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The Mystery of the Marsh Malaise Wonky
Inn Book 5
by
JEANNIE WYCHERLEY
Copyright © 2019 Jeannie Wycherley Bark at the Moon Books
All rights reserved
Publishers note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and for effect or are used with permission. Any other resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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TheMysteryoftheMarshMalaisewas edited by Anna Bloom @ The Indie Hub Cover design by Tammy. Formatting by Tammy
Author’s Note
This book, as with the whole of the Wonky Inn series, is set in East Devon in the UK. It uses British English spellings, idioms and vernacular.
ThisbookisdedicatedtotherealRossBaines rememberinga‘perfectday’
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Where next for Wonky?
Out next from Jeannie Wycherley
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The Birth of Wonky
The Wonky Inn Series
Also by Coming Soon
CONTENTS
London in the spring.
Gritty drops of rain spattered against my skin, the backdrop of the day relentlessly grey. People, people everywhere, rushing to get where they needed to be. I stalked purposefully along, beside a busy road, wondering whether all Londoners are permanently late for meetings and appointments. Do they think that if they move quick enough they will fit more activity into their day? Is everything timetabled? Every coffee break, every trip to Selfridges or a cinema complex, every stroll in the park—slotted between the cramped, narrow lines in a bulging, well-thumbed diary, or digitally recorded on a mobile phone?
I paused outside an innocuous-seeming bookshop on Charing Cross Road—my heart beating a little too quickly as a red bus trundled by—alarmed as always by any unexpected flash of red. Whittlecombe and the peace of Devon’s beautiful countryside seemed a million miles away. Here the speed of movement, the metallic and chemical scent of fumes that perfumed the air, the noise of traffic and the cooing of pigeons, the sheer dull grimness of the historic facades, it all overloaded my senses and induced feelings of anxiety.
As if I wasn’t anxious enough.
I’d been accustomed to the pace of city life once, not that long ago really, but now everything had changed. The threat was real.
I rushed through the door of the bookshop into the labyrinth of shelves beyond, pushing it closed behind me, shutting out most of the sound. In here, the noise was muted by the millions and millions of paper pages. Volumes that soaked up volume. The sudden calm provided relief to my jangling nerves.
I quickly made my way to the very back of the shop, through the children’s section, and took the half dozen steps down into a lower floor. No windows here, just artificial lighting. Fluorescent batons that flickered and buzzed. At the very back of the shop, in the dead zone, the shelves held dozens and dozens of shabby second-hand tomes relating to early-modern and modern engineering, the growth of the UK canal network, and a history of road surfaces.
Not an overly popular section.
I placed my hand against a particularly weighty volume—the gilt lettering so faded it was impossible to read the title—and pushed hard. The shelves fell away from me. Glancing quickly behind me to ensure the coast was clear, I skipped through, and returned the secret door to its original position, pausing long enough to hear the reassuring click as it closed securely.
I followed a narrow corridor—the pea-green walls scuffed and dirty, the lighting muted—down another few steps, through another couple of anonymous doors until I found the exit. A light above the door glowed—a bright forbidding red. A state-of-the-art security system had been installed here recently, and now a camera traced all movement. I pressed the screen to the side of the door, allowing some computer somewhere to read the lines on my palm, before deciding whether to allow me access or not.
A buzz. A click. The light above the door flicked to green.
I made my way into Celestial Street.
This time however I had no meeting scheduled with Penelope Quigwell, no arrangement with Wizard Shadowmender to catch up for a cosy chat, a pie and a pint in The Half Moon Inn. Instead, I ensured my cloak was pulled up to cover my face, and turned into the drizzle, walking quickly along the darker side of the road. I
ignored the brightly lit and welcoming shops, turning right into a narrow passageway known as Cross Lane instead. The space between houses here grew ever narrower, maybe eight to ten feet at its widest. At this end, closest to the shops, you could find seamstresses and tailors, the odd carpenter and cobbler. This was as far as most people ventured.
As I progressed further along the narrow lane, the houses bowed out towards me. It became increasingly difficult to pass another person without turning sideways on. Front doors opened onto front doors, and the opening between houses let only a splinter of daylight through. In places, the only illumination spilt from the windows of the ramshackle dwellings. Occasionally I passed such a window, lit by a candle, and glancing inside would spot a fire burning. Some of the little front parlours presented themselves as cosy and snug, but many others were dank and miserable. For the most part I averted my eyes, certain there were things happening behind these doors that I did not need to know about.
There were name plaques on the doors here, shadowy businesses, people who kept to themselves and guarded their secrets closely. Other travellers along this narrow pathway—and there were a surprising number of them—turned their faces away from the light and from curious gazes or indolent stares. The deeper into Cross Lane you ventured, the more likely you were to be desirous of avoiding scrutiny.
My mother Yasmin had warned me repeatedly as a small child never to stray into Cross Lane. Later, after my father had disappeared and my mother had become reclusive and angry, she’d granted me more independence. Or perhaps I had stolen it away, conveniently capitalizing on her grief as she withdrew. My own anger towards her seemed selfish and out of place now. Still, she had mentioned many times that Cross Lane was not a fitting place for a good and decent witch to be found.
But perhaps the time had come for me to relinquish any hold I had on the notion that I was good and decent. Maybe I didn’t want to be any more.
Just as the tiny alley narrowed even further, and a few feet above my head the houses on either side practically touched—thereby robbing the lane completely of natural light while sheltering me from the rain—the row of houses came to an abrupt end. I stumbled into a kind of courtyard that formed a crossroads. I had never travelled this far along Cross Lane before. I peered tentatively around. Small black signs with gold letters pointed left and right, back the way I’d come, and on… to who-knew-where. My instructions had been to take the first left, down Knick-Knack Lane.
I followed the directions given, passing more people than I’d imagined I’d see down here. No doubt about it, I was among the underbelly of my kind. These were folk who had existed on the periphery of the circles in which I’d moved my entire life. My mother and her ilk—the coven to which we belonged headed of course by Wizard Shadowmender were all above board and decent. We practised magick as part of the mundane societies in which we moved, surreptitious and private when it came to what we did.
Here, in the backwaters behind Celestial Street, these were darker, marginalized witches, wizards, mages and sages, sorcerers and sorceresses.
Fifty yards along Knick-Knack Lane, I spotted an iron sign swinging in a slight breeze from the second storey of an Elizabethan Inn. TheWebandFlame.
My destination.
The Web and Flame was everything The Half Moon Inn was not. A proper old-fashioned spit-and-sawdust pub, with roughly hewn benches and worn wooden tables. The rooms were small and dimly lit. They could have been cosy with the right décor, maybe a smattering of candles in coloured jars, and a few scattered cushions and pictures here or there. But the walls were whitewashed, and the fires burned without cheer.
A toothless and bald man in his late fifties, wearing a hessian sack as a bar apron, regarded me through hooded eyes, his expression vaguely hostile.
“Good afternoon,” I said, standing tall, attempting to exude a confidence I didn’t truly possess.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
I scanned the ales on display and opted for a glass of Hoodwinker. When he poured it, the colour was dark and rich, so I expected it to taste bitter, and yet when I took a mouthful I found it to be light and fresh, citrusy. A hoodwinker indeed.
The bartender took my money then nodded at a table behind me. I turned.
The pub was largely empty and the few people inhabiting the tables, stared disconsolately into the bottom of their pint glasses and tankards, minding their own business. Only one man looked my way.
I walked towards him, self-conscious under his gaze, my stomach fluttering. I paused at his table and placed my hand on the wooden chair facing him.
“Is this seat taken?” I asked.
He was a wizard, a man in his mid-thirties perhaps, handsome, with dark hair that curled around his collar, and equally dark eyes that glittered at me with unconcealed interest.
