Mina Wentworth and the Invisible City (6 page)

Given the time it would take to travel from Westminster to St. Olave in heavy traffic, that was consistent with the butler’s statement that Foley had left Redditch’s at seven-thirty—and it meant that Foley had arrived only fifteen minutes after Redditch had been killed. Even Rhys’s engine-powered two-seater balloon could barely cover the distance in that short time.

So Foley might have arranged the murder or unlocked the gate, but he hadn’t been in Portman Square when the wheel had entered the garden.

“Thank you.” Mina started for the stairs, aware that conversation had begun again, quiet and quick over tables and workstations, full of speculation.
What had Foley done?

Nothing, yet. She knocked at the door to his quarters. The bounder who answered was only a bit taller than Mina but probably weighed twice as much, stout and thick with muscle. Dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers, he’d pushed his suspenders from his shoulders and let them hang in loops at the sides of his legs. Short-cropped brown curls were shot through with gray, and lines of exhaustion bracketed his thin mouth.

Holding the door open, Foley looked at her for a long moment without expression, but he must have been thinking her presence through, searching for a reason. “You’re that Wentworth woman.”

“Detective Inspector Wentworth, yes. May I speak with you, Mr. Foley?”

“Yes.” He stepped out onto the stair landing, his gaze searching the work floor below. “In the newssheets, you’re always investigating murders. Is it one of mine?”

One of his laborers killed, or one of his murders? “May we speak with you inside?”

Nodding, he turned and led her into the small quarters that served as residence and office. A single chair sat in front of a desk. On the surface, a ledger lay open, the ink in the columns fresh. She’d interrupted him in the middle of work, then. A small amount of amber liquor remained in a glass beside the adding machine, and Mina spotted the bottle on the shelf—new, imported from the New World. Too expensive for most manufactory owners.

At the desk, Foley pulled up his suspenders and reached for the jacket hanging on the back of his chair. “Is it one of my workers?” he asked again.

“I am not aware of any death involving your employees, Mr. Foley. We understand that you had dinner with Lord Redditch tonight.”

He frowned a little, sat. His gaze landed on the liquor bottle. “I did.”

“Was that a gift from his lordship?”

“Yes. Or you might call it a bribe, maybe.”

“For what?”

Bitterness laced his reply. “His attempt to persuade me not to install automatons.”

“And you didn’t appreciate his attempt to bribe you?”

“I was appreciative enough not to leave the bottle there.” He shook his head. “But no, I wasn’t appreciative of what he had to say. He sits in that big house of his, sits on his ideals. He can shove them up his ass.”

“Did you argue?”

“You could say that. He tried to make me see reason. I told him what reason was.”

“What is it?”

Foley settled back in his chair, laced his fingers over his stomach. “He tells me I’d be doing all of my employees a disservice if I bring in automatons. He says I’ll be putting them out of work, taking food out of their bellies.”

“Isn’t that true?”

“Some of them would lose their jobs, yes. I’ll still need hands to load the machines, to wind them. Not all of them will go, but some of them.” His jaw set briefly. “But they would have gone anyway. In the New World, they had problems with phossy jaw. You’ve heard of that?”

Mina shook her head.

Newberry said, “I knew a match girl with most of her mouth gone. The phosphorus rots out their jawbones.”

“That’s right. Go long enough, and it rots their brains, too. It doesn’t affect anyone infected with nanoagents, which is why you haven’t heard of it, Inspector Wentworth. So you’d think we’d have an advantage making spark lighters here instead of in Manhattan City, because the chemicals don’t rot their heads. God knows it’s why I came here six years ago; I couldn’t stand seeing another one go like that.”

A bounder with a conscience—or a tendency to run from problems? “But you don’t have an advantage?”

“No. In the past two or three years, a few of the matchmen in Manhattan City and Johannesland have started putting in automated machines. Now their prices are so low that even with the tariffs on the spark lighters coming in from the New World, I can’t compete. Half of my workers will soon be out of a job anyway, while I’m hoping to hang on.”

“And you told Redditch this?”

“I did, and he didn’t understand it. Why would he? There’s a man who has never worried about money, about paying his people. But there’s more than that. You had a look at the work floor?”

