The Sapphire Solution: Accidental Capers, #2

By M. H. Thaung

A disgruntled young chemist. A reformed noble thief. A cranky, middle-aged lord. What could possibly go wrong?

 

Apprentice chemist Iggy's uncle won't sign her off as competent, even though he trusts her with Project Sapphire: researching a formula to erase forensic evidence. When she finds an alternative route to sign-off, she applies her energy to that, neglecting her assigned duties to do so. In a stroke of luck, this decision leads her to a sponsorship deal, but her benefactor has secrets she's unaware of.

 

After his recent adventure abroad, Lord Richard Hayes is now home: and on probation to keep his seat on the Council of Lords. He has plentiful funds, detailed instructions and a boring plan for honest living, but despite his efforts to fit in, everything starts to go wrong. He loses his only household servant, he antagonises a young chemist the first time he meets her, and he gets blamed for a burglary he didn't even do. The only bright spot is that making new enemies keeps life from being completely dull.

 

Stiff-necked Lord Huntley Angus detests frivolous young nobles who dodge responsibility for their actions. But when he secretly pawns his wife's jewellery to pay an unexpected debt, he gets entangled in a spiralling set of misfortunes.

The Sapphire Solution is a fantasy of manners that takes place immediately after the events of The Diamond Device.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caroline Thaung
• Release date: May 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781912819232

M. H. Thaung

M. H. Thaung grew up in Scotland and has drifted southwards throughout her career in pathology, ending up in a biomedical research institute (as a staff member, not a specimen) in London, England. After dozens of academic publications, she was tempted to venture further into "What if?" territory where her quirky characters explore impossible worlds.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Iggy! Vernon’s impatient shout came through the door, making her jump. Customer waiting!

With a curse, Iggy set her blade down. Hand cutting custom-sized blocks of soap was faster than programming an automaton to do it, but only when careless bosses didn’t interrupt. I’ll be right through.

She pushed back a damp strand of curly blonde hair then washed her hands, flicking cold water on her face. This workroom behind the shop contained a rotary mixer that belched copious steam. That was fine for Vernon, who swore the sauna-like atmosphere relieved his arthritis. For Iggy, it was like being poached alive.

Treading carefully on the oil-slicked floorboards, she squeezed past the workbench on one side and tottering boxes of empty glass vials on the other. Thankfully, flammable ingredients were stored in a shed outside. The waist-high mixing vat continued to bubble and plop in the far corner, emitting a geranium-scented haze.

Iggy ducked her head automatically as she passed through the doorway to the shop area. Being taller than the locals had drawbacks. Her shorter uncle didn’t need to worry about collisions.

Vernon sat hunched on his usual stool behind the counter while a woman perused the display shelves. Those held baskets of bar soap, vials of face cleanser, tins of furniture polish and bottles of liquids ranging from shampoo to window wash. Arragore’s Purveyors of Hygienic Preparations—commonly known as Arragore’s Supplies, or more colloquially Argy’s—prided itself on its range of products. And of course, its quality service.

Since the customer was facing away from her, Iggy didn’t bother to smile. What’s up? At his frown, she corrected herself. How may I assist?

He patted the ladder behind him and then pointed a gnarled finger at the canisters on the top shelf. Lily of the valley. Four ounces, extra fine. Should be in Case Three, Shelf Four.

Of course it would be on the top shelf. With a sigh, she wrestled the step ladder across the room, trying not to let it judder on the floor. As she passed the woman, she murmured, Excuse me, ma’am. Vernon’s schooling had included his idea of gracious manners, although she still had a slight Kesh accent.

Of course, dear. The woman stepped out of the way. She was a little shorter than Iggy and well wrapped up against the frost outside, in an ankle-length variegated fur coat. Hmm. Most folks only aspired to fur trims. Her greying hair was topped with a matching fur hat with embroidery and beads around the edge. A faint scent of wild roses surrounded her.

An excellent choice, if I may say so. Vernon’s tone was unctuous. Subtle, yet with a promise of the good days that lie ahead.

I love the smell, said the woman in a melodious voice. When I was little, I kept trying to eat the bulbs, which most alarmed my parents. It took the gardeners weeks to dig them all up.