“That depends.” He cocked his head and waited.
I experienced a moment of uncertainty. I’d been playing out this meeting in my mind for over a week, and now here I stood, and I could feel my resolve slipping. Had I found the right man or not? I had an envelope full of money burning a hole in a hidden pocket in my cloak. The last thing I wanted to do was to hand it over to someone completely unworthy.
We locked gazes. I could see amusement in his eyes, but also a steely determination. He wasn’t someone who would suffer fools.
That made my mind up. I hoisted the heavy envelope from my pocket and lay it on the table in front of him. He watched me do so, and smirked. I kept my fingers pressed against the envelope, driving my weight down through them, impaling the money safely into place. “Viscusinloco.”
He laughed and sprawled back against the wall.
“Do sit down, Ms Daemonne,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You’re making the place look untidy.”
I pulled the chair out, and as I did so, quick as a flash he reached out. Tapping the envelope once, he scooped it up easily
enough, palming it so that it disappeared up his sleeve.
I settled myself in the chair, smiling. “I seem to have found the right place.”
“This is only half of what we agreed,” the man said, patting the side of his jacket.
He was good. “I know. You get the other half when you join me at Whittle Inn.”
The man mock-pouted. It didn’t suit him. “You don’t trust me.” A statement not a question.
“Of course not.” I folded my arms and studied his features carefully. Tanned skin, full lips, a little dimple in his chin, wrinkles around eyes framed by the most amazing eyelashes, long and black. He liked to smile.
“That’s good to hear.” He regarded me a little longer before leaning across the table, close enough that I could have kissed him had I so desired. I felt his breath on my face. “You wear your heart on your sleeve.”
I nodded, pressing my lips together.
“Your magick is weak.” He tapped his side again where the money was now safely stowed.
“If it was stronger, then I wouldn’t need you,” I retorted, my words laden with ice.
“Why should I help you?”
I widened my eyes in surprise. He was a gun for hire. “Because I’m paying you handsomely to do so.”
He gave a slight head shake. “I don’t need your money.”
“You quite clearly do.” I couldn’t help but contradict him. His clothes were good quality but well worn. If he had any wealth at all, I wouldn’t have found him here in Knick-Knack Lane. He’d have been lording it somewhere less inauspicious and disreputable.
His eyes glittered with a flash of annoyance. He had pride. Interesting.
“Is money all that matters to you?”
“No, of course not,” I protested. Notatall. That’swhyI’mrisking alotofitthrowingitawayonsomeonelikeyou.
“Then don’t presume to judge me by those standards, Ms Daemonne.”
I cast a quick look over my shoulder. Everyone appeared to be keeping their own counsel, but you could never tell. I didn’t like that he kept using my name.
“You’re a fool if you think no-one will know you’ve been here,” he said quietly.
“I’m desperate.”
He flung his head back and roared with laughter. “Obviously. Otherwise you wouldn’t be seen with me. I should be insulted.”
Should I apologise that I’d hurt his feelings? I didn’t have time for this. I rubbed my eyes wearily. He watched me do so and reached out to take my hand. I tried to snatch it away, but he pulled it towards himself, turning it over so that it was palm up, and read what he saw there.
When he looked up again, his face had softened.
“I can’t help you,” he said. “You’re in too deep.”
“Then give me my money back,” I demanded, gritting my teeth in annoyance.
A sharp shake of the head. “I can’t do that.”
“Then you should be a man of your word and abide by the contract implicitly accepted when you took the envelope.”
He grinned, but without humour. “If you wanted an honourable man, you would be undertaking your business in The Half Moon inn.”
I pushed my chair back in annoyance and rose.
“If you were everything you claimed to be, you’d be sitting on the Council of Witches,” I retorted, and whirled away in fury. I marched out of the pub, not caring who watched my sulky exit.
I’d made it almost as far as the crossroads when I heard feet running after me. Instinctively, imagining it to be a thief, I turned to ward off a blow, but it was only my dark-haired acquaintance. He reached out to grab my arm, and when I tried to pull away, still angry with him, he fell into step beside me.
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”
“Take your hand off me. I’m not interested.” I pushed him away and strode into Cross Lane, where it was too narrow for him to walk
with me. He followed on behind.
“You want to know whether he’s still alive, don’t you?”
I froze, then slowly swung to face him, dreading to see mockery in his eyes.
His face looked deadly serious, grim almost.
“Is he?”
He stepped towards me, his black eyes boring into mine. “He’s a mortal, you know? Expendable.”
I lifted my left hand—where my engagement ring, a large black stone set between two diamonds sparkled with life in the subdued light and placed it on the necromancer’s chest.
“He means the world to me. Now tell me whether he’s alive.”
“Isense thunder in your heart, Alf.” Wizard Shadowmender strolled beside me as we wandered through Speckled Wood. Ostensibly we were inspecting the boundaries that formed the bulk of Whittle estates. Speckled Wood gently transitioned into forest land here, the forest that stretched north and east towards the hills, with Abbotts Cromleigh lying to the north-west.
“You don’t have to be a wizard to know that.” I kept my tone light but even so, the curt response hit home and proved his point. I winced inwardly.
He took my arm. “Come, come my dear. I hate to see you like this.”
“Has there been any word?” I knew what the answer would be. I must have asked the same question of everyone I’d met who might have had any inkling at all. Haveyou heardanythingaboutGeorge? Doyouknowwhereheis?Ishealive?
I was a broken record.
“You know if there had been, I would not have kept it from you. You would be the very first person I’d inform.”
“Yes.” I sighed. We’d entered a clearing, halting at the edge of a large pool of water, listening to the toads calling around us. The
birds tweeted in the trees on the edges, totally unconcerned about us. About anything.
I pulled my arm away from Wizard Shadowmender and, manoeuvring myself over the rocks, crouched by the pool. In this part of Speckled Wood, the ground dipped in a large hollow, and water collected here, fed in part by a series of freshwater springs that ran both overland and under the ground. In turn this pool, when it was full, spilled over to be consumed by the marshes. After a wet few months, both the pool and the marshes were swollen. Everywhere I looked, the forest here teemed with life. Frogs and toads, and plenty of insects skating on the water, or alighting on the algae that formed as part of the natural bio-system. The birds were attracted to the area too, thanks to the sheer abundance of creepy crawlies that skittered around, the pond plants growing thigh high, sheltering and disguising predators of all kinds.
The long-range weather forecast for the summer seemed brighter, so I expected much of the marsh would dry out, but for now this had become my new favourite place to hang out. It brought me a certain level of peace.
“It’s been seven weeks.” I agitated the water with the tips of my fingers. Several watermen scattered away from me in alarm.
“And three days.” Wizard Shadowmender joined me at the edge of the pool. He’d been counting as well then. “You are not alone in this, Alf. Never alone.”
We were all in this together. That’s what Wizard Shadowmender was trying to tell me, and yes, that made me feel somewhat better, but didn’t alter the fact that The Mori seemed to have hit me disproportionately hard. They had tried—and fortunately failed—to take my inn and my land away, but they’d managed to stir up trouble and alienate some of the Whittlecombe villagers who were my tenants.
And they’d almost succeeded in killing me. If it hadn’t been for the spirit water witches in Whittlecombe’s village pond, then I’d have been done for, that much was certain.
So because they hadn’t succeeded in finishing me off, they’d taken George from me. And I had no idea whether he was alive or
dead, and seemingly, no way of ever finding out.
“I have eyes and ears everywhere, Alf. I have technical wizards scanning every known electronic frequency. We have reached out to all of our folk on the peripheries—even those we generally hold little truck with.” He meant faeries and vampires.
