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Lottie looks over the note and she folds it neatly before stuffing it into her handbag. She continues to search around the office, muttering to herself. This time, she's looking for information on equipment being loaded onto the airship, anything about its build.
Lottie starts going through the papers, looking for anything that may either give the party more information on the bomb, or something she could make a couple of quid off of.
Lottie wrings her hands, and then a wry smile crosses her face. "I know just where to find something." She nudges Pembleton fiercely. "Keep the bastards distracted." With that, Lottie mixes in with the crowd of fleeing people as they charge for their quarters before attempting to locate, and make her way into the captain's cabin or a similarly off-limits location.
"Oh yes what a rotter!" chirps Lottie as she mingles with different people, trying to pick up some information. "Anyone in particular who's been upset with him? Perhaps a jilted lover? The scandal!"
Lottie quickly runs down what happened. "I ran into one of my boys from the streets, good lad named Phillip. Quick hands. Liked his pie. He's been running as a gopher around the place. Says the captain is a right lout, hits the crew, shouty, and that Vada has been planning a mutiny - but we already know that! Says that someone has been sabotaging the ship and that they spent all night looking for something but he didn't know what." Once Lottie gives her update, she spends her time asking around the ship, trying to get a sense of if anyone has seen anything suspicious or strange.
"What's wrong, pet?" asks Lottie gently. "Is it something I can procure? I know a great many people that owe me a favour or two. And I promise I won't breathe a word to a single soul if it'll get you in your captain's good graces. We can orchestrate it so that no one needs to know about this little ol' gran." She winks conspiratorially at Phillip, knowing full well that she needs to keep the mission above all else. The boy's safety is a very close second - once one of Lottie's children, always one of Lottie's children. "But if the captain is hurting you or being otherwise, ah, untoward, I won't hesitate with a right swift anointing. I'll not have anyone hurting one of my children." Lottie watches Phillip for a reaction then hugs him tightly once more. "Ol' Lottie is always lookin' out for ye, m'love."
"Ah! My darling Phillip!" Lottie gasps in surprise. "I thought I recognised your dear face! Oh sweet child! It's been some time since I last set eyes to ye. You've grown so much! The last time I saw ye, ye'd have fit in a pie tin, hat and all!" She beams at him. Her attempts at a more sophisticated accent are gone and she speaks more like a woman from the grimier side of the tram tracks. "What'd've ye been up to, lad? I see ye've landed yerself a damn fine job here on this magnificent contraption! Take a wee break, tell me how they're treatin' ye here."
Lottie, now more interested in what the lad is up to than how she might know him, follows him as closely as she can.
Lottie chuckles to herself, watching Pembleton. She's surprised that someone of such... starched character and class can be so delightful and for a moment wonders if she's perhaps judged the entire class system a bit harshly. A quick glance around the room at the other travellers makes her realise she hasn't, but maybe she can offer a wee bit of (grudging) respect to her companions. "I'll be back in a moment," she mumbles to no one in particular. "Needs must." She wanders casually to where the familiar-looking fellow has disappeared back to the hold. A quick glance about and Lottie is satisfied that no one is watching; she ducks through the door in search of the boy she thinks she recognises. His identity feels like it's on the tip of her tongue, though at her age, she might very well just be mistaking him for a lover from the beautiful days of her youth.
"Thank you, Sir Pembleton," Lottie says sweetly, accepting the arm and the drink with a dignity she's very pleased she can imitate. "Very kind of you. My poor ol' prayer-bones creak like a rusty gate these days. I think it's the humidity." Lottie flinches for a moment, remembering a Proper Lady doesn't speak until spoken to, and hopes Pembleton either won't notice or won't mention it. She smiles at him in an attempt to cover the gaff and look the part of a grand old matron. Gingerly, she takes a sip of her drink, eyes closed, appearing by all accounts to be simply savouring the richness of the port. Lottie is attempting to listen to all of the conversations around her in an attempt to pick out interesting or, more helpfully, relevant information.
"Ah, well now." Lottie sets foot on the observation deck and reaches for a railing, her stomach suddenly feeling a bit rebellious. She makes a face that suggests the eel pie from earlier may make a sudden reappearance. It's the first time in her life she's had her feet so far off the ground and it's not exactly living up to expectations. "I think I might have ghosts in my blood," she says weakly to no one in particular. "Does anyone have a little bit of cocaine?"
Lottie makes her way up behind Simon, smiling like a bewildered granny in her first excursion away from the manor in a generation. She's trying to listen in on the conversation while watching the captain to see if she can identify anything in his expression or manner.
Unfortunately, Lottie is a bewildered granny.
