The Armored Doctor (Curiosity Chronicles Book 2) (3 page)

Everything was where he left it. Glass tubes and containers sat on the long table. Across the room, the door leading to the blast furnace on the rear lawn, where he forged the mechanical prosthetics, remained locked. On a shelf beside the door, notebooks lay scattered, evidence of his prior assistant’s departure over two weeks ago. He truly could do with a new one soon.

Jacob approached the table. The sample he had worked on yesterday evening remained covered under a piece of cloth. He lifted the cloth. A six-inch square of copper resided on a steel tray. Now that he had the final ingredient, he could complete his experiment.

Jacob set his walking stick and box to the side, removed his jacket, and began to work. He took a knife and started cutting through the edge of the metal. Once he had a sliver, he set it inside a glass bowl.

Jacob then took the ether solvent out of the box. He removed the wax seal and cork stopper, tilted the bottle over the bowl, and let one drop fall on the metal sliver. He held his breath as a single wisp of smoke arose. The ether drop bubbled and spread over the metal, merging and penetrating through the layers until there was no longer a solid mass, but a liquid that coated the bottom of the bowl in a viscous layer.

“It works.” Jacob’s whisper matched the soft rasp of the ether solvent as it finished its work. He put the cork back on the bottle and set it aside. Then he lifted the bowl and brought it under the lamplight. What he saw brought the corners of his mouth upward. “I knew there was something about the properties of this Aspasian metal.”

He didn’t care that the statement was directed to no one. His theory proved true after weeks of speculation.

In the previous autumn, he learned of a Mediterranean island called Aspasia that produced iron and copper that showed excellent conductivity of sound, far better than ordinary metals. These Aspasian metals were already being experimented with in automatons. The metals granted the machines the ability to respond to the human voice.

News of such a marvel gave Jacob an interesting theory to test: What if the metals could improve functions of other devices, such as weapons or prosthetics worn on the body?

If his theory proved true his theory, it had the potential to help many people, especially his patients. Then the real work could begin.

The female desk clerk at the employment office of east Holborn shut the book containing the weekly job postings. “So sorry, Miss Benton, but there isn’t any work available for ladies at the moment.”

It had been four days since Abigail was dismissed from employment at the apothecary, and how long she spent seeking another place to work. She remained optimistic at first, but as she prepared to leave the desk of yet another employment office empty-handed, her buoyant mood began to sink.

“There must be some work available. Christmas will be here soon. Do any shopkeepers have need of an assistant to help with additional customers?”

“We’ve already fulfilled requests for more store clerks. The last one was filled yesterday.”

Abigail looked over her shoulder at the line of men and women behind her who were also seeking work. She knew it wouldn’t do to stall the line’s progression, but she had to make sure to explore all prospects. “I do have some experience in supervising children. Are there any positions for a tutor or governess?”

The desk clerk shook her head. “You may have better luck if you come back next week.”

Abigail slipped from the front of the line. In the corridor outside the office, she saw two people reading the advertisement spread of the
Times
on the wall’s job posting board. She inspected it once they left.

The desk clerk was right. Hardly any positions available were suitable for women. Abigail skimmed a column until her eyes caught a notice for a physician’s assistant.

Ambitious and skilled person needed immediately for physician’s practice. In addition to normal business hours, must be able to work some evenings. Pay to start at 18 shillings a day. Inquire within at 19 Locksford Lane, Bloomsbury
.

She kept her finger on the address. She had experience helping her father keep records of his patients. She even made rounds with him in the local Indian villages. This job would undoubtedly have similar responsibilities. And at eighteen shillings a week, it was worth applying for.

Abigail had nothing to lose, save her lodgings at the boarding house if she didn’t come up with rent money in the next week.

She committed the address to memory before leaving the employment office.

#

Locksford Lane was a respectable neighborhood of middle-class professionals, but like most addresses of central London, it was not far from the outskirts of industry. As Abigail navigated the populated street of drays, cabs, and fellow pedestrians, she saw the smokestacks of the paper mills rising above the residences.

