The Iron Duke (7 page)

“Or several. Who can tell? But the countess didn’t—or wouldn’t—remember what had happened. Not until they showed her the baby girl.” Scarsdale’s mouth twisted. “Lady Rockingham took one look at her daughter—and gouged her own eyes out.”

Mina received insults too often to dwell on them—and even His Bastard Grace seemed insignificant when she had a man’s chest opened on an examination table in the small, third-floor laboratory at police headquarters in Whitehall. She poked through the slushy frozen innards, where the remaining ice crystals appeared sharply detailed through the lenses of her magnifying goggles.

Every winter in London, hundreds of people too poor or too unlucky to find shelter were found frozen in the streets. But autumn had only just come to England, and the nights were too warm to kill a bugger, let alone freeze him solid. And so unless she discovered that this man had been on an expedition in the far north, Mina could assume that he hadn’t frozen to death.

Standing on the opposite side of the table, Newberry stopped breathing through his mouth for a long second—which told Mina that he’d held back a comment for fear of disturbing her concentration. One day, she hoped, he’d come to understand that a woman could manage both an examination and a conversation simultaneously.

Without looking up, she asked, “What is it, constable?”

He cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, sir—I wondered if you can determine how long he’s been frozen.”

Ah, good.
He’d finally asked. From the first, Newberry had disliked participating in these morbid exams. Mina had assumed squeamishness on his part, until she’d learned that almost every bounder—along with many others in the New World—viewed mortuary science with distaste, claiming that the examinations showed disrespect toward the dead. In Mina’s mind,
disrespect
was failing to scrutinize every detail that might lead her to apprehending this man’s murderer.

For a short time after he’d been assigned to her, she’d thought ill of Newberry for his reluctance—until she realized that his determination to solve a murder was as strong as hers. Now, she supposed that her upbringing gave her an advantage over the constable. Necessity had forced her father to become both physician and surgeon, and with no money to hire an assistant, Mina had often performed in that capacity. And although operating on a living being differed greatly from opening up a corpse, the methods of deduction were not so different. Her father observed the body’s symptoms to root out the cause of an illness, and so it seemed only natural for Mina to examine the evidence left on a body to determine the cause of death.

She’d hoped it would eventually become natural for Newberry to think so, too—and hoped his question indicated that he’d begun to recognize the value of the morbid exams, even if his distaste hadn’t yet faded.

“I can’t be certain how long he remained frozen,” she told him, “but the decomposition suggests that he wasn’t immediately put on ice.”

“So he was frozen as an afterthought?”

“It would seem so. Or they hadn’t intended to kill him, and it took time to procure the ice.” Had dropping him on the Iron Duke’s steps been an afterthought, as well?

“To what purpose?”

“The smell, perhaps.” Mina slipped her hand beneath the man’s right lung. Her fingers ached from the icy cold, but she held her scalpel steady. “If his murderer had to wait for an opportunity to drop the body, he’d have needed to keep it concealed until the right time arrived.”

“And if the wait became too long, someone might have reported the odor,” Newberry said.

“Yes. Or they wanted to stop decomposition, to make sure that he’d be recognized.” Which might have been possible before the impact with the steps had destroyed his face. Mina finished with the lung, and moved upward to examine the nasal cavity. “All that we know for certain is that this man didn’t die in London.”

Newberry leaned in, staring into the open chest. “How can you be certain of that?”

“The lungs are clean, and there’s no trace of smoke in his nasal passages.” Mina straightened and pushed her goggles to the top of her head, surveying the body grimly. Even though the bugs continually cleaned the soot from the respiratory organs, residue always remained. This man had either lived outside London, or he’d been away for a while. He certainly hadn’t drawn his last breath here.

And although his mechanical arm meant that he must possess nanoagents, it didn’t mean that he was English. He could be a bounder who’d come to England to be infected and his severed arm restored, or from any of the European nations in the New World.

“He’s lucky that he landed on the Iron Duke’s doorstep,” she said.

Newberry’s gaze shot to hers. “Lucky?”

