The Cogspeare Conspiracy (The Cogspeare Chronicles Book 1) (14 page)

              “I feel more…at ease here, away from turmoil of the city, the pressure of my family.”

              “I don’t see how your family puts pressure on you. They’re wonderful.” Magnus snorted.

              “You haven’t lived with them your whole life. Just wait a few more days; then I’m sure you’ll be almost as exasperated with them as I.”

              Minerva didn’t reply, but stopped in front of a garden filled with overgrown roses.

              “This must be it. After you,” Magnus opened the dilapidated gate and they proceeded up the path.

              Minerva tapped his shoulder just as they reached the door. “Don’t look now, but I think I saw a curtain twitch.”

              “They’ve been twitching all along the road as we passed.”

              Minerva knocked smartly, fearlessly, but almost before the knocks had rung throughout the house, the door was yanked open a crack. A small, hunched man glared at them. Noting his reluctance, Magnus jumped in.

              “Sir, I am a barrister with Grimsby and Associates, and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

              “I can’t be seen talking to the likes o’you,” he growled. Minerva wedged her small reticule in the threshold, catching the slamming door with an audible crack. The door recoiled and swung wide open, revealing a small room.

Despite the windows overlooking the front garden, the room was dark and a fine layer of dust clung to the furniture. A meagre fire burned in the grate, over which hung the only ornamentation in the house, an antique blunderbuss. In front of the fire the man crouched down in front of figure swaddled in a miscellany of blankets and fabric.

              The figure, a boy no more than twelve or thirteen, sat wide-eyed in the room’s only chair. Blood dripped from his eyes, nose and mouth, and seeped from ears to drip onto the towels his father padded around him.

              At their horrified stares, Craggs sighed and pulled them inside, quickly shutting the door behind them.

              “What happened?” Minerva asked quietly. Craggs shook his head.

              “We don’t know. It were his first week down the mines, and on account of his bein’ so small an’ nimble an’all, I-” his voice broke, “I sent him down the new shaft. But then, after the first few days, the men began to get sick, and then the explosion…” He wiped his face with a shoot-encrusted hand.

              “The miners got ill you say, is that it?” Magnus nodded to the boy. Craggs nodded. “Did you tell anyone about it?

              “Yes, of course. I sent a pulse to London that first day, when the boys came out and were feeling poorly.”

              “Do you usually do that, when they’re feeling ‘poorly’?” Craggs frowned and crossed his arms.

              “No. I did that when my men came up and began bleeding from their eyes! I sent a pulse, and didn’t hear a damn thing. In fact, all I got that week was a ‘go ahead’. It was only after the great explosion that the head office sent people to inspect that place. Too little too late, damn it!” He turned and huffed over to his son, and began trying to clean up the oozing blood.

              Suddenly a young woman came in from a back room, presumably the kitchen, wiping blackened hands on her apron.

              “What’s going on, father?”  Magnus hastily got up and made a small bow.

              “We’re from Grimsby and-” but Craggs didn’t let him finish, instead barking out,

              “They’re barristers, Mary. Now get back to cooking for your brother!” For a moment pure, unadulterated anger infused Mary’s face before she visibly swallowed it and turned on a poorly-shod heel.

              “I’ll just go see if she needs help in the kitchen,” Minerva quickly followed her into the back of the house. This, clearly Mary’s sole domain, was even smaller and dirtier than the front room. Piles of bloody rags soaked in pots, small heaps of food scraps tangled with cutlery, and not a scrap of soap to be seen. Minerva was sure that if Bongout ever saw this place he would have a case of the vapours. Or a case of gin. Or both.

              “It’s disgusting, I know,” Mary said, giving up in her half-hearted attempts to clean and instead slipping down to the floor, her dirty apron billowing out around her like a sad Yorkshire pudding. “But it wasn’t like this before, it wasn’t! Mother kept this so perfect, but then when she died and Jack got sick…I just can’t do this, and I’m good for nothing.” Her face began to get red as tears tracked down her face, mixing with sweat in a little puddle at her collarbone.

              Minerva squatted down and passed Mary her handkerchief.

              “Mary, you are not good for nothing. Just because you’re having a difficult time of it doesn’t mean that you won’t be good at something else.”

              “Like what?” Mary asked angrily. “I can’t go fight, I can’t go work! There is nothing else for women to do except keep house, and since I can’t do that, I’m no use to anybody.”

              “But there are other things we women can do. I’m working with women in London to get equal rights for us, so that women everywhere can have more opportunities, even to work for their families, perhaps even fight for their countries.”

              “That may be in the city,” Mary got up, brushed herself off and handed the hankie back to Minerva as imperiously as a nineteen-year old, old before her time, could. “But I am here.” Minerva quickly got up.

              “If you need help or a friend, here’s my calling tube and card.” She was about to put it down on the rickety table, but Mary shook her head.

              “Don’t bother. I can’t read.”

              Minerva quickly re-joined the men, who had since been very silent. “Has the SWSMC done anything, sent anything?” asked Minerva.

              “Oh, they’ve sent plenty,” he replied sarcastically, “Nothing but a pulse of condolences and month’s wages for the victims’ families.”

              “And the survivors?”

              “Jack here was the only survivor, and…that won’t be for much longer.” They were silent for many moments. Finally, Magnus took out one of his calling tubes, a small, silver cartridge engraved with his name and address.

              “This is my pulse connector. If you think of anything else, or need something, take it to the nearest pulse station and they can use it to connect directly to my office’s pulse receiver.” Craggs took the cartridge and examined it. His face suddenly grew dark.

