Having reached the second floor again, Charles noddedexpectantly. “Go on, then. You can’t begin such an intriguing tale and not tell the whole.”
With a demure smile, Lady Margaret continued her story. “Among the many exhibits, there was one that featured an automaton called the Silver Swan, brought to life by a trio of clockwork motors. As music played, the swan preened upon a glistening stream, levers and springs allowing its neck to bend and its bill to open with convincing realism. I remember being awestruck, held aloft in Papa’s arms, while Mama beamed at his side. Mama told me all about the jeweler, James Cox, and the watchmaker, John Joseph Merlin, who’d invented the automaton back in 1773, and Papa explained how the swan functioned and how an assortment of camshafts and glass rods created the illusion of moving water and swimming fish. When the swan caught one of the tiny silver fish in its beak and proceeded to eat it, I erupted into laughter.”
Seemingly lost in memory, her grin brightened. “I made my parents watch the machine for hours. Eventually we progressed to other exhibits, but when my parents were distracted, I slipped away and ran back to the swan, standing on tiptoe to get as close as I could to its gleam. A man with curly brown hair and a drooping mustache that covered his upper lip picked me up to see the swan better, just as my parents rushed back into the exhibit. I’m told Mama seized me quite forcibly and Papa nearly landed a fist to the man’s jaw before realizing he posed no threat. With a bout of fisticuffs narrowly circumvented, Papa endeavored to dispel further tension with talk of the swan, mentioning how it had captivated my imagination and insatiable curiosity.
“The man smiled and replied, ‘As it should. The automaton fowl has a living grace about his movement and a living intelligence in his eyes. Don’t be too hard on the girl for running off. No child should be permitted to grow up without exercise for the imagination. It enriches life. It makes thingswonderful and beautiful.’ Mama promptly chimed back with, ‘As does a good story. Your jumping frog book is one of Maggie’s favorites, Mr. Twain.’”
Charles gawked. “You met Mark Twain? The American author?”
“Apparently, although my memory of the encounter is colored more by my parents’ frequent retellings, rather than by actual recollection. Seeing the Silver Swan all those years ago ... that I recall as vividly as though I’d seen it yesterday.”
“How do you put this passion for machinery to use, Miss Knight? Aside from the obvious.” Charles glanced knowingly at her wheeled chair with its hidden wonders. From what Professor Quimby had implied, Lady Margaret invented such marvels regularly to aid her fellow lady inspectors.
“Alas, there aren’t many ways for a lady to ply her trade in the world of technology, sir. I do content myself, though, by tinkering with music boxes as a hobby.”
Charles’ heart quickened at the wordmusic. “I’m rather fond of music myself. I’d love to see your music boxes. Might I one day have the honor?”
Lady Margaret eyed him warily as though she didn’t believe him in earnest. “Perhaps, Mr. Noble. One day.”
Chapter
21
Margaret was perplexed, and the sensation was quite discombobulating. She’d only indulged Jane’s ridiculous blink test as a lark, believing the preposterous notion of Mr. Noble fancying her would be promptly disproven. Properly debunked. Instead, to her utter astonishment, Jane had been right—at least regarding the blinking’s persuasiveness.
If the prolonged ride in the steam-powered lift was any indication, Mr. Noble was highly susceptible to the effects of fluttering lashes. Yet, despite the faux experiment’s apparent success, Margaret still couldn’t accept Jane’s hypothesis. For the results were far from conclusive. Yes, Mr. Noble was remarkably kind and patient. But were those qualities alone proof of romantic fancy, or was the man merely being gracious to a pitiable invalid?
The latter was far more probable, and though her parents had taught a curious young Maggie to believe life full of marvelous possibilities, experience had taught a cautious, olderMargaret that chasing after the marvelous could result in life-altering misfortune. Holding fast to the probable was so much safer than reaching for the possible. Instead of entertaining Jane’s hypothesis, Margaret’s energy would be better spent solving this case, so she could get her life back on its carefully constructed track.
The lift’s double doors opened to the Invention Factory’s basement level, and Mr. Noble met her gaze with a broad smile and that now-familiar twinkle in his brown eyes. “Shall we go up again? I’d love to hear more about your idea of alleviating people’s fear of elevators by incorporating soothing musical accompaniment into the machine. I think it’s sure to catch on. Perhaps Mr. Harrison might put it into development.”
