Baker and Jones Ch. 04

Chapter Four

"Tell me what you notice, Miss Baker," Cordelia orders, hands tucked behind her back and chest squared. She's sobered up a bit, though she's so consistently stoic it's difficult to tell how much it impacted her in the first place.

"The smell," Annette complains, waving a hand in front of her nose. Rusting metal and coal and soot mix deviously with the scent of rotting fish and putrid water.

"What then?"

I thought you were the detective, Annette mutters inside, though she bites her tongue. Best not to poke at her ire any more today.

Annette surveys the scene further, turning and strolling about for a few seconds. The gravel creaks under her boots as she walks along the riverfront, a small shoreline just down from the stone walls that separate and guide the Fennes river through Bellechester. Alongside the railyard it's filthy, the water corrupted by the industrial runoff and the sewage of the city. On hot days the smell could be unbearable.

The locomotive groans and squeaks as the river current pushes back against it, dangling down from the tracks and into the water like a fallen log caught in a stream. Annette is struck by how massive the beastly machine is, and how much force it would take for something like that to be thrust off of the tracks.

"It's huge," she supplies.

"Never seen one up close?"

"Not like this," Annette sighs. She'd spent plenty of time near the railyards, it was comparatively safer than some other places in the city, but the cops and Bembrook's guards were careful to keep potential train-hoppers away from the tracks.

"So... it smells wretched and it's large?" Cordelia scoffs. "We'll solve this in no time, Miss Baker." Her voice drips with condescension, though Annette can hardly complain if she's taken up the case just on her behalf.

"Have they found his body?"

"Cop said it was pulled away by the river current," the detective frowns, gazing across the scene with the first hint of compassion Annette has seen from her in days. "But according to all of his coworkers, Henry was in the cab when it went over."

"Poor Henry," Annette sighs, hearing another loud creak from the machine in the waves.

"Please continue with your observations, Annette," Cordelia directs. "It smells bad and it's big, as it were."

Annette glances back up at the tracks, just on top of the wall above them, no more than ten feet higher than the river and twelve feet from the shoreline. The tracks themselves are only minorly damaged, slightly bent and scraped up, but they've somehow survived the brunt of the accident.

"It would take a great deal of force to derail this machine," she muses. She looks down the tracks, seeing the primary railyard is less than a quarter mile away. "This early out of the yard... the locomotive couldn't possibly have been going very fast."

"It could be a through-line train. Didn't need to stop in the yard."

"Where's it's cargo, then? It's just the engine and the coal truck, no other cars attached."

"Astute," Cordelia nods, though prevents a smile from creeping to her lips. "And of the tracks?"

"If they're hardly damaged... I can't imagine such small bends in the metal would be enough to derail anything."

"Therefore?"

"Fault of the machine itself. Henry was right."

"My conclusions as well, Miss Baker," Cordelia lifts her hands out of her pockets, stepping closer to the capsized locomotive and inspecting it closer. "Do you know anything about steam engines?"

"Simply that they exist, Miss Jones."

"Impressive contraptions," Cordelia muses. "Yet if there were to be a fault with the engine, what might we see as a result?"

Annette thinks quietly to herself, trying to gauge where Cordelia was trying to lead her. She stares at the locomotive, laying on its side so that the top of it faces the two of them. Coal is scattered all around from the cab overturning, and yet despite the crash the machine looks surprisingly well intact. Its metal has bent slightly from the force of the drop, but there's remarkably little signs of anything wrong with it from a careful glance.

"Is a steam engine combustible? Would it explode like gunpowder?" She asks.

"Indeed it can. Those boilers are especially dangerous."

"And yet there's no signs of such an explosion. Other than the force of the impact, the engine itself looks unharmed."

"And what does this tell us?"

"I'm not entirely sure..." Annette scratches the back of her head, stretching her neck slightly to relieve some of the tension of her collar. "The actual engine itself wasn't the problem?"

"Seems probable."

"So Henry was wrong?"

"There's plenty of pieces of machinery that could fail that wouldn't qualify as the engine, Miss Baker."

"So it would be something smaller than the engine. A few bolts or bars or some tiny detail that caused the train to fail?"

"Let's go have a work with Mister Bembrook, shall we?"

"B-Bembrook?" Annette croaks. "He's not likely to cooperate with us, Miss Jones."

"I have a way with people, Miss Baker."

- - -

"And what have we here?" Bembrook leers, sitting back in his chair as the two of them enter his office. "Two fine women in a place where there aren't many fine women."