Lottie watches Eileen, interested in the conflict she suspects the girl is dealing with. She moves to stand next to her. "Wait until we're disembarking, my dear," she says in a low voice, barely above a whisper. Then Lottie winks conspiratorially and allows her voice to return to normal. "In some ways, you remind me of me as a young girl - if you can imagine such a thing! Ha! You must think I was around as the Lord made the firmament. And you'd not be far off." Lottie's voice drops again. "Several marks. I'll distract 'em when the time comes." She smooths out her skirts and adjusts the bag on her arm, giving everyone the most charming and patronising smile she can. Lottie has been on the receiving end of this smile more than once. "I do say, Simon, daaahling, are you going to introduce us to your friend here?"
"One! Highly unsatisfactory! Zero, if that's an option!" barks Lottie, looking like she might try to hit the carriage with her bag. "I shall write a strongly-worded letter to the gentlemen in charge of this whole God-forsaken operation! I have a good mind to give a right walloping to whoever thought you were a good idea!" Lottie accepts Simon's assistance with a pleasant smile and steps out of the carriage, looking around. "Well now." She looks up at the airship with obvious appreciation. "I wasn't sure we'd actually live to see this."
Lottie cocks her head and looks at the thug, gesturing to Simon with a flick of her eyes. "You heard the ol' toff, Church Bell," she says. "Give 'im what he wants and no quiff."
"It would be a pleasure, sir," Lottie says, smiling sweetly. She turns to look at the target of her upcoming interrogation, eyes narrowed. "I believe he could do with a short, sharp visit from the smack fairy." She stomps over to the man and waffs him in the face with her massive handbag. "Tell us what you know, you damnable whore-pipe!"
Lottie holds up her bag threatening, as though thugs with cudgels would be intimidated by an old lady with a massive handbag. "Oi, ratbags!" she shouts, waving the bag around. Whether she means the thugs or that her bag is actually full of rats is largely unclear. "Enough with the mafficking and let us through! Do yer ol' trouble and strife know what yer up to out here, man-handlin' the bin lids? Right bricky of you!" The more Lottie shouts, the angrier she gets. The carpet bag picks up speed, likely endangering the life and limbs of anyone foolish enough to get too close. "Me old pot here will give you a good swift one in the orchestra! Now getcha near and don't leave 'til yer the bloody elephant's or I'm callin' for the Sweeney!"
Translation: Hey, jerks! Tone it down and let us go! Does your wife know what you're doing, attacking children? How brave! This man here will kick you in the balls. Now get out of here and don't leave until you're drunk or I'm calling the police!
Lottie remains near the carriage, well away from the fight. She clutches her handbag as her eyes scan the alleyway before calling out. "Mildred! Harold! Big Tim! Come now, I see you there hiding away! These men are trying to hurt us. Land a hand, dearies!"
"Oh sweet, merciful heavens!" Lottie exclaims, completely bewildered. She casts around for anything that may be useful in getting this ridiculous contraption to stop and let her out.
"I very much agree with Miss Eileen," Lottie says in a soft voice. She's sitting back with her eyes closed as though this were definitely the right time to take a nap. "It's very odd indeed. What could the four of us possibly have in common that would make us the ideal companions for an outing such as this? Why are we called to look in on a hoax?" Lottie opens her bag and roots around in it for a moment before producing a small piece of paper. She scans it, nodding and hmm-ing to herself. "The Emmanuel has been the victim of a cruel hoax, where an undetermined villain has attempted to ruin its first flight with the threat of a bomb." She folds the paper up neatly and returns it to her bag.
"Tuck the front of your skirts into your bloomers when you have to climb anything," Lottie whispers apologetically to Eileen as she takes a seat in the carriage. She settles in across from Simon and holds her bag in her lap. "That's what my girls back home do. I know it sound ridiculous, but you're less likely to trip and one of these two would probably pop a pasty if you tore the dress." She gestures to Simon with a slight tilt of her head then offers him a motherly smile. "I do hope we don't have to do a lot of climbing though. My poor knees would never make it up a bell tower these days - unless I could take the stairs, of course." Lottie chuckles at the idea of scaling the outside of a church. It had been years - decades - since the incident at St. Alfege's.
Lottie's voice drifts through the museum, though it seems muffled or far off. She's singing something, wherever she happens to be changing her clothes. "He smiled as he passed me, with his goods and his gear. And that was the last that I saw of my dear..." Several long minutes later, Lottie reappears, dressed like a storm cloud, if clouds consented to crinoline. Were a church bell to be layered in voluminous mourning dress, complete with whalebone corset and tight sleeves, then topped with a dark bonnet, it would look very similar Lottie. The dress reeked of money with a faint hint of lavender. The upper classes would recognise her as widow of some means.
