by Gwynn White
“Fine with me,” Derek said.
The director gestured him into the room, then followed, closing the door firmly behind them.
“Your message indicated this was concerning a murder?” Director Quinn asked, taking a seat and indicating that Derek do the same.
“Possibly.” Derek explained about finding the body in the river and the subsequent translation of the text inside the ring that pointed to the galactic smuggler’s association.
“That all seems rather troubling,” the director said, one hand on his chin. “I can’t say that I recall any violent incidents here at the spaceport around that time, but give me a moment and I’ll call in one of my top security people. She might be able to shed more light on the situation. And would you care for a spot of tea? I find that a midmorning cup refreshes the mind.”
“Surely.” It was hardly an offer Derek could refuse.
The director’s secretary appeared and nodded when he was instructed to send for the security officer. He reappeared after a short while with the tea tray and served them both bracing cups of strong black tea. When he disappeared again, Derek leaned forward.
“Do you mind my asking about how you met Miss Smythe?” he asked.
He’d heard Diana’s side of the story, but she’d barely told him enough to whet his curiosity. How, indeed, had she managed to change the arc of her life?
One of the director’s brows rose. “Do you have a particular interest in the young lady?”
Derek felt the tips of his ears flush. “She and I are acquainted.”
“Ah, from the streets, I suppose.” The director nodded. “Yes, well, she and her young friend—the scrappy one, I see you know who I mean—managed to find an unsecured entrance into the spaceport.”
“An unsecured entrance?” For a fleeting moment his pulse leaped. But no—security would have plugged that hole immediately. “How ever did they manage that?”
“Perseverance and luck. And indeed, it was lucky that Miss Smythe happened to be within the spaceport, at the right place and the right time to avert a crash that would have reflected badly on us.” He shook his head. “Very, very badly.”
“How did she stop it?” Derek asked.
“Miss Smythe possesses formidable mathematical abilities, and has an astonishing mind for spatial geometry. She was able to predict the trajectories of two ships as they ascended on a collision course, and begged Spaceport Security to intervene. Which, thanks to a sharp-witted guard, they did. Ah.” Director Quinn looked up as the door opened and a woman dressed in the bright blue uniform of Spaceport Security came in. “In fact, here she is now. Good morning, Nails.”
Derek swallowed his disappointment that he wouldn’t get to hear more of Diana’s story. It was now back to business.
“Director Quinn.” The security guard nodded to him, then shot Derek a curious glance.
The director filled her in on the details of Derek’s visit. When he had finished, Nails shook her head.
“Can’t say there was anything amiss ’bout that time,” she said. “We have our fair share of brawls and the like, but no bodies as I recall. Sorry I can’t be of more help, officer.”
“I think it might assist the station if you could send over the shipping schedules from last month,” Derek said. “We can see if there’s an irregularity in the pattern, perhaps.”
The guard’s brows pulled together. “That’s confidential. We can’t go sending those schedules about.”
“Nails is correct,” the director said. “Information about our ships’ movements can’t leave the port’s secure system, I’m afraid.”
Derek’s mind worked furiously, even as he kept his expression bland.
“What if I came to the security office and took a quick look, then?” he said. “It shouldn’t take long.”
Director Quinn steepled his hands together. “That might suffice. Nails, if you’d accompany him?”
Relief flared through Derek. He’d be able to keep Diana out of his business with the INR.
“Thank you,” he said. “There is one other thing.” He pulled out his handheld and tapped to bring the image up. “Do you recognize this pattern? It was tattooed on the dead man’s upper arm.”
“Hm.” Director Quinn leaned forward to study the triangle slashed through with three precise lines. “I’m afraid not.”
“I think I may know it,” Nails said.
Derek’s attention veered to her. After so many dead ends, he was beyond ready for any possible lead. “Yes?”
“I’ve never clapped eyes on it, mind you,” she said. “But I’ve heard that that symbol, or something like it, marks initiation into a dissident group opposing Queen Victoria’s rule. Don’t know which one, though, sorry to say.”
