CHAPTER 8: IN WHICH OUR TITULAR PROTAGONIST MEETS THE DAFFODIL SCION AND MR. EDDINGTON COMPARES NOTES WITH THE MASKED MENACE

~*~

The Steamwork was beginning to sink into a deep lull; only a few men scurried down the steam-choked corridors. No one seemed interested in the small shabbily dressed girl who slipped through its halls.

Snips hadn't gotten very far before she walked straight into someone else and collapsed with them into a heap of surprised cries and paperwork. When she at last managed to extract herself, she was surprised to find a young light-haired man who resembled a frantic rabbit locked in a desperate search for his hole. In an instant, he was down on his knees, snatching up every document he could find.

"Late, late, late," the man said, muttering to himself.

"Terribly late! So sorry sir, didn't see you there, have to go—"

Snips rolled forward and perched herself in front of him, thrusting her face into his. The man squeaked and threw himself backwards, scrambling to flatten his spine to the wall.

"Hey," Snips said. "I'm a girl."

"You are! I am doubly sorry, then," he quickly responded.

"Uh—"

"Doubly sorry that I'm a girl?" Snips said.

"No! Doubly sorry that—um, I'm sorry, what was I sorry about again?"

"What's your name?"

"William," he said. "Please pardon me, I'm in a bit of a rush with these last changes, and I—"

"Right, right. I'm doing an investigation, though. Real important stuff," Snips said. As the man struggled to arrive on his feet, she sprang up and slapped her palm on the wall beside his head. He was a foot taller than her, but he cowered at her presence, holding the paperwork out in front of him like a shield. "Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

The boy's face began to burn. "Err—questions? I suppose, um, if it's important. Do you mind if you ask me on the way, though?" He ducked out beneath her arm, darting over to pluck up a sheet that had escaped him. "I’m behind schedule as it is."

"Fine, fine," Snips said, sliding her arms behind her back and moving to walk besides him. "What's all this business?" Snips leaned forward to peek at one of the sheets at the top of the pile.

"All these numbers—"

"It's for the Steamwork's new calculation engine," William said, quickening his pace to a loose jog. "Bank data that we must input."

"Calculation engine? The Steamwork has one of those things they use in banks?" Snips asked. "To, like, calculate interest and all that junk?"

"We've completed one, yes," William said. "It's one of the more important projects we've been working on."

"Why? Don't the banks have them already?"

"Yes, but the calculation engines they use possess fundamental flaws," William explained. "They can be damaged or disrupted by creative mathematics, or a mistake on the part of an operator. The recent plague of disasters facing the banks is representative of that."

"Oh," Snips said, wrinkling her nose. "Don't tell me you buy into that whole Professor Hemlock business."

William looked surprised. "What's not to believe, Miss...?"

"Snips," she said. "Just Snips. And Hemlock's a joke; a scam they use to sell news rags. A bedtime story mathematicians use to scare their kids into showing their work when they solve for X."

"That may be, but the fact that a misplaced decimal point can bring Aberwick's financial district to a crashing halt remains a problem in need of a solution," William said. "Our new calculation engine is that solution."

Snips noticed that as the discussion turned to his engine, William relaxed more; the nervous agitation flickered out of his eyes as he took on a confident stride.

"So, what? You're going to sell it to the banks?"

"Oh, no. It's too large for the banks to build," William said.

"It occupies the entire basement of the Steamwork. No, we're going to rent it to them."

"Rent it?" A gentle hum had gradually been growing as they walked; as they reached the wide stairwell, it grew to a clanking purr. Snips peered down the stairs, inching her way forward.

"Yes, rent it," William said, stepping past her and moving downward. Snips reluctantly followed, listening as William explained. "In addition to the calculation engine, we've fitted all the banks with pneumatic piping that connects them to the Steamwork. We’re able to send near-instant messages to any bank in Aberwick, and vice versa."

"Like mail carriages," Snips said.

"No, it’s not a large carriage," William corrected her. "It’s an array of pipes."

