Dawn's Early Light (28 page)

The door to the first floor rooms popped open and a maid appeared with a stack of towels in her hands. At the sight of a coloured woman standing in a martial challenge stance, an Italian lady dressed in the top half of a day dress and tight trousers, and the heir to the throne of England lying in the servants lift, she apparently did what came naturally. The ear-piercing scream Sophia seized as her opportunity, quite literally. The assassin threw the still-shrieking woman into Harris' direction, then scrambled for the door where the maid had appeared. The exit led to an access hallway to the street. Sophia dashed down the length of the hotel, reaching the open alleyway where the hired driver was waiting.

“Andiamo!”
she yelled to the cab.

The man jerked awake and urged the carriage forwards. Not waiting for it to stop, Sophia pulled herself up into the moving carriage, and secured the door just as she disappeared into the bustle of San Francisco.

As she leaned back in the seat, she let her racing heart slow. She had underestimated Agent Martha Harris of the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical. It would not, however, be a mistake she would repeat.

The mark of a good assassin was to know when to retreat, and how to change the approach for the next opportunity. She knew. There would be other ones.

She would simply have to find a moment when the odds were more in her favour.

“Y
ou know,” Wellington observed, “usually our mad scientists have their lairs hidden underground, or in desolate wastelands, or, in the case of the Culpeppers, at a country home with convenient escape airship handy. But Edison has to be a first.”

“Oh, come along,” chided Eliza. “Do you think death rays, evil henchmen, and raw materials come free? Man's got to earn a bob or two to pay for all these marvels of technology.”

“I suppose that's one way of looking at it.” Wellington and Eliza continued walking, at a slower pace this time, casting occasional glances to Edison's not-so-secret hideout.

Wellington was in desperate need of a drink, and while a chilled white wine sounded like a delightful option, he knew in Flagstaff he would be hard-pressed to find such a thing. Most especially right now as he and Eliza stood across from the Edison Illuminating Company workshop, their American counterparts completely unaware of what they were doing.

“How do we know he's not there?” Wellington asked, shifting against the post to get comfortable. His back was to the building, but the dry goods shop window in front of him offered a clear reflection.

“Bill mentioned that Edison's train arrived very early this morning,” Eliza replied, her own eyes scanning left and right. Her gaze lingered only for scant moments on Edison's workshop. “He's speaking today, so he's bound to be napping, just to make certain he is well rested for his personal appearances.” Eliza reached for her fob watch dangling by her dress, flipped open the cover, and nodded. “I'll wager he won't be rising from his bed at the Concord for another hour or so, then off to tuck in with a late breakfast or early lunch, depending on his perspective.”

“Are you suggesting,” he said, trying not to notice how close she was standing to him, “that you have somehow gained insight into Mr. Edison's personal habits without ever clapping eyes on him?”

“Not at all,” Eliza said with a chuckle. “I am simply relying on one of the most accurate of timekeepers—a man's stomach.”

As if answering to her voice, Wellington felt his own grumble. He regretted not partaking of that breakfast Felicity had so kindly fetched for him earlier.

She took a few steps away from him, nodded for no apparent reason, took in a breath, and then said, “Shake your head, Welly, and spread your arms wide as if you are completely in the dark as to what I have apparently asked of you.”

Wellington did so, adding in a hushed tone, “And we are performing this pantomime because . . . ?”

“Because, my newly promoted fellow field agent, just in case we have any curious eyes, either inside or outside the Illuminating Company, we are two people having a conversation.” Eliza stood, smoothing the creases in her dress. “Part of the scenery.”

“Then may I,” Wellington asked, slipping a hand into his coat pocket, “suggest this accessory?”

The two magnifying lenses swivelled on a single hinge, and the tiny apparatus was fastened to a clip, which Wellington secured on one arm of Eliza's sun spectacles. She lowered one lense in front of her right eye and then gave a little start. Lowering the second one in place, she gave a small giggle as she looked over to the workshop.

“Seems that Edison should have someone tend to the windows. They're filthy.” Eliza returned the second lense to a vertical position, keeping the first in place. “Quite clever, Wellington.”