              “I recognize the name, Grimsby. You work for them.” His stated leadenly. “They should have done something weeks ago, and you’re just here to help them crush our law suit. Get out!” he screamed. “Get out!”

              “Sir, I’m just trying to ascertain-”

              “I don’t give a damn. You’re defending the bastards who let this happen to my son!”

              “Mr. Craggs,” Minerva stepped forward, even as Magnus realized that he had been shielding her. “Mr. Cogspeare is just making sure that justice is served.”

              “And you’re his ‘companion’?” he snarled. “Leave me in peace. Leave me with my dying son.” He shoved them out, and slammed the door, so hard that it echoed along the street.

              For a moment, Magnus and Minerva were too stunned at the jarring interview to say a word. They turned as one and began to walk back down the garden path, when Minerva paused.

              “Do you think we should leave the hamper for them? After all, it doesn’t look like they have much in the way of food.”

              “My first instinct would be to leave it, but the only thing Craggs has left is a shred of pride, which is more important than food to these people.”

              “And how would you know anything about ‘these people’” Minerva brushed past the roses, and Magnus closed the creaking door behind them.

              “Obviously more than you do. I learned it mostly from Mother. She used to drag us along on her ‘good duty tour’, as we call it. She goes around to different parts of the city, sometimes the East End, other times some places more rural, and does what she can for them. She’s set up five clinics, three crèches, and about half a dozen homes for women in need.”

              “That’s incredible!” Magnus smiled with pride.

              “We like to think so. Now, we have quite some time until the STEAMer returns. Perhaps we should do something with Bongout’s hamper? If we returned with it intact he would refuse to serve us altogether. Those benches look tempting.”

              “Too exposed, Magnus. And they’d take offense at our bringing food to the door of their pub. Let’s go down to the beach.”

              “The beach?!” he choked out as he followed in the wake of her skirts.

              The descent to the rocky beach was steep, and they took a few wrong twists and turns through shadowy alleys before they emerged in a sun-drenched, port.

              “They must have stopped the fishing industry in favour of the mine,” mused Magnus.

              The tide was out, leaving a carpet of seaweed smelling to high heaven, and what few rocks were visible would be very uncomfortable without a mattress, let alone a blanket covering.

              “Perhaps the beach isn’t the best idea. Rock wall instead?” He nodded in agreement, and set the hamper down.

              “If, um, you’d like help onto the wall…?” he offered.

              “Well, since the wall does reach well over my waist, that would be a great help,” she replied lightly. Without hesitation, Magnus kneeled on one knee, the other offered as step. Minerva was really hoping for another option, but instead thanked him as she settled herself on the rough wall.

              “I don’t know which was more heart-breaking, Mr. Craggs, Jack or Mary.”

              “I should think Mr. Craggs. After all, his wife died and now he has to watch his son, the one he put in harm’s way, die as well.”

              “Yes, but what about Mary. I worry that when her brother dies, her father may be totally lost to her and she’ll be all alone.”

Instead of replying, Magnus just shook his head, not in disagreement but in sympathy.

              “Well, let’s see what we have here,” Magnus opened the hamper, and Minerva reached for the table cloth, silver and china, and set it out just so. “Here we have two langoustine quiches, pastries that look like urchins and filled with caviar, potted shrimp, strawberry tarts, and a dry Riesling from ’67.”

              “How are we supposed to eat all this and get back on the train? We’ll make it crash with the excess weight!” she joked.

              “Actually, Miss McFlynt, I think the more pressing problem is that Bongout didn’t include any glasses,” he replied soberly.

              “Well then, Magnus, we’ll just have to drink from the bottle!”

              “Miss McFlynt!”

              “Oh, do call me Minerva already!” Magnus sighed, and suddenly felt a perishing thirst for the wine. He expertly uncorked it and offered her the first sip.

              A first sip that somehow turned into more of a draught.

              At his wide eyes she smiled, swallowed, and answered, “Ladies boarding school, don’t you know.” She handed him the bottle. “But it must have been the same at your school? Long nights of secret meetings and horse-play?”

              He shook his head. “I went for one term to a public school. After that, it was deemed that all the Cogspeare boys were a bit too, shall we say, combustible for the likes of a boarding school. Since then, we all attended St. Belichor’s in Kensington and roomed at home.”

              A darkness came over his eyes, and Minerva knew he wasn’t telling her the whole truth, but instead of pressing the issue, she handed him a quiche.

              They continued their luncheon with light conversation, speaking of a few law cases, and scandals, and generally enjoying the atmosphere that was as calm and Zephyrus as the sea. But all too soon, to Magnus’s mind, he looked at his pocket watch and observed the time. Minerva checked her lapel watch, and concurred that it was almost time to catch the STEAMer. Magnus jumped off the wall nimbly as she packet up the hamper, and kneeled down again to act as a stepladder. But instead, she held out her hands, boldly waiting for him to touch her.

              He swallowed as he stood and brushed off his pants, trying furiously not to blush. He tried to act nonchalantly, as though he grasped the beautiful waist of a lovely, sweet, intriguing woman every day. He felt her hands slide over his shoulders, and before he could react to that, she jumped. He reflexively caught her to him, and as he slowly lowered her to her feet, saw her beatific smile.

              And the first thing that came out of his mouth was,

              “What was in your reticule that stopped Craggs from slamming the door in our faces?”

              “What, you mean the first time?” Though feeling oddly disappointed, Minerva answered, 

“Actually, it’s the bag itself. Your mother gave it to me.”

“I should have known with that quantity of fringe,” he grumbled as she said,