“Yes.”

“I make this the best place I can. I’ve got the fans going, the lights up. There’s still always someone losing a finger or an eye. There’s always the flare-ups from a spark. So I put the ones with prosthetics and metal hands on the cutters, the stampers. Urchins come to me, ask for little jobs, I put them to dipping match heads and selling them on the streets, but it’s still hardly enough to feed them. One girl about thirteen, fourteen, she came to me and asked when I had an opening for a cutter. I said she can’t work with the sheet metal, because I’ve had too many lose their hands. So she went and sold herself to some blacksmith and came back with steel hands. I didn’t have a place for her anymore—she sold herself, cut off her damn hands for nothing. But when I bring in those automated machines, it won’t matter if she’s got hands of flesh or metal. If I have a spot open, she can work either way.”

If
he had a spot open—but there would be fewer spots to have. “And you told Redditch this, too?”

“I told him. But all that he heard was that some of my people would be out of a job. And since he obviously wasn’t going to listen to the rest, I left.”

“What time?”

“I don’t know. A half hour after I arrived, maybe.”

Consistent with every other statement—and forty-five minutes before Redditch had been killed. “How did Redditch appear when you left?”

“He was still trying to butter me up. I wasn’t having none of it.” His eyes narrowed. “It’s him, isn’t it? He’s the one who’s dead—and you’re wondering if I did it.”

“Would you have?”

“No.” He gave a tired laugh. “He was trying to write up some bill for Parliament, and I know better to fight aristocratic types and politicians, have them turn against me—especially the Iron Duke. Redditch said he had your husband’s support. So I left and hoped they’d all just forget about my little factory here.”

Mina didn’t think Redditch had Rhys’s support, not to the extent the viscount hoped—but she wouldn’t say so now. Her husband was quite capable of making his views known, and he often did so very loudly.

“Did you see anyone as you left?”

“I was angry. I didn’t see much of anyone or anything until I was across the river.” He took a deep breath, his gaze unfocused as if retracing the route through his memory. “I suppose you mean someone waiting around Redditch’s home, someone who didn’t look like they should be there. No, I can’t recall.”

“Did you see anything else that struck you as unusual?” When he shook his head, Mina asked, “Have you ever heard of or seen a machine that looks like a six-foot-tall brass wheel that rolls along by itself?”

He frowned. “No.”

“Did you stay inside the house with Redditch?” The butler had said they’d remained in the library, but perhaps he and Redditch had gone into the garden through the library doors without drawing notice.

“Yes,” he said. “In the parlor, then the library.”

“Did you ever go outside?”

“Not until I left.”

“Which door did you leave by?”

“The front.” A brief, hard smile touched his mouth. “He was trying to butter me up, remember. And I might smell like a match factory, but I’m not a servant.”

“All right.” She shot a glance at Newberry to see if he had anything to add. With a tiny shake of his head, the constable replied that he didn’t. “Thank you, Mr. Foley. Please contact me if you recall anything else during your time at Lord Redditch’s home, even if it seems insignificant.”

“I will.”

Almost everyone on the work floor glanced up as she and Newberry left Foley’s office. How many of them would be put out of work? Whether Foley brought the automatons in or continued on as he was, it seemed that half of them—at the very least—would soon be looking for another way to earn a wage.

That fear might give someone motivation to kill. If Redditch’s bill had passed and Foley wasn’t able to install his machines, he’d lose his factory.

It was a reason to kill . . . but she didn’t see it in Foley. He’d seemed resigned, but not yet desperate. Mina would keep him in mind, though—and also look at anyone else who might have been threatened by Redditch’s bill.

Hopefully, she would find a substantial lead before that, however. Redditch’s body might give her one when they returned to headquarters. Tomorrow, they’d return to Portman Square and knock on doors again—asking about the wheel, but also about a lorry waiting in the alley or the street that might have taken it away. In that area, that early in the evening, someone
had
to have seen something. That wheel hadn’t simply disappeared.

But their front tires had.

Mina stopped outside the factory door, heard Newberry’s quick breath as he halted behind her. In the middle of the yard, the police cart sat with its nose in the ground. She pursed her lips.