I recognized how broad and deep Wizard Shadowmender’s networks were. I knew he was doing his best. But I’d always been impatient, and I desperately wanted to hear some news that would confirm George still lived.
I dipped my fingers into the water once more. Deliciously cool and clear. I could see tiddlers darting here and there among the reeds. It was shallow nearest to the bank, but rapidly became deeper. In the summer, if enough water remained, and the season turned out to be as hot as it had been when I’d first arrived in Whittlecombe, maybe I’d come out here and skinny dip. My guests from the inn tended not to venture this far into Speckled Wood, so it would be private enough.
“Any fresh sightings of our friends?” Wizard Shadowmender interrupted my thoughts.
“A few. I’ve been out most evenings. Finbarr and I have spotted one or two, but always from a distance. By the time we get anywhere close to them, they’ve disappeared.” Finbarr, a weaselfaced witch who claimed to be descended from a leprechaun, had turned into a good and faithful friend. He’d been staying with me at the behest of Wizard Shadowmender for the past few weeks. The little fella could be annoying, like a younger brother, but I was grateful for his presence. We were opposites. He was talkative when I was feeling morose, energetic at all the wrong times of the day, and curious about everything. He never stopped asking questions. When I grew tired of him and told him I needed to be alone, he would bother the ghosts or Charity.
Everybody loved him though. His eternally upbeat personality and sing-song accent were uplifting. And he’d been a complete boon to me. His magick had proved to be powerful, and he had grown adept at fixing the barrier that Mr Kephisto had weaved around the grounds and the inn to keep The Mori at bay.
I had never asked him to accompany me on my forays around Whittlecombe, but he always did. At these times he reined in his exuberance, proving himself as a watchful ally, and an acute observer instead. His senses were sharp. He never missed a trick.
“They must have a base around here,” Wizard Shadowmender mused and I nodded in agreement.
“The most obvious place would be Piddlecombe Farm as I’ve told you before. That seems to be the locus of a great deal of activity.”
“But you can’t get close enough?”
“I daren’t get closer.” The place unnerved me. It seemed indisputable that Piddlecombe Farm was where I’d been held on the night I’d been abducted. And George had been calling me from there on the night he disappeared. The police had searched but found nothing. The farm had been deserted.
I swished my hand around in the pool, watching the water as it bubbled. I felt the tingle of something—akin to a gentle electric shock—and I stopped moving my hand and waited for the water to settle.
“If I thought we could get away with it, I’d send in a party of witches one night to investigate, but I’d be worried about an ambush. I need more intelligence first.”
The water stilled, and I stared down at the silt, a foot or so below the surface. I waited.
“Alf?” Wizard Shadowmender prompted when I didn’t immediately reply.
I removed my hand from the water. “Do you think there are eels in here?”
“Eels?” Wizard Shadowmender scanned the pool. “I shouldn’t have thought so.” He sounded doubtful. “The river doesn’t flow into it, does it?”
“No. Just a few of the springs.” I shook my hand, sprinkling sparkling drops of water over myself. They clung like crystals to my robes. “I suppose you’re right. There wouldn’t be eels in here.” Were there any other kinds of fish that could give you a little shock? I dipped my hand in the water again and experienced the small tingle
once more. How odd. More than likely it was simply due to the temperature of the water.
I stood, wiping my hands against my robes. Wizard Shadowmender looked perplexed. “Problem?”
“Probably not.” I hooked my arm through his. “Ignore me.”
“I would never do that, Alf. You’re very important to me.”
I smiled, with genuine pleasure. It touched me that he cared. And of course he was doing everything possible to help locate George. He would do no less, I knew that.
“Let’s go back to the inn,” I said. “I expect Monsieur Emietter has prepared lunch by now, and it’s always a treat.”
“Oh indeed it is,” Wizard Shadowmender enthused, his cherubic cheeks flushing pink. “You certainly dine well at Whittle Inn.”
When I have an appetite, I thought. Mine had gone AWOL over the past few weeks.
“As long as it isn’t eel,” I joked, glancing back at the still water behind me. The surface rippled and I frowned, but quickly dismissed the disturbance as a bird or an insect, and led the elderly wizard back into the wood, heading for home.
We ate in the kitchen, leaving the bar area for the guests. The inn was running at 80 percent capacity, so the ghosts were busy serving lunch and drinks. I’d even pulled Zephaniah and Ned in from the garden where they’d been working on a new vegetable patch out the back near the storage sheds. In my wisdom I’d decided that it would be fabulous if we were able to serve vegetables grown on our own grounds. Gwyn, my great grandmother, had been an enthusiastic proponent of this as she had once cultivated a herb garden herself, so I’d roped her in too.
I liked to keep her busy.
We’d had a large greenhouse installed and set aside a good-sized area for Ned and Zephaniah to try their hand at growing beans, peas, carrots and parsnips, onions and tomatoes. In the greenhouse
we nurtured some salad leaves and more tomatoes, basil and parsley. In the herb patch, Gwyn, given free rein, was working wonders with sage, thyme, mint, rosemary and chives.
For now, Wizard Shadowmender and I dined on peppered mackerel, caught locally at Durscombe a few miles away, baby potatoes from Whittle Stores and a mixed summer salad. I picked at mine absently but tried to join in with the general conversation around me. Charity and Florence regaled the elderly wizard with a few funny stories of things found in the guest rooms.
“We could have a box full of wands, you know?” Charity told him. “We always contact the guest and ask if they would like their property returned and for the most part they take us up on that. I suppose a wand is a vital piece of equipment for many of you folk.” She chewed on some fish. “They’re all so different, aren’t they? Wands?”
“Yes, to each their own.” Shadowmender agreed. “But some witches don’t use one at all.” He looked pointedly at me. I never did.
“Neither does Mr Kephisto,” I pointed out. Mr Kephisto was my nearest neighbouring wizard, living just over the river in Abbotts Cromleigh.
“That’s usually true. Although he does sometimes. Some witches can use anything. Household implements for example.” Wizard Shadowmender brandished his knife and fork. “Cutlery.”
“Really?” Charity looked on as Wizard Shadowmender sent the salt and pepper cellars scuttling across the table with a little burst of magick from the end of his fork. “A wand in and of itself is not magick. It just helps to direct your intent.” He lay his fork down and beckoned the salt back with a quick kink of his index finger.
Charity laughed, as delighted as any child by the Wizard’s display. “Clever!”
Florence, busily wiping down a worktop, called back over her shoulder. “I don’t mind when we find wands. I’m less keen on some of the rubbish that gets left behind. Half-eaten sandwiches, apple cores and stuff like that. And heaven-to-Betsy, all the bird and rabbit bones and innards is a bit much.”
“Yeah. What’s that about?” Charity grimaced.
“Mr Hoo enjoys the leftover innards,” I remarked wryly. “It saves him having to go out and hunt at night.” My feathered friend could be remarkably lazy at times.
“Well I know what to do with them from now on.” Florence looked disapproving and Charity tittered, helping herself to a slice of bread and butter.
“We have quite a collection of items in our lost property box,” she said. “Don’t we Alf? We were keeping them in a cupboard under the stairs, but they outgrew that space and now we’ve set aside a section of the attic.”
“What else has been left here?” Wizard Shadowmender asked, smiling at me, obviously noting my dejection.
“Brollies, books, including several spell books and journals, hats —” Charity offered.
“Underwear,” Florence giggled.
“Single shoes and boots.” Charity shook her head. “Why anyone forgets to pack both parts of a pair I have no idea.”
“Spectacles, a wig—” I suggested.
“Jewellery. You name it,” Florence finished.
“Why is it never claimed?” Wizard Shadowmender asked.