“A smuggler and an anarchist?” Director Quinn’s brows rose. “Your body sounds like quite the fellow. Good luck identifying him.”
“Thank you.” Derek’s spirits dipped again.
There were any number of anti-Empire organizations riddling the galaxy. As he unfortunately knew all too well.
“Ready?” Nails said.
Derek gulped the last of his tea, then stood. “I appreciate your time, both of you. And, not to impose too greatly, but do you mind if I say hello to Miss Smythe on my way out?”
“By all means.” Director Quinn waved his hand. “I’m glad she has friends such as you, Officer Byrne.”
The praise made Derek squirm inside. But soon he’d have the information the INR wanted and then maybe, just maybe, he could be free of them.
I don’t believe one’s past controls one’s future. Diana’s words echoed through him. Could they possibly be true? Could he alter his own course without ending in a spectacular crash?
“I’ll wait by the lift,” Nails said.
As Derek strode to Diana’s desk, Lord Atkinson stood, a scowl on his lips. Diana, however, rose, smiling,
“I was hoping you’d come over,” she said, setting down her pen in the middle of a notebook inscribed with equations. “Look at this view!”
He came to stand beside her, inhaling the clean scent of her as she described the ships coming in and out. It was a perfect vantage point, and, despite himself, he took note of the warehouses on the edge, the amount of traffic, and the best routes from the back entrance of the spaceport to the new construction area he’d spotted in the center.
“You sit here all day, watching?” he asked.
“Yes.” She nodded at the shiny contraption on the corner of her desk. “I can speak to the control center using that. It’s rather amazing.” She pointed out the window. “See that area in the middle, undergoing construction? We’ve done quite a bit of streamlining, and on my advice the berths are being reclassified based on ignition and liftoff times.”
“I’m working on a Calculations Device that does much the same,” Lord Atkinson interrupted. “Based on Miss Smythe’s brilliant work, of course.”
“At any rate,” Diana said, ignoring the nobleman, “I’m enjoying it very much.”
“And I’m enjoying working with Miss Smythe.” Lord Atkinson picked up a clockwork flower sitting on Diana’s desk. “In fact, I gave her this just this morning as a token of my regard. As you might guess, it cost a pretty penny—but she’s worth it.”
“I personally don’t believe in putting a price tag on my friendships,” Derek said coldly.
Lord Atkinson set the flower down with a bump that made Diana wince. Derek hoped the delicate clockwork hadn’t been damaged—though wouldn’t that be an interesting metaphor for Lord Atkinson’s regard?
“You’re still coming to dinner tomorrow?” Diana asked.
“It would be my pleasure,” Derek said, aware of the nobleman fuming beside them. “Six o’clock?”
“Perfect.” She smiled. “I’d best get back to my work now, though.”
“Of course.”
Derek made Diana a bow, ignored Lord Atkinson altogether, and met Nails at the lift. He stepped inside, then c
ouldn’t help glancing once more at Diana. She was watching him, too—her smile cut off by the shining metal as the doors closed between them.
19
Derek stood before the portico of Queensway Tower. Behind him, traffic flowed along the street, the clop of horses’ hooves echoing the nervous beat of his pulse. He eyed his reflection in the tall entry doors, attempted to smooth back his hair, then rang the bell for Number 54.
The ornately grilled speaker beside the door crackled to life.
“Hello?” Diana said.
“It’s Derek. I mean, Officer Byrne.”
“I’ll be right down.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Wait by the lift.”
The door buzzed, releasing the lock, and he pushed through into the fancy lobby of the building. The place made his serviceable flat seem third-rate in comparison. What must the former streetrats think, living in such elegant surroundings?
An artful arrangement of roses sat in a cut crystal vase on a table in the center of the room, and Derek glanced down at the bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. On impulse, he’d bought the flowers from a girl at the train station selling hand-picked flowers from a dented tin bucket.
