Maiden Flight

By Vita Tugwell

What do you do when your arch-nemesis gives you a hundred monkeys?
All Petticoat Katie wanted was a quiet night with a trashy novelette. But one chance encounter over a stolen eclair with the villainous Ditto Sloth and boom! - she's the boss of London's largest pulp-fiction factory.
And her unusual workers are one banana short of a General Strike.
Then there's the missing airship plans, the stolen ghost of Anne Boleyn, whistling soap and the Wickedest Man In The World.
Petticoat Katie takes off on her first full-length adventure crammed with tea and peppermints, lovestruck inventors, Icelandic feminists - and a remarkable little airship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee McAulay
• Release date: Feb 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310981722

Vita Tugwell

Vita Tugwell is a 21st Century Suffragette. She lives in England in spite of its dreadful weather and light romantic comedies and partakes, often, of High Tea. She wishes ill fortune upon the person or persons unknown who have stolen her bicycle.Yes, she is currently working on the third novel in the Petticoat Katie & Sledgehammer Girl series, in between chocolate bourbons.

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MAIDEN FLIGHT

The First Petticoat Katie Novel

Copyright 2012 Vita Tugwell

All Rights Reserved

Published at Smashwords

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, inventions, gadgets and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously.

This work is protected by copyright. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, information storage and retrieval systems – without the prior permission of the copyright owner. The moral right of the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988. All the characters in this work are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Miss Tugwell would like to extend her thanks to Ms DkA & Mrs PM for comments and sharp-eyed attention to detail; also to Mr G for support, encouragement and endless patience; to her brother for the lifelong silly conversations; and to her friends for their eccentricity, without which this novel would have been a blimmin’ sight more difficult to produce.

DEDICATION

For Dawn

CHAPTER ONE

Petticoat Katie stood in the Tea Room of the Royal Society, teacup and saucer in hand and a tiny biscuit perched on the edge of the china, at the end of the Edison Lecture. Her dark hair hung down her back in lazy ringlets, tied back with a green ribbon from a box of peppermint creams, and her loose dress gave her a bohemian air that her stout boots could not dispel, no matter how tightly she laced them.

She glanced around trying to spot her housemates.

The redoubtable Miss Victoria Templeman, otherwise known as Sledgehammer Girl on account of her manners and bearing, and Mr Darius Fitzgerald – a dapper chap of less-than-average height and build and with matinee idol looks of the sort described by the popular press as swarthy – were nowhere to be seen.

Katie tutted. Their enthusiasm was the only reason she’d agreed to attend the dratted event – all right, their enthusiasm and the promise of Free Refreshments – and for them to have abandoned her in the Tea Room surrounded by strangers was A Bit Off.

The members of the Royal Society stood chatting with each other and Thomas Edison stood off to the side of the impromptu stage with a group of admirers jostling each other in their eagerness to engage him in conversation. The crowd were mainly male, mainly engineers, and mainly ignoring her.

This was not a situation to which Katie was accustomed.

She had, however, learned not to expect much more from the Royal Society lectures, Free Refreshments or otherwise. Her horror of mathematics ran so deep that she preferred being ignored if the alternative was talking about squiggles and Greek.

Normally the sort of woman who stood around waiting to be noticed, she knew from past experience that amongst the inventors and bodgers assembled in the halls of the Royal Society she might wait a considerable while for a conversation unless she initiated it herself.

She gravitated to the cake stand and helped herself to tea. From that vantage point, Katie sidled up to the only other member of the esteemed community she recognised. Mr Bazalgette, I presume?

Beside her the large bulk of Otto Bazalgette, who had blotted out her view of the podium earlier in the evening, swayed a little, and the face of the Wiltshire inventor beamed down at her through an immense beard, which had not been quite so immense the last time the pair had met. Miss Fellowes, he said with a voice that rattled the windows. How delightful! Are you here on your own?

She shook her head. I was about to ask you the same question.

He balanced his own teacup in the palm of one hand while he patted his pockets with the other, as if searching for something. Alas, yes, he said. The Sibyl has limited room for passengers, as you know.

