The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“Only the General’s boot polishing machine,” Stockwell said grimly. “I fear it is hardly a great cultural step forward for mankind, nor will it be of particular benefit to anyone at all. As you quite reasonably pointed out to young William, it is merely a toy for gentlemen, until they tire of it and find a new one. Probably the best that can be said of it is that it is not dangerous. No one will cut off their fingers, or set fire to the house with it.”

Brodie sighed. “I suppose we had better have a look at it, since we are here anyway.” She gazed around her. “Where is it?”

“It is in the next room, where the curator is. Although what harm he imagines could come to any of these, I don’t know. I suppose someone might try to use one of them?”

Brodie gave him a withering look.

He shrugged.

Side by side, but not touching, they made their way to the third room and its exhibits. The curator was standing in the centre. On the wall by the door as one would leave was a poster declaring proudly that the event would be opened officially by the French Ambassador to the Court of St James, on April 12th, which would be … the day after tomorrow.

“Well, which is it?” Brodie whispered, staring around her at the extraordinary array of machines and contraptions of every size and shape that were established against the wall. Not one of them looked obviously useful. Some resembled clothes mangles, others tin boxes with wires, yet others elaborate typewriters. One looked rather like a bicycle stood upside down on its saddle, with two rather small wheels. Stockwell pointed to it.

“That is it,” he said very quietly, so the curator would not hear him.

Brodie’s heart sank. It really did look extraordinarily cumbersome — more fun than a brush and cloth and a good jar of polish, but a great deal less convenient. She was 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.