Abigail walked further up the lane. The roofs of the houses held dustings of fine snow. Tiny icicles laced the edges of windowsills and clung to the gaslights lining the cobblestone street.

She stopped in front of a large, two-story residence at the very end of the street, spaced apart from the neighboring houses by an acre on each side. Abigail saw the engraved numbers on the sidewalk in front of it. 19. She cast her vision to the rooftop and saw a thin trail of smoke that appeared to be coming from the back of the house.

The path to the residence was swept clean of snow. A layer of coarse salt crunched under Abigail’s shoes as she drew up to the door. She shifted her eyes to the window on the door’s right. Drawn curtains discouraged passerby from peering inside.

Abigail lifted the brass knocker and let it fall. Then she noticed the small plaque beside the door.
Doctor Jacob Valerian, physician and prosthetics outfitter
.

She snatched her hand back. Could this really be the residence of the harried doctor that came to the apothecary four days ago? Was it he who placed the notice in the paper?

Abigail questioned whether she had taken down the correct address. If memory served, this was the right place. But what would Dr. Valerian make of her standing at his door, especially after she had unwittingly succeeded in irritating him only a short time ago?

Instinct prompted her to leave before someone answered the door, but she needed a job. This was the only one available. She had to try. Perhaps the doctor’s mood had improved.

The door opened. An older man, dressed in a dark uniform of neatly pressed trousers and suit coat, regarded her with a calm, genteel air. “Good morning, Miss. Do you have an appointment to see Dr. Valerian?”

“No, sir.” She folded her cold hands together. “But I am here in answer to the advertisement.”

The man’s flicker of surprise went nearly undetected, save for the twitching of his right eye. “You’re applying for the assistant position?”

“Has it been filled?”

“No, but,” he trailed as he regarded her with obvious thought, “I believe the doctor was expecting the position to be filled by a man.”

Abigail was prepared for such a reaction. “I understand, but I have prior experience assisting in a physician’s practice.”

“That may be so, but Dr. Valerian’s practice requires somewhat of a liberal outlook to work in. More liberal than what you may be used to.”

What did he mean? Since he went to such trouble to cloak the details of the job, Abigail doubted that he would be more straightforward if she asked. “I can be very open-minded, sir. May I please speak with the doctor?”

“He’s not present at the moment.”

Of course any proper domestic servant would say that to be rid of unwanted visitors, whether or not the master was at home. But she wouldn’t give up that easily. “I’m willing to wait.”

“He won’t be back until noon. If you would leave a calling card, I’ll make sure he receives it.”

“I don’t have a calling card.”

The man gave a mild frown. “Do you have a reference letter from your previous employer?”

A cold wind made Abigail’s ears burn. “To be honest, I hastened here from the employment office in east Holborn as soon as I saw the advertisement.”

The wind painted rouge on the tip of the man’s nose. “I can take your name and your request for Dr. Valerian. But it’s quite cold out here. Would you care for some tea inside while you wait?”

Abigail nodded. Dr. Valerian’s domestic servant, though very dutiful in  screening his master’s visitors, was courteous. “Thank you. I would.”

She stepped inside the house. Immediately her feet sank in the plush rug near the door. The interior of Dr. Valerian’s foyer was not filled with elaborate décor as was the current style, but it was clean, well-lit by gas lamps, and most important of all, warm.

His servant directed her into the parlor and to an armchair in front of the hearth, where a fire crackled below the mantle. “Wait here.” He walked down another hallway.

Abigail sat for no more than a few minutes before he returned. He held a leather-bound book in his hands. “This is Dr. Valerian’s ledger. Since you don’t have a card, I thought this would suffice to, oh dear, this isn’t good.”

“What is it?”

He lifted several sheets of paper from the ledger. “The doctor forgot his notes. He’s give a demonstration of one of his armored devices today. In less than thirty minutes, in fact.”

Abigail looked at the grandfather clock beside the mantle when it struck eleven. “Where is he giving the demonstration?”

