Baker and Jones Ch. 09

Chapter Nine

Annette stares at the title, reading it over and over again to ensure that each character is properly aligned and positioned. She's checked it at least ten times, but it still feels like something is wrong somehow. Maybe it's all in her head. The stampface reads:

Economist Predicts 25-hour Week For Working Men

The rest of the article goes on to discuss a favorite economist of the Mallets, Frederick Lavoy, who wrote constantly on the importance of restructuring the labor market. He believed that automation could be a force for good for workers; that by turning jobs over to machines, laborers could massively increase production, and thus, reduce their working hours. The true issue, according to Lavoy, was industrial greed and production. The constant push for greater and greater levels of output was the primary factor for maintaining the current state of labor conditions.

"Inspiring, isn't it?" Guy exhales next to her, leaning over the typeface with a roll of papers in his arms.

"Breathtaking," she mutters back. She's sure it must be interesting, but between managing Cordelia's affairs and volunteering to help the Mallets, she's exhausted. Cordelia, to recoup her betting losses from her boxing match, has been taking on extra cases lately and this unfortunately meant that Annnette was the only one between the two of them dedicating her time to investigating the Mallets. They'd finally taken her up on her offer to help out, which hopefully meant they trusted her, and placed her in their tiny print shop where they published their weekly pamphlet: Hammer and Spike.

"Twenty-five hours a week," Guy whistles contentedly, folding the papers into position to be printed upon. "I could live with that."

"Perhaps you could even take up cooking, to alleviate your wife's burdens, too," Annette pokes. "Seeing as you would have so much more time."

"Me? I'm a wretched cook," he dismisses.

You'd have time to learn, she rolls her eyes.

"Besides, it isn't a reality yet. I'm still running full shifts down at Bensen's Mill most of my time," he shrugs. "Between that and this place, I've got no time for cookin'. Only eatin'." He pats his belly happily.

"Does that print look properly set?" Annette asks. "Something feels off but I can't place it."

"Looks fine to me," he nods. "You doing okay, Red?"

"Just tired," she answers.

"We're almost done, I could finish it for you."

"That's kind of you," she says graciously, though she waves away his offer.

Guy is nice enough, as Annette has learned over the past few weeks of working alongside him in the Mallet's print shop. It's hardly more than a spare storeroom out of the side of a bookshop, but it was enough. The worst part of it was that despite all of this time, she had learned painfully few relevant details to the case. The Mallets were surprisingly effective at keeping it together.

Other than trying to learn more about their elusive leader, Failinis, Annette has been scrambling to uncover details about the ten straw dummies. If she was right that one of them represented Bembrook, one was for the Pemberley manager, and six were for the factory fire, it still left two kills outstanding. She'd thought she heard a potential reference to a ninth death last week but the lead fizzled out. It was impossible to tell if there were actually ten kills and that the dummies were related... though it could also be that there were two more targets they'd yet to hit.

The Mallets were bustling with energy out in Bellchester. The raid on the Docksims Square rally had bolstered their case with the working class in the city; if the police felt that the Mallets were a big enough threat that they needed to stampede their first meeting, then they must be doing something right. Failinis was especially effective at capitalizing on the death of a young woman at the rally, Margaret Bleecher, shot by a cop whose name had soon after become infamous in the city. Officer Frederick Montague could hardly show his face in public anymore, and despite the fact that the police chief refused to acknowledge any wrongdoing, no one had seen Frederick patrolling the streets in the last few weeks.

Guy returns to check back on her printing a little while later, dropping a modest crate onto the floor in the corner as he arrives.

"That looks heavy," she smirks, watching him stretch out his back.

"Care to take a lift?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't dare deprive you the honor of possibly injuring yourself under its burden," she smirks.

"Real funny, Red," he shakes his head, grinning.

"What's inside?"

"No clue," he shrugs. "Failinis says lift boxes, I lift boxes."

"You're not even a little curious?"

"Nope."

Annette snorts. "Suit yourself, then."

Guy steps out into the doorway, which leads out into the back alley, and lights a cigarette. He takes a long drag, savoring the warm and soothing feeling, and releases a slow puff of smoke.

"Still don't want a light?" He gestures it to her.

"I still don't smoke," she shakes her head. "And I'm sure your wife would kill me for encouraging your habit."

