Revolutionary Magic (with Bonus Content) (5 page)

"Events, happenings. Things. I don't know. I asked him to make me a steam carriage that would be prepared for anything," he said. "This is it."

As Ben was talking, without taking his eyes off me, he swerved around a farmer walking his horse on the right side of the street. My fingers dug into the cushion as I tried to anchor myself in place.

Once we'd settled back onto our side, he raised a sympathetic eyebrow. "You're miffed about what happened earlier?"

"Miffed? I can't see how you might have gotten
that
impression," I said. "I believe last we spoke you called me a spy."

I gave Ben my most withering stare, feeling no regret in doing so. While it was true that I had been a spy the last few months, it'd been under duress, rather than a choice of free will. This kept my conscience clear despite the circumstances.

"It was Adam that called you a spy," he said.

"Well, you've been keeping
secrets
."

A sigh filtered out of Ben's nostrils as he slowed the steam carriage. We had reached the dock district of the city. A three-masted ship moved languidly down the river in the reflected glow of the evening gas lamps, the shouts of the sailors faintly rumbled against the glass.

"I cannot change the past," said Ben, "but I can try to rectify the future."

"What was it that you were saying before about word coming in?" I asked.

"We have another victim," he said with unhealthy glee.

"A little dark, aren't we?" I mocked.

He winked. "I have to say, this conundrum pleases me. I do enjoy a good puzzle."

"Our victim is a dockworker?" I asked, getting out of the steam carriage.

"No," he said, grabbing a familiar sagging knapsack from the back. "I'll explain on the way over. We're headed to the Camden Yards."

We took the ferry, a flat ship with a steam engine driving a paddle. The caress of dirty, brown water slid past while the lantern rocked with the surges of the current. The river was much colder than the city, and I listened to Ben's explanation with my arms cinched around my chest, smelling the sea air tainting the wind.

Another victim had been found without his recent memories. He'd been clinging to a log near the rough waters right before the Delaware turned into the Atlantic Ocean. A fishing boat had found him only because they'd heard his weak cries and thought him a seal separated from its mother. The first mate had been prepared to club the man until he'd realized it wasn't a seal.

The man was Augustus Tundlelittle, the Head of Immigration for the airship port. His job was to record the airships, passengers, and ports of call.

He was another government bureaucrat with little power and no influence. I, along with Ben, knew that it was probably significant, just not why.

We arrived and went directly to the Office of Immigration building. It was a modest two story with a brick front that sat off the main tarmac where the airships landed and took off. The large area was empty of airships at the moment, though a pair of steam carriages was moving one out of the hanger by pulling it along on wires, probably for a late flight across the ocean. The hangers were built from massive timbers hauled from the deep Pennsylvania forest.

Further south of our location, at the military's airship yard, a silvery craft had taken flight, the low clouds threatening to swallow it. Before following Ben inside, I looked back across the river—the gas lamps gave the city a brassy glow.

A thin shivering man wrapped in blankets and with hair that looked like a drowned rat was the first thing we saw. He had scrapes and bruises across his face. A bandage was wrapped around his head. The room smelled like wet fur. A curious rope was tied around the blankets, keeping him in a straight-backed chair.

Augustus Tundlelittle looked to us with that vacant gaze that I'd seen in Theodore Cooper. He looked like a prisoner in his own head, the tensed eyebrows serving as his fists beating against the thick iron bars of his mind.

A second man, in a dark green linen jacket, appeared from the next room. He was reasonably handsome, except for a patch of cribbage face on each cheek, giving him a rugged look.

"Temple Franklin, I assume?" he asked. "I greatly admired your grandfather, sir. He was the First American. I'm Samuel Redford, Mr. Tundlelittle's assistant."

True to his part, Ben gave a hesitant acknowledgement of the sentiment. "Your condolences are appreciated. Is this Augustus?"

"A little beat up, but yes, it's him in form, though I question if he's here in spirit," said Samuel. "He seems to know where he's at most of the time, but has tried to drown himself twice since his rescue."

Augustus' assistant had the same look that Theodore's wife had had on her face. I'd seen it on many a middle-aged child who had to watch their parent descend into the confused twilight of old age.

This thought caught in my mental nets and I tried to fish it out, but then Samuel stepped forward, giving a deep bow.

"And who might this lovely lady be?" he asked with a smile tugging on his lips.

"Katerina Carmontelle," I said, returning the bow with a curtsey.

"Is this the latest fashion in France?" he asked.

"I am dressed for business, which I believe we should return to," I replied.

His easy manner bothered me. What was a moderately charming fellow doing as an assistant to Augustus Tundlelittle? Was I just defensive because my romantic endeavors had proved thus far disastrous?

Ben was ignoring us and leaned into the vision of Mr. Tundlelittle. "Good sir, do you rightly know what the date is? Month and year will do."

Mr. Tundlelittle blinked a few times. The effort seemed to wake him from his daze, if only slightly. "I, uhm, yes. The date. It's the end of winter, March. 1799. Am I correct?"

Unlike Theodore Cooper, Mr. Tundlelittle seemed to sense his confusion, or possibly the confusion reflected in our faces.

"What if I told you that it was April of 1800?" asked Ben.

Mr. Tundlelittle glanced to his assistant. "I would say you're lying to me, except that Samuel said the very same thing." His eyes bunched up. "What's going on?"

"When you fell into the river," I began, "where did you think you were headed?"

"Yes, yes, the river," he said. "It's a Thursday, and the week's records need to go over to the hall. I usually go a little early, have a bite to eat at the Duck Foot Tavern, drop my papers off, and then return."

"How did you end up in the river?" I asked.

