The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,152

now quite convinced that William’s job was in no jeopardy.

“Oh dear,” she murmured sadly.

They walked over with affected casualness and stared at the contraption. Viewed from only a yard away, it was even more like a bicycle. It was possible to see quite easily which were the moving parts, where the brushes were, and where one was intended to place one’s foot in order to have one’s boots very highly polished. There was a metal foot with many joints, and a ratchet to alter its size according to the boot in question, but it would still be an awkward and rather time-consuming task to place the boot accurately. It was so much easier simply to put one’s hand into a boot or shoe, and polish with a brush in the other hand. Brodie refrained from comment.

“Ah …” Stockwell said thoughtfully. “I believe I see the principle upon which it works. Simple, yet clever. It would obtain a most excellent shine.”

“Yes,” Brodie agreed loyally. After all, it was a British invention and the General was one of the household. “It certainly would. Unparalleled.” She continued to look at it in the hope she could see something she could admire more genuinely. The longer she looked at it, the less hope did she feel.

Stockwell must now have been feeling the same, judging by the despair in his face.

Brodie went over the mechanism in her mind once more, envisioning precisely how it would work, when switched on. There seemed to be a part whose function she could not see; in fact the more she considered it, the more convinced she was that it was not only redundant, but it would actually get in the way when the thing was set in motion. There were two parts of it, metal parts, which were bound to touch when they moved in the only way they could. She pointed it out to Stockwell.

“You must be mistaken, Miss Brodie,” he said quite kindly. After all, how could she be expected to understand how a machine would work.

“No I’m not, Mr Stockwell,” she replied. She was very good at judging the length of a thing with her eye. Good heavens, she had sewed from exact measurements for enough years. She knew the length of a skirt, the size of a waist or the width of a hem to an exactness. “It will strike that piece there!”

“Really!” he said with diminishing patience. “Do you imagine Mr Dagliesh and the General have not tried it out?”

Actually, Brodie thought that was very likely, since she was more than ever convinced that the rising bar would catch against the angled cross bar – not violently, but sufficient to graze it – and since they were both apparently metal, to strike a spark. It also looked long enough to touch the bar immediately above, but perhaps that did not matter. That might be where it was meant to rest. However, with the best will in the world, which she had, she could not admire it with any enthusiasm.

Stockwell was still regarding her crossly, waiting for an answer.

“I suppose they must have,” she conceded reluctantly, and then with a parting shot. “I don’t understand what that piece is for?” She pointed to the metal bar against which the moving part must rest when it had completed its cycle.

Stockwell’s face took on a look of indulgent superiority.

“It is part of the structure, Miss Brodie, necessary for the strength of the machine when it is in motion.”

“I don’t see how.” His tone troubled her. “Surely that piece above it is sufficient for that purpose? It is not going to bear either weight or stress.” Her mouth compressed into a thinner line.

“It must do, or it would not be there!”

“What stress? Surely the piece above it serves that purpose?”

“Do not concern yourself, Miss Brodie,” he said coldly. “Machinery is not the natural talent of women. It is hardly to be expected that you should understand the principles of engineering. It reflects no discredit upon you.”

She had not for an instant considered it might. It was discredit to the machine she had in mind. But she could see from the set of his face that he did not understand it either, and therefore would brook no argument. However, he added one word too many. “I am sure you can appreciate that, Miss Brodie!”

“No,” she said abruptly. “It is not myself I am questioning, it is the machine. I am afraid it is not quite right, and may let