“I am looking for the men who refitted that expeditionary airship, the
Jules Verne,
last winter.”
The man looked her over. “And who are you to be asking?”
“A journalist for the Kettle Conglomerate. I’m following up on that aeronaut who disappeared, and was told this facility outfitted the
Jules Verne
for desert travel. My readers back in London would like to know what’s all involved in such a re-fit.”
“Heard about that ship. Nothing to do with us, mind. That ship was in full working order when she left us.”
“She was still in working order when she was found months later,” said Maddie. “Thousands of miles over deserts, seas, and mountains, and still working. That’s no bad reflection on the workmen.”
“In that case, second hanger down on the left.”
Maddie thanked him and hurried away. The second hanger was smaller, holding a handful of private airships bobbing from tethers while men in coveralls milled about them with tools and fuel lines. High up in the shadows, flocks of small birds swooped, scooping up insects. TD whistled to them. She shushed him with a touch and followed a steam-cart deep inside. A scrawny Egyptian pushed past with a large basket on one shoulder. Stepping back, she teetered as her boot came down on a thick cable.
“Steady on, miss,” came an English voice from behind her. A hand gripped her elbow. “All right there?”
“Yes, thank you.” She regained her balance and smiled at the man.
He smiled back. “Tricky footing in here unless you’re used to it. Which you ain’t. Help you find sommat?”
“I’m a journalist from England, looking for men who worked on an expeditionary airship last winter. My readers are interested in how a desert refit differs from an ordinary refit.”
“That’d be the
Jules Verne
?” She nodded. “Sure and I was on the job meself,” he added. “Ask away.”
Through asking as many questions about airship workings as she could think of, Maddie was soon in the midst of a small cluster of men, all eager to impress the young lady reporter with their knowledge of gears, ballast, weight-to-envelope ratio, and the trials of sand-proofing an air-cooled engine for desert travel.
After carefully noting their answers, she said, “I suppose, since his life depended on the ship, the owner was here quite a lot to supervise. Was he difficult to deal with?”
“Not him,” said her first friend. “Knew what he wanted done, and noticed good work. Open-handed too. Stood us all a pint every Friday.”
“That’s as may be,” said another worker. “But he never paid his shot here, did he? Up and left, saying as how that lady’s bank would pay. But it wouldn’t. Lucky we got our wages by the week or we’d be out all that labour.”
“The lady?”
“His investor. Owns the White Sky Line, I hear.”
“Daughter of the feller what started it,” said an older man. “Old White was canny with his coin, but her purse is closed tight as a new rivet.”
Ah. The baron’s lady investor. With this information, tracking her down would be a simple matter for CJ. Now, what about the other lady in the case? Maddie unfolded the image TD had made of the mysterious widow.
“Did this lady ever come to see the airship with the baron?”
Someone said, “I mind her. Not with the baron, but she were around a lot early on. Knew almost as much about airships as you do.”
“That little?” Maddie laughed, and the men grinned.
“Now, miss, I’ll allow you know the stem from the stern all right,” said her friend. “That one, she asked a lot of questions too, but we never did find out what for, did we, lads?” They shook their heads and, as a foreman appeared around the hull of a ship, hurried back to their tasks.
Soon Maddie was alone in the cavernous hangar. As she turned toward the sunshine beyond the huge doors, a sparrow darted past her head. So close was it in size and shape to TD that she put up her hand to ensure he was in his place. He whistled, and the sparrow zipped by a second time. Maddie ducked and hurried outside, and only then realized that, despite its resemblance to a real sparrow, this one might be another of the rare birds made by the mysterious corporation from which her old mentor had acquired TD. Did Madame Taxus-Hemlock’s family conglomerate have an interest in the Cairo aerodrome, or did the owner of that bird come in on one of those ships? Maybe it was her particular friend, Oberon O’Reilly, her willing pal in so many adventures. She peered back into the dim, but saw nobody familiar. Ah, well, if Obie was nigh, he would make his presence known if he could. For now, work came first.
