Part 3 (1/2)

One of his laborers killed, or one of his murders? ”May we speak with you inside?”

Nodding, he turned and led her into the small quarters that served as residence and office. A single chair sat in front of a desk. On the surface, a ledger lay open, the ink in the columns fresh. She'd interrupted him in the middle of work, then. A small amount of amber liquor remained in a gla.s.s beside the adding machine, and Mina spotted the bottle on the shelf-new, imported from the New World. Too expensive for most manufactory owners.

At the desk, Foley pulled up his suspenders and reached for the jacket hanging on the back of his chair. ”Is it one of my workers?” he asked again.

”I am not aware of any death involving your employees, Mr. Foley. We understand that you had dinner with Lord Redditch tonight.”

He frowned a little, sat. His gaze landed on the liquor bottle. ”I did.”

”Was that a gift from his lords.h.i.+p?”

”Yes. Or you might call it a bribe, maybe.”

”For what?”

Bitterness laced his reply. ”His attempt to persuade me not to install automatons.”

”And you didn't appreciate his attempt to bribe you?”

”I was appreciative enough not to leave the bottle there.” He shook his head. ”But no, I wasn't appreciative of what he had to say. He sits in that big house of his, sits on his ideals. He can shove them up his a.s.s.”

”Did you argue?”

”You could say that. He tried to make me see reason. I told him what reason was.”

”What is it?”

Foley settled back in his chair, laced his fingers over his stomach. ”He tells me I'd be doing all of my employees a disservice if I bring in automatons. He says I'll be putting them out of work, taking food out of their bellies.”

”Isn't that true?”

”Some of them would lose their jobs, yes. I'll still need hands to load the machines, to wind them. Not all of them will go, but some of them.” His jaw set briefly. ”But they would have gone anyway. In the New World, they had problems with phossy jaw. You've heard of that?”

Mina shook her head.

Newberry said, ”I knew a match girl with most of her mouth gone. The phosphorus rots out their jawbones.”

”That's right. Go long enough, and it rots their brains, too. It doesn't affect anyone infected with nanoagents, which is why you haven't heard of it, Inspector Wentworth. So you'd think we'd have an advantage making spark lighters here instead of in Manhattan City, because the chemicals don't rot their heads. G.o.d knows it's why I came here six years ago; I couldn't stand seeing another one go like that.”

A bounder with a conscience-or a tendency to run from problems? ”But you don't have an advantage?”

”No. In the past two or three years, a few of the matchmen in Manhattan City and Johannesland have started putting in automated machines. Now their prices are so low that even with the tariffs on the spark lighters coming in from the New World, I can't compete. Half of my workers will soon be out of a job anyway, while I'm hoping to hang on.”

”And you told Redditch this?”

”I did, and he didn't understand it. Why would he? There's a man who has never worried about money, about paying his people. But there's more than that. You had a look at the work floor?”

”Yes.”

”I make this the best place I can. I've got the fans going, the lights up. There's still always someone losing a finger or an eye. There's always the flare-ups from a spark. So I put the ones with prosthetics and metal hands on the cutters, the stampers. Urchins come to me, ask for little jobs, I put them to dipping match heads and selling them on the streets, but it's still hardly enough to feed them. One girl about thirteen, fourteen, she came to me and asked when I had an opening for a cutter. I said she can't work with the sheet metal, because I've had too many lose their hands. So she went and sold herself to some blacksmith and came back with steel hands. I didn't have a place for her anymore-she sold herself, cut off her d.a.m.n hands for nothing. But when I bring in those automated machines, it won't matter if she's got hands of flesh or metal. If I have a spot open, she can work either way.”

If he had a spot open-but there would be fewer spots to have. ”And you told Redditch this, too?”

”I told him. But all that he heard was that some of my people would be out of a job. And since he obviously wasn't going to listen to the rest, I left.”

”What time?”

”I don't know. A half hour after I arrived, maybe.”

Consistent with every other statement-and forty-five minutes before Redditch had been killed. ”How did Redditch appear when you left?”

”He was still trying to b.u.t.ter me up. I wasn't having none of it.” His eyes narrowed. ”It's him, isn't it? He's the one who's dead-and you're wondering if I did it.”

”Would you have?”

”No.” He gave a tired laugh. ”He was trying to write up some bill for Parliament, and I know better to fight aristocratic types and politicians, have them turn against me-especially the Iron Duke. Redditch said he had your husband's support. So I left and hoped they'd all just forget about my little factory here.”

Mina didn't think Redditch had Rhys's support, not to the extent the viscount hoped-but she wouldn't say so now. Her husband was quite capable of making his views known, and he often did so very loudly.

”Did you see anyone as you left?”

”I was angry. I didn't see much of anyone or anything until I was across the river.” He took a deep breath, his gaze unfocused as if retracing the route through his memory. ”I suppose you mean someone waiting around Redditch's home, someone who didn't look like they should be there. No, I can't recall.”

”Did you see anything else that struck you as unusual?” When he shook his head, Mina asked, ”Have you ever heard of or seen a machine that looks like a six-foot-tall bra.s.s wheel that rolls along by itself?”

He frowned. ”No.”

”Did you stay inside the house with Redditch?” The butler had said they'd remained in the library, but perhaps he and Redditch had gone into the garden through the library doors without drawing notice.

”Yes,” he said. ”In the parlor, then the library.”

”Did you ever go outside?”

”Not until I left.”

”Which door did you leave by?”

”The front.” A brief, hard smile touched his mouth. ”He was trying to b.u.t.ter me up, remember. And I might smell like a match factory, but I'm not a servant.”

”All right.” She shot a glance at Newberry to see if he had anything to add. With a tiny shake of his head, the constable replied that he didn't. ”Thank you, Mr. Foley. Please contact me if you recall anything else during your time at Lord Redditch's home, even if it seems insignificant.”

”I will.”

Almost everyone on the work floor glanced up as she and Newberry left Foley's office. How many of them would be put out of work? Whether Foley brought the automatons in or continued on as he was, it seemed that half of them-at the very least-would soon be looking for another way to earn a wage.

That fear might give someone motivation to kill. If Redditch's bill had pa.s.sed and Foley wasn't able to install his machines, he'd lose his factory.

It was a reason to kill . . . but she didn't see it in Foley. He'd seemed resigned, but not yet desperate. Mina would keep him in mind, though-and also look at anyone else who might have been threatened by Redditch's bill.