Bachelor buttons, sweet pea, bright field poppies, Queen Anne’s lace—he knew the names from his childhood, and wondered if Diana did, too.
Now, though, his offering looked unkempt and out of place compared to the shining marble and gilt-framed mirrors around him. He glanced about for a bin, thinking to discard the flowers, but before he could do so, the lift arrived. Diana stepped out. She wore a white muslin dress that suited her, and her hair was caught in a braid over one shoulder, little wisps escaping from the sides.
Catching sight of him, she smiled. “Welcome to Queensway Tower. Oh, what a pretty bouquet.”
Too late to toss away the flowers now. Derek held them out to her. “I hope you like them.”
“I do, very much.” She brought the colorful arrangement to her face and inhaled. “They smell wonderful, too.”
“I think it’s the sweet peas. My ma used to grow them.”
He caught a waft of the scent, and for a moment vividly recalled the bright pink and white blossoms climbing up the old stone wall behind their cottage. Longing for home squeezed his heart. But though he couldn’t return to that childhood cottage, perhaps he could find another place to belong.
“Come up.” Diana set her fingers to the lift pad, and the doors dinged open again with a soft chime. “Tipper is working away in the kitchen.”
The lift rose so smoothly, Derek could barely detect the movement. The polished brass walls sent back wavery impressions of them, more blobs of color than anything.
“He’s not planning to slip me poison, is he?” Derek asked.
She lifted one eyebrow in amusement. “You needn’t worry. Tip isn’t one to hold a grudge. Besides, you’re my guest tonight, not an officer of the Southampton Police.”
“Then I suppose you must call me Derek and not Officer Byrne.”
“I suppose so.”
He wished the lift might never arrive, so that he could stand there always, wreathed in the scent of flowers and the warmth of Diana’s smile.
Then they arrived at the top floor, the doors whooshed open, and he berated himself for a sentimental fool.
The upper foyer was not quite as overwhelmingly grand as the one below. Derek’s boots didn’t ring as loudly over the parquet floors as they had on the marble, and there was no ostentatious bouquet to put his little posy to shame.
Diana opened the tall wooden door of Number 54 and ushered him in.
“You can hang your hat and overcoat here.” She indicated a coat rack beside the door. “I’m just going to put these in water.”
She waved the wildflowers at him and then disappeared into what he assumed was the kitchen. Derek took the opportunity to look about the sitting room. There was a plush rug on the floor, and the furnishings were elegantly nondescript. Likely they’d come with the flat.
However, the soft woolen scarf draped over one chair arm and the cookery books piled haphazardly on the bookshelf gave the place a bit more personality. He was glad to see that Diana and Tipper seemed to be settling in well. If they could make a new life for themselves, then surely there was hope for him, too.
She beckoned to him from the kitchen doorway. “Come in and say hello to the chef.”
He jammed his hands into his pockets, then took them back out and went to join Diana. Delicious scents wafted from the kitchen: garlic and fresh herbs. A cloud of steam greeted him. When it cleared, he saw Tipper at the sink, holding an empty pot over a colander of freshly cooked pasta.
“Hello, Tipper,” Derek said, leaning against the doorjamb. “It smells good.”
“Hope it tastes that way.” The boy grinned at him. “Nice to see you, officer.”
“We’re going to call him Derek, this evening,” Diana said. “Remember?”
Tipper wrinkled his nose at her. “I don’t mind the fact he’s a copper. Now that we’re both on the right side of the law, aye?”
Derek swallowed back an admonishment to stay that way. He hoped Tipper would stay out of trouble, but lecturing him in his own kitchen would be rather rude. Derek could be blunt at times, but there were limits.
“Do you like seafood?” Diana asked, taking three plates down from the cupboard. “Tipper made Shrimp Scampi tonight, to impress you.”
“Did not.” The boy went to give a pan on the stove a stir.
“I like it very much,” Derek said.
Diana set the plates on the counter, then turned to Derek. “What would you like to drink? We’ve wine, ale, water…”
“The ale’s fresh from the tap at the White Oak tavern,” Tipper said. “Not a bad brew.”