“If he’d landed anywhere else, he’d be destined for a pauper’s grave.” He hadn’t died in London, and so Superintendent Hale wouldn’t have authorized the expense of having him identified. A notice would have been put in the newssheets on the slim hope that someone would come forward with information, but someone rarely did. “If knowing who he is will help us determine whether the Iron Duke has been threatened, however, Hale will pay for a visit to the Blacksmith.”

Newberry swallowed audibly. “
The
Blacksmith?”

“Yes.” There were many blacksmiths who tended to machines that ranged from steamcarts to locomotives, clockwork devices and artificial limbs. But only one could create mechanical flesh—and there was only one Blacksmith. “Even if he can’t identify whose arm this was, he can examine the brain’s nanoagents and see the images that this man last saw. So we’ll take both to his shop.”

“Both of what, sir?”

Mina picked up a bone saw. “Brain and arm.”

The constable’s face blanched, then seemed to melt with relief when a scratch sounded at the laboratory door. When he scrambled to answer it, Mina had to laugh.

So there
was
a bit of squeamishness, too.

He returned a moment later, his eyes averted away from the body. “That was the night secretary. The superintendent awaits you in her office.”

Where Mina would deliver her report. She set her saw blade against the man’s forehead and noticed the color drain from her assistant’s face again. “I’ll be with her shortly. Newberry?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I need you to fetch more ice.”

The constable backed toward the door, quick as a shot. “Right away, inspector.”

 

 

Mina removed her blood-spattered apron before leaving
the laboratory. She donned her armor over her dress again, fastening the buckles as she trotted down the narrow creaking stairs to the second floor, emerging into a dim hallway. Her fingers were slower than her feet. She paused outside of Hale’s office to finish buckling the armor, and glanced to her left, where a paneled casement window overlooked the Thames . . . and farther down the river, almost obscured by smoke, the Horde’s tower.

Her breath hitched and her fingers stumbled. Even after nine years, a glimpse of the tower’s silhouette caused a painful twist in her chest—followed by fierce pleasure when that half-seen shadow condensed into its jagged, crumbling shape. The Iron Duke’s explosives had been a fist that shattered a giant’s teeth, and now the tower leaned brokenly next to the Thames, now and again spitting another stone to the river’s north bank. Bounders often suggested tearing it down and building a monument to victory in its place—and for several months following the revolution, Mina would have gladly ripped out each stone with her bare hands. But now, the sight of the ruins themselves felt like a victory over fear and the Horde’s control, and she would rather see the crumbling blocks than a monument.

The king’s regency council must have thought the same. So far, they’d let the ruins stand. Perhaps Edward’s heir would demolish the tower when he came of age and took the council’s place as regent. Like Mina’s brother Andrew, the prince had only been five years old when the Horde’s radio signal had abruptly ended. To someone so young, the Horde’s occupation and the sudden, unexpected freedom was more of a story than a memory. When he took the throne, perhaps he’d rather see a plaque repeating that tale than the reality of the broken tower.

Perhaps by then, Mina would be ready to accept a glossy monument in its place.

She clicked the last buckle home and glanced away from the tower, across the river. The haze over Southwark glowed faintly orange, lit from below by the remains of the fire that had blazed through the rookeries.

Those poor bastards. No one would have welcomed a return of the Horde’s tower, but not everyone could bear the onslaught of emotion that freedom had brought. Pleasure, hatred, and fear no longer skimmed along the surface—and neither did pain. When the depth of feeling became unbearable, many buggers sought oblivion in the dens, uncaring that they’d exchanged one slave master for another when they traded the Horde for an opium pipe. No one yet knew how many of those pipelayers had died in the fires. Even if they’d been aware their room was ablaze, they’d probably been too disoriented to make their way outside. Mina hoped they hadn’t felt anything when they’d burned—and that those who survived would shed their addiction and learn to cope. Pain and strong emotions were inescapable, but they could just . . . try not to feel them.

That was what Mina did. She assumed that was what most buggers who’d been raised under the Horde did.

