The Iron Man [Serial]

The Fashion Police

Murphy had woken on his own and obtained the morning Review, before I thought to wake him. He found me in the washroom at the back of Molly Clap's house, pressing the kilt he'd worn only briefly the evening before. I had been fascinated by the garment since I first set eyes on it. Apart from the starched front, it was pleated linen, and I knew linen tended to break if creased too firmly or regularly. I had spot-ironed the wrinkles along the hem.

"Look at this," he invited. I set the small travel iron from my sewing kit on the nearby trivet, so that Murphy could unfold the paper across the board. "A dearth of fashion news!"

It was true. The Review was thinner than should be on Lammastide Morning. There were some images of prominent socialites and designers at bonfires, but scarce few articles about the Spring Preview. "Then the Preview was truly altered?" I whispered. "Your people?"

"Allies spliced the wire," Murphy said. "Each to their own task. That's how it's done."

These were higher stakes than I had though. Whether this Colonel Gates was cognizant of the switch I did not know, but any investigation of General Perwani's inability to appear would lead them to his snipper-snapper and to my dhobitorium.

I flipped the pages, looking for any new mention of Perwani or Gates.

"Here," Murphy said, pointing to the photo of the grey-haired gent in the Gendarmerie Report. "Inspector Gunslinger Priest to lead an investigation into reports of non-regulation fibers in far east textile imports." Unrelated, or an excuse to visit dhobitoriums, Mercantile shops and warehouses, and docks?

"GUNZ-linger," I corrected his pronunciation, "He knows me on sight. I press his jackets!" He'd also searched my apartment, but I did not wish to press the point.

Murphy turned and looked at me directly. He held my gaze in silence a few seconds, then spoke. "I sent a wire to my crew. Sugar and Honey are downstairs on the wirefax now. Gather your things." He took the kilt from the ironing board.

"It's too conspicuous."

"Better me than you," he said, and he continued before I could protest, "I know the strength in your arms well enough, but you aren't trained. Ask Molly for a hat." To my irritation, he touched my carefully combed hair.

I completed the necessary tasks quickly, packing the few toiletries Molly had gifted me inside my sewing kit, and then fitting all our togs not worn into the garment bag. I was able to obtain from Molly one black wool felt low-topper to cover my light hair.

We found Murphy and the young women-- today dressed like newsboys in short pants, shirts, vests, and caps --in the cellar where the vibrating pen arms of the wirefax printer were yet at work. Murphy sighed over-dramatically, "I tell him he doesn't have to make the messages so detailed."

As the paper passed under the pens, I saw what resembled an illustration of a tropical island with folly and palms. A curved line, perhaps suggesting water, surrounded it, and a small letter like an "a" was to the right. "An island?"

"He's supposed to be sending the rendezvous point."

"Ha! The Isle of dogs," I pointed to the particular curved line, "That's the Thames." The printer continued to work, producing a facsimile of a postcard of Tower Bridge with a small letter like a "b" below.

Murphy consulted with Molly on the best approach. We eventually came to agree that Molly would drive us as far as High Street in her cab, then Sugar and Honey would see us as far as the rendezvous with Murphy's crew. I wished to know more of this crew, but we were soon in the cabriolet-- Molly spared a few sets of goggles against the wind --driving along holiday-quiet London streets.

We stopped at High Street. Molly promised to wait there for Sugar and Honey. I was not certain how they were to be of assistance, but considering Murphy was a musician who happened to be a soldier and secret agent, I supposed the ladies may be more than dancers or tea servers.

The Island, as we oft called it, was a peninsula in fact, nearly separated from the mainland by  enormous off-river wet docks to facilitate unloading cargo from heavily-burdened Mercantile vessels. As with the other Mercantile-controlled areas of the city, the holiday did not fully halt work. Here, mid morning, the docks were already becoming crowded with dockers, merchants and guards.

"The wire indicated the eastern side, but the Narcís won't show itself unless necessary, so we're looking for a signal from skiff or member of the crew," Murphy reminded us. He might have passed as  an upperclass merchant, if not for the kilt he wore with his tailcoat.

We moved along the north wall of a private dock. There were rough outbuildings and parked carts and wagons to my left, and ahead a stretch of the Thames busy with boats and ships. I squinted against the glinting sunlight off one of the boats and raised my hand to my eyes.

"That is your signal?" Honey asked. I could not see her, but I knew her to be the one closer to my right.

"Go. Quickly," Murphy commanded. From my left, I heard the sound of machinery, and then raised voices. "Don't stop."

A whistle sounded, I wasn't sure from where, and against what good judgment I should have possessed, I began to run.

"No! Stop!" Sugar called, from behind and to my left.

Too late I realized my danger as I ran into a length of police tape, near invisible on the horizontal until it struck my stomach.

"Bend back," Honey called. I was not certain of what she wished me to do. I felt something slide against the back of my leg.

I saw them then: the Fashion police in their dark blue uniforms with polished silver buttons, swinging and spooling their back & white tape.