Once Beatrix was certain the magistrate had been drugged, she’d get a move on. Though, the numbness had move up to her ankles. Being seated in the harness and sitting completely still had somehow compressed a nerve or cut off circulation.
In the gargantuan mattress, the steady snore stuttered.
Beatrix tried to wiggle her toes, but she couldn’t tell whether she was or not. Get on with it, Beatrix. She didn’t dare lower herself any farther yet. If she startled the magistrate, he’d yell for the guards outside his door.
Finally satisfied of the deep sleep of the man in the bed below, Beatrix pressed a button on her belt, and the brake released the wire slightly.
Slowly, she lowered until her bottom grazed the top of the canopy then she secured the wire brake. She took a small knife from her belt. The razor-like blade sliced through the silks of the upper portion of the pocket, exposing the leather folio that held the condemning photographs. Carefully, Beatrix eased it out of its place and held it up.
A moment later, she stuffed the whole thing into her shirt for safekeeping while she figured out how to make it down from her suspended perch.
Beatrix waited. She had no gadget on her belt with enough steam power nor upper body strength enough to pull herself upward. Rustling sounded in the corridor outside the magistrate’s rooms. She didn’t want to make a mad dash for it until she was sure she’d escape undetected.
Time ticked on until Beatrix groaned. She couldn’t delay anymore.
Beatrix studied the canopy beneath. Would the ornate frame support her weight? Unlikely. She grimaced. Only one way to find out.
She released the wire brake and flexed her legs. Repeating the process, she started a short arc. More plaster fell from the ceiling, and the wire popped under the strain of the movement. At the apex of the next swing, Beatrix tried to catch the edge of the canopy frame with her stockinged feet, but her toes had no grip.
Instead of what Beatrix intended, the movement tipped her completely off balance and sent her in a wild zig-zag pattern over the bed. The wire snapped and popped. A crack started at the harpoon bolt and spread across the ceiling.
Beatrix braced.
With a pop!, the tip broke loose from the beam, and she dropped onto the finely embroidered silks. Immediately, she spread her arms and legs as wide as she could, hoping that it would be enough to distribute her wait evenly. She bit her bottom lip.
Riiiipppp!
The bed canopy split in two, sending Beatrix to the mattress beneath. She slammed into the thick down pallet, and her shoulder blade crashed against a support brace. Air whooshed out of her. The impact crushed her lip between her teeth, and she tasted blood.
Beside her, the magistrate snorted once and then bolted upright. “What the devil?”
If the traitorous maid at least got the dosage right, maybe he’d pitch over.
“Get the key,” one of the guards bellowed. “He’s under attack!”
“Yes, sir,” yelled another. Footsteps receded into the distance. A rattle clanged close to the thick door. They had too many bolts and locks to undo.
Beatrix laid as still as she dared, hoping the magistrate wouldn’t turn around. He’d been drugged. Surely, he still suffered from the effects.
He wobbled in place and fell over, his face to his pillow once more. Beatrix leapt from the bed and dragged a wingback chair from the fireplace to wedge against the door. The guards wouldn’t make it in now.
Beatrix released the wire from her belt and scrambled from the bed. At the balcony, she paused to survey the damage. It was going to be one incredible mess when he woke up, but at least the young maid’s older sister wouldn’t have to participate in the ridiculous demands of the magistrate anymore.
Beatrix couldn’t wait to regale her best friend in the retelling. It would make her gasp and fan herself so much she’d not be able to stop grinning all night. The maid was probably long gone. She seemed a smart one, and she had no plans to return to her employment at the magistrate’s home.
Beatrix nodded once. Her job had come to an end. No other loose ends remained.
She scooped the harpoon from its place and disappeared into the night.
Challenge
One Month Later
Beatrix tugged her hat a little farther down on her head and double-checked the fake mustache glued to her upper lip. He’s not getting me.
Constable Jones stood at the corner and scanned Market Street. His broad shoulders were the most recognizable shoulders in the neighborhood. He wanted to make an arrest, but he had run plum straight out of luck today. He made a fine show in his uniform, and Beatrix resisted the urge to give him the once-over.