And at this moment, she needed to push away her pity and focus. Mina turned from the window and rapped on Hale’s door. When the superintendent’s response came, Mina straightened her shoulders and tried to forget that she wore an absurdity of a dress with tiny yellow sleeves and bare arms. From Mina’s first day of training the superintendent had impressed upon her the importance of an inspector—particularly a woman—maintaining a proper appearance, one that inspired confidence and conveyed authority. What Mina’s clothing couldn’t suggest now, her manner would have to.

When she entered, a single gas lamp lit the small office, casting a warm glow on the maps of London pinned to the walls. A tall woman with narrow, pale features, Superintendent Hale sat behind her desk, sorting through a stack of wiregram messages. Despite the late hour, Hale looked as if she’d never left for the evening: her graying auburn hair scraped back into a bun, her jacket smartly buckled.

Mina wasn’t surprised that Douglas Sheffield sat slumped in the chair facing Hale; she’d heard that he had recently returned from Manhattan City. With his clothing rumpled and his waistcoat buttoned crookedly, he appeared as if he’d rolled from bed and dressed hurriedly in order to accompany her. Even a police superintendent wouldn’t travel through London alone at night, and the industrialist took care to look after his interests. Mina didn’t know which interest he rated more important, the widow Hale or the airships that had made his family a fortune in Manhattan City, but his dedication to both was unquestionable.

He half rose when Mina came in, then sat heavily again, coughing a greeting into his handkerchief.

Hale looked Mina over, pausing briefly on the yellow skirts. “I see that you understood the urgency of the matter.”

“Yes, sir. We traveled from Devonshire House directly to the island.”

Hale gestured to the wiregram machine occupying the surface of a long table against the wall. “I’ve already received grams from the commissioner and the mayor. I expect to find more from the king’s council in the morning. Give me something to tell them that won’t have them coming here in person—or having me summoned.”

And they wouldn’t want to hear about the dead man. Neither did Sheffield. His eyes were bright with curiosity, and although Mina would have preferred to deliver her report solely to Hale, the superintendent had made it clear more than a year and a half ago that Mina could speak freely in front of him. Mina supposed that Hale had been fortunate to find a man whom she could trust to share her bed—but Sheffield’s trade concerns figuratively put him in more beds than just hers.

Mina had only pointed that out once, however. She valued her job too much to bring it up again.

“The Iron Duke is unharmed,” Mina said. “I don’t believe he’s under imminent threat.”

“I’ll leave out ‘imminent’ when I send my grams, or risk being bombarded with questions of what threat is delayed.” With a wry twist of her lips, Hale leaned back in her chair. “You’ve brought the body here? Who is it?”

“I haven’t yet been able to identify him, sir.”

“Then tell me what you do know.”

Pitifully little, which became all the more apparent as Mina reported her findings, including her suspicions about the airship and the need to consult with the Blacksmith.

Hale grimaced over the expense, but approved the visit. She watched Mina closely as she asked, “And what is your feeling regarding Anglesey’s involvement?”

Mina considered her response. Suggesting that the Iron Duke murdered a man had to be handled delicately. Fortunately, she could say in all honesty, “At this time, the only connection I’ve found between the duke and the corpse is the body’s location. I’ve seen nothing to suggest his personal involvement in the man’s death.”

“Is he
involved
?” Sheffield broke in with a disbelieving laugh. “Of course he is. Perhaps Anglesey didn’t kill the man, but that blaggard will have been involved at some point. Most likely, he’d sent this man to tangle with one of his enemies, or to put pressure on another merchant, and this was the result.”

Mina had wondered the same. Whoever had thrown the man from the airship had been making a statement, but perhaps the Iron Duke had delivered the first threat.

She didn’t think Trahaearn would have concealed that, however—not after openly warning her that St. John’s life would be forfeit if the steward was connected, and promising to make the murderer regret catching his attention. If Trahaearn had known who the man was, he wouldn’t have let Mina through the gates and allowed her to question the staff. No, he’d already be moving to retaliate.