The Transference Engine (21 page)

“Your purpose?”

“I search out practitioners of necromancy and bring them to His Grace's attention,
with proof
, undeniable proof of their perfidy. To that end, I understand you possess a certain book that has been badly translated.”

“I do.”

“Might I have a glance at it?”

“Why?”

“To see if I can glean anything from it.”

“It is so badly translated it is unreadable.”

“But it might have information added to it beyond the original. Which I have read. Necromancers are notorious for feeling superior to their predecessors and inserting their own theories each time they republish. I might discover something about the latest batch of practitioners.” He sighed as if all of his troubles stemmed from bad translations and self-indulgent practitioners.

“Practitioners like Lord Ruthven,” he added.

“I have it on good authority that the translation is so inaccurate it could lead the inexperienced or unwary into even greater perfidy than they think possible,” I said.

“I understand.” He nodded, eyes closed in deep thought. Or deep fatigue. His life could not be easy or safe. Another reason to delay any courtship of Lucy.

I fetched the book from my rooms. When I returned, Rigby appeared almost asleep, but three more scones and half the pot of tea had disappeared.

He started as I placed the book in his hands. But his eyes went wide in surprise as he flipped through several pages. “Oh, my. Oh, my,” he muttered as he paused to read a passage.

“Not exactly easy reading,” I said, resuming my seat, never taking my eyes off him, or those ever so nimble fingers that were accustomed to removing items from their rightful owners and secreting them away.

“This passage that reads . . . I won't bother reading it, one sentence goes on for five pages with multiple colons and semicolons, all improperly used. But it should define the necessity of prayers offered for the soul of the victim before his life is stolen and in the victim's own language to the god of his choice. Instead, it implies that the practitioner's god is superior to all others and thus prayers should be offered
after
the death of the victim in the practitioner's original language.”

“Oh, my. That is dangerous.” What else could I say? Though not overly spiritual, I do believe and attend Anglican Mass most every Sunday morning, usually early. To die as a sacrifice to an alien god without opportunity to petition my own made me squirm.

Would Lord Ruthven adhere to the original or the mistranslation? Or would he disdain any prayers at all?

“Anyone else of note I should be aware of?” I asked to change the looping thread of my thoughts.

“Some. Without proof, I will not say.”

I nodded my acceptance. For now, anyway, I could pretend that Sir Andrew Fitzandrew hovered on the fringes of evil with the fascination of horror, but not the moral breakdown to actually join them. He'd said that he planned to spend some time with Ruthven in the country. Weeks ago.

Rigby made uneasy movements as if needing to leave but too tired to rise.

“Before you go, I must know if Lord Ruthven is behind the kidnapping of so many young people.”

“I do not know. I suspect him. But without knowing the purpose I have no way to trace the victims. I can understand the taking of the street girls. Who of consequence would miss them, and who would demand restitution, pay ransom, or even try to track them? But Baron Norwynd's daughter? That was bold.”

“Audacious,” I said. “Something about the street girls failed to fill our villain's purpose. So he goes after bigger game, takes more risks for grander results.”

We let that rest for a long moment of silence. Then I offered him another scone and refilled his cup. “Tell me what brought you to the docks?”

A tiny smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Partly to watch if a black balloon with a black wicker basket would be loaded onto any vessel headed upriver.”

“Yes, the notorious black balloon that has the facilities to house a cannon that shoots searing green light instead of gunpowder and lead balls.”

He suddenly sat up straight and leaned forward with renewed energy and interest.

I related my tale of observing the craft and having turned the problem of recreating the weapon over to Dr. Chaturvedi.

“Good. Good. May I have the professor's address? I must speak with him right away.”

The writing desk customers sometimes used provided me with proper pen, ink, and paper. But I held onto the address a moment.

Rigby raised his eyebrows in question.

“The other reason you lingered on the docks?”

“I knew if I frequented the same place often enough, word would reach you and you'd come looking for me. Or one of your army of urchins would. And I needed to make certain the new tenant of the warehouse is not connected to the previous occupants.”

“You could have just come to the café and requested an interview. You've been here before, requesting books.”

“Ah, but would you have believed my tale without you discovering my disguise for yourself?”

Chapter Twenty

F
ATHER RIGBY DEPARTED
the same way we had come in, a nearly invisible shadow. He planned to ride to Oxford that very night. I'd asked him to keep a lookout for Jeremy Badenough as well.

The long case clock in the corner chimed half seven. I had invitations to three parties, a musicale, and late supper
en famille
with Lady Ada and her husband. They planned to attend the last party of the evening, and so offered me a place in their carriage. The musicale enticed me more than parties, but I hadn't talked directly to Lady Ada in many days. I missed her sorely.

All I really wanted was a bath and bed. But I could not ask the girls to draw water off the boiler and haul it up here after a long day at work. My cash reserves were building. When I had enough, I'd have pumps and pipes installed to bring the hot water from the boiler directly to my private washroom.