“I know jewellers, clockmakers, and clankertons use these ocular enhancers for precision work,” the archivist replied. “I thought they would serve our own endeavours admirably.”

With Eliza's fingers tightening on his arm, Wellington and his effectively accessorised partner continued on under the guise of a stroll. Even with his sun specs, the Arizona glare was quite intense. He was reminded of his time in the bush, the African sun bearing down on him and his men with only pith helmets to stave off the light.

Eliza's words broke into his reverie. “All clear, it seems,” Eliza said, flipping the final ocular up and out of the way. “Are you ready to move?”

“Yes, it would seem so,” he replied as quietly as possible.

“Let's just wander another two storefronts down, cross the street, and then find our way in.”

Wellington hesitated, considering the woman on his arm. “That's the plan then?” He gave his bottom lip a gentle nibble. “We have no idea how many are in there!”

“Details, Welly, details,” she said as they continued past Edison's workshop. “But you should know there is one Pink keeping watch upstairs, and two more just visible in the lower right window.”

“Very well then.” Wellington licked his lips. “You've done this before, so I'll follow your lead.”

“Tosh,” she scolded, “it's not like we haven't been on a case before. Just this one is—”

“Sanctioned,” he interjected drily.

The fact she had chosen the moment a horse-drawn wagon rumbled by to cross was not lost on him. They slipped into the gritty veil of dust and sand, the sun specs shielding their eyes a bit as they continued into the alleyway. Eliza slipped her hand into the open fold of her skirts and produced her Remington-Elliot. Wellington could see each barrel indicator was green, providing an odd comfort as they crept closer to the rear of the structure.

Eliza held up a lace-gloved hand, stopping him in his tracks as she peered around the corner. Wellington stared at her fingers, noting that such delicacy was better suited taking a high tea or perhaps a spot of cross-stitching, not taking part in clandestine operations in the Americas.

“All clear, Welly,” she whispered as she continued around the corner.

Just as he followed her, it became apparent she had pulled back the hammer on her weapon.

“What in God's name are you doing?” he hissed, pushing the gun down just as she raised it.

“We have to get in here,” Eliza said, with a determined twist of her lips, “and the '81 here serves as quite the skeleton key.”

By Jove, she was at it again! “Not to mention an attention getter,” he said desperately.

“Time's not a luxury we have,” Eliza bit back, “so unless you have another idea, or a key on your person perhaps?”

“Well now you come to mention it,” Wellington said, reaching underneath his coat, “I do have this.” The Jack Frost, once out in the sunlight, looked even more complicated in its design. It also looked larger, for some odd reason. “Shall we see if this bloody thing works?” he asked, giving the heavy weapon in his hand a slight shake.

He knew her grin should have been more disturbing to him. “Let's play with Axelrod and Blackwell's toys then.” Eliza motioned to the door.

“Watch the window,” Wellington said, as he studied either side of the gun. “I believe there is a setting lever here.” Indeed on the inside surface of the weapon, there was a small switch that offered two options:

FROSTBITE—POLISH WINTER

Eliza peeked inside the window, then glanced back at him. “Any ideas?”

“Not like Axelrod to provide instructions for his over- indulgent engineering feats,” he grumbled. He flipped the switch to “Frostbite” and shrugged. “If I need more, I'll unleash the Polish Winter.”

Wellington splayed his fingers around the butt of the exciter, and squeezed the trigger. It made a soft snapping noise reminiscent of ice cracking underfoot, or when trees and plant life struggled against the elements following an ice storm. However, this gentle creaking and cracking was coming from the door. From the Jack Frost itself, a cone comprised entirely of blue iridescence covered the doorknob and keyhole, blanketing the metal and surrounding wood in a thin sheet of ice that even the heat of Arizona could not melt. The ice went from a crystal clear sheen to a faint grey to a stark white within seconds.

The odd crackle stopped when Wellington released the trigger. A tendril of cold mist rose from the invention's muzzle. “Anyone notice anything?” he asked.

Eliza peered inside the window. She shook her head.

