The Janus Affair: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (28 page)

He blinked.

Now her melancholia was being replaced by anger. It felt much better—more familiar. “All that time you were conquering mountains and hunting game all over the world, you never once stopped in London. You never once sought me out.”

Douglas frowned as he slipped his shirt back on. Obviously he knew that no more clothing was coming off, but she recognised the signs of his growing anger; pressed lips, and teeth being ground. He didn’t say anything, but made for the door.

He tugged it open, but the answer he shot over his shoulder to her was as harsh as his kisses had been sweet. “Did you ever think, Eliza, that maybe it took me that long to forgive you?”

And then he was gone.

Interlude VI

In Which a Jewel of India Is Taken

I
hita stood on the doorstep of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrence’s covert warehouses and looked up and down the street. There was no hansom in sight, and the mist was rolling in from the Thames. She tapped her foot, pulled her coat around her shoulders, and then finally set off up the street.

It was only three o’clock, but already the fog had stolen away the weak winter sun. Its green fingers wrapped around everything, including the throats of the citizens. Ihita clapped a handkerchief to her mouth in a vain attempt to keep the sulphurous odour out.

Why on earth the Director of the Ministry had not chosen a nicer location for the offices was a mystery. The fog was always the worst around the river.

In this weather the cabs would stick to the main streets, but the hotel, which was her destination, was not really that far away. Eliza was not the only agent to carry weapons, or to know how to use them. Ihita knew she was not as flamboyant as her New Zealand friend, but she knew how to handle herself. She kept her own brace of pistols, and the terrors of the capital’s fogs did not frighten her.

It was a chill London day, as far from an Indian one as it was possible to get, and yet Ihita had a warmth she was nursing. It was not one her parents would have appreciated or condoned, but she’d learned to be her own woman. She was a long way from the little girl growing up in the splendid wealth of a raja’s palace. Wrapped in silks since birth, she had long ago traded them in for wool and tweed. Now she was an agent of the Ministry, and tonight she was going to meet another.

Agent Brandon Hill had taken notice of the blush he caused in her cheeks at dinner with Eliza and Douglas, and had asked her to take afternoon tea with him. Alone. Not everyone in the Ministry thought Hill entirely sound of mind, but working with him in the last month, she had seen another side; a kind, shy side not hidden beneath the bravado of his tall tales.

As she walked down the street her footsteps were muffled by the fog and her view of the streets around her was limited. It was somewhat akin, she imagined, to being a blinkered horse. Not many people—let alone women—dared the streets on days like today, but romance wouldn’t wait for something as silly as fog to clear. If she didn’t get to the hotel Brandon would think that she had stood him up.

The mere thought made her increase her pace. She passed a dockworker, who whistled to her, but he was nothing more than a blink in her perception, and the fog ate up the sound in a moment. She was very nearly there when she ran past someone that she knew. A lady. Ihita only caught a glimpse of her face, and the flash of the suffragist’s badge.

Normally the young woman was a stickler for formalities, and in any other situation she would have stopped and greeted her fellow sister—but now she was in a hurry. Besides, the other woman only glanced at her, with not a flicker of greeting. At the strangeness of that, Ihita stopped and looked back over her shoulder. She had only caught a flash of the woman, and recognised her, but could not put a name to the face. She stood there a moment, her handkerchief still clamped over her nose, and thoughts of Agent Hill disappeared in curiosity—because she had noticed something else. The woman had been wearing a pair of tinted goggles around her neck. What could be the reasoning behind that, by the river and at this time of day?

For some reason a chill ran down her spine and settled in her stomach. Turning, she began to walk quickly away. Within another few seconds she was not walking, she was half running, an unreasonable fear driving her on. At first Ihita thought it was her rather vivid imagination, tricking her within the swirls of the fog, making her hear the
rap-tap
of footsteps following after her.

No matter how fast she ran, the footsteps came after. Even when she stopped, whirled around, yanked out her pistols and pointed them in the direction of the footsteps, she could see nothing. The sounds stopped abruptly. Ihita’s heartbeat sounded in her ears, and her breathing rasped over her teeth. It had only been ten minutes since she’d set off so confidently from the Ministry’s front doorstep, but she really had no idea where she was, and the familiar line of shops and warehouses had been swallowed completely.

“Brandon,” she whispered to herself. If there was a more competent agent in the Ministry she had not heard of him. Hill had wrestled polar bears and fought evil in all corners of the Empire. If she could just reach him, then this madness would be sent howling on its way.

Ihita turned and ran. It was a dangerous thing to do blindly in a London fog—there had been plenty of people who had fallen into the Thames, or run off the ends of piers in such circumstances. She didn’t care, because there was now a feeling in the air that had nothing to do with the stench off the river. It filled her nostrils and almost choked her.

