The Janus Affair: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (39 page)

Interlude VIII

Wherein the Duke of Sussex Makes a House Call

M
usic played in the library of the Duke of Sussex. Peter Lawson was allowing himself the briefest of recollections to how things had been once, when he had been a younger man of wilder passions—passions that threatened his standing. That was another lifetime ago.

He had learned control since then. Control had brought him to one of the highest offices in the land. Her Majesty the Queen had given him the task of assessing the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. And that was what he finally felt he could do.

The transfer of rogue agents Eliza D. Braun and Wellington Thornhill Books to the Americas, while an admirable effort on Doctor Basil Sound’s part to bring order to the fledgling agency, hardly restores his authoritative control over the agents he is responsible for. The insubordination of these agents, coupled with the unexplained and tragic death of Ihita Pujari, only confirms my suspicions that the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences is no longer the institute of logical deduction or reason it once was. Doctor Sound’s inability to adequately discipline his agents as well as keep them safe from the opposition has displayed the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences’ scant regard of the voices of authority, including, I would dare say, the Crown itself.

He smiled, slowly nodding his head at that bold proclamation. True, he hardly had any proof to back up those words. At least, not yet. His colonial would provide him what he needed for such a claim. Still, he had compiled the assessment, ready to be presented right after Campbell brought him the secrets of this mythical “Restricted Area” deep within the Archives of the Ministry. This small piece of paper would cut out this cancer from the monarchy.

It would also appease the Maestro, and maybe Sussex would finally be free of the abhorrent presence once and for all.

His pen returned to the paper as incidental music from Shakespeare’s
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
continued on the gramophone.

What disturbs me most of all in the decay within the Ministry is Doctor Sound’s delusions in believing he can employ the Ministry’s resources for his own benefit. Underneath the offices of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences is an area Sound refers to as “Restricted Access,” which is just that— restricted from all personnel save for Sound himself. At one time, it was unclear exactly what was kept in this dungeon within a dungeon; but in concluding my own investigation—

“Sir?”

Fenning’s voice stopped his master’s pen in its tracks. Sussex had made it very clear that he was not to be disturbed. Most nights, he did not mind the tending to from his London house staff, but tonight he needed total concentration.

“Fenning?” Sussex asked, lifting his eyes to the butler. “I do hope you have a very good reason to disturb me.”

“A Mr. Bruce Campbell is at the door, sir.” His voice quivered slightly as he spoke. “He was most insistent on seeing you immediately. He would not set an appointment, nor would he take no for an answer. I threatened to call the constable.” Fenning paused and then added, “He welcomed it.”

Sussex glanced at the assessment under his fingertips. Could he possibly earn his freedom that quickly?

“Show him in.”

When Fenning reappeared, Bruce remained a few paces behind him, strangely hunched somehow.

“That will be all, Fenning.” Sussex kept his eyes fixed on Campbell.

The butler glanced over the colonial with an air of contempt before leaving the study. Campbell stood there, gripping his bowler hat tightly as his eyes darted around the room.

Sussex turned a chair towards his visitor and started back to his own. “Please have a seat.”

“I won’t be staying long, sir, so I’d rather stand.”

“Tosh,” Sussex said, waving to the chair, “I believe we have a great deal to talk about.”

“No, Your Grace, we do not.”

The insistence in Campbell’s voice made Sussex pause in taking his own chair. Finally, they were looking at each other, and the Duke did not care for what he found in the colonial’s hard, cold gaze.

The Australian said softly, “I’m leaving London.”

Sussex chuckled, shaking his head. “What? You’ve been reassigned? Well, I can certainly—”

“I have been dismissed.”

A tight, gripping sensation—perhaps the cold grip of an armoured hand—began to slowly squeeze around Sussex’s throat. “Campbell, whatever are you on about?”

“I’m not on about anything, Your Grace. Doctor Sound terminated my service with the Ministry.”

Sweat. He felt sweat on the back of his neck. “Why?”

“Dereliction of duty. It came to light I was letting certain cases go unsolved on account of personal bias. That personal bias led to the death of Agent Ihita Pujari.” Campbell smiled bleakly.

The Duke’s head swam, as if he had drunk far too much brandy, or perhaps quaffed it too quickly. His heart pounded in his ears, but a single, deep breath later, he could feel himself back under control. “I will speak with Sound on this matter first thing in the morning.”

“No,” Campbell said, “you won’t.”

He wanted to sit down. “I beg your pardon.”

“I’m going home.” The Australian crossed the office to a shelf of small books—his collection of William Shakespeare—and read along the spines until he found the volume he was apparently looking for. “Now
Henry VI, Part 3.
That’s a funny ol’ play, Your Grace, if there ever was one.”

Sussex blinked. What was Campbell on about?

“Loads of high falootin’ muckity-mucks just blithering and blathering away. My wife wants the children cultured and all, so I humour her. But this play—” Campbell nodded, tapping at its spine, “This play has a speech.”

Sussex felt himself torn between the sudden jovial notes of Mendelssohn playing on the gramophone and the colonial’s sudden appreciation—apparently a begrudging one at that—of one of William Shakespeare’s history plays. He had to focus on one thing.
Focus
, he told himself,
on one thing
.

Strangely enough, he chose the Australian.

“The Duke of Gloucester—gives this speech about ‘a kingdom for Richard’ and how he would make the world his. We colonials, you see, like a good ol’ story of adversity, you know?

