Revolutionary Magic (with Bonus Content) (6 page)

"Nothing untoward. Only that his dogs had woke him early, so he'd come in to get work done. Good thing we were able to keep the lists filled. It would have been a disaster if we hadn't been able to get most of the London airship processed before the second one arrived."

I smiled at his use of the word
disaster
. How like a bureaucrat to consider the confusion of more paperwork more significant than the near loss of life. Still, they had their place. A functioning machine, however boring, was better than one that didn't work.

Samuel continued, describing the comings and goings of airships at the Camden Yards. He seemed quite excited about the designs and knew the makers of each one: the Montgolfiers, Voltas, Kaisers, et cetera

It was clear to me that his interest lay not in the quill and ink of keeping tabs on travelers, but in the airships that brought them. He had a light fever in his eyes each time he mentioned an airship.

I corralled him back to the subject of interest around the time Ben stepped into the room. He gave me a subtle nod, indicating the presence of the arcane detected by his strange gauntlet.

"When the passengers of both airships were waiting to be processed," I began, "Did anything odd happen that you remember? Anything at all?"

He laughed as if recalling a funny joke. "Well, I'm not sure it's odd, but it struck me." He seemed reluctant to explain.

"Please, Mr. Redford, this is important. What happened that was odd?" I asked.

Samuel swallowed and his cheeks took on the rosy glow of embarrassment. "I think someone farted while we were in the room."

I steeled my cheeks from laughter. Ben caught my stifling of mirth and filled in for me.

"Farted? Did you smell it?" asked Ben.

Mr. Redford seemed to shrink. "My apologies, Madam Carmontelle. This is a rather uncouth subject."

"Need I remind you that Temple's grandfather, Ben, penned the essay
Fart Proudly
, which reminds us of the scientific importance of uncouth, but practical matters. Do not censure yourself on my account," I said.

Ben, in the guise of Temple Franklin, seemed to put Samuel at ease. "Very well, then. I did not smell the fart, but a young woman did. She was near the table, waiting for her husband to complete the proper paperwork, you see, he was having trouble finding his traveling papers. I was distracted the whole time, not just because of her uncommon beauty, but because she kept wrinkling her nose and making faces as if she'd smelled a fart."

The hazy outline of an idea filled my head. "Can you explain where you, she, and Mr. Tundlelittle were at this particular moment?"

Samuel pointed at the chair that was in front of the desk. "I was sitting in that chair, but it was behind the desk. The woman who smelled the odor, she was standing right over there, to the side of the desk."

"And Mr. Tundlelittle?" prompted Ben.

Samuel jabbed his thumb towards the door at the back of the room. "He was in back, preparing documents for the Hall."

I shared another glance with Ben. "May we visit the room?"

The room behind the front area was nothing to speak about except that it held rows of wooden cabinets. Leather tomes rested on the tops. One of the cabinets was open, and a ledger was sitting half out, almost ready to fall.

"It appears that Mr. Tundlelittle was interrupted," I said, then turned to Samuel. "You saw him leave, but you assumed he was headed for town?"

Samuel gave his agreement.

Ben added a question. "Could someone have slipped past you and entered the back room without your knowledge?"

Samuel blew out a breath. "Easily. I was busier than a woodpecker on a timber farm."

"But it seems that woman saw, or at least smelled something. Do you remember her name?" I asked.

Samuel moved back into the front room and retrieved the daily ledger. He paged through, licking his fingers in a practiced motion, before stabbing his finger into the paper.

"Mrs. Solomon. I'd find it hard to forget her." Then he looked up and smiled. "Until you arrived."

"Do you know where she went? Do you keep their destinations in that book?" I asked, ignoring his boyish smile.

"Right. Destination. Here in Philadelphia. Pine and Third. Lot number thirty-four," he said.

"Thank you, Mr. Redford," said Ben. "We'll contact Mrs. Solomon about the smell."

We prepared to leave, but Samuel made a noise, stopping us.

"What about Mr. Tundlelittle? What am I going to do with him? He can't do his job like this," said Samuel, while Mr. Tundlelittle looked on, his gaze flat and distant.

"I'm afraid I don't know," said Ben, twisting his mouth into an appropriate scowl of disappointment. "If we learn something useful, I'll be sure to return and let you know. But until then, I suggest taking him to his abode and staying with him until he starts to remember enough not to drown himself."

"I'm to take care of him?" asked Samuel, exasperated. "With all those disgusting dogs?"

Ben slyly turned his head towards me and winked. "Well, you did say you were single."

"
Adieu
," I said upon parting.

We left poor Samuel Redford to his quiet indignation.

Chapter Five

The hour had been late by the time we took the ferry back to Philadelphia, so we agreed to visit this Mrs. Solomon on the following morn.

I slept like the dead that evening, content that my new location was unknown by the spymaster. It gave me a momentary reprieve from the constant worry. I'd barely had a breakfast of hard bread and cheese when Franklin arrived in the steam carriage.

Ben took a leisurely pace to the Solomon's house on Pine and Third while I caressed the buttons on the dashboard.

"Those aren't the pressing matter at hand," said Ben with a disapproving twitch of his lips.

"Yes, yes," I said, enjoying the way a brass button felt on my fingertip, "but there's so many of them. And you say they each have a function? How can they all fit in one vehicle?"

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Does the term curiosity killed the cat mean nothing to you?"

"Was that a bit of word trickery or are you just cranky this morning? Humor an old woman and let me press one of them. I do love a mystery," I said.

"No wonder Empress Catherine gave you permission to travel often. You are relentless," said Ben.

"I seem to recall hearing something like that from her lips once or twice," I said, staring longingly at the pale blue sky above the city. "I do sorely miss her. She was a good woman and a better sovereign."