And even if I washed up at the basin, I doubted I'd sleep. My mind was too full of patterns that tried to fit together but kept drifting apart as different information added new pieces to the puzzle, filling in some blanks but tearing apart others.

I'd only met Mrs. Howley twice and not recently. Still a trick of the light had revealed something in the cast of Rigby's eyes and the set of his chin that looked enough like her that I knew she had birthed him. The daughter of respectable gentry, she'd been seduced by her father's guest (a man too important and wealthy to force into marriage), then abandoned.

Her parents had arranged for her to “visit relatives abroad.” Then she'd given up the baby to a childless, older merchant and his wife. They welcomed and cherished the child until their deaths eight years later in a carriage accident.

Greedy relatives had found something irregular in the adoption, ignored the merchant's last will and testament, confiscated his estate, and finally cast the child into an orphanage.

No one knew to notify the Bishop of London of the accident.

By that time, the young mother had married Reverend Howley and used her dowry to help him on the political path to the bishopric.

Three months after the death of the merchant and his wife, the nephew who had confiscated much of the estate found some of the correspondence from Bishop Howley. Thinking to exploit the advantageous connection, he finally wrote to inform the bishop of the death of his “friend.”

Mrs. Howley drove immediately to the orphanage only to find the child had run away, willing to take his chances on the streets rather than endure abuse and near starvation.

It took them a year to find her son. Unable to acknowledge him and still hope to continue the bishop's career in the Church, they took responsibility for Rigby's education and career path.

I now knew that knowledge of this scandal had forced Howley to reconsider his vote on the Reform Act. And that the Right Reverend Morten Rigby was the child. His Grace the Archbishop had told me the story, but never the name of the child or his adoptive parents.

If Howley himself had been threatened by scandal he'd have stood firm. But he bowed to something that endangered his wife and family.

I needed the distraction of people. I needed gossip. I needed to encourage my public image of a slightly outré trendsetter. Some customers flocked to my café simply to risk being seen with me.

So to the one party and supper I would go.

Then the age-old question of what to wear. Not the ruby, too recently seen at my salon and the matching turban needed a new feather and some trim. The sapphire? That simple gown with my lapis lazuli necklace and earbobs suited my mood. Then I spotted the dark green gown, not bright enough to be called emerald, more like jade. The décolletage dipped enticingly with a faint sparkle of iridescent beads along the edge. I had jade jewelry. Thankfully, the ensemble fit loosely enough that I could manage my own laces and have room to breathe freely.

And I had Drew's delightful mechanical hummingbird I could fasten to a plain gold band for the middle finger of my left hand. I looked impressive and flamboyant even when I fought mental exhaustion with every eye blink.

The hummingbird could cure that. I kept on hand a measure of condensed coffee for emergencies when I was too tired to think but had to force my body to move. Carefully, I decanted a thimbleful of liquid, thick and dark and similar to the sludge at the bottom of a steam-expressed pot of coffee at the end of the day, into the poison chamber in the body of the bird. Easy enough to dilute it in a glass of water and quaff in a discreet and empty alcove. I had to make certain that if I set the bird fluttering and chirping to amuse my companions that I flicked the wings and did not depress the tail.

Something about bright sconces newly adapted to gas fuel, lively music, free flowing laughter, and effervescent wine revived me better than a bath and bed. The moment the footman announced me at the top of the stairs to the ballroom, I drew the attention of three ranks of guests. Their stillness alerted the rest of the room to my presence.

When all eyes turned to me, and the music paused, along with the chatter and laughter, I curtsied lightly and descended the four steps to greet Sir Michael and Lady Bramhurst, my hosts. The fact that I arrived alone made almost as much a stir as the expanse of bosom I revealed above the neckline of my gown.

Drew would have approved. If he were here. If he still lived. If he hadn't succumbed to the lure of necromantic power.

I lifted my chin in defiance of my negative thoughts and passed among an eclectic crowd, many of them regular customers at the Book View Café. Plenty of minor titles dominated the group, but two greater ones took precedence. Fat merchants and industrialists showed off their doweried daughters in search of titled husbands who'd gladly marry new money
sans titles
to preserve the family estate.

“Oh, let me show you the newest invention from Babbage and Lovelace!” Lady Bramhurst enthused as I passed a series of small round shelves on pedestals above the light buffet. Carefully she placed a wineglass in the precise center of one burnished copper disk. A mechanical arm extruded from the pedestal, holding a bottle of wine. In smooth movements, it tipped and poured a precise amount of wine into the glass. Much more useful and less intimidating than the full automaton my Ada had worked on the other day.

I took the glass and sipped. “Excellent vintage, my lady. How does the arm work?”

“I'm not exactly sure, but placing the glass on the copper triggers the arm. We purchased three of them especially for tonight. We hope to show them off to Her Majesty next month, after the coronation, of course. She's much too busy to attend our little gathering tonight.”

I nodded.