Three-story merchant buildings surrounded the lane, and booths stood in the spaces where buildings weren’t. Steam horses paraded up and down the lane, blowing puffs of steam every few steps. Some drew carriages filled with finely dressed New Londoners while others did not. A woman strolled in front of the dry-goods counter with a cog-eyed poodle in tow. All in all, a bustling New London day.
From the end of the street, Constable Jones still studied the crowd, and his pucker deepened as he began his rounds.
On any other man, the uniformed shoulders might make Beatrix gaze a little longer. But the officer had it out for her, and she didn’t fraternize with the enemy.
Her coat and trousers barely hid her shape, but most, including Constable Jones, didn’t pay close enough attention. Whether Beatrix wanted to or not, without a copper in her pocket, she had to steal to eat, and it was time for breakfast.
She hurried toward the greengrocer’s shop. A shiny apple would hit the spot. Thanks to the deep cellar beneath the store, last year’s apples tasted as sweet as the day they were picked. Or near enough.
Beatrix half-stomped in boxy steps, trying to make her disguise as convincing as possible. She didn’t walk like most of the men of the city. She swayed along. If she were caught impersonating a man, she might be flogged. Laws being what they were.
Clear skies spread over the bustling city, marred only by the belching of sooty smokestacks, piped out from coal-heated broilers. The smog of New London wasn’t yet as bad as Steam City to the west.
Beatrix studied the airships in the expanse overhead. The granny at the corner claimed her knee predicted storms on the way, and Granny wasn’t normally wrong. Beatrix didn’t want to be out in the gully-washer when it came. The moisture would definitely ruin her face paint, and Constable Jones would spot her for sure.
Beatrix stropped in front of the shop and eyed the fruit stands in front of the grocery. Peering up and down the street, she hurried by the apples, pretended to trip, and laid her coat over the corner. When she took her hand away, one apple rested, tucked in the end of the sleeve.
Constable Jones strolled by, and Beatrix froze and angled her face away from the imposing man. Mr. Luntz, the greengrocer, came out of his shop, wearing a leather smock and wiping his hands on a rag at his waist. Mr. Luntz was on the shorter side, and the apron almost reached his knees.
“Constable,” Mr. Luntz said.
Constable Jones waved his nightstick. “Luntz,” he said. “I heard your cousin is coming in for a visit.”
“Indeed, she is, Constable. She wants to attend the inaugural dance.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “In fact, might be in need of your services. She’s been invited to dine at the mayor’s table at the opening airship race, and she’s bringing her priceless diamond jewelry. I can’t persuade her to leave it at home.”
Constable Jones paused to consider Beatrix, but his gaze moved on almost immediately. “Is that so, Mr. Luntz?”
Luntz clasped his hands in front of him. The greengrocer wasn’t particularly old, but the motion made him seem so. “In fact, she has fainting spells, and anyone could steal from her.”
Beatrix nearly gave herself away with a gasp.
Seemingly at the sound, Constable Jones frowned and glanced over his shoulder.
Beatrix tucked her
chin against her shoulder and turned away to hide her face, and Jones went back to whispering with Mr. Luntz about the cousin’s personal business.
A moment later, Beatrix moved down the street. Before she’d gone three paces, somebody slammed into her, and she whirled around, a harsh word already on her tongue.
“What’s this?” Beatrix growled in a voice deeper than her normal tone, raising a fist to box a set of ears. Yet her censure died away almost immediately.
Standing on the sidewalk, Beatrix’s best friend, Helen Potter, crossed her arms and frowned. “You’re up to it again, ain’t ya, Bea?” Helen elbowed her. “Don’t need to pinch anything.”
Beatrix tipped her hat. “Time to eat, miss.”
“We have food at home.”
“What’s that?”
Helen leaned close. “You are going to get caught.”