He smiles and takes another drag. "How's things at home for you? Owner still an absolute ass?"

"Impossible not to be with the amount of whiskey he drinks," Annette smirks internally, thinking about Cordelia's habits. Friendship with the detective wasn't particularly different from the way things were before, Cordelia just simply allowed her walls to drop down a little more often. She was a little less obscured and mysterious, and would occasionally allow Annette to receive more context for her ideas; just enough that Annette could semi-reliably follow her train of thought.

"Drinking really brings out the beast in a man, doesn't it?" Guy tilts his head in thought. He puffs out another breath of smoke.

"I have another question, Guy," Annette tells him.

Guy gazes over and nods, shifting his weight against the doorframe and turning to face her with a little more focus in his expression. "Ask away." He settles into the comforts of routine, happily engaging with Annette's inquisitions over the course of their time working together.

"Would having a seat in Parliament really do that much for us?"

"'Course it would, Red," he nods reassuringly. "It gets us in the halls of the people who make all the decisions. It lets us put a hand on the levers of power."

"We'd be sharing it with more than a hundred others."

"You've seen Failinis speak," Guy rebuts. "If anyone can convince them, he can."

Annette buries her urge to scoff at the assumption. The nobles would never be convinced of anything that didn't exclusively benefit them. She sizes Guy up and down, once more trying to decide how far she could push her line of questioning. After a few weeks, he did seem to trust her. Guy probably thought she was a little weak-willed or skittish, and she'd played into those assumptions to lower his guard, but he didn't seem to think she could be any sort of threat.

"Wouldn't it be easier to..." She drops her head deferentially, as though her next words might be too much for her to handle. "... ahem. I lost a dear friend because of the rail baron, Mister Bembrook," she explains. "But now that Mister Bembrook is dead..."

Guy furrows his brows only to soften them a moment later as he understands her meaning. "You're wondering if we should go after the barons directly."

"Yes," she squeaks out.

Guy pauses, and for a moment he has the air of a man who knows more than he is allowed to reveal, and is deciding how much restraint he truly needs to employ in his speech. After a breath, his face turns gentle. "Take heart, Red. You're doing great work already for the movement. No need to sour your heart with those sorts of thoughts."

Annette carefully notes his reaction and decides to push forward. "But they deserve it, don't you think?"

"Aye," he shrugs. "But that doesn't mean-,"

"I want to make them pay for hurting us," she affirms emphatically, stepping closer to Guy. "If I could..." she taps her collar around her throat and grimaces, "If I could find a way to make him fear me..."

Annette carefully drops her voice lower and lets it waiver, throwing her arms around her chest to hold herself, as though she was scared and overwhelmed. Guy drops his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out with a twist of his foot, moving a few steps closer to Annette. He takes a sharp breath, readying himself to say something, but Annette decides to push the issue.

"You have to promise me, Guy," she declares.

"P-promise you? Promise you what, exactly?"

"That you'll find a way to make them pay for the things they've done," she looks down at the floor, pretending to be unable to meet his gaze.

"I... Hmmm..." Guy is quiet for a long moment. "You really feel this way, Red?"

"I do," she affirms.

Guy stares out the door for a while, letting her words sink in. Annette briefly wonders if she's gone too far; she's been so careful with trying to slowly build trust, and this was one of the first real tests to see if they'd let her in. She knew there was more to the Mallets than a run for Parliament and a print shop, and for the moment, Guy was the only person who could open that door for her.

He starts and stops a few sentences, and when he does finally speak, it's as though he's abandoned the conversation. Guy nods at the print-maker behind her, smiles, and simply says, "It'll be a good issue this week. It'll really get people talking."

"Yeah," she exhales, a little disappointed.

"Keep up the good work, Red."

- - -

"I'm worried I pushed too far yesterday," Annette sighs, laying down on the couch in their living room. Cordelia sits in her favorite reading chair across from Annette, absent-mindedly thumbing through some case notes.

"I'm sure it was fine," Cordelia dismisses.

Annette plops her head back into the cushions and stares at the ceiling. "He's hiding something," she insists. "They all are."

"I'm aware."

"How the hell am I supposed to be let into the inner circle? If we're going to-,"

"Annette," Cordelia drops her notes down into her lap.

