The Mysterious Case of Mr. Strangeway (The St. Croix Chronicles) by Karina Cooper
Authors: Karina Cooper
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why.”
I narrowed my stinging eyes. “What does this have to do with your girls?”
“Stolen labor is akin to slave labor,” he said succinctly. “Parliament may have abolished slavery on paper, but it has not lessened the need. Girls stolen and unaccounted work for less than the workers now clamoring across the empire for union.”
I studied him. “You are making this up, sir.”
“I am not.” He gestured round the darkened courtyard with the helmet, faceplates glinting. “Look around you. Does this look like the sort of property a lord with a rich purse would maintain? That bounty is beyond a foreman’s means, it’s a mere trap. I am telling you the truth in the hopes that you, thickheaded thing that you are, might actually give a toss for your own well-being.”
I would, if I believed it. I didn’t. Men like Mr. Strangeway often fibbed for whatever devious purposes they maintained. “You have no evidence.”
“I don’t—!” Abruptly, he cut off his pitched snarl, scrubbing his hand down his face as if suddenly exhausted.
I folded my arms over my chest, feeling both awkward and righteous. After all, he was the quarry. He would say anything to save his skin.
Except...
What if he were right?
It seemed to me that any man who dressed in such outlandish gear might know a thing or two more than I did. Dressed like that, he expected trouble—and to have the tools to make armor of brass and resin indicated a certain amount of intelligence otherwise lacking from what I assumed a run-of-the-mill quarry might possess.
Did Mr. Chattersham know of Mr. Strangeway’s interest?
Perhaps, now that I looked about more thoroughly, it made a certain sense that a man who allowed his premises to fall to such disrepair could not afford the bounty posted.
Perhaps it was all a trap after all. If that were the case, then I had been lied to—yes, again—and this was a mantle I tired of bearing. “Are you even J. F. Strangeway?” I demanded. “Is that truly your name?”
His gaze held mine, now more imploring than exasperated—and filled with more than a hint of steel. “My Christian name is John, but I’m no relation to the family I’d claimed. There are many Johns and enough Strangeways of Irish descent to fill the role. It was an excellent mask, wouldn’t you say?”
I would, and was rather impressed by the courage it took to maintain such a charade. It certainly proved that Society would bend trust to the point of foolishness if it were for the right appearances. A disgraced heir returned to the site of his family’s falling was too delicious a rumor to pass up.
“Why are you involved?” I asked, frowning. “Are you even a collector?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I’d heard the phrase and realized using it would absolve all manner of sins.”
Tricky, that. And dangerous, if another collector got ahold of him for it. “What does the Fenian Brotherhood care for all this?”
“They don’t, obviously,” came his surprising reply, and this with a hard note of anger to it. “I had hoped to use their connections to help me locate the trail, but they...had other plans. I admit that I knew of their intent to set the dynamite, but I swear to you that I had gone to that train to end the threat.”
“Are you a Fenian by choice?” I demanded.
“Not as such. My ties to the Brotherhood are slim, at best, and mostly by heritage.”
“Then if they don’t care, and you aren’t tied to their cause, why would you care about a passel of taken girls?” I was proud of myself for that bit of deduction. If he were simply here to murder a man, surely he would not have thought of that little gap in reasoning.
He met my eyes with a rare forthrightness I found astonishing. “Chattersham’s men took my sister’s daughter.”
Oh. Oh, bollocks . That was something different altogether. I steeled myself, faced him down and asked, “But you did not know ’twas Chattersham?”
“No.” He glanced up at
I narrowed my stinging eyes. “What does this have to do with your girls?”
“Stolen labor is akin to slave labor,” he said succinctly. “Parliament may have abolished slavery on paper, but it has not lessened the need. Girls stolen and unaccounted work for less than the workers now clamoring across the empire for union.”
I studied him. “You are making this up, sir.”
“I am not.” He gestured round the darkened courtyard with the helmet, faceplates glinting. “Look around you. Does this look like the sort of property a lord with a rich purse would maintain? That bounty is beyond a foreman’s means, it’s a mere trap. I am telling you the truth in the hopes that you, thickheaded thing that you are, might actually give a toss for your own well-being.”
I would, if I believed it. I didn’t. Men like Mr. Strangeway often fibbed for whatever devious purposes they maintained. “You have no evidence.”
“I don’t—!” Abruptly, he cut off his pitched snarl, scrubbing his hand down his face as if suddenly exhausted.
I folded my arms over my chest, feeling both awkward and righteous. After all, he was the quarry. He would say anything to save his skin.
Except...
What if he were right?
It seemed to me that any man who dressed in such outlandish gear might know a thing or two more than I did. Dressed like that, he expected trouble—and to have the tools to make armor of brass and resin indicated a certain amount of intelligence otherwise lacking from what I assumed a run-of-the-mill quarry might possess.
Did Mr. Chattersham know of Mr. Strangeway’s interest?
Perhaps, now that I looked about more thoroughly, it made a certain sense that a man who allowed his premises to fall to such disrepair could not afford the bounty posted.
Perhaps it was all a trap after all. If that were the case, then I had been lied to—yes, again—and this was a mantle I tired of bearing. “Are you even J. F. Strangeway?” I demanded. “Is that truly your name?”
His gaze held mine, now more imploring than exasperated—and filled with more than a hint of steel. “My Christian name is John, but I’m no relation to the family I’d claimed. There are many Johns and enough Strangeways of Irish descent to fill the role. It was an excellent mask, wouldn’t you say?”
I would, and was rather impressed by the courage it took to maintain such a charade. It certainly proved that Society would bend trust to the point of foolishness if it were for the right appearances. A disgraced heir returned to the site of his family’s falling was too delicious a rumor to pass up.
“Why are you involved?” I asked, frowning. “Are you even a collector?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I’d heard the phrase and realized using it would absolve all manner of sins.”
Tricky, that. And dangerous, if another collector got ahold of him for it. “What does the Fenian Brotherhood care for all this?”
“They don’t, obviously,” came his surprising reply, and this with a hard note of anger to it. “I had hoped to use their connections to help me locate the trail, but they...had other plans. I admit that I knew of their intent to set the dynamite, but I swear to you that I had gone to that train to end the threat.”
“Are you a Fenian by choice?” I demanded.
“Not as such. My ties to the Brotherhood are slim, at best, and mostly by heritage.”
“Then if they don’t care, and you aren’t tied to their cause, why would you care about a passel of taken girls?” I was proud of myself for that bit of deduction. If he were simply here to murder a man, surely he would not have thought of that little gap in reasoning.
He met my eyes with a rare forthrightness I found astonishing. “Chattersham’s men took my sister’s daughter.”
Oh. Oh, bollocks . That was something different altogether. I steeled myself, faced him down and asked, “But you did not know ’twas Chattersham?”
“No.” He glanced up at
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