Read Online Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium by Robert Rodgers - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Rodgers
Tags: Steampunk, SteamPunkKidz
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hand," Snips said, taking another bite out of the crumpet.
"I should have known he would attempt some form of sabotage. I cannot believe that—" Miss Primrose stopped and stared, looking from her now empty hand back up to the crumpet Snips was eating. "Oh, for goodness sake. Give me that!" She snatched the crumpet back, placing it aside.
Snips licked the excess butter off her fingers. "So, what is it that we'll be up to?"
"'We' will be up to nothing. You are to accompany us as we investigate this death as thoroughly as possible."
"And I'll be doing what, precisely?"
"Keeping quiet," Miss Primrose snapped.
~*~
Cobbled together from a pastiche of styles, the Steamwork looked as if it had suffered an assault at the hands of a roving pack of mad Victorian architects. 'Something stylish and elegant,' the first had said. 'With Corinthian columns and a Greco-Roman motif.'
'Buttresses! Flying buttresses!' the second had roared. 'With steeples! More steeples! Steeples on top of steeples!'
'And perhaps a bit of wood leafing around the windows.
Nothing too flashy, mind you, but just a few subtle touches here and there—'
'—arches! More flying buttresses! Six fireplaces! A balcony! And—'
'Let's slap on some avocado paint and call it a day,' the third had said.
The final result broke six city ordinances and at least two laws of physics.
When the three investigators arrived, they found someone attending to a statue of a muse located near the front door, polishing up her naughty bits with a dirty hanky. The man was just finishing buffing her to a marbleized shine when he noticed them approaching.
"Good afternoon, sir," Miss Primrose announced. "We are members of the Watts Detective Agency, here to investigate the matter of your recent unfortunate tragedy—"
The man spat into his hanky, gave the statue one last swab, then turned to approach the three of them. He was older than old; he was old back when old was still a fad. When God had said 'Let there be light', this was the fellow who had been sitting on the back porch, shaking his cane and complaining about all the racket those whippersnappers were making with their new dang-fangled invention.
"Pleasure t'meet ya," he said, giving Miss Primrose a crooked grin and offering her a grimy palm. "I'm Dunnigan McGee, the janitor. Is this your first time here?"
"I am afraid so," Miss Primrose admitted, refraining from taking the hand. "You have a very, ah, interesting building here,"
she observed, glancing past Dunnigan.
"Aye, she's a beaut." He gave the door a sturdy kick and shoved it open with his shoulder. "We'll probably have some papers for you t'sign. Indemnities against electrocution, combustion, subtraction, that sort of thing—"
"Subtraction?" Snips asked. "What do you mean,
'subtraction'?"
"Math can get a little out of hand around these parts, ma'am."
The interior of the Steamwork looked worse than the exterior; it was held together by nothing more than springs, duct-tape, and liberal amounts of whimsy. Lengths of pipes speared overhead, spewing out plumes of scalding steam at irregular intervals; tables groaned beneath the weight of alchemical apparatuses and books explaining the intimate details of flying sloths' mating rituals. On quite a few occasions, the detectives could see past the scorched ceiling to the floor above through holes caused by various explosions. These pits had been patched up with a few bits of metal grating and nets.
"What is it exactly that you do here?" Snips asked.
"A little bit of everything," Dunnigan said. "We're a factory for ideas, missus."
Snips hmphed. "Any good ones?"
"Sometimes," Dunnigan admitted. "Sometimes, well—it's complicated."
A case of indigestion stirred somewhere in the bowels of the building. A dull thump and a series of distant explosions rattled the jars on the shelves and sent several experiments clattering to the floor. Dunnigan sighed.
"Things have been a bit stressed since Basil's accident," he
"I should have known he would attempt some form of sabotage. I cannot believe that—" Miss Primrose stopped and stared, looking from her now empty hand back up to the crumpet Snips was eating. "Oh, for goodness sake. Give me that!" She snatched the crumpet back, placing it aside.
Snips licked the excess butter off her fingers. "So, what is it that we'll be up to?"
"'We' will be up to nothing. You are to accompany us as we investigate this death as thoroughly as possible."
"And I'll be doing what, precisely?"
"Keeping quiet," Miss Primrose snapped.
~*~
Cobbled together from a pastiche of styles, the Steamwork looked as if it had suffered an assault at the hands of a roving pack of mad Victorian architects. 'Something stylish and elegant,' the first had said. 'With Corinthian columns and a Greco-Roman motif.'
'Buttresses! Flying buttresses!' the second had roared. 'With steeples! More steeples! Steeples on top of steeples!'
'And perhaps a bit of wood leafing around the windows.
Nothing too flashy, mind you, but just a few subtle touches here and there—'
'—arches! More flying buttresses! Six fireplaces! A balcony! And—'
'Let's slap on some avocado paint and call it a day,' the third had said.
The final result broke six city ordinances and at least two laws of physics.
When the three investigators arrived, they found someone attending to a statue of a muse located near the front door, polishing up her naughty bits with a dirty hanky. The man was just finishing buffing her to a marbleized shine when he noticed them approaching.
"Good afternoon, sir," Miss Primrose announced. "We are members of the Watts Detective Agency, here to investigate the matter of your recent unfortunate tragedy—"
The man spat into his hanky, gave the statue one last swab, then turned to approach the three of them. He was older than old; he was old back when old was still a fad. When God had said 'Let there be light', this was the fellow who had been sitting on the back porch, shaking his cane and complaining about all the racket those whippersnappers were making with their new dang-fangled invention.
"Pleasure t'meet ya," he said, giving Miss Primrose a crooked grin and offering her a grimy palm. "I'm Dunnigan McGee, the janitor. Is this your first time here?"
"I am afraid so," Miss Primrose admitted, refraining from taking the hand. "You have a very, ah, interesting building here,"
she observed, glancing past Dunnigan.
"Aye, she's a beaut." He gave the door a sturdy kick and shoved it open with his shoulder. "We'll probably have some papers for you t'sign. Indemnities against electrocution, combustion, subtraction, that sort of thing—"
"Subtraction?" Snips asked. "What do you mean,
'subtraction'?"
"Math can get a little out of hand around these parts, ma'am."
The interior of the Steamwork looked worse than the exterior; it was held together by nothing more than springs, duct-tape, and liberal amounts of whimsy. Lengths of pipes speared overhead, spewing out plumes of scalding steam at irregular intervals; tables groaned beneath the weight of alchemical apparatuses and books explaining the intimate details of flying sloths' mating rituals. On quite a few occasions, the detectives could see past the scorched ceiling to the floor above through holes caused by various explosions. These pits had been patched up with a few bits of metal grating and nets.
"What is it exactly that you do here?" Snips asked.
"A little bit of everything," Dunnigan said. "We're a factory for ideas, missus."
Snips hmphed. "Any good ones?"
"Sometimes," Dunnigan admitted. "Sometimes, well—it's complicated."
A case of indigestion stirred somewhere in the bowels of the building. A dull thump and a series of distant explosions rattled the jars on the shelves and sent several experiments clattering to the floor. Dunnigan sighed.
"Things have been a bit stressed since Basil's accident," he
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