Trying to recall his adventure seemed to injure him. He looked like a man with severe intestinal problems. "The last thing I remember was that I went to the ferry dock. Then it felt like I was trapped in a nightmare and someone was trying to repeatedly drown me. Then the fisherman pulled me out of the water. That's it?"

That the last part was a question confirmed that he wasn't sure that it was the truth.

"What happened to him?" asked Samuel, heavy concern knitting his brow. "Why would he throw himself into the river? He can barely swim."

Ben was pacing around the room, making steps in a pattern. Two steps forward, one step to the right. The knight piece on the chessboard, it seemed. I thought better if I could stand in one place, which made us a good team in small spaces.

"Has the ferry dock moved recently?" I asked, receiving a noteworthy glance from Ben.

"Why yes," replied Samuel. "The dock used to be more to the north, but the floods last summer washed it out. The one you arrived on is quite new. Is that significant?"

Rather than answer, Ben asked another question, "Did you see anyone lurking around here today? Anyone that didn't have any business with the office? Anything strange at all?"

Mr. Tundlelittle rubbed his closed lips with his fingertips. Samuel checked to see that his boss wasn't going to answer and then, after a thoughtful pause, spoke. "It was extremely busy today. We had a double-decker airship arrive from London, three smaller craft depart for other locales in the state, and then right before Augustus had to take the papers across the Delaware, we had an unexpected airship from Constantinople."

"Unexpected? Is this unusual?" asked Ben, scratching the back of his neck.

"Depends on how you define unusual. Most flights we know about in advance. People don't usually decide to fly an airship across the ocean on a whim. A trip of that length requires planning. Fuel, passengers, cargo, those sorts of things. So we usually get flight plans on the mail ships a week or so before," said Samuel. "But this one came right out of the blue, as they say. Made for a mess of people since we'd barely cleared out the London group. If we would have known, we would have asked for additional manpower to handle it."

"When's the last time you've had a flight from Constantinople?" I asked.

"It's been a while. Maybe last fall, around October, if memory serves," he said.

Ben addressed Mr. Tundlelittle. "Sir, I have a bit of imposition to trouble you with. My humblest apologies, but in the due diligence required of this investigation, I must ask a question."

"Go ahead," said Mr. Tundlelittle in an uneasy voice.

"Do you, sir, have any unusual wounds or injuries on your person? Besides the memory loss, of course," said Ben.

"I, uhm," said Mr. Tundlelittle, appearing to not know what to say.

Samuel stepped in. "He's got more bumps and bruises than a man set upon by ruffians. He was actually clinging to a flotilla of logs, probably set loose by some farmer clearing his ditch out, miles up the river. While he held onto them, I think they must have crashed together, smashing him about his person. He's lucky they didn't knock him back into the river."

I sensed the meaning behind Ben's question. He wanted to know if the scab on Mr. Cooper's neck had been significant. There'd be no way of knowing if Mr. Tundlelittle had a similar wound now.

"Do you have a wife, Mr. Tundlelittle?" I asked.

Samuel answered for his boss again when he stared mutely at the floor.

"He's single. Lives with a bevy of shaggy and disgusting hunting dogs, can't remember the breed, though he's not a hunter. From what I understand, he reads a fair amount of books when he's not here," said Samuel, then added as if by afterthought, "I'm single as well, if that matters."

"We'll see, Mr. Redford, we'll see," I said.

"Nothing else that you can remember? Nothing sticks out?" asked Ben, frowning.

Samuel shook his head in the negative. Ben and I shared a weighty glance. Neither of us wanted to air our thoughts in front of them. Ben nodded towards the doorway and I followed him outside to the dumbfounded looks of the two immigration officers, each one for his own reasons.

"What do you think?" asked Ben in a hushed tone, well away from the immigration building.

"An unlikely coincidence. Someone is behind this loss of memory, though I cannot fathom why," I said.

"What was with the business about his marital status? He doesn't seem like the kind of man that would have a chance at courting you," said Ben with an impish grin.

"Jealous again? I was curious to his habits and who would have access to him. It's clear that he remains unmolested at home, due to his choice of companionship," I said.

"An odd way to put it," said Ben.

I continued without comment. Sometimes Ben could be such a child. "Someone must have poisoned him. Maybe in the confusion of the two airships, the poisoner slipped in."

"Poison, eh?" he asked.

"Still trying to prove the arcane?" I asked.

Ben replied by lifting the knapsack by its straps.

"Fine, do your thing. I was hoping to see how it operated anyway," I said.

Ben scratched the back of his head. "I'd prefer if you went inside to make sure Mr. Redford or Mr. Tundlelittle don't come upon me unawares while I'm operating the device. If such a thing happened, we'd have more issues than two men with wormwood memory. And I'm sure you have further questions for Mr. Tundlelittle."

The look in Ben's eyes told me it was more than that, but he was trying not to impinge on my well-being. To tell the truth, I didn't give a damn, since I already knew the Society didn't trust me. But I appreciated that Ben cared enough to spare my feelings, so I said nothing, which was a reciprocity of its own kind.

"Yes, more questions," I said softly. "I suppose I have a few."

I went back into the building. Mr. Redford was handing Mr. Tundlelittle a steaming ceramic mug. A stove in the corner had a black kettle misting a faint breath of steam into the room.

"Mr. Redford, did anything else unusual happen during the day, before he left and went into the river? Could you describe the events, starting with when you arrived?" I asked.

Samuel cleared his throat and explained how they'd both arrived at dawn. Mr. Redford usually arrived first to light the stove—the air was rather chilly right next to the Delaware River that early in the morning—but Mr. Tundlelittle had arrived at the same time.

"Did he appear well? Was anything amiss?" I interjected with questions.