He withdrew a small silver teaspoon from one pocket - its business end mostly flat and pierced in an unusual pattern - and stirred his tea with an elaborate swirling motion, no doubt the result of hours of study to devise the most efficient manner of dispersing the sugar into the liquid.

Otto was that kind of man. He was an Inventor. His out-of-season tweed three-piece always looked a little too small and slightly crumpled, even if his shirt-collars were immaculate and his pockets filled with spanners.

You travelled here by airship? said Katie, her mind picturing the rather natty little vessel with which she had been acquainted the previous autumn. Her straw bonnet had still not recovered from the trip to Wiltshire to investigate peculiar weather patterns.

He nodded.

"I thought it - the Sibyl, you say? - she was quite roomy. There was room enough for Victoria, at least, without the rest of us suffering." And you too, Mr B, she thought as she glanced up at him.

For a brief moment, she pictured herself in flagrante with Otto Bazalgette - as was her habitual practice upon making the acquaintance of a new man in her social circle, Katie being nothing more than a flirt with an eye for adventures of her own - and she was immediately put in mind of the mahouts at Mr Camembert’s circus, those wiry Burmese perched atop the performing elephants as they danced around the ring in tutus, balancing on their hind legs with a rubber ball beneath them. She shook her head to rid herself of the image.

Otto Bazalgette beamed. I’ve made some adjustments since then, I’m afraid. Is - is Miss Templeman with you? He paused just a little too long before adding, And your other housemate whose name I’ve forgotten - Mario?

Darius, she corrected him. Darius Fitzgerald. He’s over there talking to Michael Faraday. Her mind had hooked onto that little pause that Otto had inserted before he asked about Darius. It’s as if he’s covering something up, she thought, her Fortean senses always looking for the unusual. She had a good idea what it was.

Ah, yes, he said, craning his neck, although there was no need. He towered over Katie, a slender bear of a man, his jacket bulging as if he hid enthusiasm in the seams. A small flicker of interest lit up his eyes for a brief moment, then was suppressed and replaced with thinly-disguised dismay.

Ping! A light-bulb went on in Katie’s head. She followed his gaze surreptitiously as she bit into the little biscuit - it turned out to be a wafer of the Belgian sort, and not entirely as crisp as it ought to have been - to see Sledgehammer Girl engaged in conversation with a man not much smaller than Otto. Who’s that with Victoria? she asked, and masked her sly grin with another nibble of the biscuit.

Otto shook himself, not quite convincingly enough, and made a show of looking over at the pair. I believe it’s Mr Edison’s assistant, he said, his voice brittle.

So it is, said Katie. Mr Bruce.

Is that his name? Otto almost hissed. He stared over at the pair on the other side of the room. His fingers curled around the edge of the saucer that rested in his palm.

Katie feared for its survival. Bruce Bruce, she said with a smile, and patted him on the arm. Shame his parents couldn’t afford another name for him, don’t you think?

She glanced over once more to where Victoria stood talking to Bruce Bruce. The American stood a little back from her substantial friend and Katie recognised the overwhelming vigour Victoria brought to a conversation in which she was enthusiastically engaged.

Victoria’s straw boater, perched on her up-bunned hair, bobbed its little serge ribbon the way a duck flaps its tail. Her broad shoulders heaved under her second-best blouse, almost tugging the hem out of the waistband of her long black skirt. The larger woman’s gestures filled the space between her and the American, as expansive as a semaphore operator signalling for urgent aid while holding a teacup and a carpet-bag.

Something more awkward than usual in Victoria’s stance set Katie’s Fortean senses twitching like a Galvanised frog.

She turned to Otto with a simpering glance which she usually employed to either save a few minutes in her ongoing engagement with a new male acquaintance or gain a few minutes worth of thinking time. Mr Bazalgette, do tell - what have you done to the Sibyl since last we parted?

Otto blinked and shook his head as if distracted. He smiled down at her, his eyes dark and hooded and still ringed with the impression of his flying-goggles. You’ll think me an awful bore, he said, If I start banging on about airships and suchlike.

Not at all, Mr Bazalgette. I only wish Victoria were here to discuss the tribulations of the Sibyl with us. I’m sure she’d be fascinated.