Annette furrows her brows, entering the room behind Cordelia, who seems entirely unphased by his impunity. She's seen Bembrook in passing a few times, only from a distance. He's a large man with wide shoulders and a full belly, held at bay by a crisp collared shirt and heavy suspenders. His graying beard is less well-kempt up close than it had seemed, covering a thick neck and broad jaw. He's balding, and clearly decided that hardly matters in the privacy of his own office, leaving his top hat unused on the side of his desk.

"Investigating," Cordelia replies simply. She strolls around his office, gazing over the heavy wood panels and full bookshelves. It's certainly the product of a man known for garnishing wages and driving costs up, and Bembrook has hardly spared any luxury.

"On whose orders?" His voice growls, dropping low as his eyes flick past Cordelia to hungrily scour over Annette. She frowns, stepping closer to the detective.

"My own," Cordelia putters, turning to face him and resting her hands in her coat pockets. "We've heard you lost another mechanic in that derailed locomotive."

"Lost three, actually," he sighs, taking a sip from a whiskey glass. "Horrible tragedy. Breaks my heart."

"I'm sure it does."

"Tell your collar to flash me a smile," he chuckles, continuing to glare at Annette.

"She's not the happy sort."

"Tell her anyway," he shrugs, a perverse grin on his lips, "or get out of my office."

Annette looks at Cordelia, waiting for her response, only to be surprised to find the detective scowling incredulously back at her. Her eyes seem to guffaw, as though asking in disbelief: You won't talk back to him? Annette shakes her head slowly, staring down Bembrook and keeping her expression as flat and neutral as possible.

"She'll smile once you answer some questions for us," Cordelia offers, grabbing the chair in front of his desk and plopping herself down into it. Annette steps forward, hovering just over her shoulder.

"Why would I bother?" Bembrook snorts, taking another sip of whiskey. "No statement from me."

"Henry Rosen was a lead mechanic," Cordelia supplies, "he's likely to have filled reports on the upkeep he does. We'd like to take a look at them."

"Fat chance."

"Is it more or less profitable to derail a train?"

He chokes on his drink. "Excuse me?"

"I couldn't care less about Henry," Cordelia confesses, ignoring the glare from Annette behind her. "But, I imagine it isn't great for business to keep losing machines left and right. We'll find what took the locomotive down, you'll pay me for my services, and everyone's happy."

"I don't need any help from you," he growls. "I'm not showing you any damn papers."

"Annette," Cordelia turns over her shoulder. "Give us a smile, would you?"

Annette crosses her arms and scowls angrily at Cordelia. She huffs, shaking her head and wondering if she was always to be used as a ploy for Cordelia's interrogations.

"Never seen a collar refuse an order like that," Bembrook mocks.

"Dear Miss Baker's simply devastated by the loss of her cousin," Cordelia nods towards Bembrook, spinning a lie that leaves her lips as easy as breathing. "She'd be ever so grateful if you were to help put her dear aunt's heart at rest and help us."

Annette takes a deep, tense, frustrated breath and faces Bembrook. "I would be, Mr. Bembrook, sir. Henry was like a brother to me growing up. I just want to put his work right. That's all he cared about, was doing his work right. That'd let him rest in peace." She hopes her words don't feel too disingenuous, taking another breath and plastering a weak smile on her face.

"She Kerish?" Bembrook leans in and whispers to Cordelia. "I thought Rosen was a Jew? Only one in this yard, far as I know."

"Mom's brother converted when he married," Cordelia answers quickly. "Miss Baker is as Kerish as the best pickled Haddock."

"Wish she had the accent," he mutters. "Such a feisty way of speaking, don't you think?"

"Couldn't agree more, Mr. Bembrook," she utters, shooting a surprisingly apologetic look at Annette while he takes another drink.

"Christ, why not?" Bembrook grunts, loudly setting down his empty glass on the desk. "If her cousin kept any of his papers anywhere, he'd leave it in the shed back behind the water tower. You can have a look, but I'm not giving you a cent."

Stomaching her pride, Annette gives him a proper smile, happily replying, "Thank you ever so much, Mr. Bembrook. They've always said you were the reasonable sort."

"I am," he declares proudly. "I am."

"We'll be off," Cordelia rises, strolling out of the room.

"Miss... Baker, was it?" Bembrook asks as Annette steps into the doorway to leave. She stops and nods slowly. "Bummer you took your service with Miss Jones, you'd be such a doll at the Gallery."