"What?"

"How does a telegram work?"

Annette sits up and frowns at Cordelia. "Were you even listening?"

"Of course I was," the detective scoffs.

She rolls her eyes. "I don't know how they work. Sorry."

"It's a process of making and breaking an electrical current," Cordelia explains. "Press down and release, then it sends a pulse through the wires. There's a language for it and everything."

"Is... is this relevant to either of our cases?" She furrows her brow at Cordelia's stack of papers. They'd both been so absorbed into their own work lately, it was hard to remember what case the detective was actually working on anymore. "If you already knew how they worked, why did you ask me?"

"I simply thought it was fascinating."

Annette glares at her in silence.

"You seemed upset."

"So you thought a technological fact would cheer me up?" Annette tilts her head.

"It cheered me up."

"God, you really miss drinking don't you?"

"I do not."

"Two weeks sober and you're spewing out facts like an encyclopedia," she smirks, enjoying the look of mild annoyance on Cordelia's face. "Clearly we need to find someone for you to box, and soon."

"Well, you've yet to volunteer, Miss Baker."

"And I shall not."

"Regardless," Cordelia slowly stands from her seat, stretching at the waist as she rises, "I should begin dinner preparations."

"Preparations?" Annette snorts. "It must indeed be difficult work ordering your servant to cook for you."

"I'll be cooking tonight."

Annette sits up quickly. "You're cooking?"

"Yes."

"You, Miss Jones, are cooking?"

"I believe I've said so, yes."

Annette purses her lips in confusion. "You can't cook."

"Of course I can cook," Cordelia throws her arms over her chest and frowns.

"No... you can't?"

"Yes, I can."

"So these past few months you've been having me cook every night despite the fact that you are entirely capable?" Annette furrows her brow deeper. "I just assumed you were incapable."

"A bold assumption, Miss Baker."

"... What's the occasion?"

"We're having a guest over."

Annette stands. "I'm more than happy to cook for our guest." A small part of her worries about what Cordelia's true culinary aptitude is, and partially dreads the thought of what she might prepare.

"Nonsense."

Cordelia turns on her heel and makes her way into the kitchen, opening the pantry and beginning to select a variety of ingredients. Annette follows her, leaning up against the doorway and watching her with a mixture of suspicion, curiosity, and amusement.

"So... what's so special about this guest?"

"She's an old... friend," Cordelia shrugs. "I'll be taking up a case for her."

"So mysterious," Annette puffs. "I wasn't aware you had any old friends remaining."

Cordelia waves away her interest. "You'll see soon enough. The rest of the afternoon is yours, Annette. I'll inform you when she arrives."

"And you're sure-,"

"I am up to the task of preparing dinner, Miss Baker."

Annette relents from her inquisition, holding up her hands defensively and strolling away. It must be some friend if Cordelia is willing to go through such an effort, she thinks to herself, grinning with an amused satisfaction. It could only be someone truly fascinating or unusual or otherwise unremarkable for Cordelia to break from her typical routines, and Annette is eager to find out.

- - -

Annette rouses from her late nap, feeling groggy and heavy. She immediately regrets her decision to give in to the sleepiness of the afternoon that had unfolded, letting the quiet patter of rain on her window gently lull her into the embrace of her mattress. She had intended to spend her time reading, nestled away in her small-yet-comfortable bedroom and getting some much needed rest, but her eyes so carelessly glazed over after a few pages of her book and she'd tricked herself into thinking a quick nap was possible.

She groans softly as she sits up, removing her opened book from her chest and setting it aside. On its spine, she feels a warm familiarity with the golden letters of its title, Captain Calaviere, a rousing novel about a woman stowing away upon a ship in the Royal Navy and slowly becoming a pirate lord. It was a highly controversial novel when written and Annette believes its author, Wendy Quail, was never given another opportunity to publish her work. Annette loved it dearly.

As the recollection of the evening's mystery guest returns to the forefront of her mind, Annette quickly pushes away the desire to simply sleep through the whole evening. Surely the spectacle of Cordelia's dinner and guest would be enough to justify rising from her far too warm and inviting bed. She recovers her nicer dress from her closet, a comfortable and modest piece that was far less constricting than her petticoat and corset but still lovely nonetheless, and descends the staircase to the ground floor.