"Um, yes," Lottie says, shifting uncomfortably. "come, come, my little dove. We should, um, go change into our travelling clothes?" She holds up the bag. Then, without waiting, she disappears through an open door, quietly excited about playing dress-up for the first time since she was a child.
Listening to the three make their introductions, Lottie relaxes a little. She already feels protective of Eileen, who is the closest to her in the strict social hierarchy. The bond of poverty is stronger than blood, in the eyes of the pie-maker from south of the Thames. Pembleton seems like a lovely, doddering grandfather – though even the elderly and diminished can pose a threat when money is involved. She’s unsure of what to make of the other, Monsieur de Clare, though she hopes that the first impression she’s left him with is one that she’s not to be trifled with. Regardless, she feels open to making friends with them even if she doesn’t entirely trust two of them. Lottie offers a perfunctory curtsey to the gentlemen as she grips the bag of clothing with anxious fingers. “Mrs. Charlotte Wandsworth,” she says, smiling at them as though they were all her children. “But you may call me Lottie when circumstance allows. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to change.” She holds up the bag for evidence. “I will endeavor to keep from embarrassing Their Lordships while we are about the city.” Then she turns to Eileen and smiles affectionately. “Come, my little dove. Let me get you fixed up for our great adventure.”
Lottie shoots an angry glare at Bernard. “ Missus Wandsworth,” she corrects him, taking the bag. It appears that something comes over her as she turns to the gentlemen and offers a most charming smile. She seems to stand a bit straighter now. Were it not for her dress, she could almost be mistaken for someone of higher standing. Lottie is not unfamiliar with the rules surrounding Society. She knows that a proper lady does not introduce herself to someone of a higher rank, that they must give their permission first.
“Minding us?” Lottie huffs at the men, fixing them an irritated glare. “Look at you! You ain’t never minded anything a day in your life but shiny buttons and empty bottles! I’ve fed your bellies, nursed your babies, catered to your darling wives’ every ridiculous whim! I’ve put up with your barbarism, your crass jokes, and your disgusting, groping hands! The only thing you need to be minding here is your manners, you lout!” Lottie stands up straight, adjusts the bonnet’s bow at her chin, and promptly turns her back on them. She gives Eileen a tender smile and holds out her hand to the girl. “It’s okay, my little dove,” she whispers gently. “I’ll keep my eye on these two. You’ve nothing to be frightened of here. Oh, and I do have a lovely eel pie or two in my bag, baked fresh this morning, if you do decide you’re hungry.” She pats the side of her faded carpet bag with obvious pride.
Lottie, an older woman who would not look out of place as a nanny attending to children in a nursery, makes her way up the street towards the Egyptian Hall. Her dress is faded and old, but well-maintained, in a style that was popular twenty years ago. Crow’s feet branch out from the corners of her eyes like the great roots of an oak tree. On her head, completely covering her hair, an old bonnet. In her left hand, a rough and faded carpet bag. At one time, both she and the rug the bag was made from had been a great beauty, even if it is hard to tell now. Frowning slightly, Lottie spots two men immediately. Toffs. Her heart sinks a little as she realises this isn’t going to be some sort of amazing adventure that Jules Verne might write about someday, but a chore. No doubt these two already expected her to play nursemaid, housemaid, kitchenmaid, and God alone knew what other kinds of maids they couldn’t live without. On the other hand, maybe these two are here for something else. Lottie holds her breath as one starts talking to the other. They don’t even notice her. Maybe there’s still a chance for her Jules Verne adventure. And then something catches her eye. Lottie notices a figure by one of the columns. She doesn’t look away, knowing that she’s already been spotted, and moves in a slow, deliberate, hopefully non-threatening fashion, towards the column. The figure looks similar to the children of her neighbourhood, even though she can’t quite see them properly. “Are you hungry, child?” she asks gently, leaving plenty of room in case the waif feels the need to flee.
Lottie gave one last good tug on her bootlaces, tied them tight, and stood up to look at her reflection in the window. The pies were baking and Garvey was on-hand to finish up and distribute for her when the time came. The Irish lad was a quick study of baking, though he hadn’t her skill with both acquiring and remembering juicy morsels of information. She’d just have to hope, she supposed, that she wouldn’t be gone too long. One more check through her old carpet bag to make certain she hadn’t forgotten anything for this most interesting and mysterious trip to the great city of Constantinople. The bag was very near to empty, which she told herself over and over was because she didn’t want to haul a heavy bag half way around the world. This was somewhat true. The rest of the story was that Lottie didn’t quite trust the idea of an air-ship and half expected to be turned away for being too heavy on her own. At the bottom of the bag was the small box of dark wood that held her most precious clockwork bird. She removed it, checked the little bird was still there, and removed the note from its beak. The message was already committed to memory, so Lottie folded the paper and slipped it between the floorboards, where it would remain safe until she returned. If she returned. She pushed the feeling of foreboding to the back of her mind, tucked her little bird back in the little box, and ducked past Garvey, removing a dozen pies from the oven. She hated goodbyes. Mentally plotting out the route to the Egyptian Hall, she figured it would take approximately an hour on foot. Trams weren’t running at this time of the morning and she hadn’t the extra coin to take a cab. But it looked like it would be a brilliant morning for a walk across Vauxhall Bridge, past the shadow of Westminster Cathedral, through St. James’ park, and up to Picadilly and the Egyptian Hall. It wasn’t every day that Lottie found herself north of the Thames and she decided all that was left was to savour every minute of the journey.
