Page 67 of Hawk & Sparrow

“And you really think they were the ones who killed Francis Gladwell?”

“I don’t know for sure,” she said honestly, “but there’s some compelling evidence to support the theory. I’m almost certain that the server I ran into at the exhibition before it started was a Rouser, and Chief Stettner said his men saw a bunch of them lurking around the maze after Mr. Gladwell’s murder. Add that to his brother’s testimony, and it certainly looks like Francis got mixed up with the wrong people and paid the price for it.”

“You think the Thally Rousers had an interest in the Gladwell Machine?” Maximilian asked.

“It’s possible. They’re all about profit.” Vesper leaned in. “Did you know that, last year alone, the Thally Rousers took in an estimated two million gild in illegal revenue?”

Maximilian whistled low. “How’s a street gang pull those numbers?”

Vesper shook her head. “They’re not just some street gang. The Thally Rousers have been around for years. They consider themselves more like a company, Basalton’s premier merchants of contraband materials.”

Maximilian frowned. “How do you know all this?”

“Stettner,” said Vesper. “He’s been on a special task force tracking them for years. There have been a few inroads, but they always hit a dead end. Apparently the Rousers are fiercely loyal, especially to their leader.”

“What’s his name?” Maximilian asked.

Vesper shrugged.

Maximilian sat back in his seat. “I suppose it makes sense,” he said. “If this Stanley guy you talked to was telling the truth, the real Francis Gladwell—or, Frankie—would have been an easy recruit.”

“I have a working theory,” said Vesper. “Francis joined the Rousers and agreed to be their proxy so that he could take the Gladwell Machine out on their behalf. They set him up to look like some legitimate scion of a wealthy family and gave him the money to back it up so that he could pass the Gladwell Machine off as his own. It would explain how he lived so lavishly, and why there’s no record of him as an actual inventor.”

“One question,” said Maximilian. “You said the Rousers have plenty of money. If that’s the case, why would they have needed Francis to court high society investors to finance his machine? They could have done it themselves.”

“Because the Rousers are still an illegal operation,” said Vesper. “If they wanted to go public with the machine, they’d need the kind of legitimacy high society investors offer.”

“So why kill Gladwell?”

Vesper drummed her fingers against the coach’s window ledge. “I think something happened,” she said. “Maybe Frankie got greedy once he figured out how much money was to be made and tried to double-cross them.” She gave Maximilian a significant look. “Stettner told me Rousers are infamous for the punishments they dole out to turncoats.”

Maximilian nodded. “You know, if the Rousers really are responsible, they’ll never admit it.”

“We don’t need them to confess to the actual murder,” said Vesper. “We just need enough information to prove they could have done it.” She inclined her head. “Did you bring it?”

Maximilian reached into his trousers’ pocket and withdrew something wrapped in a plain handkerchief. Slowly, he unfolded it, then held the item aloft for Vesper to see. She leaned forward and a sigh escaped her.

The brooch Maximilian was holding was the size of a kiwi, oval shaped and inlaid with gold with a large ruby at its center. For a few seconds, she could only stare at it in wonder.

“You’re sure you want to use this?”

Maximilian nodded. “It was my great-grandmother’s,” he said. “Lovely woman by all accounts, but her taste in fashion was questionable at best. I found this in the back of a drawer. No one was looking for it. Will it do?”

Vesper took the brooch and pinned it to the shirt under her coat before she nodded. “I suspect it will.” She looked out the window again. They had all the pieces in place now, but she still didn’t know if her plan would work.

It has to, an internal voice said. You only have eleven days left.

“Uh, Evans?”

Vesper looked up. “What?”

Maximilian’s brows had knitted. “You’re torturing that handkerchief.”

Vesper looked down and realized the handkerchief she’d been holding in her lap was twisted up. She slipped it into her pocket just as the coach slowed to a stop. “We’re here.”

They disembarked quickly, then Vesper gave the coachman instructions on where to wait. She watched the coach disappear before turning to the street sign closest to her. It was rusted and dented in several places, and read “Pike Lane.” They were definitely in South Basalton now.

“Is the Rousers’ marketplace nearby?” asked Maximilian.