Charity shrugged. “Well, like I said, we try and reunite goods with their owners, but sometimes they deny ownership, or we can’t get in touch.”
“And sometimes, given the nature of the guests we see here at Whittle Inn, I suppose they’re simply being secretive,” I offered.
I thought back to the mysterious Mr Wylie, a guest at the time of George’s disappearance. I’d asked Florence to spy on him and all she could tell me was that he wasn’t whom he claimed to be. Not a businessman as he’d previously told Charity, that much seemed clear. Enquiries via Wizard Shadowmender had led to naught.
I sighed. My head made constant loops, trying to make sense of all the recent goings on. We had more questions than answers and I hated it.
Wizard Shadowmender reached out and squeezed my hand. “Patience,” he said, and his knowing eyes shone with intelligence and compassion, and filled me with strength.
I took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes,” I answered simply.
After a cup of tea to finish our meal, I walked him to the front door of the inn to see him out. He shook hands with a few of the guests who were hanging out in the bar whom he knew, and then I waited as he exchanged a few words with Frau Kirsch in excellent German. His skills never ceased to amaze me.
Finally he joined me, and I helped him into a waiting taxi.
“Back to Surbiton now?” I asked. Wizard Shadowmender lived in the most ordinary looking house, on the dullest estate I had ever seen. Grey pebbledash and an ugly garage made up the external view, but once inside you were transported to something more akin to an enchanted castle, all tapestry walls and huge log fire places.
“London first. Celestial Street,” Shadowmender corrected me, then studied my face. “A little bird tells me that you were there last week.”
I kept my face blank. My,my.Worddoesgetaround.
“Briefly,” I said, meeting his gaze. He continued to stare at me, and I instinctively understood that he knew I’d taken a walk on the wild side. But I couldn’t come clean. I obfuscated. “Just picking up some new robes.” It was a lie. He would know it was a lie. But the words were out, and it was too late to take them back.
He nodded. “You didn’t pop in to see Penelope?”
Penelope Quigwell he meant. My lawyer, and the woman in charge of overseeing the finances relating to the Whittle Estate. I shook my head. “No, not this time. It was a flying visit.”
Wizard Shadowmender smiled. Not a hint of rancour in his expression. Instead he gave me a quick hug and settled down into the back of the car, nodding at his driver.
“If you need anything at all, just get in touch through the orb.”
“I will.”
“And stop worrying, Alf. Take care of yourself and your inn and everything else will fall into place.”
“Okay. Will do.” I tried to present a purposeful and positive façade.
With one more knowing glance, he waved, and the driver started the engine. I watched them disappear down the drive, wondering
why he hadn’t challenged me when he knew I’d been telling fibs.
A sudden shriek from the inn behind me startled me out of my reverie. I dashed back inside, expecting to find someone being murdered, only to witness half a dozen pixies running riot around the bar.
“Finbarr!” I bellowed. The goddess alone knew why Finbarr liked to invite his pixies out to play. I think he used them in his magick practice. This had been a regular occurrence since he’d moved into the inn. He only had to take his eyes off them for one moment and they played havoc, shrieking like banshees and running around the inn causing chaos, disrupting guests and creating a crazy mess.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” the little auburn-haired witch yelled from the top of the first flight of stairs. “Hey guys!” he shouted at the pixies and they sped away, through the rear door of the bar, into the back passage where The Snug and The Nook were located, and the kitchen beyond them. He threw himself down the stairs and ran after them. “Wait up. Wait up!”
“Finbarr,” I scolded, “you’d better not let them get close to the kitchen or Monsieur Emietter will be scooping out your insides and creating Irish pâté.”
“I’m on it! Don’t you be worrying about that now.” I wished everyone would stop telling me not to worry. I would worry if I wanted to.
The front gardens of the inn were looking lovely. I leaned out of my bedroom window examining the flower beds from the higher vantage point. Pansies and peonies of varying colours were exploding into life. The rose bushes were coming on, and there were beds of green that promised to turn into a summery explosion of sweet peas soon enough. Ned and Zephaniah had done an amazing job of turning what had been little more than a wasteland twelve months ago into a pretty escape, perfect for the guests to amble around, or play outdoor games when the weather was fine.
That reminded me. I intended to purchase some deck chairs so that people could sit out there when the summer arrived properly. It wouldn’t be too long now.
This afternoon there was some definite warmth in the air, although the cloud was low, and the sun had yet to succeed in burning through it. I imagined we were finally going to have some decent weather.
Good. I was heartily fed up of the rain.
I leaned further out of the window to check on the wisteria bushes growing along this side of the inn.
“I can’t see any evidence of new robes, Alfhild.”
The sudden clipped tones of my great grandmother, Gwyn, chimed loudly in my ear, startling me so that I almost lost my balance. I clutched at the windowsill in panic.
“Grandmama,” I protested. “Do you mind? A little warning please. I could have gone over the edge.”
She stood with her arms folded, glowering at me. “Did you just lie to Wizard Shadowmender, Alfhild?”
“You know I did.” I folded my own arms across my chest and mirrored her body language.
“Daemonnes don’t lie.”
“We do if we’re pushed into a tight corner,” I volleyed back at her. “And that’s where I’m at right now.”
“What did you go to London for?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Was it to meet this Hortense chap?”
“Have you been reading my mail?” I asked crossly. Of course she had. Nothing in this inn was sacrosanct. It was like living in the MI5 headquarters, spies everywhere.
“I just happened to see a letter you’d left open on your desk.”
“That’s a likely story.” I wagged my finger at her. “I don’t leave letters open on my desk. You must have been snooping.”
“I’m allowed to snoop. I’m your great grandmother. And I was here before you.”
We glared at each other, until the ridiculousness of the situation hit home, and I laughed. It felt good to suddenly release the
tension, and I laughed far longer than I might otherwise have done.
Gwyn relaxed and smiled too. “So tell me,” she said, when I’d finished wiping tears of mirth from my eyes.
“His name is not Hortense, Grandmama, that’s a girl’s name.”
She waved a hand at me. Get on with it. “Whatever,” she said, mimicking the phrase Charity and I were forever coining.
“It’s Horace T Silvanus. He likes to be known as Silvan.”
Gwyn nodded. “If my name was Horace I’d want to be called something else too. What does the T stand for?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t ask him.”
“So you went to London to meet him? Is he your new love interest?”
“Grandmama!” I couldn’t believe her sometimes.
“It’s been a few weeks.”
I goggled at her in exasperation. “I haven’t given up on George yet! I never will. I’m going to find him.”
A dubious expression crossed Gwyn’s face. “Hmm.”
“Don’t you think I can?” I asked, and Gwyn shrugged. It concerned me that no-one else felt the passing of time the way I did. It was imperative to move quickly but only I seemed to want to do that. But then I suppose everyone else, like Wizard Shadowmender, was biding their time and waiting for a clue that would lead us to George.
They seemed to think we’d find George and rescue him, and everything would be fine. In my mind, I figured I’d have to fight a battle with The Mori first.
Hence the meeting with Silvan.
“I’ve invited Silvan here.”
“To do what?” Gwyn asked, eyeing me with suspicion.
“To help me find George.”
“Is he a detective?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“What then?”
I shook my head, declining to answer, and headed for the open door, and my study on the other side. “You’ll find out if he comes.”
“Well that doesn’t sound very promising.” Gwyn followed me, and I tried to wave her away. “Is he coming or not?”
I frowned. I didn’t know for sure. “He wouldn’t give me a straight answer.”
“Pfft!” The look on Gwyn’s face was a picture. An odd mix of triumph and despair. “What are you getting yourself into now, Alfhild?”
I threw myself into the seat behind my laptop and started hitting the keys with ferocity, entering and re-entering my password incorrectly.
