETURN TO THE PAST IN ORDER TO INVESTIGATE GOINGS-ON

  CHAPTER 6: IN WHICH WE ARE INTRODUCED TO RECKLESS MATHEMATICS

  CHAPTER 7: IN WHICH WE MEET MISS PRIMROSE

  CHAPTER 8: IN WHICH OUR TITULAR PROTAGONIST MEETS THE DAFFODIL SCION