Дэвид Нордли - How Beer Saved the World

“Science, sir?”

“Chemistry and physics.” He gestured toward his instrument table. “I suspect someone plots against me, but I don’t have the foggiest notion why. Unless they think I’ve stolen one of their inventions.”

A plot to do him in? A mystery, this was. Eleanor straightened her apron. At the market square, she’d overheard talk about Scotland Yard. Inspectors solved mysteries by asking questions. If she came up with clever questions to help Master Harte, maybe he’d reward her with important responsibilities.

“That warning about the nine,” she said. “Where did it come from, sir?”

“A stranger,” he replied. “One of the temperance ladies outside the liquor shop up the street from my club. About your age.”

“Do any of the other servants know about all this?”

“I doubt they know much.” He winked. “We ought to keep things that way.”

A bell clanged. The front door. The noise gave Eleanor a start. Master Harte hadn’t mentioned expecting visitors. Her fingers inspected her bun. Her hair seemed in place. Footsteps and voices grew louder.

“I’m relieved to see you, Jeremy,” the gentleman in the library doorway said.

The stocky toff—still wearing his elegant woolen greatcoat and leather gloves—brushed past the household footman and entered the library. Pallor covered the stranger’s face, as if he’d seen his own specter in the hallway mirror.

“I’m sorry about barging in this way,” the visitor said, his voice shaky. “But I’ve some rather untidy tidings to report.”

“My God,” Master Harte said. “You look appalling.” He ushered his visitor to a leather chair, then turned toward Eleanor. “Fetch a shot of brandy.”

Eleanor hurried over to the liquor cabinet, all the while straining her ears to catch tidbits of conversation. Had someone else misplaced an arm?

“Your valet,” the visitor continued, “brought those drawings of yours to the club yesterday evening. We were all quite eager to study your proposals for protecting the city water supply from cholera contamination. I fear the epidemic spreads beyond Whitechapel already.”

So that’s what Parker was up to. Eleanor carried the snifter of brandy to the distressed gent, careful to avoid the untrustworthy patch of space near the main bookcase. She set the tray on the table beside him. He had two hands visible and could jolly well pick up his own glass.

“Get to the point,” Master Harte said. His hands, tensed as wound-up clockwork, clutched the lapels of his suit.

“Parker,” the gentleman said, “set your document case down on a table. He poured himself a pint of stout.”

The toff raised the brandy toward his mouth. He drank not a drop and returned the glass to the tray.

“And?” Master Harte said, his voice pinched.

“Parker vanished,” the visitor said, “as the clock struck ten.” His palms pressed against his lowered face. “‘Twas like the poor chap was never there.”

Parker gone? Not just half his arm but all of him? Done in forever? Eleanor let out a wail. Blimey. She was loud enough to jelly live eels.

A live eel was the last thing Eleanor wished to drag about London today, but that was the way it worked out. Mrs. Blake had a favorite market and a mouthful of reasons for her to buy an eel there. Master Harte, off to investigate Parker’s disappearance, had ridden with her on the train into the city. Thus Eleanor now stumbled along cobblestones while cart vendors in her path hawked their wares. Her burlap sack wiggled. She sighed. Poor Parker. Most likely dead, he was. How could the cook care about stewing an eel?

Flies buzzed everywhere. The stench from rotting fish in passing carts overpowered even the stink of manure. Eleanor’s head and feet throbbed. Would be nice to visit Master Harte’s inventors’ club and rest in an overstuffed chair. A pity the place didn’t welcome women, except to do the cleaning. You’d think the wallpaper would peel from floor to ceiling if a lady crossed the bleeding threshold and sat down to sip a cuppa tea. Rules was rules, though. Nothing to do but wrestle with this eel while the Master sought clues about Parker.

Parker was—or had been—a clever sort. Well, not clever enough. Had whoever nabbed him expected Master Harte instead? Then raced down to the Brighton coast upon discovering the mistake? That was over forty miles. Nobody could have traveled from the club to Brighton House in an hour. And no God-fearing magician would make a man vanish into another world. The blame had to rest upon devilry or evil spirits, no matter what the Master claimed. No wonder he hadn’t brought the bizarre details straight to Scotland Yard.

Eleanor reached the train station, the eel in her sack still thrashing about like a cat in the wash. Some eels could live for days out of water. At least she’d picked out a right fresh one.

“Ticket to Kensington Station,” she told the station clerk.

She set down her sack on the floor and fumbled in her purse for money, giving the man in line behind her—a fellow with a greasy black beard—a wary glance. His shabby houndstooth greatcoat fit like it belonged to a shorter bloke. Stolen? A good thing she’d sewn that secret money pocket into the lining of her coat. She paid the clerk. Her purse was empty now, except for her handkerchief. She tucked her ticket inside.

Time to pick up her sack and board the train. Her hand reached for the drawstrings. Spiny teeth snapped at her. They missed. Almighty Lord of Heaven. The eel’s slimy head protruded from the top of the burlap bag, the beast’s lower jaw longer than the upper one. Them drawstrings had come loose.

“Need ’elp, Miss?” the houndstooth man said. He reached toward the sack without waiting for a reply.

“Do take care,” Eleanor said. The swollen cut on his brow suggested a recent scrap. He’d better not make a grab for her purse.

Something about this bloke was familiar. Had she seen him in the fish market? Had he followed her? God, she was jumpy as the eel. The business about disappearing arms and people unsettled her senses.

“Ye just got teh know,” the stranger said, “how teh ’andle a wiggler righ’ and proper.”

His meaty hands grabbed the sides of the bag and shook the eel back into place. He pulled the drawstrings tight and knotted them. His dark complexion made him look part gypsy. Was he in this for a tip?

“I don’t have money to spare,” Eleanor said, accepting the bagged eel from the man. She smiled even as tension clenched her innards. “But thank ye, nonetheless.”

“Oh, I got me reward enough,” he said, and stepped up to the ticket window.

What an unexpected reply. Eleanor lifted her squirming charge and boarded the train to Kensington. A faint ticking sound puzzled her. A fellow passenger’s pocket watch? Now something whirred. She glanced behind her. No one followed.

The underground train rumbled toward Kensington Station. Only a couple stops left to go. Eleanor would meet Master Harte on the front steps of his inventors’ club. They’d return to Brighton by carriage, as planned.

On the seat beside her, the eel sack wiggled. That stranger in the ill-fitting greatcoat still unsettled her. All manner of evil characters roamed London. Whatever took Parker likely had wanted Master Harte instead. Could the houndstooth man have bewitched this eel-in-a-sack in order to do the Master in? She should jolly well leave the bleeding thing on the train when she got off. Then tell Mrs. Blake to buy eels only in Brighton.

“Ye got no righ’,” a woman’s brash voice said, “teh take up two seats when a lady needs one of ’em.”