The Cogspeare Conspiracy (The Cogspeare Chronicles Book 1) (27 page)

              A pause.

              “How can we find him?”

              “Start with Twym Glyndwr, the researcher at the
Daily Pulse
. He should at least know where to begin.” Without saying goodbye, she quickly flipped off the receiver.

              “When did mother agree to be your spy? Or was it the other way around? Did you coerce her?”             

              Minerva didn’t think she had the nerve to turn around and face Magnus, looming in the doorway.

Chapter 64:

“You’re not actually thinking of going, are you Mother?” Declan wondered as Edwina closed off the pneumatic circuit.

              “Of course I am, dear!” she replied. “And I’d like you to come with me.”

              “Oh no, no, no. I won’t be a party to ruining my brother’s career. Take Sebastian.” He leaned back into the settee and folded his arms.

              Edwina turned from giving instructions to Steamins and focused a glare at her son.

              “Declan, you don’t know that this will ruin his career, but I know that it will save his conscience, and hopefully any chance he has with Minerva.”

              “And just what do we know about her, hmm?” he stood, eye to eye, flaming head to flaming head. “I didn’t object to you bringing her home from prison, but you can’t be seriously trying to match her up with Magnus.”

              “Of course I am. They’re perfect for each other.”

              “Except for the fact that she’s going behind his back, with your help, to sabotage his case, has been incarcerated, and disowned by her family?”

              “It was a crap case to begin with, Declan,” Sebastian added from his cross-legged position on the rug. “Mother was in jail with her, and apparently her great-aunt was a baggage anyway.”

              “Details, details,” she waved them away as Steamins helped her back into her evening cloak. “Now, come along, Declan, we haven’t got all day to listen to your objections. You may continue to enumerate them on the way.”

              He sighed and donned his black leather coat and top hat.

              Steamins, using his secret butler powers, had a hansom waiting for them when they emerged. The cabbie shot them an unsure glance, though whether it was due to their evening dress worn at noon or the mews address, was unclear.

              After giving him the address of the
Daily Pulse
, Steamins wished them good luck as he shut the door. Declan was beginning to get an idea of why Magnus seemed to sigh so much.

              As it was a balmy Sunday, there was quite a bit more traffic on the grimy streets than usual, but the driver wove through the other carriages and few personal steamers and pulled up in front of the imposing façade of the newspaper in record time. Edwina let herself out, leaving Declan to deal with the money.

              “That’ll be seven crowns, gov’nr,” he grumbled.

              “Seven crowns!” Declan exclaimed. “That is blatant extortion!” The driver turned and glared at him from under dark brows.

              “And I don’t care if you think it’s mid-air robbery. I don’t take kindly to bein’ called to a posh house to take away a harlot and her man after bein’ used the whole night. And she old enough to be your mother.”

              “She is my mother,” Declan quickly threw the coins at the apoplectic cabbie and quickly ran to join his mother in the foyer of the building.

While most business were closed on Sundays, the
Daily Pulse
had two Monday editions to get out and therefore kept a skeleton staff on the weekends.

They bypassed the automaton and instead headed to the reception desk further inside. The pimpled adolescent manning it idly doodled while Edwina explained that she was Mr. Glob’s aunt from the country and needed to see him urgently.

“I’m sorry, madam, but no one of that name works here,” he intoned, not bothering to look up. Declan stomped over and slammed his hand on the desk. The young man startled up.

“Look here: I have a crown with your name on it if you tell us where Twym Glyndwr lives.”

“Oh, that chap in the basement. Well…make it two and I’ll tell you.” Declan took out two coins from his coat, though one was silver.

“Here’s a crown and a silver, which is more than you had before we came in. Now, the address?”

“He lives in Little Peking with some Chinese tart.” He gave them the address and Declan hurried his mother outside.

“He lives with a Chinese woman, mother! In the East End! There are opium dens there, and pickpockets, and-”

“Declan, dear, when did you become such an old biddy?” She coolly hailed another cab and got in.

“When I worry about you!” He grumbled, following her in.

As the second reluctant cabbie of the day drove them further towards the East End, the traffic became progressively less congested until there were barely any pedestrians, let alone horse and steam traffic. Edwina thought that all the people were having a very appropriate Sunday lie-in, while Declan was more pessimistic, knowing that they were all either bandaging their wounds, sleeping it off, high, or dead.

“You know, Erasmus and Amadeus, and even poor Quintus, would find this a wonderful adventure, especially with their mother.”

Then, “You should take them next time you want to go to the East End on a Sunday, when they’re not quarantined with a spesium epidemic, that is,” replied Declan tartly.

“Unproven as yet, dear, unproven,” she smiled, convinced, or perhaps convincing herself, that all would be well.

The cab turned a corner, and in the middle of the block, surrounded by decaying buildings scrawled with a variety of East Asian languages, was a tiny, prim Georgian brick townhouse. The shop at street level had a storefront pained an eye-watering red with a variety of jars in the window. Though the building was only two windows wide, it seemed in good repair.

“Limehouse, as you requested, my lady,” the driver said caustically. Edwina stiffened her spine.

“Sarcasm does not become you, my good man, and you shall not receive a tip for it, either.” Of course, she left Declan to deal with the fallout of a tip-less cabbie while she boldly went to the front of the shop and rapped on the red door smartly.

Declan had just avoided fisticuffs with the cabbie and had joined his mother on the sidewalk when the door opened to reveal a young, stunning woman. Though her round face and shaped black eyes proclaimed her to be Chinese, her black hair was surprisingly curly, and when she asked them their business, it was with a reserved tone tinted with a Welsh accent.

