Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection (42 page)

***

The bridegroom led the bewildered constable across the lawn to Mrs Fiske's side.

"Mary, you know the Constable?"

"Of course. It's good to see you, John. How is your mother?"

"Better, Mrs. Fiske. She sends her regards."

Alton gave the constable a grin. "Mrs. Fiske, there's a matter of some mysterious disappearances that Constable Fuller has requested my assistance with--"

"I never--"

"Do you suppose you might handle greeting the guests while I look into things?"

"Of course, Alton." Mary Fiske pushed herself out of her chair, ignoring the hands offered to help her rise. "Greeting is one of the things I can handle, surely."

"Excellent! The game's afoot, then, eh Constable?"

"It's a what?"

"Something a mentor of mine used to say," Alton said. "But, yes, let's off."

"Don't be too long," Mary said. "Aldora will be cross if she notices you're gone."

"She'll be cross regardless. Oh, don't give me that look, Fuller. Off with us."

***

Alton Bartleby and Constable Fuller left the estate, walking down the long drive towards the town proper. The bridegroom held his hands behind his back, hat tipped forward, watching his shoes as they kicked gravel before him. They were almost at the end of the drive before he spoke.

"Tell me about these disappearances," Bartleby said. "When did they begin?"

"As I mentioned, sir, it was two months ago. A factory employee didn't turn up for his shift."

"Were his possessions missing from his home?"

"No sir."

"Then sudden emigration is unlikely."

"That was my opinion, sir, but without a lead to go on..."

"What was your opinion of the matter?"

"Mine, sir?" The constable considered, scratching his jaw under his helmet's chin-strap. "At the time I thought he'd fallen into the river. The current is quite strong in the spring."

"When we presume to assume..."

"I didn't say that's what I declared had happened, sir, just my estimate."

Alton stopped and looked up. With many of the locals hired to attend to the wedding party, Hillshire had grown quiet. A few shopkeepers manned their businesses, and he could see the smoke rising from the factory in the distance, but very few were out and about on the street, an odd sight for midday.

"Who was the next to vanish?"

"Another factory worker. Left the facility on his lunch break, as the men are prone to, and didn't return."

"Where do the men typically take their lunch?"

"It's a ten-minute walk into town. A number of local cafes serve their needs."

"Had any seen him that day?"

"No, sir."

Alton looked towards the factory again. "Can you show me the route he walked?"

"Yes, sir. If you'll follow me?"

He let the constable take the lead.

"Were all of the disappearances men vanishing on their luncheons?"

"Not entirely, sir," the constable said. "Some men just didn't show up to work at the start of their shifts."

They walked side-by-side down the cobblestone streets, past residential homes and smaller shops to a row of dining establishments, each with a strong working-class aesthetic, offering such fares as unadorned sausage, skillets of egg, and bread soaked in gravy drippings.

Fuller gestured towards them. "The men from the factory typically frequent these restaurants."

"You'd mentioned that men from the warehouses had gone missing as well. Do they dine here as well?"

The constable shook his head. "The warehouses are across town. The eateries and cafes are about the same calibre, though. Would you like to see them?"

"Not yet. Show me the route the men take from the factory."

They walked in silence down the street from the shops towards the towering factory. The town thinned out as they progressed, allowing much of the natural terrain to establish itself. There were small copses of wood and brush, a drainage ditch, and Alton was able to identify quite a few potential ambush points. That no one had seen the missing man vanish was thus not in itself unusual.

He stopped at the factory gates, gazing up at the building beyond. It was solid brick, with green-tinted windows placed high, steel doors set into the walls, and only the road access through its sturdy wrought fence. "What is produced here?"

"Telegraphic equipment," the Constable said. "I'm afraid that I'm not educated in the technical specifics."

"Nor I, but it may not be a factor," Alton said. "What was the nature of this latest disappearance?"

The Constable pulled a small notepad from his breast pocket. "One Mr. Ruck Little, of number eleven Cross Street, did not return home from work at the warehouse last night. He had not yet made his appearance this afternoon, when his missus brought the matter to my attention."

Bartleby pursed his lips. "Was Mr. Little in the habit of coming home from work directly after his shift?"

"I did not enquire," Constable Fuller said, putting his notepad away. "Sir, we should be returning to the estate--"

"We've time yet." Bartleby turned from the factory gates. "Take me to the warehouse. I'd like to trace Mr. Little's route."

"Do you have any theories?"

"Nothing I'm prepared to share as of yet, Constable. But I'm cogitating."

"Cogitating."

"Oh my yes. Wheels are turning, Constable Fuller. Wheels."

***

Bartleby and Fuller walked the route from the warehouse towards Mr. Little's home on Cross street until the detective abruptly stopped.

"This pub. I suspect its clientele are drawn from the warehouse crews?"

"I couldn't say for certain, sir," the Constable said, glancing up at the place. "It's likely, though. This is--"

"Yes, a company town." Bartleby pushed his way in through the door.

The lighting was dim inside, the way a good pub's should be, and peanut shells crunched under the soles of the detective's expensive shoes. A small handful of men sat together up at the bar, sharing tall drinks in the gloom, their moods a mirror of their surroundings. To Bartleby it seemed more than the typical working-class sullenness. He knew the fine clothes he wore for the wedding marked him an outsider here, setting him apart from the tough and durable denim worn by the tough and durable men.

