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An assignation perhaps? He set the paper aside, so as not
to forget it and then continued his search. The rest of the library
and the sitting room turned up nothing of interest, however in the
bedroom, he did find a fuse gun, a portable information module and
a significant amount of monetary funds. Despite Lord Hawthorne
coming from a wealthy family, it was still unusual to have such a
large sum of monies lying around.
    Also nothing in the life of an ordinary solicitor
would warrant the use of a fuse gun, though they were becoming more
common. This one was far more elaborate in design than most. The
black metal was heavy and cold, molded to fit perfectly into the
palm of one’s hand. Not too unlike a traditional pistol, the body
of the fuse gun differed in that it was made by a series of
decreasing spheres designed to accommodate the charger, but instead
of using normal metal slugs as bullets, the fuse gun fired a sphere
of compressed energy.
    Most telling, however, was the portable information
module, its brass case etched beautifully, as the polished surface
gleamed in the light. Quite the rare tinkering, William had only
ever seen them in the hands of the elite Special Services branch of
the government. To possess such a tinkering meant there was a good
chance Lord Hawthorne worked for them, likely gathering
information, though to what purpose, William did not know.
    And with that, the case quickly turned from one of
murder to something far more complicated and dangerous.

Chapter Six
     
    Phoebe spent the entire afternoon in her laboratory
waiting for the distillation to run through its cycle with nothing
but the constant chattering of her thoughts making her second-guess
her every action. It had been a mistake to let Seth back into her
life, and she cursed herself for being stupid enough to not learn
from her past mistakes. By late afternoon, she was wound tight as a
spring. She needed to get out of the house; needed to clear her
head.
    In another couple of hours, she would be expected at
Viridis, but for now, she had other business to tend to. She took a
hired coach as far as the driver was willing to go before the roads
narrowed and deteriorated and he was no longer willing to risk his
carriage or horses. From there Phoebe continued on foot, moving
easily through the crumbling streets. She was used to the routine
by now, for she made this trip at least once a week.
    Avoiding the puddles of swampy refuse, Phoebe wound
her way down the narrow alleys, the houses piled one against the
other and probably the only thing holding them upright. A fire in
one home could burn down an entire section of London in no time at
all, leveling the area to nothing more than ash, killing hundreds
in one go and leaving the rest homeless.
    One last turn down a narrow alley, and Phoebe
steered herself towards the large wooden structure she had recently
purchased. Though she would have preferred a building made of
brick, it had previously been a warehouse and was sound and sturdy,
offering Phoebe plenty of space to work with. It had not cost her
very much, Cripplegate being one of London’s poorest areas, and the
exact reason she had bought in the neighborhood.
    She paused at the top of the steps to look at the
brass plaque mounted next to the door. Genie’s House . She
had named it for Imogene—her way to pay tribute to a life cut
short, by helping those in need of aid, offering everything from
food and shelter to employment when it was available.
    For the Cause , she thought. It was her way of
helping, taking from the rich and giving to the poor. Viridis
brought her a steady income from those who had enough to indulge
themselves. She found it ironic that so many of her customers had
no interest in helping the needy, and yet through her, it was
exactly what they were doing.
    It would be dark soon, and though she preferred to
go to the shelter early in the day, the distillation had delayed
her. She probably should have left the visit for