"Sounds like grave dealings."

"Anyway, once the improved engine is complete, we'll rent them space on it, which is impervious to disruption via operator error. The banks will send us all their accounting information, we’ll do all the calculations, and then we’ll send it back to them."

"Seems risky," Snips said. "Letting you guys run all the banks' books."

"Oh, they'd still run their own engines," William said.

"We'd only be on stand-by as a back up, in case their engines failed. They could send a message to us, requesting the lost or unavailable information, and we'd help them fill in their blanks. In addition, when their engines go down, we can do the calculations for them."

"I think I see," Snips said, and by then they had arrived in the Steamwork’s basement. It was a dauntingly wide chamber that occupied nearly a block of space beneath the city; it was deep enough to swallow entire sections of the apartments that bustled on the streets above it. Every inch of it below the catwalk they now stood on was occupied by a machine—one single whirring, grinding, spinning, humming machine.

It was a consortium of gears and cogs all spinning in tandem, with platforms cutting over it, across it, and through it— brimming with half-a-dozen engineers and mathematicians, dressed neatly and weaving their way through the metal passages that the machine provided, taking notes and making adjustments.

Snips gawked; William smiled.

"This is the machine," William announced. "My calculation engine."

"You—you built this?" Snips asked, unable to hide her incredulity.

"Well, not by myself, no," William said. "Mr. Eddington provided much of the funding, and I’ve only been making improvements on previous designs. But I was chiefly responsible for designing the mathematical functions it performs," he added, a sliver of pride slipping into his voice. He moved forward to his office, which was located in a niche on the other side of the catwalk; Snips followed, trying not to stare at the twisting labyrinth of gears that churned beneath her.

When she stepped into the office, the first thing she noticed was the umbrella. It was long and heavy, and as black as obsidian; it had a stylized hilt made of ivory with a butterfly forming the knob at its base.

William set the paperwork on his desk. "So, what is it exactly that you’re investigating, Miss Snips?"

Snips moved towards the umbrella, reaching out to touch it.

"Hm? Oh, Mr. Copper’s death," she said blankly. "Where did you get this?"

"I think you might be in the wrong place, then," William said. "Mr. Copper wasn’t involved in this project. Not as far as I’m aware, anyway. As for the umbrella, ah, well," he hesitated. "It was my father’s."

"Really," Snips said, picking it up. It was far heavier than one would expect an ordinary umbrella to be.

"Yes, yes. Actually, I’d rather not talk about it, if it is all the same," William said. "Unless it’s important to your investigation, of course. But I can’t imagine how it could be."

"No, not very important," Snips admitted, setting the umbrella down and turning back to William. "Did you know Copper well?"

"We had met before," William said. "I once visited his apartment, a year ago—when I first began working for the Steamwork."

"What was he working on?"

"To be honest, I do not know," William said. "His work was always very hush-hush. I actually didn’t see him very often around the Steamwork. He’d report in and more or less disappear. Of course, we worked on opposite ends of the building. I’m afraid I really didn’t know the fellow that well," he confessed. "Is there something else I could help you with, possibly?"

"Sure," Snips said. "What’s your favorite color?"

"Green," he replied instantly, then paused. "Er, what?"

"These are important questions," Snips said, trying to sound as gruff as she could. "Are you trying to interfere with my investigation?"

"No! Not at all."

Snips was about to say something else, but at that moment she heard someone clearing their throat behind her.

"Mr. Eddington," William said, managing to mix of relief and disappointment with one look. "Hullo!"

"I believe you still have considerable work to accomplish, William. I will deal with Miss Snips," Mr. Eddington said.

Nodding rapidly, William turned back to his paperwork. Snips tipped her hat to William and turned to Mr. Eddington, following him out of the office.

Snips huffed. "Odd fellow."

"I assume that you are Orwick's 'government consultant'?"

Mr. Eddington asked as they walked over the calculating engine.

"The one and only," Snips said, tipping her hat. "Arcadia Snips, at your service. May I ask who you are?"