He knew that he couldn't connect to these men as an equal. He couldn't create that sense of camaraderie that they shared. He could mimic it. He could ape it. Perhaps, given the right clothing, he could ape it. Chances were, though, they all knew who he was, the man come to wed their employer's daughter. He was close enough to their ultimate authority that it'd be folly to pretend towards anything else.

It would do.

He resisted the urge to blend, to slouch his own shoulders in as they did theirs, acutely aware of the eyes upon him as he entered. Instead he stiffened his posture, tilted his head back, kept his eyes level, and became the most effective version of what they expected him to be.

"Two small beer," he told the barkeep, knuckles rapping on the end of the bar.

"I'm on duty," Constable Fuller said.

"Sorry, did you want one?" Bartleby asked.

"What? No, I thought--"

"Suit yourself. Just the two, barkeep."

He stood with his hip against the bar, not leaning, not slouching.

"Do you really suppose you ought be drinking?" Fuller asked.

"It helps me think."

The constable stared at him.

Bartleby pivoted slowly towards him, exhaling deeply. This was going to have to be handled. Sooner or later. Maybe after he'd had another drink or two.

"Which of these men might know Mr. Little?"

The Constable surveyed the men present, then pointed. "Mr. Miller was Mr. Little's foreman. Some of the others might have been working his shift. It's a small town, though, Mr. Bartleby. Most folk know one another."

Bartleby dropped a coin onto the bar and picked up his drinks, smiling as he approached the workers' table. Their general chatter came to a stillness as he neared.

"Barkeep! A round for these fine, hardworking men. I've got a few questions to ask, and answers are thirsty work!"

The men glanced at one another in disbelief and mild amusement.

***

Mr. Bartleby's generosity and capacity to go drink for drink with the workmen quickly overcame their initial reluctance to speak and misgivings regarding his drunken arrogance. While they were appreciative, they didn't have much in the way of information to offer. The missing men had known one another, of course -- it was a small town -- but little beyond that linked them, or the matter of their disappearance. An hour slipped by without much to show for it beyond a set of empty glasses.

Once the men's break had ended and they'd gone back to work, Alton ordered a fifth beer and gazed blearily into Constable Fuller's disapproving face.

"You do not care for me, do you?"

"What I care for is not a matter of import," Fuller said.

"Why not?" Petulance crawled into Bartleby's voice. "I'm likable. Most people like me."

"I'm sure you have many fine qualities. When you're sober."

"Is it the drinking?" Bartleby asked. "Is not a man entitled to the fruit of his liver?"

"Mr. Bartleby. Your wedding is in a matter of hours, and you've stewed yourself quite thoroughly."

"You don't know what it's like."

"What it's like?" the Constable asked.

"Having to marry that woman. Oh, Aldora's a sweet girl, but--"

Alton was caught entirely off-guard as Constable Fuller kicked his chair out from under him, sending him crashing to the bar's floor. His head hit the boards with an audible thud, and stars blossomed in his vision.

"Now you listen to me, Mr. Alton Bartleby." Fuller was next to Bartleby, grabbing him by the collar, face red, eyes narrowed. "Mr. London Detective. My father was Lucian Fiske's valet. I grew up in their household. I was raised alongside Aldora and her brother Grayson. I was not their family, but the Fiskes were always very kind to us. Aldora is like a sister to me, and I don't care if you are to be her husband, I will not listen to some Londoner drunkard bad-mouth her."

Bartleby did his pained best to focus on Fuller's face. "Oh my word, Fuller. You're in love with her."

The Constable balked, but didn't release Bartleby's lapels. "I simply... she's like a sister to me."

"She bloody well isn't." Bartleby straightened up. "You're carrying a torch for her. You have been since you were young."

Fuller stood back as he rose. "No, it's not like that--"

"You poor, poor fool," Bartleby sat at bar table, gesturing that Fuller should join him. "Do you know what marriage is, Mr. Fuller?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Marriage," Alton said, drawing a checkerboard-pattern in the spilt beer, "is like chess. Manoeuvres. Machinations. At least it is for the upper classes."

"What are you saying?"

"What would you say if I told you that I'd married my only sister off to an American to get my mother out of my hair, Constable?"

Fuller stared at him, jaw agape.

"That's marriage in the upper classes. A tool. In the past it was a device to advance one's dynasty through the maze of primogeniture, to angle that, several generations hence, one of your heirs might sit on some throne. These days it's still chiefly a business manner."

"That's... that's monstrous!"

Bartleby continued as if Fuller hadn't spoken. "Now I can hear you saying, 'What of love?' Well, what of it, Constable? What of love? We cannot choose who we love. Who we fall in love with. Even if that love is not acceptable by the rules of society. Say, for example, that two individuals are of an incompatible class. While I say that you love my fiancée, I would hazard that you not once imagined that you would be permitted to wed her. Not in any but your most secret fantasies."

"I can assure you, Mr. Bartleby, that while I am quite fond of your fiancée--"

"So what of love? Do you think me outraged that you should feel fond of Aldora? That, having grown up alongside the woman, that you should develop feelings for her?" He rapped his knuckles on the counter. "What kind of monster do you think I am, that I am so ignorant of the human heart!"

He put his hand on the constable's across the table. The man stared at it.

"Assuage your guilt, Mr. Fuller, for I find no offence in your protective impulses. I do not love Aldora, nor she me, so what claim do I have to jealousy? Our relationship is one of convenience and arrangement."

He seemed to realise that the other men in the bar were hanging on his every word, ever hungry for gossip of their social betters foibles. He stifled a grin, lowered his voice, and continued in a volume that only Fuller could make out.