Iggy settled the ladder on the floorboards and climbed a few steps, scanning the top shelf. Thanks to Vernon’s crabby handwriting, she had to squint at all the labels.

He chuckled. I wouldn’t recommend ingesting our bath salts. You might suffer a stomach-ache. However, rest assured they aren’t poisonous like the real flowers.

That’s a relief. I’d hate to think of you or your young assistant exposing yourselves to toxic substances, just because of the vagaries of customer preferences.

Some of our wares are necessarily toxic, he commented. But we take great care to store and handle them properly. No need to worry. Are you just visiting Ironfort, or do you reside here? I’m sure we haven’t had the pleasure of your custom before.

Still halfway up the ladder, Iggy rolled her eyes. By now, he’d have categorised this woman from her dress, poise, accent and statements as a nob, and probably new in town. She glanced down at the woman’s fur hat and felt absurdly gratified to see a worn patch around the seam.

I’ve been here before, although not for several years, Mr Arragore. The customer pronounced the name correctly, with a lift to the final e rather than rhyming it with store. I have only recently returned to Ironfort after spending five years down the coast in Copperidge with my husband. She paused. My late husband.

I’m sorry for your loss, he murmured. Iggy could just imagine the compassionate expression he’d be aiming at the customer. As if he sensed her thought, he looked towards her. Iggy, have you not found it yet? It should be the fourth one along, between lavender and magno—

Got it! Pulling out the correct canister, Iggy descended the ladder. With a fresh scoop—she’d had the need to avoid cross-contamination drummed into her head years ago—she measured the correct amount into a screw-top jar. Here you go, Uncle—Mr Arragore. He’d only recently decided she ought to address him formally when customers were around.

He grunted at her and wrapped up the jar with clumsy arthritic hands. Iggy shook her head as she went to replace the canister. She could have done better herself, but he preferred her to lurk in the background.

The woman slid gracefully out of the way. Thank you, dear. Have you been working here for long?

Iggy bit her lip. Far too long. Three years, ma’am.

The woman’s eyebrows rose, but she merely said, I’m sure your uncle is grateful for your help. Turning to Vernon, she added, How much do I owe you? Tempted though I am by your other products, I wouldn’t want to get carried away on a first visit.

He took payment, asking, Would you like to take a brochure?

Ah, lovely. She perused the pamphlet he handed her. "You list all your ingredients as well. How forward-thinking. I love the little section on your methods. Ooh, and you take customer commissions. I shall definitely come back!"

I look forward to it. Vernon slid off his stool and bowed as well as his twisted spine would allow before the customer exited.

While he counted the coins into his coin box, Iggy returned the ladder to its home. Looks like you’ve lured in another regular.

I hope so, me girl. A real lady, and obviously not short of money. Remember—

Yes, yes. It’s not enough to work hard and know my stuff. Reputation is important as well, and because ordinary folks know that even toffs come here, we’ll never lack for trade.

He nodded sagely. You’re learning.

Still irritated by the customer’s question, she huffed. I’m always learning. I’ve spent three years learning with you, far longer than a regular apprenticeship. So why will you still not do my completion papers?

You’re not ready. Why, the other day, you didn’t even remember all the components for a decoction of—

I’m not supposed to carry all this knowledge in my head! Apprentices just need to show they’re competent, not demonstrate perfect memories or professor-grade skills.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. I’ve spent decades building my reputation here. What would happen to that if I signed you off prematurely?

Iggy clenched her fists. This argument always ended the same way. Vernon had never had an apprentice before: at least, not one who’d stayed around. She jerked her head towards the workshop. You’ve got me doing all the mixing and compounding and testing the proportions.

You might go through the physical motions, but real work is done with the brain. He tapped his temple. What you do is just an extension of my thinking.

Yes, because you don’t let me think for myself! You always go on about seizing opportunities, and then you block my way, telling me the time isn’t right.

He stuck out his lower lip. I can hire a pair of hands any time I want. Someone who won’t question my judgement.

It’s not your judgement I’m objecting to. It’s that you won’t give me independence, like you don’t trust me.