Annette resists the urge to spit at him, closing the door behind her and catching back up with Cordelia, a few strides ahead of her.

"Christ, Annette," Cordelia mutters as she joins her, "You couldn't just smile? Lay it on thick? Idiots like him will do anything for a pretty woman like you."

"You think I'm pretty?" Annette smirks, pushing through her discomfort.

"So we're back at this again now, are we?" Cordelia's voice is sharp and annoyed, but Annette is convinced she can hear just a hint of satisfaction underneath it. "Regardless, let's get to the shed and be done with this."

"I nonetheless thank you for the compliment, Miss."

"Christ," she shakes her head. "I can't believe you've dragged me along for this."

"You can't believe I've asked you to help someone?"

Cordelia ignores her, walking away briskly towards the far side of the railyard. "If you're going to continue assisting me in my work, the least you could do is learn to go along with my plans. Just smile next time."

"I'm not going to smile whenever a disgusting pig like Bembrook asks," Annette declares, skipping to catch up with Cordelia's pace. "And you ordered me to assist in this case."

Cordelia sighs. "I'll humor you. Why not?"

"He's a wretched man. How am I supposed to smile while I'm thinking about all the lives he's gobbled up to make himself rich? Meanwhile he's wondering how he can throw a hand up my skirt." She groans, shivering at the revolting image her words provoked in her head.

The detective halts her walk, stopping to collect her words for a moment. Her face softens, and she replies, "Think about it this way, Annette: by smiling, you make him the fool. He's an idiot, guided solely by his base desires. You can kick and scream and spit in his face, but that'll do you no good because he'll just bite back. But, take his weaknesses and make him willingly fold into your plot, and you hold all the power."

"That's... I...," Annette pauses. Cordelia's more right than she'd like to admit, yet Annette is even more surprised by the helpfulness of her words, absent of her usual scorn. "You're actually providing me with useful advice. You never do that."

"Of course I do," Cordelia scoffs, returning to her march.

"No, you don't."

"My mistake," she shakes her head, dark black hair flicking with the breeze. "I'll endeavor to be less pastoral from here on."

"I wasn't aware you were capable of such constructive favorability."

"I'm still wondering if your mind contains a deficiency in its ability to remain silent, Miss Baker."

Annette smiles, once again feeling the comfortable back-and-forth of their dynamic return. With each passing hour, it's as though Cordelia's aggressive walls temper, not quite lowering, but simply softening. She's not exactly kind in how she speaks to Annette, though there's a casual discourse to the words that feels... it's not quite disarming, yet it alleviates Annette's concern for the security of her position. She bubbles lightly inside at the notion that Cordelia does, in fact, enjoy her snark.

"If I were to remain silent, who would exist to prevent the meteoric rise of your ego?" Annette giggles. "Surely Penny would be disappointed if I inadequately pruned this trait."

To Annette's surprise, Cordelia laughs lightly. "Penny... Christ, Penny would despise you, Annette."

"Despise me?"

"Not as a person," she clarifies, "but as a collar. She was so proper and you're..."

"... improper?"

"Cleverer," Cordelia shrugs, walking further ahead of her.

"Two compliments from the Missus?" Annette's voice pitches up excitedly, laughing along with the detective and reveling in the alleviation of the tension between them. "I daresay it's my ego we'll want to be on watch for from now on. A third compliment and it'll take flight."

"We can't have that, now, can we?"

Cordelia glances over her shoulder and Annette swears there's a twinkle in her eyes. On the case, Cordelia is so much lighter and freer, fully in her element. Annette suspects that her creativity comes alive when faced with mystery, and the impacts on her mood are far-reaching. She makes a mental note to herself of that fact, wondering if there's a way to use it to temper her worse affects.

- -- -

"Get the door, Annette," Cordelia calls out from the dining room. Annette sits in the living room, an array of scattered work reports and machine diagrams splayed out on the coffee table in front of her. She looks up from Henry's documents, eyes weary from reading such dense material for the last few hours.

She stands, making her way down the hallway towards the door, though she stops to poke her head into the dining room briefly before she continues. "You're closer to the door," she quips.

"Working," Cordelia replies absently.

"So was I," stretches her arms out, trying to relieve some of the ache in her back from hunching over the table. "I'm surprised you're not up in your study."

"The door?" Cordelia looks up for the first time, furrowing her brow and gesturing with the paper she's holding at the front entrance.

