The Cogspeare Conspiracy (The Cogspeare Chronicles Book 1) (8 page)

Chapter 16:

Magnus’s stomach began fretting as he made his way to the offices of the
Daily Pulse
, some six blocks away. He hated to admit it, but food was now a necessity.

By some silent and unknown consensus, all of the major newspapers in London had congregated their offices on Fleet Street. It was a manic street, filled with a tense energy and noise that seemed to spill out of the buildings, while St. Paul’s Cathedral loomed imperviously in the distance.

All along the length of the street, peddlers hawked their wares to the crowds passing by. As this was the lunch hour, the steaming food stands were swamped by harried-looking reporters, ink and graphite smeared on their fingers, desperately gulping down food. Street carts brimmed over with pots of bubbling stew, slopped onto large pieces of bread. Pickled oysters bobbed in jars, whelks and periwinkles writhed in hot pots of oil, while eels, trotters and bloaters were handed out on tin plates. Magnus jumped when a scoop of saloop splashed out of the nearest street vendor’s cart. He gagged, his hunger abated, and he walked, very quickly, away. This was certainly not Bongout-approved fare.

After a few more blocks of weaving in and out of the crowds, he finally found the
Daily Pulse
building. Though only as old as Magnus himself, in that time the newspaper had made a reputation for itself as the most thorough and impartial publication in the business. If it hadn’t been for the sensational writing that obscured the facts, they would have gone out of business decades ago.

The building had recently been refurbished, fitted out in the latest of the New Brass style. Five, copper-encased floors loomed above the streets, covered in mesh and curlicues, the vulgarity of which put Magnus off his lunch even further. Nevertheless, he trod up the front stairs and past the automaton that held the door open.

“Please state your business” intoned another machine that rolled just a bit too close for comfort. For a moment, Magnus was taken aback, but recalling his business, he quickly said,

“Researching the South West Spesium Mining Company.” He had no reason to prevaricate, at least to this animated piece of metal.

There was a crackling sound as the automaton’s metal eyes rolled back in its head, and Magnus jumped back, wary of the thing malfunctioning. Apparently the renovations hadn’t extended to a technology upgrade, and from years of living under a laboratory and with a mechanically-minded brother, he knew that this machine was in severe need of oil.

But just as suddenly as it had begun, the grinding noises stopped and the eyes rolled back into place.

“The research facility is located two floors down. Please use the vertical transport unit,” the tiny voice replied through a mesh-grille. Magnus quickly walked away; automatons had always unnerved him. He really didn’t know how Declan could work with them.

Striding across the open foyer, dodging the reporters and publishers as they hurriedly raced to destinations unknown yet vastly important, Magnus made it to the back of the room, where a large metal cage stood waiting. He pulled the bell pull and the doors slid open with a painful squeal. He stepped in.

And he faced, unsurprisingly, another automaton. This one was a cheaper model, merely a fashioned torso and head, perched on a stationary metal column.

“Fifth floor executive offices fourth floor editing third floor reporting second floor graphics first floor pulse station ground floor inquiries lower ground floor archives basement research. Name floor please.” After that flood of information, Magnus blinked twice and then replied,

“Basement.”

Without another word the doors shimmied shut. Magnus was locked in a cage with a sinister, legless piece of metal. He felt his heart start to patter irregularly, and began to feel droplets of sweat careen down his neck, under his cravat and down his back. He quickly pulled out a comb from his breast pocket and pulled it through his pristine hair.

“Pull it together, man,” he told himself sternly, but just as he thought he might have to pull the emergency lever in the corner, the cage came to a sudden halt and the doors opened. He quickly dashed out, barely hearing the intoned directions,

“Last door on the left.”

Even as he followed the dark, obviously un-renovated hallways lit with diming luminosity tubes, he was dreading dealing with another automaton.

              Not bothering to knock on the grubby door labelled ‘research’ in swirling letters, he entered.

              “Hello, there,” said a surprisingly lyrical voice. Surprised, Magnus took a moment to recalibrate himself.

              The room was much brighter than the dark hall, with hundreds of new luminosity tubes gleaming to reveal hundreds of selves, filled with thousands of pigeon holes.

              Seated a few feet in front of the door was a large desk piled high with papers and empty tubes, each one waiting to be sealed in the other. Behind the desk was a small man with a very lush, dark moustache, and equally dark and lush hair that was half-hidden under a shapeless hat.

              “You’re- you’re Welsh!” was all the barrister could think of saying.

              “Well, now, you are the observant one,” said the young man, no older than Magnus himself. Though his words were harsh, the lilting tone to his voice belied a sardonic sense humour.

              “Excuse me,” apologized Magnus, “I was just expecting an automaton.” Understanding dawned in the dark eyes across from his.

              “Oh, yes,” the man nodded, wiping crumbs from his moustache. “Not a fan of the walkin’, talkin’ scrap heaps then, are you?” Magnus shook his head. “Don’t blame you a’tall, mate. Over the last two years, they’ve put more than their fair share out of work here. That’s why I was banished down here. Damn things just can’t seem to be able to research and file things properly.

“I’m Twym Glyndwr, by the way, researcher extraordinaire and keeper of the files.” He swept out his arms to encompass the room behind him, then wiped his hands on his pants and sat down.  He beckoned to an old chair in front of his desk, indicating Magnus should do the same.

Magnus sat, feeling a spring curl up into his backside as he tried to work out just how to say the Welshman’s name. Behind the piles of paper and tubing, Magnus could see and smell the unidentifiable remains of a lunch tin. Seeing his gaze, the researcher offered him some.