Iggy, child.

She ground her teeth. What?

Of course I trust you. Why, you’re doing all the work on Project Sapphire.

Only because you can’t walk up to the college every day. Actually, that wasn’t totally the case. Someone had to mind the shop, and there were only the two of them. "You keep telling me how trivial a project it is. I still have to report back on the experiments every evening, and then you instruct me on what to do next. Where’s the independence in that?"

It gets you out from under my feet. His plump face crinkled into a smirk.

If you don’t want me around, why not sign me off? The project doesn’t bring in much money, and you won’t even hold the rights to the formula.

The military top brass approached me, remember. Think of the future opportunities. His face took on a dreamy expression. Just imagine, one day I might be able to openly add ‘By royal appointment’ to my shop sign...

Right, and then you’ll sign me off. At the age of nineteen, Iggy was a bit old to start afresh. Without completion papers, she’d have no recognition of her training, experience and knowledge. Even worse, since she wasn’t Lesser Grenian by birth, she’d rank lower than local candidates if she applied for an unqualified job elsewhere.

Ignoring her comment, he asked, Are you finished cutting those bars of soap yet?

Of course not. You interrupted me with that customer.

Get to it, then! His brow wrinkled. Oh, and once you get to the college...

Yes? She should have been up there an hour ago.

You said yesterday’s trial formula had a viscosity the same as our Number Seven stain remover. That will evaporate far too quickly. I’ve been thinking about what to change. Next time, add four drops of— As the door opened to admit another customer, he plastered a smile on his face. Mrs Harvey, how delightful to see you again. Yes, it’s a brisk day outside. How did you...

Iggy escaped to the workroom again. She managed not to slam the door.

Vernon was insufferable! He acted as if he’d done her a favour, taking her on as an apprentice. Initially, she had believed that. Now she was paying the price for that decision. No matter what arguments she made, and how frequently, he wouldn’t budge about signing her off. Persistence was getting her nowhere.

Muttering under her breath, she sliced up the rest of the soap, spitefully leaving it for him to wrap. Then she wrapped a woollen scarf round her neck, shrugged her coat on and slung her satchel over her shoulder. She stepped out the workroom door and into the alley beside the shop, in shadow even though it was mid-morning. She shivered in the sudden cold.

As she stomped along the street and through the industrial district, she continued to seethe. Even the scattering of snowflakes in the air no longer made her smile. Other apprentices took a year for completion, so of course they regarded her with pity, thinking she must be particularly dim. It was an increasing strain to remain polite each time she congratulated a peer who was moving on.

The problem with Uncle Vernon, she told herself, was his combination of perfectionism, which made him a micromanager, and his overwhelming desire for social validation. Well, he had a point. When word of mouth recommendations were made at the highest levels, business thrived. Even Iggy could see that. But at this rate, she would become Ironfort’s oldest apprentice!

She arrived at the college, which was surrounded by a shoulder-high wall. She was never sure why it was there. Obviously not for security: she wasn’t the only one to have scrambled over it while in a hurry. Today, she walked through the gateway.

Without much hope, she paused to scan the notice board. A new paper caught her eye.

CHANGES TO APPRENTICESHIP SIGN-OFF

With immediate effect, Ironfort College will accept an alternative to supervisor/mentor sign-off for satisfactory completion of apprenticeship. The apprentice is permitted to submit a project of his or her choice, which will be evaluated by a panel composed of specialist college tutors. Should the project be deemed satisfactory, the panel will award the apprentice a certificate of completion. Enquire at the administration office for full details.

Wow. Finally something that might help. Iggy grinned while scanning the other announcements. Reminders about returning borrowed books, an introductory lecture to automaton programming and a Citizens’ Forum meeting didn’t concern her. But the sign-off arrangement was a promising development. She just needed to devise a suitable demonstration, and then the college panel could allow her to complete. She wouldn’t tell Vernon until it was done. It wasn’t her problem if he never visited the college and wasn’t aware of these new arrangements. And he could hardly object if she followed his advice about seizing opportunities and worked on a side project of her own.