Otto rumbled on about brass trimmings and gas tanks and air bags and altitude, while Katie made appreciative noises at appropriate pauses in the conversation and sipped her tea, using the movement to watch Victoria and Bruce Bruce interact on the other side of the room.

Victoria, acting entirely out of character, was also living up to her nickname in spectacular fashion. Mr Bruce, she gushed in a tone that surprised and irritated her while she spoke, That was a simply fascinating lecture. Will you tell Mr Edison as much, on my behalf?

Certainly, ma’am, drawled the American. His face was square with a little blond beard that barely broke the surface of his skin, and he scanned the room with his eyes while he talked, as if constantly expecting someone more interesting to appear and interrupt the conversation in which he was currently involved, no matter whether he was talking to someone he found intensely fascinating or an utter bore. He was doing it now. Who shall I say is interested? he said with the briefest of glances in her direction.

Victoria found her breath caught in her substantial chest, somewhere between her foundation garment and her most recent chocolate bourbon. Hold this, she said and handed him her teacup as if she’d been doing it for years while she popped open her carpet bag with both hands. I’ve got my card somewhere. She put one hand in and rummaged, but gave up in frustration. Too much junk in here, she smiled, shrugging, and rather annoyed with her own helplessness.

She started to empty the bag. Out came a shifting spanner which she tucked under one arm, then a suite of tiny screwdrivers in a case that fitted behind her left ear, and then with a blush she brought out the Derringer which Darius had once made her carry on a surprise trip to Inverness the previous year. "Ah-hah!" she said, spotting a slim packet of visiting cards at the bottom of the bag.

At a loss to where to put the Derringer that she might reach into the bag for the cards, she gripped it between her teeth. She fished out the cards and replaced everything in the bag.

Only then did she notice the hush that had fallen over the room. The only noise in the Royal Society Tea Room was the hiss of the tea-kettle over on the stand with the Free Refreshments.

Over on the other side of the room, Katie stood with her face buried in a gloved hand.

Victoria, the Derringer still between her teeth, glanced around. Everyone else was staring at her.

Including the man next to Katie, whom Victoria was certain she recognised even at that distance.

Miss Templeman, said the voice of Bruce Bruce beside her, his hand gently pressing her arm.

Mmph? she said, distracted, and removed the Derringer from her mouth. Here’s my card. For some reason she felt flushed, even as the room began to murmur again and the conversation’s warm buzz surrounded her once more.

She held out her calling-card to Mr Bruce, who plucked it from her fingers without making contact.

That’s quite a firearm for a little lady, he said with a twinkle in his room-scanning eyes.

Victoria felt herself blushing even as she bristled at his description of her. It was partly true, because next to him she supposed she was little, but there was hardly anyone else in the room she didn’t overwhelm. Except that man who’s over there with Katie, she thought, peering again at the bearded giant on the other side of the room.

Can you handle it?

What?

Bruce Bruce took her by the elbow, a gentle pinching manoeuvre that steered her gently away from the podium and any opportunity she might have of talking to Mr Edison. I was given the impression that handguns are not popular in Britain - far less than required, at any rate. Yet here I am in the centre of London, the world’s most civilised city, in the company of a young lady who has a Derringer in her handbag. He smiled, a dazzling array of expensive dentistry gleaming while his eyes refused to join in. I find that rather intriguing.

Oh really? she gushed, her momentary embarrassment vanishing under the power of his praise. "It’s just something a - friend - gave me." She packed the gun away in her bag and replaced the spanner and miniature screwdriver set on top of it.

Bruce Bruce handed back her cup-and-saucer with an amused look on his face. I’m impressed. Would you care to come out with me to the ranges for practice tomorrow?

Me? she thought. Her blunt approach to life’s challenges surfaced once more from an unfamiliar puddle of girlishness and broke for air. Certainly, she said, her recent fluster forgotten under a deluge of common sense. You can show me how to use it.

I’d be delighted, he said, and tucked her visiting card into his wallet. For Mr Edison, he said with a wink. He took that opportunity to excuse himself from the conversation, leaving her on her own with a cold cup of tea in one hand and the incriminating carpet-bag dangling from the other.