Idon’tknow, I wanted to cry. Idon’tknow, andno-oneseemsto wanttohelpme. So I’ve taken thelaw intomy own handsandI’m goingtofindGeorge.Whateverittakes.
But I didn’t say that. I calmed my fingers and entered my password correctly, then looked up and smiled as benignly as I could manage. “I have to work, darling grandmama. I’m sure you understand.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, until finally she nodded. “Very well,” she said quietly, before slowly beginning to apparate.
As she disappeared, she couldn’t resist a parting shot. “By the way, Alfhild, I went through your entire wardrobe and you do desperately need new robes. Perhaps you should go back up to London, and after you’ve finished shopping, find Wizard Shadowmender and tell him all about Hortense.”
“Not going to happen,” I muttered under my breath, but she’d gone.
“Again,” Silvan instructed. Exhausted and dripping with sweat I directed a ball of energy at an empty whisky bottle. It skittered sideways. Silvan twitched his long thin black wand at it and it resumed its place with a shudder. We had taken refuge in the attic, practicing spells of force. We’d been at it for hours.
My spellcasting ability was weak. I’d vastly improved over the past twelve months, for sure, but even so, the years I’d spent hiding from my vocation had taken a toll. And that was why I’d visited the dark web, looking for someone to teach me all I needed to know. Or all I thought I needed to know. Through my enquiries I’d made some dubious contacts. Silvan was the result of my research.
Horace T Silvanus was a dark witch. A man who knew how to cast spells that hurt others. A being who could be totally devoid of compassion. A witch who could kill using his magick without thinking twice. He was a necromancer—meaning he could call on the dead and speak to them and enlist their help if he needed to.
But most of all he was a mercenary. A witch for hire. If I paid him enough, he’d do as I asked.
He encapsulated everything I understood a war witch to be. Shady, manipulative, merciless, deadly. And as far as I was
concerned, we were at war.
With The Mori.
I’d realised after George’s disappearance and the run-in we’d had with The Mori at the Fayre that I needed to upgrade my skills. Being ‘nice Alf’ simply wasn’t going to cut it anymore.
Nice Alf wasn’t going to bring George back.
Nasty Alf stood a chance.
This afternoon Silvan had me attempting to push back against the magick he used. To say I found myself struggling was an understatement. Moving objects is pretty much Spellcasting 101. So is blocking, or using a defence spell, when someone else throws or directs an object at you. Moving objects that someone else has control of, well that’s a whole different ball game.
I’d tired rapidly. Working with Silvan took so much out of me physically. I had muscles aching, especially in my shoulders, upper back and thighs, that I’d forgotten I had.
Silvan flicked his wand at the bottle again and it hurtled towards me. Instinctively I ducked rather than repel the bottle with my magick, and Silvan had to fling out a hand to catch it by its neck before it smashed into the wall behind me.
“Ugh,” I cringed. After hours of practice, I just wasn’t getting it. I slumped down over my knees, panting.
Silvan laughed. “Are you sure you want to go ahead with this? Perhaps you aren’t fit enough.”
Toomuchcakeandnotenoughexercise. I stood, breathing hard, trying to bring my gasping under control. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”
Silvan’s eyes twinkled. “You have a very attractive flush.” He indicated his own face. Not a bead of sweat to be seen. I knew I must look a state, all wild hair and red face.
“Let’s try again,” I said, struggling to catch my breath.
Florence picked that moment to glide into the room followed by a tray of sandwiches, cakes, fruit and a jug of water with two glasses. She looked at Silvan with wide eyes and he offered her a leering grin in return. If it’s possible for a ghost to blush, I swore Florence did just that.
“Hi Florence,” I said, attempting to distract her.
“Oh, Miss Alf,” she smiled. “Sorry to interrupt you but we missed you at lunch and Charity thought you might be hungry.”
Silvan examined the tray. “Leave the fruit and water and take the rest back,” he said.
“But—” Florence glanced at me for confirmation.
“Go, go, go.” He said, indicating the door with his wand.
Florence decanted the water, glasses and plate of fruit onto a side table and reluctantly took her leave, as I nodded my thanks.
Silvan tossed the empty whisky bottle he’d been clutching into the air, then guided it gently down to the floor. “We should try something else.” He plucked a couple of bananas from the plate and threw one at me. I caught it.
“I was hungry enough for a sandwich,” I said.
He moved over to stand next to me and tapped his wand against my stomach. “You’ve seen too many lunches. We need you to be fit and wiry. Fast-moving. Strong.”
“Do we really?” I growled. I’d been thinking the same, but I didn’t feel it was his place to articulate that thought. “I’m plenty fit enough.” The goddess knew I should be, with the amount of running around after my guests and ghosts I did.
“You should channel that anger of yours into your magick,” Silvan observed with a wry half-smile. He tapped his wand against my chin and I pushed him away, irritated by his over-familiarity.
“I was always taught to control my emotions at school. The teachers there told us it was a sure-fire way of sending your magick askew. We practised endlessly.” I remembered the drills. Rather like learning our multiplication tables but with spells instead. We did all the basic skills repeatedly until we could do them in our sleep - do them without thinking.
Silvan chuckled. “But how old were you then? Seven, eight? No older, I’ll warrant. The problem with school is that our young ones are sent there to be controlled. To be manipulated. You’re coerced to behave in certain ways.” He circled me, tapping his wand against my scalp. I flicked it away with my fingers. “They keep you in line. Insist on your obedience. Teach you to tame the wildness within your soul.
And they tell you that when you control your emotions, you perform clean magick.”
He faced me, “And that’s what you’re doing, Alfhild.” He directed the tip of his wand at the banana I held in my hand. “You practise clean magick. It’s neat. It’s tidy. And it is largely ineffective.” The banana slipped away from my hands and bobbed in the air in front of me. With another wiggle of Silvan’s wand it spun in the air, dancing for my entertainment. “It’s only when you properly let go, when you give free rein to your passion that magick becomes stronger.”
That made sense. I thought of my friend Mara, a witch who lived deep in the forest with her faery changeling. Only last Christmas I’d witnessed the way that her emotions could cause adverse weather conditions. She could wreak storms over East Devon by virtue of feeling a tad fed-up. When she suffered a bereavement, we’d nearly had to cancel all the Inn’s festivities. She’d wrought a snowmageddon that had brought the countryside to its knees.
“It goes against everything I’ve been taught to just let go and… throw magick around willy-nilly.”
Silvan directed the banana back into my hands. “When I first met you in The Web and Flame, you were angry and desperate.”
I nodded, mute. What could I say?
“Presumably you still are? You wouldn’t have invited me here and offered to pay me a ridiculous sum of money if everything was alright in your world.”
Thoughts of George were never far away, along with the horror of finding Derek Pearce dead in his cottage. And what of Mr Bramble, felled by a heart attack at the Psychic and Holistic Fayre held in Whittlecombe at Easter? And Rob Parker, sausage seller extraordinaire, who had lost his impressively-liveried van, but had fortunately been saved before he met a similar sizzling fate to his famous bangers.
George had been a hero that day. I would never give up looking for him.
Plus it wouldn’t surprise me that there were countless other victims of The Mori.
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Iron bridge, the first: 15
Iron boats: Wilkinson builds the first, 14; Symington, 14, 82; Brunel, 32; Onions & Sons, 14; Jervons, 14; at Horsley Works, 14; “Great Eastern” and “Great Western,” 32; Fairbairn, 73-74
Jefferson, Thomas: on interchangeable system in France, 129-131; on Whitney, 135.
Jenks, Alfred: textile machinery, 123, 246-247.
Jenks, Alvin: cotton machinery, 124-125.
Jenks, Barton H.: 247.
