CHAPTER 11: IN WHICH OUR TITULAR PROTAGONIST MEETS WITH A SINISTER CRYPTOZOOLOGIST AND MISS PRIMROSE FAMILIARIZES HERSELF WITH ABERWICK'S ESTEEMED BANKING SYSTEM

~*~

Snips was unaccustomed to traveling by anything other than foot; she had always preferred the feel of cobblestone beneath one's toes to the well-cushioned luxury of a hansom cab. But William seemed rather tired, and Snips was worried about officers in the upper ward recognizing her face. When he sent for a cab, she didn't complain.

She gave the man directions and turned to William, her eyes drifting to his umbrella. He had drawn it off the coat rack moments before leaving the Steamwork; Snips could not wrest her gaze away from it.

"Is something wrong, Miss Snips?"

"Your umbrella," Snips said. "Before, you mentioned it was your father’s—"

William grimaced and sighed. "Yes. Professor Daffodil."

Snips nodded. "So you're—"

"I'm afraid so," William said dejectedly, shifting awkwardly in his seat. "I am William Daffodil; Jeremiah Daffodil and Abigail Daffodil's son."

"I heard of them," Snips said, which was at least half of the truth. "Big scientists, right? Ran the Steamwork?"

" Mad scientists," William corrected her. "Responsible for endangering nearly half the city in that awful affair a decade ago."

Snips bit down on her lip, turning to stare out the window.

Sensing her sudden distance, William tried to put her at ease.

"I'm well aware my father and mother were villains,"

William explained. "But I am nothing like them. Mr. Eddington and the others have been especially kind, granting me an opportunity to prove myself at their old business, the Steamwork."

"It's not that," Snips said. "Just, uh. It's complicated."

"I understand. It is not easy to accept the fact that I have no connection to my parents beyond biology," William began. "It's just—"

"Whatever your parents did or didn't do has absolutely nothing to do with you," Snips said, cutting him off.

The horse at the front of the cabby gave a whicker as it stopped at the front gates. "Come on," Snips told William, stepping out of the carriage and toward the black iron gates. "You can wait in the lobby."

"What is this place?" William asked.

"Just a guy I know," Snips answered, her voice hollow.

The Arcanum Estate occupied a small block of land in the upper ward; it was surrounded on all sides by metal fencing and signs that made it clear that trespassers would be shot, mauled by angry dogs, and then shot again. It was probably one of the only places in Aberwick that you couldn't have paid Snips to sneak into.

She and William walked past the front gates and straight to the stout oak doors. Snips gave them a solid knock.

The well-dressed servant that answered the door fit the definition of human only in the strictest sense. It was as if a creature with no conception of what a person looked like had been handed a basic description and then asked to craft one out of stone.

The final result had gotten the basic gist of it, but there remained several fundamental flaws.

His face was composed of an assembly of harsh angles and drastic, stark edges; it was several inches longer than it should be and was devoid of facial hair. He was as white as chalk and looked just as brittle. His expression was as stoic as rock and had all the cheer of a child's funeral; Snips had never seen the man smile and at this point didn't think that he was capable. A large black scarf swallowed his throat like a constricting serpent of linen.

"Evening, Starkweather," Snips said. "I'm here to see him."

"This way," he said, stepping into the house's dining room.

The home had very little light; neither Starkweather nor its owner required much. What illumination did flow in through the windows shone down upon every manner of curiosity the mind could conceive—glass jars stuffed full of strange and impossible creatures, varying from the naturally occurring to the wholly artificial. William stared in wonder, while Snips resisted the urge to peek in the bottles. She knew there were things inside them that, once seen, were very hard to put out of your mind without a month of steady drinking.

"You can wait here," Snips told William, leaving the young mathematician to make himself comfortable on a couch. William shifted nervously in the seat and threw Starkweather and Snips a meek smile.

The man she had come to see was inside the study. Neatly arranged diagrams of impossible machines framed under glass and pine lined the walls, with books littering the desk and floor.

Several of them were opened, with various passages highlighted or underlined by a careful pen. Scarcely a shred of light penetrated this deeply into the home, making it hard to make out the silhouette that sat at the back of the room.

He was a wretched figure; nothing more than a burnt husk swaddled in antiseptic soaked bandages from head to toe. Despite his horrible affliction, he appeared to be reclining in a comfortable chair, wearing a pair of crimson bathrobes, a cherry-red fez, and holding a book in his lap. The cloth-wrapped claw that used to be his hand would occasionally swing over to brush across a page, dragging it from one side to the other; years of practice had turned this once clumsy gesture into an act of casual grace.

"Master Arcanum," Starkweather said, standing at attention.

"Arcadia is here to speak with you."

The man struggled to pluck up one of the bookmarks on the table besides him, working to push it between the pages. When he at last succeeded, he slapped the book shut and awkwardly put it aside. His eye and lipless mouth were the only things that were left of his face; one eye had been burned away, but the other was kept safe inside a lubricant-filled goggle that fitted neatly over the socket.

"My dear," he spoke in a moist rasp. "To what do I owe the visit?"

Snips wore a tight-lipped expression. Rather than explaining herself, she reached into her pocket and drew out the scrap of burnt, colored paper, holding it up.

"Ah," he said. "Business."

"Business," Snips agreed.

"So, then. The scorched remains of a paper butterfly. Where did you find it?"

"At a murder scene. An engineer named Basil Copper.

Employed at the Steamwork."

"I was unaware," he said, suppressing a cough, "that you were investigating murders, now."

"Not much of a choice. It's a long story and I'd rather not fill you in on the details. I just want to know one thing: Is the Society involved?"