"Mr. Timothy Eddington. Chief administrator of the Steamwork." The man glared at her long and hard. "I assume you'll want to discuss the details of the case with me."

"Sure. You got an office?"

"This way."

As they rounded back up the stairs and around the corner, Snips thought she caught sight of Dunnigan stepping into Mr. Eddington's office, but the administrator said nothing. Once they reached it, he opened the door and allowed Snips to enter first.

Once inside, her eyes nearly sprang from her skull. All other thoughts disappeared in a flash: there was not a single object in the room that was not worth stealing. Even the pens looked like they could feed a family of six for a month. A chain of ivory statues sat on an ebonized desk; books with gold leaf foil bindings littered the shelves. Crystal tumblers lined a fully stocked liquor cabinet, filled to the top with the good stuff.

Snips' fingers started to twitch. She shoved them so deep into her pockets that her pants started to sag.

"Is there a problem, Miss Snips?" Mr. Eddington asked.

"Not at all," Snips blurted out a little too quickly. "Just a little, uh, chilly in here. My, you have a lot of expensive stuff." She felt her fingers spasm in her pockets, fighting for freedom. "Quite a lot of expensive stuff."

"Yes. I enjoy the finer things in life," Mr. Eddington said, walking around his desk to take a seat. "Please, make yourself comfortable. If it is all the same with you, I would like to finish this up as quickly as possible."

Snips moistened her lips. "Right, right," she said, sitting.

"Just have to, you know, ask you a few questions."

Mr. Eddington raised an eyebrow. "Miss Snips, why are you stuffing my gold engraved pen in your pocket?"

Snips froze, looking down at her hands. She immediately placed the pen back on the desk and proceeded to flatten her palms to the seat of the chair, sitting on them. "Sorry," she said. "You know how people can be with pens. Thought it was mine for a second."

Mr. Eddington's eyebrow continued to lift, disappearing underneath his graying hairline. "I... see."

"Anyway. I was just asking Daffodil back there about the calculation engine project you're running." Snips allowed her eyes to slide across the room, trying to find something to distract her from all the interesting things on Mr. Eddington's desk. She caught sight of something in particular; a small bulletin board that had various newspaper clippings attached to it. They dealt with new groundbreaking inventions the Steamwork had been responsible for. Snips noticed that most of them were dated back from at least a decade ago.

"Yes. It's quite a lucrative arrangement. Mr. Tweedle and his banks gain added security and invulnerability toward mathematical mischief, and in return we charge a considerable yet wholly appropriate fee," Mr. Eddington said. "However, I fail to see precisely what this has to do with Mr. Copper's demise."

"Just coming at this from every angle possible," Snips said.

"What else does the Steamwork do? Besides the bank stuff."

"We invent things, Miss Snips. Our improvements on the calculation engine is merely one such example."

"Such as?"

"The original calculation engines. The gas piping that provides the city with light and power. A system of pneumatic tubing that allows for instant communication between parts of the city. In essence, the Steamwork is a factory for science. We mass produce technological wonders."

"What was Basil working on? Mr. Daffodil wasn’t quite sure himself."

"At last, something that has to do with your case," Mr. Eddington said with an exasperated sigh. "He was working on several minor projects. Most of them were rather dull. Nothing of any particular interest."

"Well, like what?"

"He had a rather absurd idea concerning replacing gas lighting with bulbs of glass containing lengths of galvanized filament."

"How would that make light?" Snips asked, frowning in thought.

"That was precisely my question. As for what his current project was, I do not know. Although he was my research assistant, he was up for review; he had defied many of my attempts to put him on a more constructive project ever since he became obsessed with matters of electricity."

"Do you think he was working on anything dangerous enough to cause an explosion?"

"Yes. I hasten to add that, on several occasions, Copper has ignored safety protocols when conducting his experiments—and this is not the first time he has nearly blown us all to kingdom come."

"Is there any place Basil might have kept notes on his latest project? Maybe something he had yet to submit to you, or research notes outside of his workshop?"