After savouring her unexpected lead on the baron’s investor, she realized she had not asked about the widow’s name. Who else might know? Surely the woman had paused for refreshment during her explorations, since the aerodrome was such a long way from the city proper. Maddie strolled off toward the imposing terminal and was soon seated in a tearoom of the most English kind, with white linen on the tables, sparkling cutlery, spotless teacups, and the ever-popular self-propelling beverage carts. The place was staffed by English too, both waiters and young ladies, who brought out dainty pastries and offered menus for those seeking heartier fare. Maddie chose a honey-drenched palace bread to accompany her thick, strong coffee, removed her net gloves, and looked around for anyone likely to be useful or quotable. To her great delight, she spotted a young naval officer who had come to many entertainments at Shepheard’s. She raised a hand as his eyes swept the room. He hurried over.
“Miss Hatter, isn’t it?” He bowed.
Maddie smiled. “It is. Stanislaus Swithin, is it not?”
“At your service. Do not say you are departing?”
“I’m not leaving Cairo yet,” Maddie assured him. “Although, with the days growing ever hotter . . .”
“You are fortunate to have the option. I will be posted here until September. May I join you?”
“Please do.” While he seated himself and waved for a waiter, she pulled out the image of the widow again. Leaving it face down on the table for the moment, she said, “I am writing an article on what is needed to fit out an airship for desert travel. This interest is inspired, as you may surmise, by the mystery of the
Jules Verne
, that flew thousands of miles since its refit here in Cairo. Could it have survived across the desert without a pilot?”
“Not across the desert, in the springtime, with the prevailing winds. Beyond that, I cannot see how it would end up in England without a steady hand on the tiller. There are all those Alps in the way, you know, and gales over the Mediterranean and the English Channel. No aeronaut would believe it.”
“Then you think the baron must have been steering his ship most of the way?”
“Or someone was.” The young officer ordered a hearty snack and collected his coffee from the cart that paused by their table. This was a most elegant machine, brass with chased silver knobs, although as loud in its explosion of steam through the grounds as any other machine of similar function. He turned the crank to add a foam of milk and sent the cart on its way.
“The baron’s fate has the whole mess-hall in fervent debate. Some say he must have been taken by air pirates over the Sahara, while others point to his frequent mentions of Nubian treasure as proof he was going the other way. Yet, if the ship were pirate-taken, why go to England at all? The chance of being hailed for an identity check over Europe was great, and the winds weren’t right to circle the ship out over the Atlantic instead. No, there is some greater mystery here. Oh, I say,” he added as she flipped open her notebook. “Don’t put me on the record. I’m not authorized.”
“That’s too bad.” Maddie smiled at him. “You have been more quotable than anyone else I’ve spoken to here. I don’t suppose you could direct me to someone who is authorized to speak?”
“I’ll introduce you to my commander, if you will permit me.”
“Delighted.” After a short burst of social nothings, Maddie turned over the image. “I’ve been looking for this woman for a quote too. She was friendly with the baron. But I don’t recall her name, and didn’t ask where she was going when she moved from Shepheard’s. I don’t even know if she’s still in Cairo.”
The officer glanced at the image. “Oh, yes, her. She booked through to Venice in early February. I remember because the base admiral was most shocked that a Steamlord’s daughter was traveling alone, and expedited matters to get her onto the next liner bound for Europe. Nobody wants to wear the stigma of losing somebody’s daughter. Of course, you’re somebody’s daughter too, but your father’s not a Steamlord kind of somebody. The Navy won’t sail close to that breeze if we can help it. The Admiralty is almost totally dependent on Steamlord technology nowadays, and it wouldn’t do to anger one of them.”
Maddie didn’t bother wondering why a Steamlord’s daughter had lived in Cairo under an assumed name. She was doing it herself. She had not recognized the widow, but had they ever met, at school or in a drawing room? Had a kindred spirit lurked under a meek demeanor and a head of family-hued hair?
“What’s her name? I could write to her care of her family.”
“The Honourable Madeleine Main-Bearing, daughter of the Marquis of Main-Bearing.”