“But then that toff Gloucester kept on about what he was going to do to get that crown, so you might be surprised to know I was first in line to get tickets for the next play about that bloke, Richard. Cost of the crown. That bastard stepped over a lot of graves to get what he wanted. It caught up with him. Bloody killed him, it did.”

Bruce tightened his grip on the rim of his hat and locked a dark gaze with Sussex. “I wanted my own little kingdom too, you know? Let a lot of loudmouths disappear, thinking one less voice asking for equality and all that would keep things as they should be . . .” His voice trailed off as he looked out of the study window. “I wonder now how many deaths were on account of that, Your Grace.”

Sussex took in a long, slow breath, but Campbell went on before he could speak. “I don’t doubt you could get my job back at the Ministry; but even if I were willing, no one trusts me there. Not anymore.” The Australian turned back around to him and put his bowler back on his head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I have failed you. I have failed the Ministry. So it’s back to Australia with me. Maybe there, I can find some peace.”

With a final nod, Campbell saw himself out—just as the “Wedding March” of Titania and Oberon commenced.

The trumpets seemed to herald the oncoming madness that now slipped around Sussex. Each breath hurt.
I have failed
, he heard Campbell say; but the colonial hadn’t been the only one. The echoing sentiment,
I have failed
, began to sound less and less like the Australian, and ring more with a tone of refinement.

Yes,
whispered the other voice in his head,
you have failed me, Peter.

When Sussex opened his eyes, he half expected the Maestro to be there, lurking in the gloom, his presence made known only by the single, malevolent eye of deepest red piercing through the shadows.

No,
he wanted to scream, but his throat was too tight to allow for voice.
I can’t have failed. I am the Privy Counsellor to Her Majesty Queen Victoria. I cannot fail.

Gaily the music played on, of the faeries gathering within the glade to celebrate the young lovers discovering one another, the reuniting of Faerie King and—

Sussex was a strong man. He knew that. He was now under the care of a progressive physician who believed in better health through purposeful exercise, and his own regimen of such activity produced amazing results.

However, Sussex also knew his own limits. He should not have been able to lift the gramophone, as he did. Nor should he have been able to lift it over his head, as he did. Nor should he have been able to hurl it across his study to smash against the bookcase, bringing down the complete works of Shakespeare and the other accompanying classics, as he did.

He landed on his knees, finally feeling the air rush into his body. He then vomited against the fine carpet; but even the putrid smell assailing his nostrils could not calm him from his fit.

His fit.

The temper.

He had to get a hold before—

“Peter!” cried a familiar voice.

It was Ivy.

He spit the remnants of bile from his mouth; and when he addressed his wife, his voice sounded hard and dry. “Have Fenning—” he wheezed. Then after a few coughs, he tried again. “Have Fenning bring the coach around. Take me to my—”

Sussex did not faint, but he did feel himself surrender to something. The cries were muffled. So far off. He could hear the word
physician
as the world underneath him moved.

No, it was
he
who was being moved. The world remained under his feet, but there was a person on either side of him, one short, another considerably taller; and through the strange haze of vision he could see the door.

A door that opened into darkness.

He should have been afraid as that was where his temper took him—into a darkness that would have consumed him completely had he not stood against it. This darkness, though, was far different. It felt painful, perhaps a bit . . . bumpy? And cold. A biting cold caressed his face as the darkness tossed him from side to side. The chill now made his way into his nostrils, down his throat, and into his stomach, or at least that was how it felt. He took another breath, and the fog surrounding him began to lift. How many times had he ridden in this carriage? Sussex had never noticed how firm the cushions in his coach were. Normally, he appreciated its solid, supportive feel, but at present it only made his body ache more. He needed something to drink. At the very least, to get the taste out of his mouth.

Another long, deep breath, and now London’s night came into a sharp focus. No fog tonight. That was nice. Also helpful, as he needed to know where the line was between the Empire and his own personal hell. When the fits took him on foggy days, that tended to make such distinctions difficult. Sussex gripped the handle over his head and pulled himself upright. His faculties were far better than when he felt the fit overcome him in his study, but he couldn’t order his driver to turn around and head home. He wouldn’t. Not when he was this close.

The carriage turned a corner, and when Sussex’s grip tightened, a ripple of agony worked through his arm and shoulder. He was exhausted, dizzy, but at least he could see the façade of his physician’s home. “Finally,” he sighed aloud as the horses slowed before the front door.

When the servant opened the carriage door, Sussex’s hand grabbed for the man’s arm as he pulled himself free of his seat.
You are the head of the Privy Council,
he chided himself silently.
You represent Her Majesty. Get yourself together, man!
He gave the lapels of his vest a slow tug, and fought to keep his steps strong and solid as he entered the doctor’s home.

The young physician appeared in the hallway tightening a sash around an impressive smoking jacket. However, on seeing the Duke, his brow knotted with concern.

“Doctor . . .” Sussex managed.

The physician looked him over once and shook his head, “I need you to calm yourself, Your Grace, and come with me.” As he escorted Sussex into the familiar library, the doctor called out over his shoulder, “Wadsworth, have Eucinda fetch me a bowl of water with rags. The water should be warm. Not hot, mind you. Warm.”

“Very good, sir.” The butler nodded as they lowered Sussex onto the plush settee.

A modest fire was burning gaily in the doctor’s tiny hearth, and Sussex found the flame’s dance oddly hypnotic. He was about to try and sit up when his young physician immediately propped his feet back onto the settee’s one arm, keeping the Duke’s feet elevated above the level of his head.