She jutted her chin out and straightened her shoulders and sipped the tea nonetheless as she watched Bruce Bruce work the crowd away from her. She was irritated by his abrupt departure, but a small part of her was confused and disappointed and also strangely exhilarated when she remembered his invitation.

On the other side of the room, Katie peeked out from behind her hand. What is she doing now? she asked Otto. Can I look yet?

It’s fine, he said, a hint of tetchiness in his voice. She’s put it away.

What was she thinking? she asked under her breath.

Otto replied with a distracted, sullen silence, his mouth set in a thin crimson line amongst his bushy black beard. She really is rather remarkable, in her own way, isn’t she?

Katie glanced up at him. She felt no threat from his demeanour, more a gentle pity now she’d worked out why he was so glum. I suppose Mr Bruce thought she might be a Suffragette, she said, attempting to make light of the event.

A Suffragette? he asked, turning towards her sharply. And why not, indeed?

Oh, you know, she said quickly, The popular press would have us believe that all the women of Britain are dangerous and subversive and desperate to pervert the Houses of Parliament.

I should think so too, he said in a firm voice, although it was barely a whisper. It’s what they need. And women like Miss Templeman ought not to be ashamed of it, if such are their political convictions.

Mr Bazalgette, you surprise me, she said, touching his arm in a gesture of affection. I’m sure Victoria would be pleased to hear such sentiments.

Really?

I’m sure of it, she replied, amused. Is he really bouncing on his toes? she thought.

A little voice in her head replied, Yes.

Shortly followed by, Well, well.

Once more she was reminded of the elephants in Mr Camembert’s circus, the wiry Burmese mahouts perched on top of the prancing pachyderms in much the same way as a monkey sat on an organ-grinder’s barrel. The image was not a romantic one, but it served to remind her of Mr Camembert, the man with more nipples than normal, and her mouth tingled with remembrance of their previous meeting in his Cabinet Of Curiosities when she and Victoria were investigating the Missing Mermaid of Scipio Jones.

Mr Camembert she certainly could picture herself perched on top of, his extra nipples be damned.

Excuse me, she said to Otto, and went off in search of an eclair with which to refresh her memory of the occasion.

The lady in the queue ahead of Katie was dressed entirely in the New Black, which is to say top-to-toe, from her slender feathered hat to her slender-slippered shoes and all between sheathed in black taffeta tailoring so sharp it would have your eye out as soon as look at you. A three-foot length of what looked like blueprints rolled into a scroll under one spiky elbow, the woman was so slender she had no right to eat cream buns like the normal population.

From under her folded hat a cropped halo of golden curls escaped, no doubt formed with the latest of fashionable hair-tongs. The bright electric lights of the Royal Society Tea Room rendered the coiffure incandescent. The effect was breathtaking.

Not quite so breathtaking, in Katie’s consideration, as the motion the woman made towards the last chocolate eclair on the cake stand. I say, said Katie, tapping her on one angular elbow in the hope of diverting her from the refreshments, Wasn’t that a fascinating lecture?

The woman turned sharply, her face as angular as the rest of her. Pardon?

I said, wasn’t that fascinating?

I suppose so, said the woman with a curt laugh, and turned back towards the eclair. She levered it mercilessly onto a little plate with the aid of a pair of silver tongs in the shape of a frog which she dropped back onto the cake stand amongst the custard slices .

That’s mine, thought Katie spitefully. Get your hands off it!

I did think he went on a bit much, though, said the other woman with a brittle smile. In her gloved hand the cake-plate tilted at an alarming angle, the eclair only clinging to the surface with the aid of a dribble of sticky icing.

Katherine Fellowes, said Katie, holding out her hand in introduction. I’m always pleased to make the acquaintance of another member of the fair sex at these events. It was a fib, but she didn’t care. She was more concerned with the plate in the other woman’s hand and the gentle glide of the eclair towards the lip.

Ethel Fitch, said the lady, her handshake like a wet cloth. I suppose.

Was that the last eclair? said Katie in what she hoped sounded like a dismayed tone, and not the irked one she actually felt.

Looks like it, said Ethel with a tiny smirk of triumph. I’m going to enjoy this, if you know what I mean.

You and I are ladies of the world, Ms Fitch, said Katie, trying hard to smile.