"I have little relevance in the Society these days, Arcadia,"

Nigel Arcanum said, reaching down for his rubber gas-mask. He brought it to his face, releasing a nearby valve with a hiss and drinking deep of the nourishing oxygen it released. "Mmn. I'm afraid I could not tell you. As far as I am aware? No."

"Was Copper a member of the Society?"

"Again, not as far as I am aware. But such knowledge is outside of my purview. I find it unlikely, however, as the Steamwork is notoriously worthless," Nigel said.

Snips raised an eyebrow. "Howso?"

"At one time, beneath the guidance of its once esteemed founder and his wife, the Steamwork was a factory of innovation,"

Nigel explained. "It has long since lost such notoriety."

"All the inventions Mr. Eddington mentioned the Steamwork being responsible for are things we've had for at least a decade," Snips said, agreeing. "I assume, then, he's incompetent?"

"Entirely. He has been steadily losing money since half a decade ago. He clearly commands only a trivial understanding of science."

"How has he stayed in business all this time?" Snips asked.

"I am afraid that I have not researched this particular mystery thoroughly," Nigel said. "I only know that Mr. Eddington's books do not properly add up. As for the past two years, the Steamwork’s profits have taken an even deeper nose-dive."

"If I find out that you have any connection to this—"

"Yes, yes, you'll turn me over to the authorities or some such nonsense," Nigel said. "I assure you, this is not some long-winded gambit on my part. If the Society is involved, it is an affair outside my knowledge."

"If you aren't involved in this, fine. But don't interfere.

None of your meddling."

"Of course, Arcadia."

Snips turned and left. As her footsteps took her towards the door, she heard Nigel's voice rise up from behind:

"Arcadia?"

Snips turned. "What?"

"If the Society is involved, then—you know well enough to be careful, my dear, do you not?"

"I'm not your dear."

She stepped out, slamming the door behind her.

William was waiting for her in the study, staring at one of the objects on the shelves; Snips silently marched past him, her face as rigid as rock. As William rose to follow, she failed to notice what it was that the young mathematician had been looking at so intently.

An umbrella identical to his sat among Nigel’s curiosities.

~*~

Miss Primrose boarded the car to find that all available seats had been taken by other passengers; she was forced to stand, gripping one of the bronze handlebars located high over the seats as the train lurched forward.

The train had not been long in moving when one of the passengers—a burly older gentleman in a top-hat and powder-gray suit who was in clear need of a shave—looked the strong-jawed woman up and down and cleared his throat.

"Yes?" Miss Primrose said.

"Pray, are you an advocate of woman's rights, ma'am?" he asked, doing his best to suppress a devilish smile.

Miss Primrose scowled. "Yes, sir, I most certainly am. Why do you ask?"

"Because ma'am," he replied, his face splitting into a broad, toothsome grin. "I was about to offer you my seat; but of course you claim the right to stand!"

As the train came to a hissing halt at the platform, passengers fought with one another to climb out of the car. They were soon followed by a stern-faced Miss Primrose, who was in turn followed by a very sullen and scruffy old man sporting a fresh black eye.

The marble facade of the East Crown bank fitted over the intersection of 3rd and Maple like a comfortable hat. The two story office had scarcely a single edge to it; this had the effect of making the building seem as if it were giving the corner a warm hug.

Miss Primrose stepped past the threshold of the entrance and into its austere lobby, where tellers and bureaucrats were busily shuffling about in the quiet desperation of Aberwick's various financial disasters. The trail of patents she had busily been following since leaving the Steamwork had lead her inevitably to Mr. Tweedle, who had cosigned several of them; she now tapped her finger on one of the countertops, drawing the attention of the woman behind it.

"Yes?" The teller snapped.

"I need to speak with Mr. Tweedle," Miss Primrose said. "It is a matter of great urgency."

"Yes, I'm sure it is," the teller said. "And, like all the matters of great urgency that Mr. Tweedle is facing, it will have to take a number and get in line."

"Madame, this is—"

"Let me guess!" the teller shouted. "You want to take your money out of the bank, don't you? Got a whiff this whole Hemlock business and now you want to slip out the back before your money's all gone, eh?"

Miss Primrose furrowed her brow with displeasure.

"Madame, I—"

"You people make me sick!" The teller threw her arms into the air. "Take it! Take all your blasted, misbegotten money! We don't want it anymore! We don't need it anymore! Ooh, you people and your fearful terrors. I've—I've—oh, I think I'm going to faint, I think I'm—"

The woman collapsed with a thud. Instantly, someone across the aisle rang a silver bell; a small group of appropriately dressed physicians stepped behind the counter with a stretcher in tow. They proceeded to load her up and march out of the office.

Shortly after, another bank teller was shoved in front of the blinking Miss Primrose. This one was rather short and had a pair of fancy glasses. "Hullo!"

"Uh, good evening, Madame," Miss Primrose began. "I'd like to—"

"Deposit money? Very good, then. How much will you be depositing?" The girl's eyebrow began to twitch.

Miss Primrose frowned rather sternly. "I am not depositing any money."

"Shall I write you down for a ten-note, then? A hundred-note, perhaps?"

"Madame, I repeat: I am not depositing any value."

"Oo, a thousand-note, is it?" The girl started to giggle.

"How very industrious of you. A working woman, are you?"

"Madame!" Miss Primrose slammed her left arm down on the countertop, making a very loud sound. "I do not have an account at this bank! I have never had an account at this bank.

And, God willing, I will refrain from creating an account at this bank any time in the near future! I only wish to speak with Mr. Tweedle on a matter concerning a recent criminal affair—"

"Oh," the girl said, drawing back meekly. "I understand."

Miss Primrose sighed with relief.

"You'd like to open a new account, then?"

Now it was Miss Primrose's turn to twitch. "Fetch me your manager."

~*~