As her feet scuffed on the college’s concrete pathway, the smile dropped from her lips. It was a practical assessment, so she’d need to produce concrete evidence for her skills. But where? If she used the workroom behind the shop—and below the flat where they lived—Vernon was bound to notice during one of his obsessive checks.

The path grew uneven as she approached the row of military-sponsored workshops. Hastily constructed a few months ago from prefabricated steel panels, each was equipped for the specifics of the project it housed. Vernon’s was at the far end. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

She gazed around consideringly. These days, she spent most of her time among this chemistry equipment. The military inspector who occasionally dropped by was scientifically illiterate, just there to check the researchers weren’t throwing parties. Yes, this would be perfect. She could do her project right here.

A little voice of caution warned her that neither Vernon nor the military would approve of her plan, and that it went against good practice. Well, tough. She wouldn’t put up with her current predicament now there was another way out. Time to make herself an escape route.

Chapter 2

In the Council’s debating chamber, Lord Richard Hayes fiddled with his brocade silk cravat: a present from Father, or maybe a bribe. This rosewood bench by the stage wasn’t his favoured position—he’d rather lurk at the back—but at least he could stretch out his long legs.

His top hat and cane lay on the otherwise empty bench beside him. Just this once, he would have appreciated Castor’s company. But because the crimes being discussed were so politically sensitive, the po-faced inspector was excluded from the imminent hearing.

It rankled that so few people would ever learn the full truth. Only luck had prevented Bergrim-Hoyt’s bomb from killing anyone. For everyone’s safety, the man should be put away for a long time.

Rich gazed around, wondering which of his fellow nobles would recommend leniency, and which would favour a harsher penalty. Around twenty of them were here today.

The diminutive Lenehan perched near the aisle, a dapper figure with a neatly waxed moustache. He had a soft spot for underdogs, which Bergrim-Hoyt definitely wasn’t.

On the bench behind Lenehan, ruddy-faced Angus had a central pew. His factory made minor components. He had accused Rich of being a card sharp in this very room and warned the others not to trust him.

Rich grinned briefly, pleased to soon prove him wrong. Angus’ rigid views on propriety and honour would surely lead him to demand a harsh punishment.

Pettigrew, head of the Council, stood on the low stage at the front. He was broad shouldered, with a mane of hair and large moustache, both unnaturally black. Right now, he was peering through his monocle at a sheaf of papers.

Now Rich came to think about it, all the other lords had wrinkles and grey hair, Pettigrew being a dubious exception. Bergrim-Hoyt was even older than that. If they didn’t trust Rich because of his youth—and, admittedly, his history of burglaries—might they offer someone older unearned deference?

The clock struck ten. Pettigrew called, Admit Mr Bergrim-Hoyt. His escort will wait outside.

The doors swung open, and halting footsteps sounded in the aisle. There were a few shocked intakes of breath.

Neck tensing, Rich forced himself to remain facing forwards rather than turning to gape like a commoner. As the steps drew closer, he glanced sideways to observe the man he’d captured.

Bergrim-Hoyt leaned heavily on a cane and limped towards the stage. His white hair stuck out in all directions. Pettigrew descended the steps and offered the man a supportive arm, and then he dragged over a cushioned chair. A murmur of sympathy passed through the room.

What deuced nonsense. Bergrim-Hoyt had been fully mobile on the journey back from Calesia, strolling on the blimp’s deck with Castor every afternoon.

Pettigrew cleared his throat. I trust that you are well rested? Was the Fitz to your satisfaction?

Rich nearly snorted. A luxury hotel was hardly an ordeal. Common criminals weren’t asked for their thoughts on beds, especially ones too short for someone Rich’s height.

Yes, thank you, said Bergrim-Hoyt calmly. Very comfortable and the food excellent, even though I would rather have been at home with my dear Ina.

I apologise for the inconvenience. Hopefully it won’t be for much longer.

Hmm. Too much to hope he’d spend time in an actual prison, though neither would it make sense to keep him at the Fitz for years.

Pettigrew flourished his papers. I’ll read out Inspector Castor’s report. Feel free to address any points of inaccuracy.