Jenks, Eleazer: spinning machinery, 123
Jenks, Joseph: 115-116, 125.
Jenks, Joseph, Jr.: founder of Pawtucket, 118.
Jenks, Joseph, 3d: governor of Rhode Island Colony, 118.
Jenks, Capt. Stephen: guns, 117; nuts and screws, 124; Jenks & Sons, 125.
Jennings gun: origin of, 292-294.
Jerome, Chauncey: brass clocks, 144, 171-172, 233.
Jervons: iron boat, 14.
Jewelry industry in Providence: 126-127.
Johnson, Charles: 237
Johnson, Iver: 226.
Johnson, Judge:
decision, Whitney vs. Fort, 155-157.
Jones & Lamson Machine Co.: 191, 193, 194, 197; flat-turret lathe, 198-199; Fay automatic lathe, 200.
Kaestner: gearing, 64.
Kearney & Trecker: 276.
Kempsmith, Frank: 264-265, 271
Kempsmith Manufacturing Co.: 271, 276.
Kendall, N., & Co.: 186, 189.
Key-seater: 61.
Lamson, Goodnow & Yale: 192, 193.
Lamson Machine Co.: 198.
Landis Tool Co.: 259-260.
Lane & Bodley: 267.
Lapointe, J. N.: broaching machine, 183.
Lathes: pole, 3, 41; engine, 4; in 18th century, 3, 4; automatic, 5, 176; French rose engine, 6; screw-cutting, 19, 35, 40, 119-120; tool-room, 182; Lo-swing, 200; Bramah and Maudslay, 17; Ramsden, 38; Bentham, 38; Maudslay, 40-42, 46; Wilkinson, 119-120; Blanchard, 140, 142-143; Spencer’s turret lathe, 176;
Fay automatic, 200; Sellers, 250.
Lathe, Morse & Co.: 222.
Lawrence, Richard S.: 188-189, 195; profiling machine, 143; master armorer, Sharps Works, 170, 194; lubricated bullet, 194; miller, 191, 194; split pulley, 194; turret lathe, 197; autobiography, 281-291.
Lawrence, Mass.: 127.
Lawrence Machine Shop: 219.
Lead screw: 35, 36, 38, 39, 40, 41, 43.
Le Blanc: interchangeable gun manufacture in France, 130. Le Blond, R. K.: 271.
Lee-Metford rifle: 105.
Leland, Henry M.: 214; on J. R. Brown, 215.
Leonards: 116.
Libbey, C. L.: turret lathes, 275.
Limit gauges: developed in America, 5.
Lincoln, Levi: 165, 171.
Lincoln Co., The: 165.
Lincoln, Charles L., & Co.: 165.
Lincoln, George S., & Co.: 137, 165.
Lincoln miller: 137, 165-166, 208.
Linear dividing engines: 206.
Lingren, W. F., & Co.: 274.
Locomotives: early inventions, 56; Sharp, Roberts & Co., 61-62; Nasmyth, 93.
Lodge, William E.: 268-271.
Lodge & Davis: policy of, 270-271.
Lodge & Shipley Machine Tool Co.: 270.
Lowell, Mass.: 127; machine shops of, 218.
Lowell Machine Shop: 217, 218, 253.
Lucas Machine Tool Co.: 265.
McFarlan, Thomas: 268.
Macaulay, Lord: on Eli Whitney, 161.
Machine tools: effect of modern, 1; crudity in 18th century, 3, 4; developments of, 4, 5, 63, 107; Fairbairn on, 10; Bramah and Maudslay, 34; Whitworth, 99; Greek or Gothic style, 63; developed by cotton industry, 120.
Machine Tool Works: 255
Machinist Tool Co.: 222.
Madison, Wis.: 276.
Manchester, N. H.: 123, 127; founding of, 217.
Manchester Locomotive Works: 217.
Manchester pitch: 70 note 66, 80.
Manville, E. J.: 237.
Map of tool building industry: Fig. 56.
Marshall, Elijah D.: 254.
Marvel, C. M., & Co.: 219.
Mason, William: 170, 173-174.
Massachusetts Arms Co.: 162.
Maudslay, Henry: 7, 8, Chapter IV; estimates of, 9, 43, 44, 45, 48, 49, 88; taps and dies, 10, 42, 88; Portsmouth block machinery, 8, 29, 35;
screw thread practice, 10, 40, 42, 88, 101; cup-leather packing, 18, 34; the slide-rest, 6, 35, 36, 38, 40, 43, 49, 143; screw-cutting lathe, 35, 40, 41, 42, 50, 120; engine improvements, 43; work on plane surfaces, 44, 45, 99, 100.
Maudslay & Field: 8, 19, 35, 58, 98; influence on English tool builders, 46; Moon’s description of shop, 46-48.
Maynard Rifle Co.: 161 Mechanics Machine Co.: 274.
Merrick, S. V.:
introduces steam hammer into United States, 96, 257.
Merrimac Valley: textile works, 124, 127; shops of, 216-219.
Michigan Twist Drill & Machine Co.: 266.
Midvale Steel Co.: 250.
Miles, Frederick B.: steam hammer, 255.
Mill, Anton: 272.
Miller, Patrick: 82.
Miller, Phineas: partner of Eli Whitney, 148-149, 153, 154.
Miller & Whitney: 149, 152.
Miller, universal: origin of, 5, 138 note 163, 208-209.
Milling cutter, formed: 206-207, 208.
Milling machine: Whitney, 142; first in Hartford, 170, 194; Lawrence, 191; Lincoln, 137, 165-166, 208
Millwork: Chapter VI; Nasmyth on, 71. Milwaukee, Wis.: tool builders in, 276-277.
Milwaukee Machine Tool Co.: 277
Moen, Philip L.: 225.
Montanus, Philip: 271.
Moody, Paul: expert in cotton machinery, 218.
Moore & Colby: 252.
Morris, I. P., & Co.: 257, 258.
Mueller, Oscar: 271.
Murdock: 55;
D-slide valves, 51
Murray, Matthew: 7, 54-57, 107; planer, 50, 51, 55, 57;
D-slide valve, 55; steam heating, 56; locomotives, 56; influence on flax industry, 56.
Nashua Manufacturing Co.: 124.
Nasmyth, Alexander: 81, 82, 83.
Nasmyth, James: 7, 8, Chapter VIII; with Maudslay, 46, 48, 87, 88; millwork, 71, 88; steam road carriage, 86; milling machine, 89; shaper, 92; method of invention, 92; steam hammer and other inventions, 93-96; study of the moon, 97; on interchangeable system of manufacture, 140-141.
Nasmyth & Gaskell: 92.
National Acme Manufacturing Co.: multi-spindle automatic lathe, 183, 265.
Naugatuck Valley: Chapter XVIII; brass industry in, 231-238; pin machinery, 233.
New Britain, Conn.:
hardware manufacture in, 171.
Newell, Stanford: Franklin Machine Co.: 125.
New England industries: early development of, 109-110; cotton, 114; iron, 116, 117, 118.
New England Screw Co.: 126.
Newton & Cox: 266.
Newton Machine Tool Works: 266.
New York: early steamboat trade, 127.
Niles, James and Jonathan: 251.
Niles & Co.: 267, 273.
Niles-Bement-Pond Co.: 179, 222, 255, 259, 273.
Niles Tool Works: 267, 273.
Norris, Henry M.: 272.
North Chelmsford Machine & Supply Co.: 124.
North, Henry: 165.
North, Selah: filing jig, 142.
North, Simeon: 161-163; gun contracts, 131, 133, 134, 135, 137, 162, 163; interchangeable system, 133-134, 136, 142, 145, 162.
Norton, Charles H.: precision grinding, 214, 224, 225.