“Much more useful than my little toy,” I said as I flicked the clockwork hummingbird into life. The wings flapped so quickly they set up a hum of displaced air, much as a real bird would. Then it tipped back its head and chirped.

“Oh, how delightful!” Lady Bramhurst enthused. “You simply
must
show that to his lordship. He likes mechanical toys.” She moved off to show another guest how
her
device worked.

I drifted toward the musicians performing on a dais in the back corner. Much to my surprise Inspector Witherspoon basked in the harmonies, eyes half-closed and swaying lightly to the lilting waltz.

“Oh, Madame Magdala, I didn't know you'd be here. Would have offered to share a hansom if I'd known.” He bowed, keeping his head up and his eyes moving.

“Thank you for the offer. I didn't know until the last moment that I'd be able to attend. Too many commitments,” I explained. “I'm surprised to see you here, what with your obligations to Bow Street. This must be a very busy time for you as well.”

“Oh, I've retrieved a fair bit of stolen property for this lot. They thank me by inviting me to hobnob with a bit of society, knowing I'll keep a watchful eye out for any blighters who might sneak in as uninvited guests, or even extra servants. A most pleasurable part of my job.” He winked at me and returned his gaze to a servant removing empty glasses from various perches. I saw a bit of glitter slip into his pocket.

Before I could remark upon it, Inspector Witherspoon had his hand clamped onto the offender's wrist and was escorting him elsewhere.

“Neat bit, that. A clumsy effort by a recognized pickpocket who should know better than to try such a trick in the presence of the good inspector,” a cultured voice said just behind my left shoulder.

“Reverend Rigby? I thought you'd be in Oxford by now.” I replaced the inspector with my own surveillance of the crowd.

“I had hoped to be there. His Grace sent someone else to summon the professor to Lambeth Palace tomorrow. He bade me attend this gathering in his stead while he dances with the queen elsewhere.” He nodded to a passing acquaintance. His black evening clothes and snowy linen were perfect attire for the gathering. Not a bit of threadbare shine anywhere on him. Or a black glove to hide a nimble-fingered pickpocket. He held a wineglass in his good right hand. “I believe I am also to attend a late supper with the Earl and Lady Lovelace.”

“As am I,” I replied as I kept an eye on another footman who seemed to hover behind a lady with an expensive diamond brooch on her feathered headpiece.

Rigby nodded that he'd seen it, too. We drifted in that direction. The footman backed off.

“Are we dealing with a ring of thieves, controlled by a single mastermind?”

“Probably. But why here tonight?” Rigby looked around a bit confused.

“More money than titles.” I nodded to an acquaintance and smiled brilliantly.
Nothing to worry about, nothing out of the ordinary in this corner.
“Now, why are you attending the Lovelace supper party? I was told it would be
en famille
.”

“We like to keep an eye on Lady Lovelace,” Rigby continued. “Lord William claims close friendship with His Grace of Canterbury. Therefore, his invitation becomes mine upon occasion. You know how important she is to all of England as an inventor and mathematical genius.”

“Actually, Sir Charles Babbage is the inventor. Lady Lovelace is the mathematician who makes it all work properly.”

“So I understand. Which actually makes her the more important partner. And the object of much envy to those who need new or reconstructed inventions but don't have the mechanical knowledge, or the genius to make them themselves.”

“I am aware of that. I had not known that His Grace also sees the value in keeping her safe.”

“And since her father's cult is so closely aligned with my . . . other duties, I find it useful to attend her little gatherings now that she has returned to health.”

I debated telling him about my brush with Lord Byron's cult, or why Ada had remained invalid so long.

A bustle of movement at the doorway to the grand salon precluded my statement. Lady Ada and her tall, handsome husband—strong jaw, thinning fair hair, and a proud carriage which would stand out in any crowd—waited patiently, framed by the white-and-gilt doorjamb as if posing for a portrait painter. The footman cleared his throat. A semblance of quiet and attention rippled among the crowd closest to the entry. I raised my glass, catching my girl's eye. I dipped my chin a fraction in salute to her choice of a mint green gown of fine organza over shot silk, appropriate for a young matron. Was that a hint of electricity scattered through the organza?

Ada gestured with her lace fan to the artistic array of beads that near-filled her décolletage. Glass strung with copper wire, more wires and tiny glass beads woven into the organza. And hidden in the folds of her neckline, I knew a tiny Leyden jar anchored the copper and generated a mild electrical current. An untoward touch on her gown would trigger a shock to bare skin. Not much protection, but a first line of defense against potential kidnappers. Also an eye-catching fashion trend soon to be mimicked about town. We'd played this game before.

“Why is her gown glowing?” Reverend Rigby asked so quietly I had to strain to hear. “Not a fashion statement, I gather.”

“You said yourself that she is both valuable and vulnerable. I raised her to be less vulnerable than many think. The glow only looks like a new fashion statement, while actually creating an illusion and blurred afterimages. You can't tell precisely where she is at any given moment.”