Then inventor J.Dawkins had never invented a thing. Surely this was sufficient evidence to eliminate Harrison as a suspect. “This narrows down the items on your other list, does it not?”
“It might have done. Except another friend of mine went shopping and learned one of the... items on my list,” Margaret continued, employing the same euphemism, “may not be acquirable.” From another pocket, Lady Margaret produced a dingy old paper, once crumpled and likely stomped underfoot, now neatly folded into fours.
Unfolding the paper, Charles discovered a pamphlet advertisement for a pawnbroker’s shop. There was an illustration of the establishment, featuring rows of handkerchiefs hanging in the front window, and printed below in bold letters was an address. The very same address listed in Dawkins’ personnel file as his place of residence.
“My friend spoke with the proprietor. The man’s grandfather established the place in 1785, and according to his recollection, the shop never had the item on my list in stock.”
Then Dawkins wasn’t merely a thief, but a fraud. Though why the man would lie about his residence, Charles couldn’t begin to fathom. “Do you think another shop will have the item in stock?” The man had to live somewhere, and since his time with the company predated the construction of Innovation Park’s employee housing, his residence must be located somewhere in the city.
“Actually, I’m beginning to wonder if the item I seek even exists.” The way Lady Margaret spoke that final word, with an emphasis as gentle as it was emphatic, gave him pause.
Charles returned the advertisement to her keeping, studying the nuances of her tone and expression. She believedDawkins was a false identity. That the man had never existed. That the man was the creation of ...Mr. Harrison. His heartbeat transitioned into legato. Harrison, a thief and a fraud? No. The notion was out of tune with everything he knew of the man. Granted, he’d not known the man overlong.
“There must be something we’ve missed. What of the ... payments already made on that particular item?” Dawkins had a bank account on file, which received monthly royalty checks from AlvanT. Harrison, Incorporated. Those funds had to be going somewhere.
To someone not Mr. Harrison.
“I’ve a friend tracking the route of those payments, but I must caution you to prepare yourself.” Compassion tinged with concern softened the plains of her face. “The answers my friend uncovers may not be to your liking.”
Charles nodded. He’d observed Lady Margaret long enough to trust she’d follow the evidence. While there might be an uncomfortable truth on the horizon he’d have to reckon with, nothing was settled yet. There was still information to obtain and people to question. He consulted his pocket watch. Five till one. “I’ve arranged for us to interview some of the inventors at the conclusion of their lunch hour. We’ll be collecting testimonials for the gala and stories for your articles, Miss Knight. I do believe our first interview will be of the most interest to your readers. Mr. Tinkerton’s the only inventor on staff who’s been with the company since the very beginning.”
Making him the only employee who might recall a colleague by the name of J.Dawkins.
As they entered the Invention Factory, the pair was greeted not by the rhythmic clanking of tools or the frenetic whirring of machinery, but by a familiar voice warbling a lively tune one would expect to come staggering out of a pub. Lady Margaret’s eyebrows rose, and Charles failed to suppress a grin. He probably ought to have warned her, given that she’dnever visited the factory during the employee lunch break when Harrison made his daily rounds, but a puckish part of him had wanted to see how Lady Margaret would react to Mr. Harrison’s unique manner of interacting with his employees.
Venturing into the heart of the building, they found Mr. Harrison dancing a jig in time to the clapping and knee-slapping of the assembled inventors. Nimbly, the gray-haired gentleman cavorted on legs long and lithe, his smile as warm and contagious as his song.
“I’m just a wench from Bristol,
in my knickers I carry a pistol.
If you come at me,
it’s the barrel you’ll see.
You’ll be six foot under,
afore my cuppa tea!”
The ditty concluded to raucous applause, and Mr. Harrison laughed, none too little winded. “All right, lads. The lunch hour is spent and so am I. Let’s have a look at what you’re working on today. MacGyver, how’s that multipurpose pocketknife coming along?”
As Mac led Mr. Harrison to his workstation, a cluster of men following behind, Lady Margaret watched the procession in bewilderment. “Does this sort of thing occur often?”
“Indeed. It’s Mr. Harrison’s habit to make an appearance on the floor at this time of day while the men are on break. He likes to boost morale with a casual exchange of story and song, often regaling the men with tales of his youth. Then he checks in with the inventors individually—praises their work, offers advice for improvement, that sort of thing. He’s especially fond of mentoring the younger inventors.” Perhaps now Lady Margaret would understand his reluctance to think the worst of the man.
Lady Margaret’s countenance grew thoughtful, and she gnawed her bottom lip, turning it a deeper shade of pink, one so alluring that Charles’ heartbeat stumbled over a sharp accidental.Foolish sap with—
“Look, there’s Mr. Tinkerton! At his station. Aw-waiting his interview. We’d best get a move on. ‘Tardy is tardy, and those who think otherwise are naught but foolhardy.’” Richard Wagner, had he just quotedBarton? He grimaced, face nigh scalding as he practically fled across the factory. “Right this way, Miss Knight.”
To his great relief, Lady Margaret didn’t acknowledge his sudden awkwardness. Instead she merely rolled ahead, greeted Mr. Tinkerton, and introduced herself as a writer for theDispatchbefore commencing the interview with the aplomb of a seasoned journalist.
One could always tell how Mr. Tremaine Tinkerton’s day was going based on the state of the octogenarian’s mustache. If it was pristinely waxed into a pair of defined upward curls, Tinkerton was having a productive and pleasing day. If the mustache shot straight out on either side with the frazzled appearance of a startled cat’s tail, Tinkerton was having an unproductive and most unpleasant day, indeed. Most likely involving electrocution.
As a result, holding Tinkerton’s attention for any span of time was quite the feat, but Lady Margaret managed to do so with ease, taking copious notes all the while. She gleaned details about how he’d come to work for the company and listened patiently as he explained the formula he was developing for a protective coating for copper wire that could withstand high voltages of electricity. Judging by Tinkerton’s intent focus and immaculately flourished mustache, the day’s work was going rather well.
Lady Margaret looked up from her notes. “It is my understanding, Mr. Tinkerton, that you’re the lone remnant of theInvention Factory’s initial hires. Do you keep in touch with your colleagues from those early days?”
“I do. With those that are still living, leastways. Some reside here at Innovation Park in the retirement housing quarter, though a few have moved away to be near family in other parts of the country.”
