the town, the first outlying buildings came into view and the scents of coal smoke and salt air reached his nostrils. They flew over a few grand country estates, an old stone church, a livery stable, a tavern, an automaton factory and a country store. The airfield was right outside the town proper, and once he’d debarked, Kendall traded his goggles and cap for his top hat and tucked his belted leather duster into his valise.
Out on the street, he hired a hansom, checked the piece of paper he’d shoved into his pocket and spoke to the cabbie. “150-B Lilac Lane.”
The cabbie looked at Kendall’s expensive frock coat, superfine trousers and custom-made boots and raised one grizzled eyebrow. “You sure about that, milord?”
“Quite.” The Order didn’t make mistakes on something as simple as addresses. The files in their analytical engine databases were quite extensive and included things like the addresses of distant relations of Order members.
The driver shrugged, clicked to his ancient mare and headed toward the bustling resort town. The painted wood and pastel brick buildings reminded Kendall of Easter eggs in a basket on this hazy afternoon. The Queen’s Road was lined with candy and souvenir shops, clothiers, rooming houses and photographic studios.
Ah yes, photographic studios. As a steam tram chugged past them toward the beach, filled with sunburned tourists and local workers, Kendall’s cab turned west off the Queen’s Road, the main thoroughfare, away from the Pavilion and the other grand buildings, into a slightly less prosperous section of town.
Hmm . The farther they went, the less appealing the neighborhood became. Surely this Amelie Deland, a relative of one of the foremost Knights, didn’t live in abject poverty.
After another block or two, though, the neighborhood perked up into basic middle-class housing. The cabbie found Lilac Lane, and Kendall discovered that number 150 wasn’t a photography studio at all, but a neatly tended rooming house, probably the nicest one on a modest street, just a block or so in from the oceanfront shops of King’s Lane. So this spinster photographer he’d been sent to reassure had given her home address instead of her business. Hopefully she would be home for luncheon. If not, Kendall could wait if he had to. He tapped the toe of his boot on the floor of the cab.
“You want me to wait?” the cabbie asked.
“No.” When his business was over, Kendall could walk back to a main road and find another cab.
At the front door, he set his valise and trunk by the step and pressed the bell.
“Yes, may I help you?” A modestly dressed, middle-aged woman answered a few moments later. She had a pleasant face, showing the lines of frequent smiles and a life well lived, and blond hair fading gracefully into gray.
“Miss Deland?” He doubted it, but he’d been given absolutely no description to go on. All he knew was that Lord Drood’s niece was a photographer. This woman, though, had no chemical stains on her fingers nor hint of developing fluid to her scent. Rather, he detected furniture polish, rosewater, roast beef and fresh shortbread. His stomach rumbled.
“No, dear, I’m Mrs. Bennett, the landlady.” She beamed at him, wiping her hands on her apron before holding one out. “Mrs. Abigail Bennett, that is.”
“Kendall Lake,” he replied. He wasn’t in the mood to be milorded, and Lake was his family surname as well as his title. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bennett.”
“Delighted, Mr. Lake. You’ll find Miss Deland around back in the carriage house. Are you here to have your photo taken?”
“No, I’m on an errand from her uncle, I believe. Lord Drood.”
“Oh, how nice. You can leave your things here in the foyer and tell Amy you’re welcome to stay for luncheon, dear.” With that she tittered like a flirtatious debutante and held the door while he tucked his luggage inside.
Kendall shook his head as he walked around the house. Amy?
Out on the street, he hired a hansom, checked the piece of paper he’d shoved into his pocket and spoke to the cabbie. “150-B Lilac Lane.”
The cabbie looked at Kendall’s expensive frock coat, superfine trousers and custom-made boots and raised one grizzled eyebrow. “You sure about that, milord?”
“Quite.” The Order didn’t make mistakes on something as simple as addresses. The files in their analytical engine databases were quite extensive and included things like the addresses of distant relations of Order members.
The driver shrugged, clicked to his ancient mare and headed toward the bustling resort town. The painted wood and pastel brick buildings reminded Kendall of Easter eggs in a basket on this hazy afternoon. The Queen’s Road was lined with candy and souvenir shops, clothiers, rooming houses and photographic studios.
Ah yes, photographic studios. As a steam tram chugged past them toward the beach, filled with sunburned tourists and local workers, Kendall’s cab turned west off the Queen’s Road, the main thoroughfare, away from the Pavilion and the other grand buildings, into a slightly less prosperous section of town.
Hmm . The farther they went, the less appealing the neighborhood became. Surely this Amelie Deland, a relative of one of the foremost Knights, didn’t live in abject poverty.
After another block or two, though, the neighborhood perked up into basic middle-class housing. The cabbie found Lilac Lane, and Kendall discovered that number 150 wasn’t a photography studio at all, but a neatly tended rooming house, probably the nicest one on a modest street, just a block or so in from the oceanfront shops of King’s Lane. So this spinster photographer he’d been sent to reassure had given her home address instead of her business. Hopefully she would be home for luncheon. If not, Kendall could wait if he had to. He tapped the toe of his boot on the floor of the cab.
“You want me to wait?” the cabbie asked.
“No.” When his business was over, Kendall could walk back to a main road and find another cab.
At the front door, he set his valise and trunk by the step and pressed the bell.
“Yes, may I help you?” A modestly dressed, middle-aged woman answered a few moments later. She had a pleasant face, showing the lines of frequent smiles and a life well lived, and blond hair fading gracefully into gray.
“Miss Deland?” He doubted it, but he’d been given absolutely no description to go on. All he knew was that Lord Drood’s niece was a photographer. This woman, though, had no chemical stains on her fingers nor hint of developing fluid to her scent. Rather, he detected furniture polish, rosewater, roast beef and fresh shortbread. His stomach rumbled.
“No, dear, I’m Mrs. Bennett, the landlady.” She beamed at him, wiping her hands on her apron before holding one out. “Mrs. Abigail Bennett, that is.”
“Kendall Lake,” he replied. He wasn’t in the mood to be milorded, and Lake was his family surname as well as his title. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bennett.”
“Delighted, Mr. Lake. You’ll find Miss Deland around back in the carriage house. Are you here to have your photo taken?”
“No, I’m on an errand from her uncle, I believe. Lord Drood.”
“Oh, how nice. You can leave your things here in the foyer and tell Amy you’re welcome to stay for luncheon, dear.” With that she tittered like a flirtatious debutante and held the door while he tucked his luggage inside.
Kendall shook his head as he walked around the house. Amy?
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