Harold is perched upon a little ledge by the window in the dining room, comfortably nesting in a little pile of straw Cordelia had made for him. He coos gently as Annette pets the side of his beak. She smiles as he rustles his feathers contentedly.

It is just as she's about to greet Cordelia in the kitchen, hoping to tease her a little more about her sudden interest in the duties of keeping up a home, when Annette hears a knock at the door. It's loud and curt, but in a way that felt refined. Each sharp wrap of the chester knocker rings like a bell chiming against wood. She briefly considers letting Cordelia rise to the challenge of taking on another of Annette's duties, but shakes her head and grins instead. She bounces back to the main hallway, turning with a pep in her step and a curious excitement in her chest.

Her hand pulls the door open to reveal the polished and nearly regal form of Samantha Deveroux.

Annette's breath catches in her throat and her eyes immediately dart away from the woman before her, as though even gazing upon her could be incriminating. Samantha supplies no such modesty, stepping forward into the threshold and smiling radiantly.

"Good to see you too, dear," she says in a low voice.

Annette blushes. "Lady Deveroux, s-so wonderful for you to grace us with your presence."

Samantha extends a hand to Annette, gesturing for the servant to kiss the back of her palm. Annette stares at it fearfully, feeling a cold shiver descend down her spine. Samantha pushes it forward even further, nearly laying it into Annette's hand to prompt her reaction. The servant timidly grips her fingers, touching as little of her skin as possible, and places a kiss on the back of her hand that was neither graceful nor indulgent.

"Cordelia didn't tell you I was coming over, did she?" Samantha gloats.

"Not you specifically," Annette gulps.

"You're so fearful, darling. Aren't you going to invite me inside?"

Annette nods nervously, stepping aside and closing the door for Samantha as she fully enters the home. Samantha's eyes flick over the foyer with intrigue and familiarity, as though returning to a place that has remodeled since her last visit.

"Aren't you going to take my coat?"

Annette extends her hands to receive the coat, only to find that Samantha wasn't going to remove it herself. The noblewoman beams and turns around slightly, encouraging Annette to reach up and pull it off of her. Annette chokes down her nerves, anxiously gripping the fabric and sliding it down her slender arms, her face warm and flushed.

"You're so uncharacteristically skittish tonight, Annie," Samantha pouts. "Is anything at all the matter?"

Annette glances down the hall, confirming that Cordelia could not yet see them. She quickly hangs the coat on the rack and whispers, "She knows."

"I'm sure the detective knows a great many things."

Annette frowns. "She knows about us."

"Indeed?"

Annette's face drops at the lack of concern shown on Samantha's face. She seems amused and fascinated by Annette's reaction, hardly caring at all for the nerves of the poor girl. Annette tilts her head in confusion, placing an even more worried look on her face.

"What are you doing here?" Annette asks.

Samantha turns about and glances over the room once more, contentedly taking in the scene around her. "I'm here to provide a favor to an old friend." Her voice drops lower, and as she faces Annette once more she wears an expression of mischief and seduction. "And perhaps to tend to the needs of a newer friend."

"That cannot-,"

"Lady Deveroux," Cordelia's voice rings down the hallway.

"Cordelia Jones."

Cordelia stands and stares at the two of them, her typical neutrality splashed across her face. "Annette, would you please show Lady Deveroux to the table. Dinner will be out shortly."

"You've cooked for me? How flattering."

"Are you still fond of kroppkakor?"

"Adore them," Samantha purrs.

Cordelia clicks her heels and retreats to the kitchen, gesturing for Annette to lead Samantha to the dining room. Annette walks forward slowly, almost as though in a trance, and feels her heart pumping throughout her limbs. She pulls a seat back for Samantha, briefly noticing that in the commotion of a new guest Harold has departed. Annette closes his window, turning back to see Samantha sit and wave her over to the chair beside her.

"Sit here, dear. I'd love to have you at my side."

Annette grimaces weakly. "Are you sure that's a good-"

"You wouldn't want to disappoint a guest, would you?"

She sighs, cautiously lowering herself into the seat at Samantha's right. She sits on the edge of the chair, as though the wood was instead made of hot metal and she might need to flee at any moment.