“Not by Jonesy,” Beatrix whispered back. “He doesn’t pay attention to the right things. Besides, you know I’m using my particular set of skills to help the women that the authorities ignore.”
Helen shook her head. “The magistrate won’t see it like that.”
Her friend was about to embark on a rant, so Beatrix didn’t answer.
Helen took a breath. “The photographs made sense,” she said. “This doesn’t.”
Beatrix snorted. “Just what are you talking about?”
“In a letter, William told me you’d been asking about how much his da owed when you visited him last time.”
Beatrix scowled. “He wasn’t supposed to tell you.”
“Well, he wasn’t the one that did. Not at first. He only told me after I told him I already knew.”
“Well, who should I strangle first then?”
“Things get around, especially with a guard bragging about the cheeky wench he has on the hook. He wouldn’t stop talking about it when I took some food up there for William. They may not let me see my husband, but they pass letters for us, and they don’t mind me bringing food up there. William might even get some of it.”
Beatrix sighed. “That guard wasn’t supposed to mention that either. Isn’t he married?”
Helen stomped her foot. “You can’t get William out, Bea. You’ve got to stop trying. Don’t you think we’ve tried everything we can? I have to work to pay down what’s owed, and stop stealing to feed us at night.” As she said it, Helen’s eyes glassed over with unshed tears.
Beatrix stopped to put her arm around Helen’s shoulder, earning a dark look from a sour-faced old maid, no doubt irritated by the public display of affection.
Helen sniffed.
William’s father had taken a loan out and promised his son would pay. He’d forged William’s name. How the old con man had managed to make that happen, Beatrix didn’t know, but it had ruined Helen’s almost happily-ever-after life. The man hadn’t been seen since. When the old codger skipped town, Beatrix wanted to string the swindler up by his toes, but he’d already skipped town.
Beatrix patted her friend’s shoulder. “He’ll die in debtor’s prison, Hel. I can’t stand to see that happen to you.”
Helen’s chin quivered. She loved William too much. She was already working herself to the bone to free him. As it was, Beatrix was certain William’s death would kill her friend. Helen was the reason Beatrix swore she’d never get herself tangled up in love.
Helen laid her hand on Beatrix’s arm. “What’ll happen to me if you get tossed in jail, too? I’ll have to join you.”
Beatrix smirked. “Oh, stop. I’m too good to get caught.”
“Pride goeth before a fall, too,” Helen muttered. But she lifted her chin and grimaced her way into a forced smile. “Come on, then. Let’s get home. I managed to get us some taters and fat.”
Beatrix grinned. “Hash? Is it hash?” She felt giddy.
Helen nodded.
“We haven’t had that in ages. Enough for both of us? Not like last time.”
Last time, Helen skimped on how much she fed herself and gave Beatrix the king’s portion. Beatrix had eaten all of it before she’d heard Helen’s stomach rumble. Friends didn’t let friends go hungry.
Helen tipped her head to the side. “Enough is as good as a feast,” she said.
Beatrix offered her arm, and the two started toward their lean-to at the back of the cobbler’s shop. Within two blocks, they moved from Market Street to Tailor’s Street. Their hovel was at the end of the street.
Beyond the cobbler’s shop, the airship yard floated above the warehouse district. Observation decks and a free-hanging starting line for a racing circuit had been built over the poshest warehouse. The rail king wanted to break into airship racing, yet, to the chagrin of the railroad, the best airship men were the Dour Brothers, dirt poor but mechanical geniuses.
The wharf and a portion of the racetrack were beyond. It had been a month of Saturdays since Beatrix had been to a race. An airship race made a good opportunity to find spare bills lying around. Perhaps it was time to visit once more. A jeweled pocket watch might make a dent in William’s debt.
Beatrix felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Did you hear me?” Helen asked.
Beatrix gave a half-grin. “No, sorry. What was it?”
Helen cleared her throat. “It’s your week to check on William, isn’t it?”
