Boreas rolled out pastry dough as Zan entered the kitchen. The portly cook wore a wide stained apron made of thick brown canvas and a cap of similar material on his head. With flour stained fingers, he pointed to a bubbling pot on the stove. “Stew. Eat.”
Zan took down a bowl and spoon from one of the cupboards ringing the upper part of the kitchen which had been inlaid with cool blue-green tiles. She ladled a bit of steaming broth and chunks of beef, potatoes, and carrots into the bowl and took a sip before she took a seat at the scarred work table where Boreas was working. He had put in his special mixture of spices, she mused as the taste of the stew spread across her tongue. Cloves, nutmeg, rosemary, and something a bit pungent and salty—the mystery herb that Boreas always obtained every other Tuesday when he shopped for semi-perishable foods.
“You look a bit pale,” remarked the cook as he rhythmically rolled the dough. Zan guessed that it would either be the crust for a pie or shells for some kind of tart. She hoped they would be egg custard tarts. Boreas had learned the recipe while accompanying her uncle and mother to the Far East. It was one of her favorite foods—and even sour-faced Simkins had to smile whenever Boreas decided to make them. “Didn’t you eat any of the sandwiches I sent out?”
“Mr. Garrou and Mrs. Felis-Ackart ate most of them.”
“I don’t know why you put up with those freeloaders.”
She shrugged. “I like them.”
“Well, did you get any ideas from them about patrons?” Boreas gave his rolling pin a last pull before sprinkling a bit of flour on the surface of the dough.
“Strangely enough, I didn’t even have time to ask them. Southmore dropped in for an unexpected visit and uh, Mr. Garrou and Mrs. Felis-Ackart had to leave.”
“Southmore? Well, I suppose a representative from the Church is likely to make anyone nervous. What did he want?”
“Did you know he dropped in on Uncle Elliot several times before, well, before he passed?”
“I was aware that the Church’s emissary dropped by from time to time, but I never thought about it before. I always thought it was a courtesy call like any number of Academy members.”
“Apparently, he wished to patronize Uncle Elliot’s research but he turned him down for some reason. And now, Southmore is offering me the same deal—if I pick up where Uncle Elliot left off.”
“Well, that’s fantastic, Miss Hu. At this point, you can’t afford to turn away any possible income.”
She shook her head. “I told him that I’d think about it.”
“But Miss Hu…”
“I want to speak with Caradon first,” she continued. “As soon as possible. I should send a note to him about an appointment. Do you know if Mrs. Philomon is heading out today?”
“She and Isadora are putting rights to Mr. Waterstone’s bedroom this afternoon.”
“Oh, well, I suppose I’ll do it then. It would be better, I think, if I can convince Caradon to continue the same agreement he had with my uncle and let me work on my own projects without any stipulations.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, Miss Hu.”
“I know, I know. I suppose being around Uncle Elliot while he was inventing—listening to his theories and being his assistant when he needed one—I’m as good a person to continue what he was doing. But it would be nice to have someone support my own work now and again.”
“Miss Hu?” It was Simkins in the kitchen doorway. “There are these, uh, gentlemen at the front door. They claim to be from the Museum.”
She groaned. “I almost forgot about them. I’m coming Simkins.”
“You haven’t finished your stew,” glowered Boreas.
“I promise I will when I deal with these people,” Zan replied as she got up. “And what sort of dessert are you making?”
“Egg custard tarts.”
“Oh good. I’ll need them when I’m finished with this.”
At the front door, a tall narrow-shouldered man stood in the doorway, peering into the interior of the house. He was wearing a bronze suit with a matching top hat, a black vest, and white gloves. His thin, curling moustache twitched when he noticed Zan moving out from the hallway. He brandished a cane capped with a large lead crystal in a wide swoop as if he was the conductor of the theater orchestra. Behind him were two men, one stout and swarthy, the other thickly muscled yet pale. Both wore overcoats that probably had seen better days.