"Of course, Miss."

Annette returns to the hallway, gently swinging the door open. Her enthusiasm for the distraction quickly evaporates as she meets Sister Pullwater's scowling eyes.

"Slow to the door, Miss Baker," Pullwater grumbles. "As always."

"So lovely to see you again, Sister Pullwater," Annette sighs. "What are you doing here?"

"'What are you doing here?'" She repeats, the words leaving her mouth with a frown. "What am I doing here? What a poor way of greeting a guest."

"Of course, Sister Pullwater, my apologies." Annette cutsies cautiously, bowing her head and thinking about all of the times Pullwater's cane had cracked against her bottom or her hands or... really just anywhere when Annette failed to meet her high expectations.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Do come inside, Sister," Annette steps aside, waving her into the home. "Miss Jones is just in the dining room, if you'll follow me."

She leads the nun inside and closes the door softly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath while her back is turned. Annette steps into the dining room, clearing her throat and saying, "Miss Jones, Sister Pullwater has come calling for you."

"Greetings," Cordelia mutters, hardly looking up from her work.

"I've come to borrow Miss Baker," Pullwater declares.

Cordelia's eyes pull upwards, her brow furrowing as she takes in the request. "You wish to borrow my collar? Whatever for?"

"Believe it or not, Miss Baker is a... shining example of the orphanage's success," Pullwater answers, clearly struggling to let the compliment leave her throat. She coughs and continues, saying, "I'd like to bring her to speak to a troubled child at St. Bartholomew's, to demonstrate an alternative to becoming another common vagabond."

Cordelia sighs. "We've a great deal of work to do."

"It would only be for an afternoon."

Annette makes eye contact with Cordelia, stealthily shaking her head and pleading for her to deny the request. Cordelia exchanges another look with her that she can't read, and Annette replies, "I've not yet finished going through the papers you wished me to study, Miss Jones."

Pullwater turns and glares at Annette. "I see that you're still attempting your usual tactics with Miss Jones."

"Usual tactics?" Cordelia's voice raises, intrigued.

"Miss Baker has an aptitude for avoiding tasks she dislikes."

"I've noticed," the detective smiles. "She's yours, Sister Pullwater. Please have her back before dark."

"Thank you," Pullwater inclines her head, her head veil falling forward slightly and causing her to adjust it. "Come along, Annette."

Annette sighs, frowning at Cordelia, who simply nods and waves her away. She follows Pullwater out the door and towards Market Street, making their way towards St. Bartholomew's orphanage in the late morning sun.

"Does she know?" Pullwater says quietly, shuffling along on the cobblestone street, weaving around other pedestrians and the occasional carriage.

"I'm not sure," Annette answers, staring at her feet.

"You elected not to tell her?"

"I didn't lie about it, if that's what you're wondering. It simply hasn't come up."

"Always so defensive, Miss Baker," Pullwater grumbles. "Do you want her to know?"

"Not if I can help it," she answers quietly. "Who am I supposed to be speaking with at the orphanage?"

"Bratty little lad named Thomas. He claims he wants to be twice-born."

Annette nods slowly. She'd suspected that was why Pullwater had come to her specifically. Annette was hardly a success story, but there weren't many twice-born women in town. "How old is Thomas?"

"Year older than you were. Eight."

"That's old enough," Annette responds. "So why do you need me?"

They round the corner and suddenly St. Bartholomew's cathedral enters their vision. It's a towering work of stone and glass, with heavy gothic arches and wide stained windows. Jutting off of the side of the main building, currently doused in shade by one of the huge spires, is a moderately-sized brick convent. It was home to the nuns and the orphanage they cared for, and as Annette sees her former home once again she feels a shiver go down her spine.

"It was Sister Minnerva's idea," Pullwater strides along, her pace increasing now that their destination is in sight. "She's somehow convinced herself Thomas will abandon the idea once he meets you. She's foolish like that, but I suppose that's to the Lord."

"Yeah," Annette exhales. "Do you want me to talk to her?"

"Focus on Thomas."

"Yes, Sister."

As they step inside, Annette is flooded with memories and detached emotions. There's fear, and the time she snuck into bed with Susan as teenagers and had her first kiss. There's anger, and the time she taught Michael how to properly sing his favorite hymn. There's nostalgia, and the desperate, looming, dreadful need to escape this place and be someone else. She wonders where her friends ended up, and if they ever could really escape.