“I
did
double-lock them, sir.”

“I know it, constable.” Her reliable assistant wouldn’t have forgotten. “I was just thinking what a lovely night it is for a walk. Don’t you agree?”

His red mustache twitched when he smiled. “The evening is rather pleasant, sir.”

“It is settled, then. I had planned to return to headquarters and examine Redditch’s body, but I think we shall have a little stroll to the London Bridge, where we will find us each a cab to take home. We will meet at headquarters two hours before shift tomorrow morning, instead. The body can wait for us that long.” She felt a bit of relief when Newberry unlocked the boot. At least the thieves hadn’t taken their equipment. “I’ll carry the kit if you will carry the camera, constable.”

“I can carry them both, sir.”

“Don’t be absurd, Newberry.” The ferrotype camera assembly weighed as much as Mina did, and the trunk containing their kit half as much. Strengthened by her bugs, she could easily manage either one, and there was no sense in him trying to balance both. “We are in luck that the bridge is not far, and that it is not a repeat of our hike in the rain from Chiswick.”

With his head in the boot, she couldn’t clearly hear his reply, but she thought Newberry might have groaned at the reminder. They had not exactly hiked—“waded through knee-deep mud” would have been more accurate, and considering the number of cows grazing alongside the road, Mina wasn’t certain that “mud” was accurate, either.

He straightened, the camera assembly cradled in his big arms. “Very lucky, sir.”

She reached in for the kit, hefted it against her chest. “All right, then. March on, constable.”

There was no point in looking for the person who’d stolen the tires. No one in this area would have seen anything at all tonight.

Unless, of course, the newssheets caught wind of Inspector Wentworth’s predicament. Then everyone would have seen her. So Mina began to walk, and wondered whether the story of her trek through St. Olave would appear in the next morning’s news, or if an entire day would pass before it showed up.

* * *

It was almost midnight
when Mina’s cab returned her home. Rhys wasn’t just waiting up—he came out onto the front steps, waved aside the footman and opened the steamcoach door for her. Not something a duke would do. Not the normal sort of duke, at least.

But he would never be that. A normal duke did not begin life in a crèche, and then as a slave sold in the Ivory Market’s skin trade. A normal duke did not mutiny aboard an English vessel, taking the ship for his own and using it in an eight-year run of piracy. A normal duke did not blow up a Horde tower in a fit of anger and spark a revolution that destroyed half a city.

His big hand closed over hers. A single touch, and anticipation tightened her skin, shortened her breath. Mina didn’t know if a normal duke could have had the same effect on her; so far, only Rhys did.

His dark gaze slid from her head to the tips of her boots. “You’re all right?”

“Yes.”

“Any leads?”

“No. Aside from Prescott, no one saw anything. So we’ve called it a night, and will begin again early tomorrow.” As she spoke, the intensity of his gaze deepened. Mina’s heart pounded. “I need to change my clothing, wash off this smell.”

“Smell?” He leaned forward, bent his head toward her neck, inhaled. Humor warmed his voice. “Have you been swimming in the Thames?”

Even through her laughter, need began to build, a hot quiver in her stomach. Her breath stilled as his lips opened against her throat.

“I would have you even if you’d been rolling with pigs,” he said softly, before raising his head and pressing a sweet kiss to her mouth that stopped her laugh.

Oh.
How did she melt so easily? Mina clung to his biceps, lifting to her toes to deepen the incredible sensation of his mouth against hers. Who cared what the cab driver might see and report this kiss to the newssheets? Who cared that the footman would pretend to see nothing at all? Here in his arms, it mattered not a whit what anyone else did or didn’t see. There was nothing in the world clearer to Mina, more solid, than her love for this man.

Even if he didn’t have a smooth way with words. She tucked her hand into his elbow as they climbed the steps to the entrance. “Rolling with pigs, truly? That’s not worse than the Thames. I suddenly doubt your devotion.”

“You’ve caught me out. In truth, I’d throw a bucket of water at you first.”

“And if it was water from the Thames?”

“You still couldn’t smell worse than the
Terror
’s crew, two months away from any bath.”