She turned the corner, and in a break in the fog, she could see a line of lights that signalled the front of the Empire Hotel. It was going to be all right, she was going to make it. Her hands flew to her head, as it flared with sudden pain. Dimly Ihita heard her weapons rattle on the ground as the air tightened about her, and a bright web of light snatched her up. For a heartbeat she could only see the blue glare. The agent was held suspended out of time and place.

Suddenly Ihita was dropped to the floor, and only barely kept her feet under her. One heartbeat. One frozen moment with her at its centre, a strange, captured butterfly held pinned by the light.

The glow was coming from all around her, from dials, levers and tall tubes. It was as if someone had captured lightning and made of it a net. Someone was standing at the machine. Ihita caught a glimpse of the woman looking over her shoulder. Even in profile Ihita could tell it was the same woman she had seen in the fog. How could that be?

Her mouth opened, to cry out in anger or for some kind of pity. Then the light grew bright again, searing her eyes, and choking back any sound she might have made. She was thrown into emptiness, and lost her place.

The rush of information to her brain suddenly caught up. Nothing below her windmilling feet. No ground. She was back in the fog. It was cold.

The one fact that tore all these other strange ones away was the noose around her neck. Her lungs wanted air and there was none of it to be had. Ihita’s eyes bulged, and she wanted to scream but could not. Even as panic started to wind itself around her, Ihita recognised where she was: hanging beneath the Tower Bridge, by a rope. She thought of home, her mother and father, and wondered if they would hear of her death and be sad.

Painstakingly, she managed to get the very tips of her fingers between her neck and the rope. It was not much, a moment to drag a gulp of breath and look around. Here the fog was thinner, and she could see right along the river. Lights flickered, alternatively being revealed and disappearing into the murk, the tops of the buildings appearing above it like half-seen animals. It was a beautiful scene that many not-so-unfortunate people would see.

Ihita determined that she would tell Agent Hill about this scene; tell him when he saved her. She held on to that fact as she heaved with her arms and flicked herself upside down. It was impossible to kick her boots off, but she did manage to get one of her legs twined around the rope.

She could breathe—by all that was holy she could breathe. Tiny gulps filled her lungs with a little air, and even at the small amount, she found herself sobbing with relief. The breeze caught her, swinging her like a reverse pendulum, and her heart leapt with new fear. Even wriggling her fingers, she couldn’t quite get enough pressure off her neck to loosen the noose.

Only one choice remained. She had to hold on. If she panicked and her leg slipped from around the rope, she would fall. If she waited long enough then Brandon would find her. He had to be wondering. A scrambled and terrified brain would hold on to anything, but Ihita held on to that belief.

The wind was picking up from the sea, racing along the Thames to scatter the fog. The citizens would be pleased, but it swung Ihita around on her rope.

Her thighs twitched, already beginning to ache. She could hold on. He would find her.

Chapter Nineteen

In Which Our Dashing Archivist Finds Himself in a Most Uncomfortable Situation

W
ellington felt his body protest as he plodded up the stairs of Miggins Antiquities. He needed sleep, but he was not in a position to get any. Back in the safety of his home, Wellington’s kinetorama array was nearly done. Another hour or two to complete the rigging and test it, and then he would be ready to review the footage entrusted to him by the latest victim of this electrical abduction, Charlotte Lawrence. Somewhere in that surveillance footage was what he and Eliza needed. Of that, he had no question.

He did question his sanity on reaching the Ministry’s doorknob. Wellington didn’t want to go in there. Eliza could have chosen this morning to be there before him. To have words, in private, with him about his rugby tactics.

Then again, could he blame her for being outraged by his behaviour? Wellington had gone well beyond poor sportsmanship. He’d allowed his emotions to get the better of him, and he had blatantly broken the rules. For what? For his own personal gratification? It had felt good to take that arrogant prat Sheppard down a peg. What shocked Wellington all the more was that it
still
felt good, even as he stood in front of the Ministry’s façade. However, the cold truth remained: he had caught a glimpse of the monster his father created and his country wished to cultivate.

Shaking his head, Wellington Thornhill Books opened the door and took what felt like the longest walk between foyer and lift. With each step, he wondered what pulled him into the depths of despair more—disappointing himself, or disappointing Eliza.

When he felt a twinge in his chest, he found his answer.

He had just reached the lift gate, absently noting the movement from the other side of frosted glass, when a voice stopped him.

“Books.” Wellington turned to see the imposingly tall Bruce Campbell walking towards him. The Archivist glanced back at the windows and saw quite a few agents in the offices this morning. Was there some sort of meeting going on he didn’t know about?

“Agent Campbell,” he said, giving a polite tip of his bowler to the fellow associate. “Can I help you?”