“It’s tea time, my little crumpets!” Lottie Wandsworth called toward the rooftops in her sing-song pie-selling way. She closed her eyes and smiled, hearing her children draw near. The pat-pat of running feet started as soft as a psalm but swelled suddenly – a thunderous sforzando of thin leather on grimy cobblestone. A cadenza of a score of excited children brought the mealtime ritual song to a close. “Bag o’ mystery again, Missus Lottie?” one of the children, a boy of about eight asked, grinning impishly. She tutted fondly and shook her head, rolling her eyes heavenward as though to ask God why He sent her such trials. “If you’re looking for that bow wow mutton, you best be trying that young lad down by the river,” Lottie replied, feigning hurt. In truth, she looked forward to the usual exchange with Darling Thomas. It was the same routine, the same script, day in and day out. “If you don’t want any eel pie – the best eel pie south of the Thames – then that’s fine, love. More for the rest of us!” At this, the rest of the children cheered. Lottie Wandsworth was a fixture in this poor London neighbourhood. No one could recall a time she hadn’t been around, hocking her pies in the day and baking most of the night. She charged the local workers almost nothing, for that was what they earned during their long days of bone-breaking, muscle-rending labour; the children she fed for free. Most of them were near enough to homeless and those that weren’t couldn’t always be guaranteed a warm, filling meal every night. But old Lottie could smell money like hounds could pheasants, and those customers paid what she thought they were worth. Moneyed customers weren’t exactly regulars, so she learned to make it count without driving them off. Sometimes those folk even returned, citing the siren smell of eel pie. Nearly two hours passed as Lottie distributed pies and listened to the children tell her about their day. They sat in and around the bakery and her tiny living quarters upstairs, giving her all the gossip. Lord Carrington was powdering his hair at the House and his new maid was leaving town already; several had stories about a death along the wharf that Lottie suspected would need looking into; and one or two were approached about factory work. Lottie sold her pies and fed the children, earning her a reputation as a good woman with a full heart. But her real business was information. The children weren’t just hungry, they were messengers, delivery boys, eyes and ears. Nothing happened in London, as big as it was, without Lottie knowing about it. And buyers with deep pockets were plentiful. The aristocracy could never pay enough to stab their fellows in the back and since Lottie didn’t give two great stonking shits for the rich, she was happy to keep them in supply. Every penny they paid her could be put to good use, helping the people of her neighbourhood to get by in this world that so loathed the poor. “Missus Lottie?” A shy voice jolted her mind back to her little home, away from Lord Carrington and his drunken nighttime adventures with the new maid, away from the murder at the docks, away from sorting out the spider web of who would pay what for which piece of news. “What would you like, my sweet William?” she asked pleasantly, setting her heft down on the bench beside the boy. She smoothed out his hair and smiled down at him. “Did you need another pie to take home to your mother? Is she feeling better?” “Oh yes, Missus Lottie! She’s feeling much better now!” William beamed at her, forgetting for a moment that he was shy. “But I have something for you. A message.” “For me?” Lottie’s eyebrow shot up suspiciously. William nodded. “A man told me you’re supposed to look at the hummingbird you keep in the dark cage. I don’t know what it means though, Missus Lottie.” “It’s okay, pet,” she assured him. “Let me get you an extra pie for your mother and I’ll see you again tomorrow, okay?” William nodded excitedly and clasped his hands together against his chest, remembering suddenly that he was still shy. Once all of the children were safely out of the house and Lottie found herself alone for the first time all day, she scuttled off to her little bedroom and pried up the loose floor board under the bed. All of the treasures of her life fit in that one narrow space, in one highly-polished wooden box. She lifted the lid to look for the clockwork bird, to make sure this treasure was still hers. The bird, with its golden wings and gleaming black eyes, sat in a nest of burgundy silk, just as it always had. Only this time, the bird’s beak was open. And this time, there was something sticking out of it. A note.
How do you do, fellow kids?! |