Beatrix nodded. Helen knew full-well it was. As the person supposed to work off the debt, the authorities didn’t let Helen visit William face to face. It was supposed to be added incentive, meant to inspire a hurried pay-off. The stupid coppers didn’t know how it kept Helen from getting good sleep which meant Helen couldn’t work as hard.
Backwards… why did those in charge do everything backwards?
Helen sniffed and wiped her cheek.
“What do you want me to ask him?”
“The usual,” she said.
Beatrix stepped off the sidewalk where a boy shoveled a pile of manure. “What else?”
“Tell him…” Helen paused. “Tell him not to give up. I’m working as hard as I can, and Mrs. Eebs offered me a quarter more a week.”
Beatrix tried to hide her grimace with a cheery grin. “That’s wonderful,” she murmured, but her enthusiasm fell flat.
Mrs. Eebs was a taskmaster, and Helen probably had to scrub the sun and moon in order to get the pittance. No telling what Helen had to do for that quarter-dollar.
As they reached the hovel behind the two-story cobbler’s shop, Beatrix fell silent. Helen chewed her fingernails. William might have a sizeable debt, but he was only one good job away from getting out.
Beatrix moved their door-plank aside. It was one panel of wood without hinges. Delicious smells wafted out, and Beatrix’s mouth watered. They’d have a feast, and it’d be good to get out of her disguise.
Helen went in. “I’ll serve.” She busied herself at the cast-iron stove.
Beatrix followed and took a place at their one small window. She never planned to leave New London. City life. Even the more questionable sides of it suited her, but wouldn’t it be something if they could get William out of debtor’s prison? Then he and Helen could head west to begin a new life in the fresh air and sunshine.
If anybody deserved a fresh start, it was them.
Beatrix stared through the tiny window. Airships swayed in the breeze, each one anchored to the warehouses beneath. The racing season began soon. The Inaugural Ball happened in two days’ time, and it was always the event of the year. Wealthy inhabitants arrived, sparkling in gold and jewels. Mr. Luntz’s cousin would, no doubt, be in attendance.
Beatrix tugged on her fake mustache, the seed of an idea rolling around her brain.
In the Damp
New London Penitentiary
That evening, Beatrix paused on the sidewalk in front of the jailhouse, glad to be back in her everyday clothing. She considered the three-story institution in front of her.
At the corner of Boulder and Maple, the New London penitentiary took up nearly a whole city block. The cit
y planners must have expected a population of criminals. The building could house more criminals than New London could ever conjure. Bars blocked each window, and thick doors stayed closed.
By rights, she should be inside a cell right next to William. She’d stolen enough trinkets to earn a sentence or two. Nevertheless, she always managed to give Constable Jones the slip, and she’d never been sent to the magistrate.
She adjusted the corset squeezing her middle and then made sure it accentuated every positive curve she had. Claude Miller, the city jailkeep, liked corsets and curves.
She double-checked her many-a-gadget belt, counting the throwing stars in their small leather pockets. After all, a girl could never be too careful.
Then Beatrix sashayed up to the door in her low-heeled boots. She lifted the knocker and brought it hard against the metal plate in the center of the door. Ping-thud. Ping-thud.
A small hatch opened and a bloodshot eyeball peered through. “Yeah, who’s there?”
She grinned. “Beatrix Smith to see a prisoner, sir.” She tugged a small flask from behind her waistband. She held it up. “I brought a drink for a thirsty soul.”
The jailer’s eye widened, and he looked her over. “Just a minute.” Locks and bolts clinked and gears rattled as he worked to get the door open.
Back in the day, she’d gotten the fellow out of enough close calls, he owed her. Since the authorities wouldn’t let Helen in until she paid the debt, Beatrix checked on William every other week. Still, the jailer counted on a pretty cleavage to go along with her pretty face, and Beatrix used whatever she had to get what she wanted. Helen was more important to her than a little skin.
He took the small flask and ushered her in. She followed him into the reception area. A bowl of porridge steamed on the rough-hewn table and a mug of beer waited beside.
He untwisted the cap on the flask and took a long swig. When he lowered his hand, he said, “You brought the good stuff.”
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