Was the man sincere or merely patronizing her? Margaret studied Mr. Noble’s tone and countenance to no avail. Alas, if only she could assess the complex inner workings of humans with the same ease as she evaluated a combustion engine. “I think we’ve dallied long enough, Mr. Noble. We’ve important work that needs doing.”
The twinkle in Mr. Noble’s eyes dimmed momentarily, just long enough for her to perceive the difference. “You’re quite right, of course. Let’s be off to the records room.”
Taking the lead, Mr. Noble disembarked the elevator and veered to the left of the corridor. Margaret rolled after him, noting a pair of doors in passing. The first was labeled as a gentlemen’s water closet, the second as the personnel room. At the end of the nondescript hallway, Mr. Noble opened a third door with one hand and granted her precedence.
With a nod, Margaret accepted the polite gesture. In her periphery, she observed a flush of crimson washing over Mr. Noble’s cheeks as she rolled by. She bit her lip. What could that mean? Botheration, now Jane had her analyzing every minute interaction with Mr. Noble. As though she wasn’tself-conscious enough, what with the general newness of inspectoring in the field and collaborating with a covert asset. She hoped she hadn’t been too forthright earlier. She’d gotten rather carried away on the elevator, distracted by the machine’s simulation of flight and the nostalgia it kindled, but there was nothing for it now.Focus on the task before you. The problem to be solved. Like you do in the workshop.
Parking her wheelchair, Margaret considered her surroundings. The records room was just that—a room wherein records were stored. Nothing anomalous or unexpected. Just four walls, electric lights, countless rows of shelves lined with boxes, and a single table, presumably to provide a suitable space for sorting. Not quite as cavernous as the patent office’s labyrinth, but impressive nonetheless. Everything appeared to be well organized and neatly labeled. Hopefully that would make things easier.
Without being asked, Mr. Noble retrieved the boxes for the last ten years, which she hadn’t finished perusing on her first visit, and placed them in a row upon the table. “If you’re comfortable to continue your search alone, I’ll pop over to the personnel room to locate that file on J.Dawkins.”
“I am, quite. Thank you.”
Perhaps having a covert asset was going to be a boon rather than a complication. Mr. Noble took his leave with a bow, and Margaret rolled up to the table. After removing the lid from the box of most recent patents, she withdrew a notepad and pencil from her pocket and set to work. One at a time, she skimmed the patent files, searching for the attributed inventor column before returning them to their proper place. Any invention attributed to J.Dawkins, she listed in detail on her notepad, beginning with the Chatsome Catherine voice-box mechanism.
On a separate sheet of paper, she jotted down inventions of note that might warrant display at the gala. If she andMr. Noble collaborated in this manner, they’d avoid needless duplication of labor and proceed through the files more expeditiously.
Time passed without notice as Margaret progressed through the boxes in turn, making her way back to the year 1892. She arched her back, gently working out lumbar stiffness. Mr. Noble had yet to return. He must’ve encountered some difficulty locating the Dawkins file. Consulting the watch pinned to her tea gown’s bodice, she noted the lateness of the hour, then stared at the row of boxes yet to be touched.
“I want you to be able to work this case, Inspector Kingsley, not have it workyou into the ground.”The chief’s admonishment niggled her conscience.
Margaret sighed. She needed to exert wisdom and pace herself. The work could keep. She’d just reshelve the three boxes she’d already searched, take her list of gala display options to Mr. Noble in the personnel room, and inform him of her intent to return on the morrow. Hopefully, he’d have located the Dawkins file by then. She slid the 1895 box onto her lap, wheeled toward one of the shelves, and rose from her chair, hoisting the box overhead.
A loud gasp startled Margaret, and she whirled around, nearly dropping the box. The sudden movement triggered a spasm. She clenched her teeth, muffling a gasp of her own.Rusted cogs!Like a fiery electric current, pain shot from her back to her ribs, tightening her muscles and shortening her breath.
“Joseph Bologne!” Mr. Noble took the box from Margaret before she could protest.