The Australian continued to advance on him, so that he was compelled to take a step back. Campbell was well within reach, and Wellington did not care for that sort of closeness. From Eliza, it would be somewhat welcome, albeit maybe not this morning, but he could barely stand being in a room with this brash man.

“You look tired, mate.”

Odd start to a morning’s conversation. “Well, I was up late. Working on”—Wellington paused, and then licked his lips before continuing—“a personal endeavour at home. It started innocently enough but now it has become a bit time consuming.”

“A personal endeavour?” Campbell repeated.

Please, don’t press upon what it is,
Wellington thought quickly.

“What have you got cooking in your mad laboratory, Books?”

He chortled, fishing out his key to the lift. “Oh I doubt it would be of interest to you.”

“I think it would, seeing as I have assumed the office of Assistant Director. Part of my duties is the well-being of my agents, and that includes what they are up to.”

Assistant Director? Campbell?!
Good Lord,
Wellington exclaimed inwardly,
we are isolated in the Archives!
“First, my congratulations, Age—er, Assistant Director Campbell, on your new office. You must be quite—”

“Bugger greasing me up. I need to know what you’re doing.”

Wellington’s head tipped to one side as he considered his new superior in the Ministry. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sound appointed me Assistant Director for many reasons, and one of them is control. He’s been slipping in that respect. For quite some time. He needs to gather up the reins a bit and get this mare back on the straight and narrow,” Campbell said, motioning around him, “and that begins with me now. I’m kicking things off with you.”

Bruce Campbell, disciplinarian of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences? And this “new order” was beginning with the Archives?

Perhaps he should head outside and start this day all over again.

“Assistant Director Campbell,” Wellington began. Not only was that an absolute mouthful to say, it did not sit right with him. “I fail to see exactly why what consumes my own time is of any interest to the Ministry.”

“Well now, that really is not your call to make. It’s mine.” Wellington assumed the smile Campbell dealt him was supposed to chill his blood. It did just the opposite. “So, I’ll ask again—what is this personal endeavour you are undertaking after hours?”

“Well, it’s an endeavour,” the Archivist stated, his voice never faltering as he added, “and it is personal.”

Campbell straightened up to his full height. Wellington remained still, refusing to let the Australian’s size intimidate him.

“So this is how you want it, Books?”

“Actually I would prefer if you dropped the posturing,” he bit back in reply. “I find it tedious.”

The man’s massive shoulders shrugged lightly. “Suit yourself.”

Wellington felt the lift grate grind into his back as he was shoved suddenly against it. Campbell’s hand seemed to cover his chest, but the Archivist told himself it was nothing more than his vivid imagination. His exaggerations of reality did not in any way lessen the pain rippling across his back. Campbell kept a hold on Wellington with one hand while jabbing him lightly with the other as he spoke.

“I don’t know what your game is, but it ends now. What fiddle-faddle you cook up down there may all be part of the daily operations to Doctor Sound. I see it as something else.” Campbell ran his fingers through his hair as he took a breath. “Differences aside, Eliza was once a fine agent. One of the best.”

“She still is,” Wellington muttered, taking the opportunity to ease himself away from the painful spot.

Quick as thought, Campbell’s hand came at him, pushing him once more into the metal. He followed it up with a light, condescending slap.

“I am not done with you yet, Books.”

His glasses were knocked askew. With trembling fingers, Wellington straightened the lenses resting on his nose. He breathed softly, deeply, taking note of Campbell’s size, his proximity to either wall and his stance.

“You have your own little world down there, don’t you? Dank and miserable as it may be,” the Australian added as he peered at Wellington. “You think that you can side-step the Fat Man and do as you please? Well, Books, it’s time you did a little work for Her Majesty like the rest of us around here.”

“And that work is exactly . . . ?” Wellington began, but Campbell merely stood there, his smug expression carved deep into his face. Wellington shook his head and said plainly, “What are you expecting?”

“Full access,” Campbell stated. “I want to know what all them trinkets, baubles, and such do, and how we can make them work for us in the field.” He straightened up a bit before adding, “And ‘full access’ also includes the Restricted Area.”

That earned a raised eyebrow from Wellington. “Campbell, it is called the Restricted Area because it is restricted. Even from me. Only the Director can—”

“I couldn’t give a toss what the Fat Man tells you,” Campbell barked, jabbing his finger into Wellington’s shoulder. “That falls under your department, so you’re getting me access to it.”

Wellington shook his head. “I could more easily grant you the cypher to Stonehenge—provided you could understand Ancient Druid glyphs, which I sincerely doubt. I will repeat myself: I don’t have access to the Restricted Area.”

“Then as your Assistant Director, I am giving you a direct order to find a way to get access. Play dirty.” Campbell chuckled and looked him over. “After all, that’s something you’re good at, ain’t it?”