Norton, F. B.: 224, 225.
Norton Company, The: 224, 225.
Norton Emery Wheel Co.: 224.
Norton Grinding Co.: 224, 225.
Norwalk Iron Works Co.: 184.
Oesterlien Machine Co.: 268.
Ohio Machine Tool Co.: 269.
Orr, Hugh: early mechanic, 116-117.
Orr, Robert: master armorer at Springfield, 117.
Otting & Lauder: 268.
Owen, William: 271
Palmer, Courtland C.: 190
Palmer, Jean Laurent: screw caliper, 212, 213.
Palmer & Capron: 127.
Parallel motion: 3 note 6.
Parkhurst, E. G.: 182.
Parks, Edward H.: automatic gear cutters, 214.
Pawtucket, R. I.: manufacturing center, 118, 127; Dr. Dwight on, 121; manufactures of, 118-125.
Peck: lifter for drop hammer, 143.
Pedrick & Ayer: planer, 53.
Phelps & Bickford: 222.
Phœnix Iron Works: 165.
Philadelphia, Pa.: tool builders in, Chapter XIX; early textile machinery, 246.
Pin machinery: 233.
Pitcher, Larned: Amoskeag Manufacturing Co.: 123; Pitcher & Brown, 124.
Pitkin, Henry and James F.: American lever watches, 164.
Pitkin, Col. Joseph: pioneer iron worker, 164.
Planer: in 18th century, 4; developed in England, 4; Bramah, 18; Clement, 19, 52; inventors of the, Chapter V; early French, 50;
Roberts, 51; Murray, 57; Bodmer, 75, 76; Sellers, 248.
Plane surfaces, scraping of:
Maudslay, 44, 45; Whitworth, 44, 98-101.
Plume & Atwood: 234.
Plumier: French writer, 50.
Pond Machine Tool Co.: 222, 259
Pope Manufacturing Co.: 170.
Portsmouth block machinery:
influence on general manufacturing, 5; work of Bentham and Brunel, 8, 9, 22, 26, 27, 28; Maudslay’s contribution to, 29, 35; description of, 29, 30, 31; Roberts, 60; Maudslay and Bentham, 89; approaches interchangeable system, 131.
Potter & Johnson: 183.
Pratt, Francis A.: 137, 170, 177; Lincoln miller, 165, 191.
Pratt & Whitney: 137, 178-183; Interchangeable system, 179; gun machinery and manufacture, 179-180, 182; screw threads, 180-182; tool-room lathe, 182; thread-milling, 183; workmen, 183; turret screw machines, 207.
Precision gear cutter: 206.
Prentice, A. F.: 224.
Prentiss, F. F.: 266
Priority in invention: 5.
Pritchard, Benjamin: 216.
Profiling machine: inventors of, 143.
Providence, R. I.:
early cannon manufacture, 117; trading center, 118; textile industry, 123; manufactures in, 118-126; jewelry industry of, 126-127.
Providence Forge & Nut Co.: 125.
Providence Tool Co.: 125; turret screw machine built for, 207; universal miller built for, 209.
Providence & Worcester Canal: 219-220
Punching machine, Maudslay’s: 43.
Putnam, John: 227-228.
Putnam, Salmon W.: 227-228.
Putnam Machine Co. Works: 200, 227-228.
Ramsden, Jesse: lathe, 38.
Randolph & Clowes: 236.
Reed, F. E.: 224.
Reed & Prentice Co.: 222.
Remington Arms Co.: 161.
Remington, E., & Sons: 175
Rennie, George: 54; planer, 50, 51.
Rennie, Sir John: 54.
Rennie, John: millwright, 54.
Rhode Island Tool Co.: 125.
Richards, Charles B.: 173.
Richards, John: on Bodmer, 79.
Robbins & Lawrence: Chapter XV; interchangeable system, 138; turret lathe, 143, 197; miller, 165, 191; government contracts, 190; Enfield rifle and gun machinery, 191-192; cause of failure, 192; successive owners of plant, 192-194, 200.
Robbins, Kendall & Lawrence: 189-190.
Roberts, Richard: 7, 9, 59-60, 62, 107; with Maudslay, 46, 60; planer, 50, 51, 60; locomotives, 61-62; Sharp, Roberts & Co.: 61, 62.
Robinson, Anthony: screw thread, 39.
Rockford, Ill.:
tool builders in, 274-275.
Rockford Drilling Machine Co.: 274
Rockford Iron Works: 274.
Rockford Lathe & Tool Co.: 274.
Rockford Machine Tool Co.: 274.
Rockford Milling Machine Co.: 274.
Roemer: epicyclic curve, 63.
Rogers, William A.:
Rogers-Bond comparator, 180-182.
Root, Elisha K.: 168-169, 170; influence on die forging, 137; profiling machine, 143; drop hammer, 143, 169; Colt Armory, 169; machinery invented by, 169; horizontal turret principle, 197.
Roper Repeating Arms Co.: 175.
St. Joseph Iron Co.: 253. Savage Fire Arms Co.: 161.
Saxton: gear teeth, 66-67.
Schneider, M., and Nasmyth’s steam hammer: 95-96.
Scituate, R. I.: Hope Furnace, 117.
Scovill Manufacturing Co.: 232.
Screw machines, multi-spindle automatic: 265.
Screw-thread practice: Maudslay and Clement, 10, 19, 42, 58-59, 88; Whitworth standardizes, 10, 101; early methods of screw cutting, 38-40;
Pratt & Whitney, 180-182; history of Sellers’ or U. S. Standard, 249.
Sellers, Dr. Coleman: 251-252; design of railway tools, 251; screw thread, U. S. Standard, 249.
Sellers, William: 247-251, 255; inventions, 247-248; planer, 248; system of screw threads, 248-249; bridge building machinery, 250; great lathe, Washington Navy Yard, 250.
Sellers, William, & Co.: 251, 252.
Sentinel Gas Appliance Co.: 160.
Shapers:
developed in England, 4; Brunel’s, 27; Nasmyth’s “Steel Arm,” 92.
Sharp, Roberts & Co.: 61, 62.
Sharpe, Lucian: 202; American wire gauge, 205.
Sharps, Christian: breech loading rifle, 170, 192.
Sharps Rifle Works: 192, 194, 195.
Shaw, A. J.: 214.
Shepard, Lathe & Co.: 222.
Shipley, Murray: 270.
Slater, Samuel: 114, 119, 121; Arkwright cotton machinery, 120, 121; textile industry, 122; Amoskeag Co., 216-217.
Slide-rest: in 18th century, 4; inventors of, 6; early forms of, 6, 36; Bramah and Maudslay, 17; Maudslay, 35, 36, 38, 40, 43, 49.
Sloan, Thomas J.:
screw machine, 126
Slocomb, J. T.: 214.
Slotter: 61.
Smeaton, John: 2, 3; boring machine, 2, 13; cast iron gears, 64.
Smith, George: 214.
Smith & Mills: 270.
Smith & Phelps: 234.
Smith & Silk: 271
Smith & Wesson: 138.
Snyder, J. E., & Son: 22.
Southwark Foundry & Machine Co.: 173, 256-257.
Spencer, Christopher M.: 170, 175-177; turret lathe, 143, 176; board drop, 143; silk-winding machine, 175; repeating rifle, 175.
Spencer Arms Co.: 177.
Spring: planer, 50, 53.
Springfield, Mass.: 230.
Springfield Armory: 103, 136, 138, 143, 163; Blanchard’s lathes, 142-143.
Springfield Machine Tool Co.: 271.
Standard Tool Co.: 266.
Stannard, Monroe: with Pratt & Whitney, 178.
Steam boats: early, 82; Wilkinson’s, 119.