“The lecture hall at the New Britannia College of Science. But my wife and I must remain at our posts in case the first afternoon patient arrives early.” The domestic servant broke into a brisk pace for the door. “I must find a courier to bring this to him at once.”

“I’ll do it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Abigail left the cushioned embrace of the armchair and the fireplace’s warmth. “I’ll do it. I’ll take Dr. Valerian’s notes to him. That lecture hall is walking distance from here.” Her father spoke at the college several times when he sought to raise funding for his missions.

Dr. Valerian’s servant gave a vehement shake of his head. “I cannot simply give the doctor’s notes to a stranger and trust they will be delivered safely.”

“But you are giving them to a stranger, the courier. That is, if you can find one in time. I can make it to that college before eleven-thirty if I leave now.”

The man’s right eye twitched again. “Young lady, what did you say your name was?”

“I’m Abigail Benton.”

“Why should I entrust you with these notes?”

“I’ve come here seeking work. It involves making sure Dr. Valerian has everything he needs, including his notes. Let me demonstrate that I’m a suitable candidate.”

He cast a second worried glance at the clock. “You’re right. There isn’t time to send for a courier. Remain here.” He left the waiting area again and returned with an envelope. He placed the notes inside. “This may be the most confounded thing I have ever done, but I trust you to personally see that this gets to Dr. Valerian. If you fail in any way, I can lose my position.”

“We won’t have that.” Abigail took the envelope from him. “I spent an hour standing in line at the employment office. I couldn’t bear to subject anyone else to the experience.”

Without waiting to be shown to the door, Abigail saw herself out and started her brisk pace for the lecture hall. She pulled her scarf tighter about her neck with one hand while clutching Dr. Valerian’s notes with the other.

She passed people on the streets, darting between pedestrians and newsboys still selling the morning edition on the corner. She hurried up three blocks, breezing through a standing flock of pigeons and sidestepping a pile of rubbish spilling from the gutter before the college stood before her across the street. She walked through the door of the lecture hall.

An attendant met her inside. “Your ticket, Miss.” He looked about her as though he were searching for her escort. Of the handful of ladies that were present, all of them hung on the arm of a gentleman.

She raised the envelope before the attendant’s eyes. “I’m Dr. Valerian’s acting assistant. I’m here to deliver his lecture notes.”

“He’s in his office. Next hall, fourth door on your left. Say, what happened to Ollie Pickens?”

“Who?”

“Valerian’s first assistant.”

“I wasn’t told. Excuse me.” Abigail left the lobby and followed the attendant’s directions to Dr. Valerian’s office. She knocked on the fourth door.

“Yes, what is it?” The now familiar voice answered from the inside. Abigail imagined she saw a flurry of small movements through the frosted glass window.

She opened the door and stuck her head in. The movements turned out to be papers. Sheets of them, flying in the air, falling to the floor, getting caught in the crevices of the bookcases and furniture. “Dr. Valerian?”

One last sheet made its descent before his silver-blond head appeared from behind the desk, though his back was towards the door. “I said, what is it? The demonstration begins in five minutes and I can’t find my notes.”

Abigail stepped inside. “I have your notes.”

Dr. Valerian finally turned. He stared at her for a moment before recognition settled upon his refined features. “You’re that clerk at the apothecary.”

“I no longer work there.” Raising on her toes, she tipped through the spaces between the sheets of paper blanketing half the floor. She extended her hand to give him the envelope.

He took and opened it. “How did you come by my notes?”

“I visited your address this morning in answer to your advertisement.”

“You wish to be my assistant?”

She nodded in the face of his disbelief. “Your manservant saw that you left the notes and permitted me to bring them to you.”

“Struthers allowed you to—” He stopped and thrust the notes in his jacket pocket. Like the one he wore the first time she’d seen him, this one also possessed brass embellishments and a close fit that suited his tall, trim frame. “I’ll question him later.” The limp in his right leg was noticeable today as he went past her and grabbed his walking stick and a long metal case by the door. He locked the office after she exited behind him.