Maddie dropped her cup.
THE EARLY-AFTERNOON
streets were somnolent as Maddie returned from the aerodrome. Her driver seemed half-asleep too; she poked him in the back with her pen whenever the vehicle strayed. In stark contrast to the earlier cacophony of camel and horse hooves, steam-whistles, and the eternal cries of sellers and beggars, now the rattle of the wheels and the intermittent hiss of the carriage’s boiler were her only accompaniment. Minarets and screens, delicate mosaics, and carpets left hanging out in the sun to “antique” for the tourist trade, all passed her by unseen. The narrow roadways were stifling, with no breeze to flap the sunshade above her head or cool the fury in her veins.
The devious widow had parlayed one of Maddie’s visiting cards into an escape from Egypt. Not only had that woman been inside Maddie’s chamber uninvited, she had snooped very thoroughly indeed.
Worse still, she was long gone to Venice under Maddie’s name, creating who knew what destruction to Maddie’s reputation. If Lord Main-Bearing heard rumour that his daughter had been carousing publicly during Carnivale, she could not only lose her allowance but be air-dropped into a nunnery on a remote island off Scotland.
Maddie’s best hope for discovering the extent of any damage was that second, possibly brass bird in the hangar. Its presence implied someone in Madame Taxus-Hemlock’s immense family conglomerate had an interest in Cairo, and that meant their long-range birds would be circling the skies. If one of them passed within reach of the hotel, TD would know. At dark, he could be sent aloft to pass along a message. Madame’s family–it was acknowledged by governments in several countries–had more spies in more places than any European power. For them, finding one woman using Maddie’s name in Venice would be as easy as pouring a cup of tea.
Further, if anyone could advise Maddie on how to retrieve her reputation, track down the nefarious card-thief, and mitigate any parental ire, it would be Madame Taxus-Hemlock. She had seen everything and been everywhere, and, being a distant relative of the queen, could, in a pinch, over-awe Lord Main-Bearing into showing mercy to his daughter. Yes, the sooner Madame was informed of the imposter, the better. Still, Maddie seethed all the way to the hotel. If she ever caught up to that woman . . .
Maddie had barely flung her hat at her writing table when a hawk landed on her windowsill. It looked real but TD leapt to meet it, his little beak tapping at the glass. The hawk, its brass pinions cunningly painted to resemble a common Egyptian brown hawk, stared impassively back at its smaller cousin. Maddie hurried to open the window, allowing the two birds to stare eye to eye. Faint clicking and a fainter hum came from the pair. After a bit, the hawk looked away. TD hopped to the table. He peered up at Maddie and warbled. She bent close.
“Speak.”
Instead of cheery chirps, a man’s voice issued from the shiny beak. “Mad-kin, saw you at aerodrome today.” Aha! Maddie’s old shipmate, Oberon O’Reilly, possessor of TD’s twin, Tweetle-C. Obie went on, “Heard you were in Venice lately, kicking up your heels. Seems odd if you’re trying for a low profile but you must have had reason. Figured I’d missed you here, glad you’re back. If it’s safe to meet up somewhere for a pint and a natter, send word to TC.”
Maddie leaned down. “Tweetle-D, listen. To Oberon O’Reilly via Tweetle-C. Obie, it wasn’t me in Venice. Some woman is using my name. If Father hears, I’m doomed. Ask Madame to have her investigated if possible. I’m at Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo. Dress in best uniform and you can appear here unremarked any day. Ask for Miss Maddie Hatter. SO glad you are here; why are you here? Oh, and find out anything about Baron Bodmin and his airship, the
Jules Verne
, too. Ta.”
TD communed with the hawk again, and then it leapt from the windowsill with a startlingly lifelike cry. As it soared away into the afternoon’s heat-haze, Maddie sank onto a chair with a sense of relief quite unbecoming to a modern, independent young woman. After a moment she straightened and reached for the inkwell. There, in the hidden compartment, was a single remaining visiting card. Whew! She was not entirely stranded. Then she noticed the bent corner. It meant, “Called while you were out.”