He stared at the now-white doorknob, fascinated by the fact that the pearlescent wisp rising off it was not coming from heat but the exact opposite. Wellington positioned the butt of the gun immediately above the doorknob and rapped it lightly. The knob popped out of its housing and shattered against the ground.

“Now I admit,” Wellington whispered as the door swung open, “that is impressive.”

Eliza held her Derringer at the ready, and gave Wellington a nod. He opened the door quickly, and she stepped in, her small pistol ahead of her. When she motioned with her head, they crept together into Edison's workshop.

The door thankfully did not creak open or shut. Both of them remained light of foot, taking wide strides, not placing their heels down hard against the wooden floor. Wellington was afraid to take a breath, in case anyone would hear it. The archivist turned as quietly as he could—but froze when a plank creaked underneath him. He dared to peer down the hallway to his left.

Two people were talking but from the opposite room, an open doorway separating Eliza and himself from Pinkertons.

Didn't Eliza say there was a man keeping watch upstairs?

“I still do not see the point of carrying out tonight's show with what happened in Detroit,” the unseen man stated.

The next voice that followed was one Wellington recognised from the Carolinas. Gantry, the House of Usher man liaising with Edison. “What part of ‘stick to the script provided' fails you, Sutherland? Any more deviation will only cast more suspicion, and considering how you all blundered the Currituck Experiment—”

“
We
blundered it?” Sutherland growled.

“The Pinkertons were in charge of security. Had you done your job, we could have continued operations under the myth and mystery of the Graveyard of the Atlantic, thereby maintaining our secrecy.” There was a pause, and then Gantry guffawed. “The United States government is not that hard to hoodwink, but still they came. Didn't they?”

Wellington held his breath. No one was moving in this standoff between Pinkertons and the House of Usher.

The front door opened, flooding the hallway with light. Wellington ducked back into hiding with Eliza. She kept her attention on the nearby stairwell while he leaned back towards the room where Gantry and Sutherland were talking.

“He's awake,” the newcomer said. “A bit more pleasant than when we got here, but not by much. I left him ordering lunch.”

“Are your men ready to go?” Gantry asked in a tone that spoke of his annoyance.

“Of course they are, Elias,” Sutherland bit back.

“Good. The sooner we put on a show for these trappers, the sooner we can get the optics we need and then leave.”

The sound of feet scuffling against the dusty wooden floor reached Wellington as, one by one, they began walking away. Sutherland called to another Pinkerton from what he surmised was a second staircase, and footsteps above soon descended. Wellington pressed himself harder into his corner when sunlight poured into the hallway. The door closed, then locked. Neither he nor Eliza moved for a moment.

“Right then,” Eliza said, returning her Derringer into its concealed holster, “I think we have the place to ourselves.”

“At least for an hour, maybe two,” he agreed, holstering the Jack Frost. “Edison will want the details of tonight to be completely flawless.”

He poked his head into the room where Gantry, Sutherland, and Pinkertons had been. The table was clean, apart from a small stack of papers. The top sheet spelled out tonight's agenda, a handwritten collection of lighting cues and notes, all of which he recognised as the same key points of emphasis from Edison's lecture in North Carolina. Wellington's eyes looked all over the room. Nothing more than a room for meetings such as what they overheard.

Wellington crossed the hallway over to where Eliza stood examining the next room. This one was twice as large as its counterpart, with various-sized crates bearing the General Electric logo all pushed up against the far wall.
Recent arrivals,
he thought quickly. Long tables with workbenches on either side waited for what Wellington imagined would be future projects.

His gaze followed along the ceiling the two rows of ceiling fans wired with lamps, presumably to allow the staff to work at night. Instead of the usual belt system accompanying a cooling system like this, the motors and mounts were simply housed in the ceiling, independent of one another, save for a network of coils that ran from their mounts, along the ceiling, and down the wall where the crates were stacked.

“Keep the workers cool during the day,” Wellington said, motioning to the fans above. “Provide light for when you make them work into the evening.” He looked around the empty room. “Rather sparse, considering this building's been here for close on a year.”