Since Rich was intimately familiar with events, he listened with half an ear while Pettigrew reminded everyone about Bergrim-Hoyt’s ruse of kidnapping his scientist wife to ensure her protection from a Calesian faction’s blackmail. Rich had helped rescue her. He and Castor had then been despatched to Shambito in pursuit of Bergrim-Hoyt. The man had conned the Calesians into making a bomb in the Shambito research centre, which was now a pile of rubble. That was when they’d caught up with him, which had been a difficult—

To be precise... Bergrim-Hoyt raised a finger. Lord Hayes rendered me insensible.

"He physically assaulted you?" boomed a voice.

Rich jerked around in his seat to find Lord Mitchell glaring at him with narrowed eyes. The expression looked particularly incongruous since the man had a face like a cherub’s.

The expression, I believe, is that he slugged me a good one. Bergrim-Hoyt fingered the yellowed bruise on his cheek.

Mitchell leapt to his feet. Well, dash it all, that’s jolly despicable behaviour. And what do you have to say for yourself, Hayes? For shame, a strapping young chap like you hitting a frail old man. Ah, no offence, Mr Bergrim-Hoyt.

None taken, was the murmured reply.

Rich’s memory flashed back to his ebony cane being sliced in half with a device no bigger than a pen. He touched the thin scar on his cheek, and his breath hitched. That lightrod could also have sliced him in half, with its near-invisible beam. At Pettigrew’s nod, Rich also stood. I note your concern, Lord Mitchell. Mr Bergrim-Hoyt had already captured Inspector Castor and was threatening us. I had to act immediately.

"Threatening you? Pah! Civilians aren’t permitted firearms in Calesia. Why would you be frightened—"

He’s an inventor, dammit! Rich instinctively reached towards his pocket before letting his arm drop. Waving around his spoils of war and carving up the benches wouldn’t calm Mitchell down. I could hardly ask him to settle the matter over a cup of tea—

Pettigrew raised a hand. We must appreciate that Hayes, in his youthful exuberance and caught up in the hunt, might not have had the experience to make a more measured plan of action.

Experience of what? Murderous inventors and hostage situations?

Mitchell gripped the back of the bench in front of him. If he’s a Council member—and I have my doubts about whether he deserves to be—he should possess enough self-control to—

You weren’t there, were you? Rich scowled.

Sit down, both of you, Pettigrew snapped. This is not an enquiry into Hayes’ conduct.

As Rich sat, ears burning at the grumbles floating towards him from further back, Pettigrew added, That will come at a later meeting.

Bergrim-Hoyt gazed politely around the room before raising an eyebrow at Rich, who clenched his jaw. There was definitely a malicious glint in the old man’s eye.

Pettigrew went over the rest of the incident. At last, he summed things up by reiterating that nobody had been harmed, and Calesian military research had received a substantial setback. And now, we will take evidence from Lord Hayes.

Finally, Rich’s chance to ensure justice was done. He inhaled, letting the scent of old tobacco and wood polish fill his nose. Then he ascended the podium and faced his opponent.

Standing between them, Pettigrew asked, Are there points in Inspector Castor’s report that you wish to comment or expand on?

Our mission went substantially as Castor stated. Rich swallowed. Thankfully, and unusually tactfully, Castor hadn’t mentioned Rich’s parents in his report. I wish to stress how many people would have died if Mr Bergrim-Hoyt’s scheme had gone totally to plan. He deserves—

"You mean the enemy soldiers who might possibly have been killed? asked Mitchell. This was in their military research centre, wasn’t it?"

Rich raised his chin. We are not at war. So they are not enemies.

Naturally you’d be sympathetic, being of Calesian blood yourself. Mitchell sniffed.

Damn. Rich’s Calesian appearance was one reason he’d been sent, not that Mitchell would acknowledge that. There was also Mr Alphonse Wilson and his sister, Miss Guinevere Wilson. Has it perchance slipped your mind they are Lesser Grenian citizens?

Bergrim-Hoyt spoke. Don’t forget, Miss Wilson constructed the bomb. She and her brother then triggered it.

Unintentionally. What a