Verily, said Ethel, her teeth already tugging at the fingertips of her right-hand glove, that she might tackle the bun bare-handed. Her eyes had a determined gleam and she licked her lips. Excuse me, she said with a nod of her head in acknowledgement, another smirk directed towards Katie’s empty little plate, and turned to go.

Katie waved goodbye to the eclair with a sigh.

Ethel! Darling!, cried a man’s voice just behind her in the queue, and a man’s hand snaked out towards the angular woman. He plucked the bun from Ethel’s plate, the rest of him followed the hand and the voice into view, and his face enveloped the eclair in two swift bites.

Ditto! You rascal! Ethel Fitch whirled round and slapped the man on the top of his greasy head.

Katie half expected her hand to shatter. She glanced at the newcomer and realised, with a nauseous lurch of her stomach, that she recognised him.

His tight grey curls receding across his pink forehead as if ashamed to be seen with him, his spectacles grubby and his down-at-heel clothing patched at the elbows - all indicative of the nature of the man whom she and Victoria had encountered in Piccadilly in a sordid little tale of publishing and exploitation. She had unappealing memories of the man, and here he was at the Royal Society, stealing a chocolate eclair which was rightfully hers and reminding her of his existence.

Dr Sloth! said Katie, unable to disguise her disgust. All thoughts of cream buns soured as he turned towards her, his thin pink tongue searching on his chin for stray cream that might have escaped the onslaught of his gluttony.

You! he said with a greedy grin. Well, well, well.

You know each other? asked Ethel, reaching once more for the cream buns on the table behind her, apparently not at all disappointed by the rogue theft of her eclair - not as disappointed as Katie, at any rate.

Dr Sloth shrugged. His jacket might have creaked under the effort. A yellow stain around the collar of his shirt indicated it needed a good wash. He had a banana in his top pocket where an ordinary man would keep a handkerchief, and a line of pale stubble shadowed his cheeks. We’ve met, he said to Ethel with a louche grin as he slipped the rolled-up blueprints from under her elbow. She’s another satisfied customer of Sloth Enterprises.

Ethel giggled and slapped him playfully on the shoulder, her sharp eyes never leaving Katie’s face.

Katie’s appetite had retreated beyond the bounds of the conversation. She had only met the man once before, at his offices in Piccadilly, when she had returned to him a trashy novelette published by his outfit and discovered his authors were all monkeys, chained to typewriters, in an airless room above a Chinese sweatshop. She cleared her throat. Are you still publishing those awful novelettes, Dr Sloth?

He leered at her. Are you still buying them?

She had no reply ready. She pursed her lips in disapproval.

Ditto Sloth unrolled the blueprints a few inches, nodded and tucked the papers under his own arm like a sergeant-major’s baton. I’m always delighted, he said in a voice oozing oily charm, "To meet a member of the public with such a keen interest in my work."

Katie bristled. Your business is an outrage to all who care about literature – and liberty!

Think you can do better? He laughed, a harsh sound with no humour in it, licked the corner of his mouth with undue wetness and waltzed off into the crowd with Ethel Fitch, smirking over his shoulder, his hand on the tall woman’s bony hip. Remember Miss Fuscata? he called, causing others nearby to stare first at him, then at her.

She felt quite queasy all of a sudden. Miss Fuscata was the author of the novelette she’d thrown back at him in displeasure, and he’d shown her the monkey’s mummified head in a case behind his desk, side by side with a dozen others, their little lips stitched together to prevent one last complaint.

Katie withdrew from the queue for cream buns and went in search of Victoria and Darius, that they might take the last omnibus home together. Right now she felt the need for company.

CHAPTER TWO

Four days later, Sledgehammer Girl sat in the parlour of 36a Centaur Street with a look on her face which Petticoat Katie had never seen before, did not like, and did not want to see again.

What’s up? asked Katie as she removed her outdoor clothing in the hallway. It had rained on her way home from the bank where she had deposited that month’s rent payment - split three ways, equitably, of course - and her coat and boots were soaked. Ironically, by the time she got off the omnibus at the end of the street the sun was out again.

Victoria said nothing. The look continued.

It was not directed at