The Broken Bell by Frank Tuttle

business.”
    “And what business brings you here, sir?” asked the suspicious maid. I pretended to wipe an errant crumb off my lapel, in case she hadn’t seen my brooch.  
    “Morris ram stabilizers,” I replied. Bits of Rafe’s conversation with Evis crept back to me. “Did you know that straight-bore mining drills wear out after only eighteen days? But not with a pair of Morris stabilizers on the forepins. They’ll go twenty-six days, or better. Factor that in with the savings in site idle time and wages spent on repairs, and you’ll see an overall boost to your profits of nearly one and a quarter percent over any six-month period. And I don’t have to tell you how much that means in profits over the life of a copper mine.”
    I did not, in fact, have to tell her anything of the sort, because she gathered up a stack of plates and stomped from the room. Whether she’d bought my line of mining lore or was off to fetch the headsman I didn’t know.
    Margaret of the inky-black locks grinned and poured me more tea.
    “My father was a miner,” she said in a whisper. “I grew up around mines. There’s no such thing as a ram stabilizer, is there?”
    “There probably ought to be,” I whispered back. “Are you going to scream for the Watch?”
    “Depends. Are you here to help or hurt?”
    I swallowed and met her eyes squarely.
    “I’m here to bring Carris Lethway home.”
    She just nodded and gathered plates.
    “End of the hall. Take a right. Next time, a left. Third door on the right. Be gentle. She’s a nice lady. Just sick with worry.”
    “Worry about Carris?”
    She didn’t answer. She scooped up plates and fled, leaving me alone with a table-full of scraps.
    I did linger and finish my chicken. I’m sure that illuminated a deep-seated flaw in my soul, but, as I said, it was good chicken.

Chapter Seven
    I counted doors. One, two, three.
    Outside door number three sat a silver platter.
    Someone hadn’t touched her lunch.
    I paused, listened, heard nothing.
    So I knocked.
    “Mrs. Lethway?”
    I barely heard the muffled reply.
    “Mrs. Lethway? May I speak to you, please?”
    “Go ’way.”
    I winced. The Lady might have missed her meal, but she wasn’t wanting for drink. Not just a dainty sip for milady, either. I could smell whiskey through the door.
    “It’s about Carris, Lady. Please.”
    “My Carris? Where is he? Is he alive?”
    I heard hurried footsteps behind the door and then fumblings with the latch.
    Fumblings, and then a soft thud, as though a wife-sized body sank slowly to the floor.
    And then snoring.
    I cussed. So close. I tried a few more times to rouse the sotted Mrs. Lethway, but to no avail.
    Lady Luck seldom smiles all day.
    I hadn’t been able to ask Mrs. Lethway a single question, but she’d managed to answer the most important one of all.
     
    I took off my Avalante brooch once I hit the first floor landing. Few of Rannit’s florists were also associates of the Dark Houses.
    I passed servants going about their duties and got nothing but nods and smiles. I found my most recent sitting room, heard voices inside, and hesitated for the barest fraction of a second. I’d gotten what I came for, and the front door was just strides away and unguarded, but Darla had given me the hat I’d left on a hook in that room and I was loathe to leave it.
    The door was ajar. I stepped through it, not smiling.
    The pair of stalwarts who first met me at the door glared and converged on me.
    “Where have you been?” demanded the largest.
    I made the same huffing noise deep in my throat that I’d seen barkeep Eddie make at customers who dared hint that his glasses could use a wash. When that was not met with violence, I snapped my fingers under the bulky man’s nose.
    “I was left waiting—me, left waiting!—in this room for hours,” I said. “Hours! I was forced to seek out a water closet. The hospitality of your House, sir, is nothing short of brutal.” I poked him in the chest