“Um, what is it?”

“Leftovers from the breakfast my fiancé made for me. Just a bit of eggs and cockles fried with bacon and sausage on a bit of
bara lawr
. That’s laverbread, made with seaweed, to you,” he smiled widely, cheekily.

“I think I’ll pass, thank you” Magnus swallowed.

“So,” he leaned back in his squeaky chair, “how can I help a Cogspeare?”

“How did you know I’m a Cogspeare?”

“There aren’t that many well-dressed men with that shade of red hair in this city,” he pointed a finger at Magnus’s head, “and only one with a custom made hearing-augmenter.” Magnus ignored the comment about his hearing aid and observed instead,

“You should be an investigator.”

“If it hadn’t been for some reductions upstairs, I would be, and a reporter too. The last bloke who was promoted…well, never mind.” At Magnus’s suddenly darkened expression, the man nodded a subtle apology for his harsh observation.

“So, how can I help?” 

              “I need some information on the SWSMC.”

              For a few moments, the man across from him stared at him silently, frowning and biting on the ends of his moustache. Finally he asked,

              “May I ask why?” Ordinarily, Magnus would say, no, confidentiality and all that, but something in the Welshman’s expression said that his answer was very, very important.

              “I’m working on a case that involves the SWSMC. The file I was given was meagre to say the least, so I – naturally” he added with a slight curve of his lips, “came here for unbiased information.”

              More moments of mustachio biting, but finally Glyndwr came to a decision.

              “You can find information on the SWSMC in the files of any newspaper, or on the lips of any of their employees. But here, you might just find the truth.” He said with a touch of pride. He rose, and Magnus saw that he was only a few inches above five feet tall, and wore corduroys and waistcoat. His collarless, well-pressed shirt was rolled up over his furry forearms.

              As Magnus rose to follow him, he saw that there was a small cushion on the seat of the Welshman’s chair depicting an oriental dragon curled around black embroidered words that read
croeso i uffern
. His host saw his gaze and smiled,

              “My fiancé made that when I was moved down here. She has a sense of humour.” Magnus raised his eyebrows in question.

              “It means, welcome to hell.”

              Magnus followed him down the centre of the cases of shelves, all labelled in spidery handwriting. The newsman turned, and led Magnus down another, narrower row, coming to a sudden halt.

              “This is it.” He indicated more than a dozen, empty pigeon holes.

              “What do you mean?” A sigh from his companion accompanied his next words, and he leaned back against the steel shelves.

              “Three weeks ago, George Talliburn, a friend and seasoned reporter, came down from upstairs and asked for all the files on the SWSMC. I thought it was a bit odd that he would need
all
of the files, considering he would just need  a few for a bit of background on the company if it were a general piece. But he said that, since the miners down in Port Prudence banned together, he wanted to do a larger story on them. As a friend, I let him have the majority of the rolls.

              “The reporters are allowed to check out the research papers for a week at a time.”

              “Has Talliburn brought them back? What did his article say?”

              “As far as I know, he never wrote it. Hasn’t brought the papers back, either, and hasn’t been seen upstairs since.” Magnus paused, then asked,

              “But it’s been three weeks?” Glyndwr nodded grimly.  He then reached up and snatched down a tube from a pigeon hole. The tube was a metal cylinder approximately a foot long. He twisted it in his meaty hands, and with a hydraulic hiss it opened, unfurling a small ream of pages.

              Magnus gingerly took the curled leaves and began to quickly scan them for any information he didn’t yet have. Immediately, some things began to catch his eye.

              “What are these names here?” he pointed to a list at the bottom of the fourth page. “Is this the Board of Directors?”

              “No- that list in on page…” Glyndwr stuffed the cylinder under his arm, took back the pages and quickly leafed through them, scanning the type-set letters even more quickly than Magnus. “Here,” he finally pointed to one of the earlier pages, “Sir Edgar Clinton, of course; Mr. Obadiah O’Brian- you probably heard of him, he was paralyzed after drunkenly riding a horse as a wager- Mr. Percival Price, the secretary of the board, and so on. But you could find this information in any back edition of the
Pulse
. But you wouldn’t be able to find this,” he returned to the list Magnus had originally pointed out.

              “Why not?”

              If Twym Glyndwr wore glasses, he would have looked over them at Magnus.

“For an expert in the law, you don’t know much about corporations, do you?” Magnus tried not to look bashful as he replied, following in Glyndwr’s wake back to the main desk,

“I mostly focus on family law.”
And since I
do
mostly work on family law, why was I assigned to
this? He wondered

Once back at the main desk, Twym fully unravelled the papers and held them down with pieces of laverbread.

“This is a list of the specialists Sir Edgar hires for the SWSMC.”

“But why is that important? And who would want that information?”

“For a start, you should!” he exclaimed, almost baffled at Magnus’s seeming obtuseness, given that he came from such a remarkably intelligent family. “You should find these people and interview them, find out if everything is as it was reported.”

“Isn’t that your job, to make sure everything is truthful?” Glyndwr shook his head ruefully.

“If only that were the case. I’m just in charge of the facts. It’s the reporters, and the editors, who decide what the so-called truth is. I’ve tried to influence them…” he trailed off, looking wistfully at the cushion.

“…which is why you ended up here, isn’t it?” Magnus finished. There was no need for Glyndwr to answer.

“If even a tenth of what is stored here ever made it to press, companies would crumble and the government would groan under the weight of its sins.” Twym Glyndwr mused morosely, his eyes going unfocused into the bardic mists of Wales. Magnus rolled his eyes.