Wellington’s brow furrowed, and suddenly Campbell’s ire made sense. Could Bruce had been those phantoms haunting him since the beginning of their investigation? “Are you following me?”

“I am looking into concerns that threaten the well-being of this organisation,” he retorted. “And you and Braun have become a concern, in my judgement.”

“You’re
spying
on us, then?” Wellington asked.

“It’s not your place to question me, Books,” he snapped.

“Considering the amount of unsolved cases bearing your name cross our desk, perhaps I should.”

The Australian’s skin paled a bit on that threat. It was clear that Campbell knew what they were up to; but on the other hand, they knew what Campbell was up to as well.

Yes, Wellington had been caught breaking the rules, but it wasn’t Campbell’s role to put him in his place.

“My priority is this agency,” he replied, but Wellington found no sincerity in the man’s words. The more Campbell spoke, the more Wellington’s anger fumed. “And I don’t care to see some bookworm undermine it, or its agents.”

That struck Wellington harder than Campbell’s earlier slap. “Come again?”

Campbell’s face twisted into an ugly smile. “You don’t think in my investigation into your dereliction of duty I missed how you regard your partner? She’s not cut of your cloth, mate. That much Eliza made clear the other day when she brought that Sheppard bloke back to her apartments. Poor sod looked a little flushed after a turn or two with her.”

Wellington had heard more than enough.

“I do not have to entertain your—”

He was for the third time thrown back into the grate, and this time Campbell’s slap was harder. Much harder.

“You do, Books, seeing as you have forgotten your place here. Eliza is not just a field agent. She’s a sister. A kissin’ cousin, if you will, an’ I’m not gonna have some stuck up toff like you getting ideas that he shouldn’t have.”

A part of Wellington was strangely flattered that Campbell would regard him as such a cad. The rest of him was more than done with this lummox.

“Would you mind,” Wellington said, trying to calm his wavering voice, “stepping back?”

Campbell instead moved forward. Wellington could feel the man’s body heat. “Why would I do that?”

Wellington did not really need to administer all the power he dealt to Campbell’s kidney. He was close enough that a punch at half the force would have been enough to knock the Australian back a few steps. His sudden strike drove Campbell back a few steps and down to one knee.

“That’s why,” Wellington replied.

Campbell gasped for breath, but then lunged upward. It was an attack Wellington would have been more surprised by if he hadn’t tried it. As he slipped out of Campbell’s way, his hands caught the man in a bind and in a moment the Australian’s arm was locked against his back.

The advantage was not his for long as Campbell’s head snapped back, catching him in his cheek. Wellington’s lip rapped hard against his lower teeth, closely followed by the metallic tang of blood. There was little pause between Wellington letting go of Campbell and the fist clocking him against his temple. Somewhere, Wellington heard the clatter of glasses. At best, one of his lenses would have a crack.

He couldn’t clearly see Campbell, but he could hear the man perfectly well. His opponent was a brawler. He knew as much. There was also the problem of the man’s mass and brute force, which he now felt in full as the Australian picked him up off the floor and tossed him against the wall. Even with his compromised vision, he could see a few rivulets of blood splatter against the white spiral pattern of the foyer’s wall.

“This is a real shame, Books,” he heard Campbell grunt. “Ministry representatives, squabbling like a pair of drunkards, but this was your decision,” he said, moving in for another round, “not mi—”

No matter the size or girth of an opponent, there were certain vulnerabilities everyone despite their carriage shared. For this one brief opportunity, that vulnerability was the nose. With a dash of extra power, Wellington spun about and drove his fist forward, his angle, stance, and delivery of attack all based on where he heard Bruce’s voice. His fist connected low on the bridge of Campbell’s nose. He felt and heard a most satisfying pop on impact, and the punch sent his opponent stumbling back. He hit the wall opposite of him, rattling the frosted window in its pane.

Wellington slid down to the floor of the foyer, and his outstretched fingers found his spectacles. They were indeed cracked, but he put them on anyway. Campbell, his own laboured breaths punctuated with a soft laughter, sat opposite him, gently cupping his nose. He nodded, and then gave the bleeding appendage a hard shove. Wellington winced as he heard the cartilage surrender a dull snap.

“Nice punch,” Campbell said. Wellington was surprised at the Australian’s sincerity. “But you know I’m not done. I’ll make sure that by tomorrow you won’t have a job here.”

“Neither will you.”

He barked a laugh, but the mirth faded from his face as Wellington kept his gaze on him.

“When I show them the cases you’ve submitted to the Archives under ‘Unsolved,’ including the case of Lena Munroe, we will both be sent packing.”

“You think so, Books?”

“No, I don’t think so.” And with a huff, Wellington gave a smile, flinching a bit at the sting from his bottom lip. “I know so.”