“Ale it is, then.” Derek glanced at the boy. “Are you a tippler now, in all your spare time?”
The boy winked at him. “Truth is, I spend every afternoon down at the pub.”
“Only because you’re working there,” Diana said, a bit tartly. “Don’t give Derek the wrong impression.”
She’d used his name, which made Derek ridiculously happy.
“Washing dishes, is it?” he asked.
“Was.” Tipper gave the pan another stir, then pulled it off the heat. “Now I’m apprentice to the cook. Di, grab the salad out?”
She opened the cooler and brought out a large bowl of greens decorated with sliced figs and dollops of some creamy white cheese.
“It looks delicious,” Derek said.
“Sit, the both of you,” Tipper said. “I’ll bring your plates over.”
Diana ushered him to the small table in the corner. His flowers were a splash of color, stuck into a pint glass, and looked perfectly at home in the cozy kitchen.
For the first half of the meal, they didn’t say much, other than to praise Tipper’s cooking. The boy shrugged, but Derek could tell he was pleased by the compliments. The boy clearly had more than a little talent in the kitchen.
On his second plate of shrimp, washed down with creamy brown ale, Derek told them the news from West Quay.
“Breggy’s gone,” he said. “We raided his den—thanks to you.”
“Escaped, did he?” Tipper looked apprehensive at the thought.
“Not at all. His trial’s just ended, and he’s awaiting transportation on the next convict vessel going out.”
“That would be the Valiant,” Diana said. “An older Frauke, but a solid ship all the same. It’s scheduled for blastoff on Monday. And I have to say, I’m glad to hear Breggy’s gone for good.”
Sadly, someone would rise soon enough to take the gangrunner’s place, but Derek didn’t want to dim the mood by saying so. Besides, both Diana and Tipper were streetwise. They knew well enough how things went in the slums.
After an extravagant dessert of chocolate cake with raspberries and whipped cream, they repaired to the sitting room. He sat by Diana on the couch, trying to keep a gentlemanly distance and yet all to
o aware of her proximity. Lamps glowed warmly on the end tables, and the sound of the night street below drifted up faintly; the hollow clop of horses’ hooves, the occasional sound of a steam whistle warning pedestrians out of the way. Tipper flopped onto the floor, then groaned when Diana suggested she quiz him on his studies.
Apparently the boy had a tutor come in three days a week to teach him reading, mathematics and history. Diana asked him a variety of questions concerning Greek mythology. He answered them well enough, until she ventured into an area he didn’t know. Face solemn, he fabricated absurd answers, and before long they were all laughing.
Still, the boy clearly was applying himself to his studies as well as his culinary explorations. If he kept it up, he’d go far, of that Derek had no doubt.
They used to say that about himself, he recalled with a twinge. His schoolmasters, friends of his Ma, everyone agreed that Derek had a bright future ahead.
But then his father had keeled over from strong drink and overwork, and Derek had taken his place at the factory. He’d thought that was bad enough—until the terrible day Seamus died and his life was spun into the gray fog.
“Are you feeling well, Derek?” Diana’s soft voice broke into his bitter memories.
“Yes, sorry.” He mustered up a smile. “Just a bit tired.”
“Don’t let us keep you.” Concern shone from her clear eyes.
“It’s not that.” He cursed himself for implying he didn’t want to be there any longer. “It’s just this case I’ve been working on, with no luck.”
“The one you were in Itchen about?”
He nodded, recalling that he’d asked her about the slashed triangle tattoo as they drank Turkish coffee together. It felt like years ago.
“Is that why you were at the spaceport?” she asked, ever perceptive.
“Yes, but I’ve hit a dead end there as well.” He shrugged. “Sometimes cases never do get solved.”
“That must be frustrating.”
“I knew it was part of the job when I signed up.”
“Why did you decide to be a copper?” Tipper asked, as though he could imagine no worse profession.
“I wanted to help people,” Derek said.