"If so, I am unaware of it. Copper rarely submitted his projects for approval, because he knew I would not approve them."

Mr. Eddington opened his desk, withdrawing a rather large and intimidating pile of paperwork. "There are several matters I must attend to. Please pardon me if I cut this interview short."

"Sure."

"Perhaps Mr. Copper kept some of his notes at his home?

You should check there. In the meanwhile, I have work to do.

Good day, Miss Snips."

Snips rose to her feet. "Thanks for the hint. I'll keep it in mind."

~*~

Not long after Snips had left his office, Mr. Eddington stood and locked the door to his office. He then returned to his desk and pressed a switch hidden on the side of a drawer. At once, the bookcase gave a gentle hiss as hydraulic pumps edged it forward and to the side. In a narrow niche behind it, a spiral staircase was tucked away. It led deep into the basement of the Steamwork.

Mr. Eddington stepped through the passage, carefully making his way below. When he reached the lowest chamber, he was greeted by the sight of Dunnigan mopping the stone tiled floor.

"Mr. McGee."

"Oh, good evenin' Mr. Eddington," Dunnigan said, throwing the man a quick smile. "Didn't quite see you coming—"

"I have told you to never use my entrance during the Steamwork's operating hours. If anyone of importance had seen you disappear into my office, the results could have been catastrophic."

Dunnigan frowned and nodded his head. "Well, I'm sorry about that, Mr. Eddington. I just figured—"

"I don't pay you to figure," Mr. Eddington cut him off. "As it was, we were fortunate it was merely a woman who noticed your entry."

Mr. Eddington stepped past Dunnigan, not noticing the face that the janitor made at his back. He stepped through into the Steamwork's Vault—a chamber that lay far beneath even the deeply buried calculation engine.

The fact that the Steamwork had a basement beneath its basement was a fact that not many were privy to. Not even William knew of its existence—and with good reason. It was a laboratory choked in dust and secrets, containing several cases in which marvels were kept under glass—preserved and cleaned, disassembled and analyzed. Mr. Eddington paused at the mouth of the room's entrance, reluctant to enter. Though he knew the idea to be absurd, he could not shake the feeling that the laboratory's previous master had left some trap for the unwary to blunder into.

Mr. Eddington threw off the sensation. He knew every inch of this room—every centimeter. There was not a particle of dirt present that he had not categorized and neatly labeled. Which was why the other man's presence here was so disarming.

"Mr. Eddington," a voice laced with menace and metal spoke from the back of the room. "Good afternoon."

Mr. Eddington grimaced. How on earth did the bastard keep getting in here without someone noticing? Certainly, Mr. McGee should have seen him enter. Could there be a secret entrance that Mr. Eddington was unaware of? Or was the man always here, sleeping until he arrived—merely another of the previous owner's miraculous machines?

"Good evening, sir," Mr. Eddington responded as politely as he could. "I received your missive, and told Miss Snips what you suggested."

The man stepped forward. Aside from his suit, he only possessed two articles of note—a black jackal mask rimmed in gold and a delicate paper butterfly lapel. The mask distorted his voice into a metal hum, making it impossible to determine his identity. It was one of many unnecessary theatrics that Mr. Eddington had learned to cope with.

Mr. Eddington secretly meets with the Masked Menace.

"Excellent," the jackal said. "And Mr. Tweedle?"

"Hardly a concern," Mr. Eddington said. "He is easily cowed into submission. I am far more worried over Count Orwick's interference."

"Count Orwick will be dealt with," the jackal said, and there was an edge to his tone that gave Mr. Eddington the chills.

"Concern yourself only with fulfilling your end of our bargain."

"We'll have the rest of Aberwick's bank accounts loaded into the engine by tonight," Mr. Eddington said. "And then—"

"And then I will do as promised. So long as you abide by my instructions, everything shall go according to plan."

Mr. Eddington gave a slight start.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Eddington?"

"Merely a sense of déjà vu," Mr. Eddington muttered. "I assume you can show yourself out," he added, turning to leave.

~*~