“We were told that Twym Glyndwr lives here. We’re so sorry to disturb him on a Sunday, but it is very, very urgent.”

“What is it about?” she asked, her sharp glance taking in their dishevelled, though expensive, evening dress.

“It’s about the SWSMC case,” Edwina blurted out. The woman suddenly and quickly ushered them into the darkened store, murmuring, “Of course, of course.”

Though dim, Edwina and Declan could see that the interior of the shop was like stepping out of England and into China. Everything was a study in elegant, Asian simplicity. All of the walls save the storefront were covered in hundreds of tiny drawers made from dark, burnished wood. In front of them curved a bar made from the same wood, and a few chairs were placed around the floor.

“What is this?” wondered Edwina, having never seen the like. She and her son sniffed appreciatively at the tangy, herbal scent wafting in the air.

“This is, as dear Twym says, a herbitorium. A place where ancient Chinese medicine is practiced.”

“Who is the doctor?” Declan asked as she shut and locked the door.

“I am,” she said, smiling a small smile. “Follow me, please.”

She led them past the bar and opened a small door at the back of the room, leading them into a second room. While the front room was for patrons, this room was obviously a workroom. The marble-topped work stations were covered with jars of different shapes and sizes, some made of glass so that they could see weird and wonderful, dried and fresh, herbs and plants, and a few bits of exotic animal hovering in their depths. The walls were plastered with posters showing different body parts, all labelled in Chinese.

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” Edwina began, “you seem very young for this responsibility.” And indeed, the woman could have been no more than twenty or twenty-two years old. She shrugged.

“After our mother died back in Wales, we came to live with our father. I inherited the practice from him three years ago.” She turned abruptly and climbed a tiny staircase recessed in the space of a broom closet. Edwina hitched up her trailing, tasselled skirts and followed, envying the woman’s smart and shocking red silk pyjamas.

The top of the stairs opened onto a hallway which she led them down, and opened a door into the front parlour.

Giggles filled the sparse room. There was a carved table surrounded by four carved chairs, an upright piano against one wall, and two arms chairs by the fireplace. Throughout was an intriguing mixture of Eastern and Western cultures.

The giggles came from three little girls laying on silk carpet, all miniature versions of the woman. Twym was lying with them, dressed in a smart black set of pyjamas, and helping them to intricately fold bits of coloured paper.

“Who was that, dear?” he asked, only then looking up. “Mrs. Cogspeare!” he smiled nervously, jumping up and brushing himself off. “How did you find me? What brings you here?” What is amiss?”

“Now Twym,” said the woman, “Let them sit first.” She directed them over to the table.

“Would you care for some tea?” she asked, holding a delicately formed Chinese pot.

“I would love a cup, my dear,” Edwina accepted. “I know that we must look very strange coming to you in our state, but it has been the most dreadful few hours, and I could use a restorative.” Oh, Lord, thought Declan, she’s already called her ‘my dear’. Practically part of the family already.

“And there is no restorative quite like tea,” she murmured, smiling in understanding. She elegantly poured out the dark tea into four delicate cups, and as she handed the first to Edwina, she said,

“I am sorry that I didn’t introduce myself, but I didn’t know if you were friend or foe. You are obviously friends of Twym, though. I am Alis Chu,” she held out her hand, which Edwina and then Declan took, “And these are my sisters, Aderyn, Anwen, and Aerona.” As their names were called, they each popped up and curtsied, then quietly returned to their folding.

“You really must teach me how you trained them,” Edwina said in all seriousness, though Alis laughed. “I did have the most dreadful time with my unruly boys,” she looked at Declan as he sat next to Twym.

“I hope you don’t think that this is an unsavoury situation, Mrs. Cogspeare. It’s just that, well, we don’t yet have enough money to marry, and Alis has had some break ins at the herbitorium over the past few months, so I’m here just to look over them.”

“My dear, say not another word, because I wouldn’t judge you even if you were here for her company alone- which is certainly a good reason enough!” Twym blushed, but continued,

“If I may ask, then, what brings you to Limehouse?”

“Well…” Edwina launched into a summary of the events of the past few days. Twym didn’t bother to add anything for Alis’s edification; it was obvious that she was fully in his confidence.

“So Magnus is quarantined even though he has the case tomorrow?” Edwina nodded. “It’s for his own safety, really,” she sounded as though she was convincing herself. “But, as I said, Minerva needs us to find some sort of proof that Clinton knew about the danger to the miners and went along with his plans anyway.”

Twym got up and went out of the room, and returned within minutes holding a large, ill-rolled scroll.

“These are my notes on the SWSMC,” he unrolled the scroll and co-opted the three girls to hold it stretched out. His spindly handwriting sprawled over it in messy clumps, obviously having been writing as thoughts occurred to him. “Let’s see…no, that’s not it…et cetera, et cetera…ahah!” he jabbed a finger at one part, “A few months ago I was looking through some official documents and saw that a Mr. Hogarth Jepsem was mentioned. I did some investigation and found out that he is a geologist and an aetherologist, meaning…” he raised his eyebrows, waiting for someone to fill in the blanks.

              Declan jumped in, “Meaning that as a geologist he would know about the new spesium and as an aetherologist he would know about any impending and potentially dangerous weather. But wait,” he held up his hand, “how do we know that he was hired to look into Port Prudence? He could have been sent to any other of SWSMC’s mines.”

              “We don’t, dear, but it is worth a try. Now, where does this man live?”

              “Mother, are you planning to accost all of London on their day of rest?”

              “If I must.” As they took their leave of Alis, thanking her for the strong English tea, the three little girls came up to Edwina and Declan, each holding out a folded paper bird.

              “What are these?” she asked, taking one delicately.