“Dear Miss Hu, we did have an appointment, did we not? Your butler said we did not,” said the man with the cane in a sonorous, pompous tone.
Simkins, who was standing behind Zan, coughed loudly, but it sounded more like a “Ha!” than a clearing of the throat.
Zan recognized him. He was the Museum director, Gustav Kruntz. He and Elliot had a falling out when Kruntz called her uncle’s machines “tinker toys.” The note from the previous night had been an insult enough, but this was just salt on the wounds. And now he had the nerve to barge into her home to take her uncle’s projects away. She clenched a fist as Kruntz gave her an oily smile.
“Mr. Kruntz. What a surprise to see you. I’ve been so busy this past week with my uncle’s funeral arrangements and settling the estate that I hardly had the time to read the note that you sent. I had completely forgotten about your arrival. Would it be possible if you came back another day when my schedule is not so crowded?”
“I’m afraid it must be today,” said Kruntz, his thin lips pulling into a wider smile. “The Museum is running on a tight schedule as well and even as director, I cannot change it once the wheels start rolling. Surely, Miss Hu, my associates and I will be in and out with hardly a peep. You won’t even notice that we were here!”
Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed in disbelief. But on all appearances, the Museum director was not to be dissuaded from his mission. Vultures, she thought. There were always vultures on the lookout to swoop in when a death happened. “This way,” she said finally. Slowly, she moved to a plain black door located just underneath the stairs to the second floor. She took out a key and unlocked it. “Simkins, a lamp, if you please.”
A flight of stairs led downward to the basement. The butler led the way with the light source with Kruntz and his muscle men tromping loudly behind him. Zan followed last, feeling her face tightening in disapproval and outrage with every step that she took.
Elliot Waterstone had converted the basement to a laboratory the same time he had the workers repair the house when he returned from his stay in the Far East. A row of small rectangular windows lined the very top of the far wall that was at the back of the house. From there, one had a mostly monotonous view of the grass in the back lawn. Against the walls were thick heavy shelves filled with all manner of materials from raw ore to coiled wire, glass bottles of strange powders, a variety of measuring gauges, and even rocks with odd looking fossils. The laboratory itself was clearly demarcated by a long wooden counter in the middle of the room. On the side next to the windows were all the chemical apparatus that Zan used in her own experiments—vials, tubes, beakers, balances, gas burners. The other side had been Elliot’s section of the laboratory.
With her uncle’s passing, Zan had not had the time to pick up the wrenches and screwdrivers and bits of sheet metal still littering the floor. Secretly, she hoped Kruntz might step on a long rusty nail that was sharp enough to penetrate the soles of his fashionable wide-buckled shoes.
“This is your uncle’s work space?” said Kruntz as he eyed the laboratory in calculating assessment.
“This half of it, yes,” Zan replied, keeping her voice soft, afraid of betraying any emotion. “My uncle kept all of the machines that he made on that table against the wall. Will you be taking his tools and raw materials as well?”
“The Museum will only be archiving his experiments. You are aware of the agreement Mr. Waterstone and I had? The Museum was also to have his notes to go with all the apparatus that he so ingeniously designed.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Mr. Kruntz,” she replied. “His notes don’t exist any more. My uncle destroyed them a while ago.”
The Museum director swung his gaze to her. “Destroyed, you say? Are you sure? You must be mistaken.” His voice rose an entire half-tone at the last word.
“I really am sorry. But I saw my uncle burn them as did the rest of my household staff. I did not think that he knew that he would pass away so quickly and he told me once that he had no need of them since everything was already in his head.”
His henchmen were already taking one of the machines up the basement stairs. One of Elliot’s older electricity machines with the Leyden jar made out of a discarded pickle container. At the top of the stairs, there was a pungent curse and the sound of broken glass. Zan winced. “What a tragedy,” huffed Kruntz.
Her fist tightened and claws instead of nails dug into her palm. Egg custard tarts, she thought to herself. Think of tarts. There was another crash, and Zan closed her eyes in despair.