"Good rulers are hard to find," said Ben.

"No need to lecture me, Benjamin," I said, putting emphasis on his name. "I know the perils of an obtuse emperor firsthand. Though I have to admit this democracy thing can be quite messy."

We rode in silence, not because we differed in opinion, but because the paths that we had traveled towards the ideals of the Enlightenment had been quite different. Ben had come upon these precepts through long discussions with the great thinkers of our time and through the creation of this great nation, while I'd seen the dark and destructive nature of a capricious ruler and fled to these shores for safety.

As we neared our destination, Ben broached the subject of our investigation, asking for my opinion.

"I think someone"—I nodded towards the knapsack between us—"or something, is causing the loss of memory. For what reason, I do not know, but I suspect that the source of this loss must get its victims alone to erase their memory."

"So you acknowledge that it might be the arcane?" asked Ben.

"Might? Of course. I cannot forget what I've seen this last year," I said, then added to it with a hint of schoolmarm lecture. "But until we've narrowed the cause, we must keep open the possibility."

Ever the statesman, Ben rolled his eyes.

We arrived moments later. The Solomon's place was modest, a brick front with two white columns built around the door frame. The planter box out front was dirt and weeds, indicating they'd been away for some time.

Ben was wearing an outfit typical of the merchant class, not too lavish but still exuding a competent functionality. I'd chosen a black dress to match my hair, eschewing the pistol and rapier on my hips for a pair of knives beneath my skirt, accessible through a secret gap, though I didn't expect trouble.

Ben rapped his knuckles against the door. A man in a tan vest and long black trousers, with a cravat around his neck, answered.

"Sir, if you please, may I speak with you for a moment?" asked Ben.

Mr. Solomon's gaze bounced between us, a question on his brow. He was probably trying to decide if we were Quakers on a proselytizing mission or salesmen of a scurrilous nature.

"I am Temple Franklin, sir," added Ben, "here on matters of the government. This is Katerina Carmontelle, my assistant."

"Temple Franklin? As in...?"

Ben nodded. "He was my grandfather. A man of uncommon wisdom—I pale in comparison."

"You've got that right," I mumbled softly, so only Ben could hear.

Mr. Solomon tugged on his cravat uncomfortably. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Is it about my trip?"

Concern was evident in his shaky tone.

"May we step inside? I'd prefer not to air our questions to the common man," said Ben.

We followed Mr. Solomon inside. There was a faint odor of ozone in the air. He offered us a seat, but we declined.

I expected Ben to ask about the wife. His question surprised me.

"What was the purpose of your trip, Mr. Solomon?" asked Ben.

Mr. Solomon glanced behind him before answering. "I am a man of business. I had hoped to acquire technologies to bring back to the States."

"You were unsuccessful in this endeavor?" asked Ben.

"Quite," said Mr. Solomon. "The Ottoman Empire guards its new technologies jealously."

"Did this technology have to do with the study of electricity?" asked Ben.

"How did you know? Oh right, your grandfather. Yes, the Turks are making delightful things with electricity. The lamps on the street light up by wire alone," said Mr. Solomon, amazement in his voice. "In the evening, Constantinople rivals the sun. The gods are surely jealous."

"I would like to visit Constantinople someday," said Ben. "Not only because my grandfather Benjamin had a fascination with Leyden jars and lightning, but because I've heard so much about the city," said Ben.

Mr. Solomon glanced behind him again towards a back room. "Does the government have an interest in electricity? Is that why you're here?"

"Actually, good sir, we need to speak to Mrs. Solomon about another matter entirely," said Ben.

"Mrs. Solomon?" His question hung in the air. "I am confused, but I shall call upon her." He turned his head. "Wife, come down, we have visitors."

Moments later, Mrs. Solomon appeared. Samuel had been right, she was an uncommon beauty. Her cheeks were apple red on pale skin. Her hair, the color of autumn, bounced against her shoulders.

Her fierce green eyes flitted around the room. She gave a curtsey in her light blue muslin gown.

"I am your humble servant, good sir and madam," she said in an Irish brogue. "Husband, in what matter may I assist?"

"This is Mr. Franklin, of Ben's lineage, and his assistant, Miss Carmontelle. They have questions for you, the matter I know not," he said. "They are with the government."

Mrs. Solomon's head ticked to the right, as if she'd stopped herself from looking over her shoulder.

"My humblest apologies for bothering you on this morning," said Ben. "We are investigating a strange matter and need your assistance."

"I am your servant," she said, her lips like faint red wine.

I could see why Mr. Redford had been smitten. In her presence, I realized that he'd been flattering me with his compliment, since Mrs. Solomon was a beauty by any measure.

While Catherine had often remarked that I would have received more offers for my hand if I wasn't so serious, I knew a left-handed compliment when I heard one. I knew I could look the part in the right dress and womanly paints when the moment needed the proper presentation, but I had more important things to do with my time than bother with those accoutrements on a daily basis.

Ben reacted to Mrs. Solomon as I expected he would, puffing his broad chest up and taking the stance of an impish rogue. Were we at the estate, and Mrs. Solomon not married, he surely would have taken her by the arm for a leisurely and cunningly braggadocio tour, ending with an enchanting performance on his glass harmonica.

"Madam," I cut in, deflating Ben, "do you recall the events of yesterday when you visited the Immigration Office at the Camden Yards?"

"Why yes, is something the matter?" she asked, fingertips resting on her long neck.

"I'm afraid my next question may seem odd, but humor me," I said, receiving a pair of curious glances in response. "While your husband was speaking to the immigration officer, did you smell or see anything strange?"