Steam engine, Watt’s: new element in industry, 1; problems in building, 1-3; first built at Soho, 12; Maudslay’s improvements, 43.
Steam hammer: 4;
Nasmyth’s invention of, 93-96.
Steam heating apparatus: Murray, 56.
Steinle Turret Machine Co.: 277.
Stephenson, George: 6, 32, 56, 150.
Steptoe, John: 267-268.
Steptoe Co., The John: shapers and milling machines, 268.
Stone, Henry D.: 192, 193, 196; turret lathe, 143, 197.
Swasey, Ambrose: 183, 262, 263; dividing engine, 264.
Syme, Johnie: Nasmyth on, 84.
Symington, William: iron boat, 14, 82.
Taps and dies: developed in England, 4; Maudslay’s, 10, 42; Clement’s, 59.
Taylor, Frederick W.: high-speed tool steels, 250, 277.
Taylor & Fenn Co.: 165
Terry, Eli: clocks, 144, 171, 172.
Textile industries: Arkwright and Strutt, 53; influence of Whitney’s cotton gin, 114; in New England, 114, 120, 123, 127; Slater’s influence on, 122.
Textile machinery: Robert’s spinning mule, etc., 61; Bodmer, 77; in New England, 114, 120-121; Wilkinson, 122; Alfred Jenks, 123.
Thomas, Seth: clocks, 144.
Thomaston, Conn.: clock manufacture, 171.
Thurber, Isaac:
Franklin Machine Co., 125
Thurston, Horace: 214.
Tool builders:
general estimate of early, 107; in Central New England, Chapter XVII; Western, Chapter XX.
Tool building centers: 127; map of, Fig. 56.
Torry, Archie: Nasmyth’s foreman, 91
Towne, Henry R.: 257, 258.
Towne, John Henry: 256-257, 258; screw thread, U. S. Standard, 249.
Traveling crane, first: 77, 80.
Trevithick: steam road engine, 56.
Turret lathes: 140; early producers of, 143; Spencer, 176; Howe and Lawrence, 197; Hartness’ flat-turret, 198; Warner & Swasey, 262.
Turret screw machine, improvements on: 207.
Union Steel Screw Works: 198, 265, 266.
Universal Radial Drill Co.: 273.
Wadsworth, Capt. Decius: on Whitney’s interchangeable system, 134-135.
Waldo, Daniel:
Hope Furnace, 117.
Wallace, William: 237
Wallace & Sons: 234.
Waltham Watch Works, see American Watch Co. Warner, Worcester R.: 183, 262, 263.
Warner & Swasey Co.: 261-265; building of astronomical instruments, 263-264.
Washburn, Ichabod: American Steel & Wire Co., 225, 226.
Washburn & Moen Co.: 225
Waterbury Brass Co.: 234, 237.
Waterbury Button Co.: 234.
Waterbury Clock & Watch Co.: 234.
Waters, Asa: 226.
Waston, William: Nasmyth on, 84.
Watt, James: 3, 6, 82, 83, 150, 161; invention of steam engine, 1, 2, 145; parallel motion, 3 note 6; dependence on Wilkinson’s boring machine, 3; opposed by Bramah, 18.
Weed Sewing Machine Co.: 170, 174, 175.
Weeden, W. N.: 237.
Wheeler, William A.: 221.
Wheeler & Wilson: 192.
Whipple, Cullen: 126.
Whitcomb, Carter, Co.: 222.
Whitcomb-Blaisdell Machine Tool Co.: 222.
White, Zebulon: J. S. White & Co., 122.
White Sewing Machine Co.: 193, 266.
Whitman-Barnes Co.: 266.
Whitney, Amos: 137, 170, 177, 219.
Whitney, Baxter D.: 177, 230.
Whitney, Eli: 6, 146-147, 161, 177; interchangeable system, 76, 132-133, 134-135, 136, 145, 146, 158-159; cotton gin, 114, 131, 145, 148-158; U. S. contract of 1798, 131-132, 158, 159; Whitneyville plant, 132, 162, 158, 160; method of manufacture, 158-159; milling machine, 142; Miller & Whitney, 149.
Whitney, Eli, Jr.: contract for “Harper’s Ferry” rifle, 160; steel-barreled muskets, 160, 162. Whitney Arms Co.: 160-161; first Colt revolvers made by, 167.
Whitworth, Joseph: 7, 8, 9, 93; Chapter IX; screw-thread practice, 10, 59, 101, 102 note 105; manufacture of plane surfaces, 44, 45, 98-101; with Maudslay, 46, 98; shaper and improvements in machine tools, 99; improved methods of measurement, 101; ordnance and armor, 104-105; on American automatic machinery, 102-104; William Armstrong, 105.
Wilcox & Gibbs Sewing Machines: 208, 210, 213
Wilkinson, Abraham: 119.
Wilkinson, Daniel: 119, 122.
Wilkinson, David: 123, 124, 125; patent on slide-rest, 6; steamboat, 119; slide lathe, 119-120; textile machinery, 122; nail manufacture, 122.
Wilkinson, Isaac: 119, 125.
Wilkinson, John: 2, 8, 11, 15; boring machine, 3, 10, 11, 12, 13, 60; first iron boat, 14; first iron bridge, 15; relations with Boulton & Watt, 12, 13.
Wilkinson, Ozeal: 118-119, 121, 122.
Wilkinson, William: 119, 121.
Willimantic Linen Co.: 175, 178.
Willis, Robert: 69 note 64; gear teeth, 63, 64, 69-70.
Wilmot, S. R.: micrometer, 212.
Winchendon, Mass.: woodworking machinery, 230
Winchester Repeating Arms Co.: 160, 174.
Windsor, Vt.: 127, 186.
Windsor Machine Co.:
Gridley automatic lathes, 194, 200.
Windsor Manufacturing Co.: 193
Wolcott, Oliver: 132.
Wolcottville Brass Co.: 233-234.
Wood, Light & Co.: 222.
Woodruff & Beach: 165.
Woodward & Powell Planer Co.: 224.
Woodworking machinery: Bramah, 18, 19, 24; Bentham, 24, 25; Brunel, 31; in Massachusetts, 229.
Worcester, Mass.: 127; tool builders in, 219-226; early textile shops of, 220; gun makers in, 226.
Worm-geared tilting pouring-ladle, Nasmyth’s: 91-92. Worsley, S. L.: automatic screw machine, 208.
Wright, Sylvester: 200, 228.
Yale & Towne Manufacturing Co.: 258
Transcriber’s Notes
Inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, etc. have been retained, in particular in quoted material. Minie rifles and Minié rifles both occur in the text. Depending in the hard- and software used to read this text and their settings, not all elements may display as intended.
Page 20, Group portrait Eminent Men of Science: there are 50 people in the portrait, but only 48 are identified in the accompanying list.
Page 217, he and his brother, Ziba Gay, ...: also referred to as Zeba Gay in this text.
Page 223, Figure 45: The source document does not show any links to or from the entry A. F. Prentice.
Page 235, F. J. Kingsbery, Sr. and F. J. Kingsbury, Jr.: as printed in the source document; either one may be an error or misprint.
Index: sorting errors have not been rectified.
Changes made
Footnotes, illustrations and charts have been moved out of text paragraphs; footnotes have been renumbered consecutively throughout the book (and footnote references have been adjusted where necessary).
Some obvious minor typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected silently.
Text in
dashed boxes
have been transcribed from the accompanying charts, and give a (very) approximate indication of the relative positions of chart elements.
List of names after page 20: Patrick Millar changed to Patrick Miller.
Index: the inconsistent lay-out has been standardised; some entries (mainly proper names) have been changed to conform to the spelling used in the text.