Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences (2 page)

“Well then, next time, sir, book your room at the Fifth Avenue Hotel if you don’t want to be involved with the goings on of an O.S.M. field office.” Mrs Marsh’s scornful tone carried up the stairs like the snap of a whip. She shook her head, returning her weighty gaze to Bettina. “A Mister Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire, is in town, supposedly ‘on holiday’ though at the sight of file cabinets he is evidently transported and can’t seem to keep his hands out of our own Archives. He is an important Ministry asset, or so he tells us; working with those who serve as our British ‘parents’”, she explained. “And Lord do they like to act like high born parents; wanting us to be very good little boys and girls, but not caring one whit to raise us themselves.”

Bettina smiled at Mrs Marsh as if they were co-conspirators as the woman gestured her into the other room. Shuttered windows made the light of the room dim lit instead by a few small flickering gas lamps. They were as well kept as one might expect of a first floor parlour, it was unique in the massive length of wooden file cabinets going across one wall.

Writing desks lined the wall opposite, all wired to telegraph machines, many of which were whirring away in pleasant faint taps. Long thin paper tickers bubbled up from whatever implement was taking in the code. There were wires all about the room, leading to small sockets that Bettina at first thought were gas-lamp fixtures, but she saw that odd metal spokes went up from their sconces. She thought, perhaps they helped keep the building hidden, but she wondered why she could see it then. Maybe the wiring was faulty?

Bettina drank in the atmosphere of this lush building, a sharp contrast she had seen in the run-down condition outside; a fine reception room, velvet-flocked wallpaper, and fine curios boasted crystal, china or rare old books. All of the office’s grandeur was effortlessly coupled with the forefront of technology. Where the magic stopped and the science began eluded her, but she was captivated. She turned to Mrs Marsh eagerly but was stilled by the woman’s next grave words.

“Think very hard about what will and what will not scare you, Miss Spinnett.”

Bettina blinked at the rather unexpected question.

Marsh continued, pausing before the parade of file cabinets. “Anyone who is in any way involved with the O.S.M must face their fears and overcome them. This work will try the limits of your sanity.”

Bettina took in her words. Could anything be more thrilling? One day she’d been a bored and boring orphan sewing clothes for orphanage coffers and escaping in the occasional hard-to-find book. Now she was faced with adventure none would believe.

“I appreciate that you’re wonderstruck, child, but choose. Pick a creature. A monster. A puzzle. A mystery. Go after something that interests you and bring us back something useful you discovered. Bring us numbers. Bring us details.”

“A creature?”

“Think of all the mythical beasts of legend and fable. Among our many duties and our wide-ranging purview, we try to ascertain what all truly exists, for most of them do. Research and Development has been refining equipment to track their details. Should you choose the thrill of danger, of course, there are always the more deadly monsters we would like reports about—”

“What about ghosts?”

“Ghosts?” She considered this a moment. “Indeed. Very useful. Can never have enough data regarding ghosts. In fact, that’s an area where we happen to be lacking on account of so many false sightings and fraudsters.”

Mrs Marsh went to the middle cabinet, middle drawer, and rather than pulling out the handle, she pressed upon it. A strange clunking noise and a hiss of steam sounded from within, like a deep metal lever were pulled, such a hollow and reverberate tone when the cabinets themselves appeared mere wood and only the dimensions visible.

As if on its own accord, the drawer lengthened before Mrs Marsh and she reached in, a tendril of what Bettina assumed was steam wafted up from the interior. The woman’s sturdy hand plucked up a white linen bundle and her elbow pressed upon the outside handle again, the drawer sliding back once more.

Mrs Marsh approached and instinctively Bettina held out her hands. Marsh placed something lightweight and cool into Bettina’s hand and she whipped off the white linen covering that Bettina could see now was a monogramed embroidered ladies’ handkerchief. Thoughts of whom the handkerchief may have belonged to were lost in the wonder of what was now in her hands.

A dragonfly. A large brass dragonfly the size of her whole palm, with tiny buttons and screws and wires, iridescent and incredible. She peered at the curious device with great joy, looking at all its special knobs and fine wire mesh. It must be priceless. This stranger must place a great deal of trust in her with something so precious. Bettina’s heart swelled with excitement and purpose.

“You will use this to record and bring significant data as soon as you are able. Two days at the most, we don’t loan equipment for long. And don’t even
think
about selling it. We’ve ways to track you down.”

Bettina nodded. “I wouldn’t dream of it!”

“Good.”

Bettina bit her lip. This was as good a time to ask as any, though she didn’t want to press Mrs Marsh’s amazing welcome. “Tonight, though, Mrs Marsh, could you be so kind as to advise me where should I... stay?”

“Ah yes, that. Well it’s probably best for the safety of the device for you to return it here. I’ll leave the back door open for you and you alone. And here’s how.”

Mrs Marsh moved to one of the writing desks and picked up a handheld implement that appeared to be a cross between a stamping press and a pair of pliers and returned to Bettina. In the instant, the woman had Bettina’s index finger in her hand. The vice clamped down upon the finger and Bettina loosed a resounding: “Ow!”

“There now, all done,” Mrs Marsh said. “Touch that finger to the small metal oval on the back door, the one in the alley beyond, and it will unlock for you and only you.”

Bettina stared at her reddened finger, then back at Mrs Marsh. “This place does try one’s belief.”

Mrs Marsh laughed. “This is just the beginning, child. When you come in for the night, keep to that back room. I’ll set up a palette by the coal furnace. It isn’t much for accommodations, but it’ll be warm and dry. I dare not move you upstairs, not while Mr Books is here.”

“Is he really so terrible?” Bettina asked.

“A monster,” Mrs Marsh grinned, evincing Bettina’s smile in turn. “A tedious, meticulous,
librarian
. Utterly unbearable.” The women chuckled a moment before Mrs Marsh recovered herself as if she ought not be seen smiling. “I just don’t want
His
Eminence’s
lip, as I’m straying
far
from protocol. We don’t... take folks in.” Mrs Marsh smoothed her jacket with a slightly nervous gesture, her fingers fussing about the hem.

“And I promise I’ll find a way to repay your generosity,” Bettina promised. Mrs Marsh gave her a fond smile before shooing her towards the door.

“Now off with you.”

Bettina looked at the device in her hand, then at the door, then back to the woman. “But…how do I use this...?”

“Why, you press the button and hold it towards the phenomena you wish to record, of course,” Marsh said, moving forward to press the thorax of the dragonfly on a little iridescent panel. In response, the delicate filigree metal wings flapped and a whisper-soft whine came from the device that was as much mechanical creature as property. The little antennae of the device shifted from side to side and one small, bluish light the size of a pinhead lit up upon its middle and then went out again.

Mrs Marsh’s eyes went wide a moment before her expression again regained stoic neutrality.

“How do I know how to interpret what its doing?” Bettina asked, entranced by the movement of the device.

“However many lights will determine, give or take one, the amount of presences near you. We’ve made all our various recording devices look more like fine toys than equipment so as not to disturb or make the subjects suspect. Once the whole of its panels have lit with as many lights as it has in its system, then it will go back to one and begin counting again. When you return we’ll attach the dragonfly to one of our readers and the little beauty will tell us the other factors; temperature, humidity, atmospheric conditions, et cetera.”

“Do I
have
to rely on the lights?” Bettina asked. “Couldn’t I just count the numbers of spirits I see? That seems more elementary.”

Marsh’s subtle reaction gave Bettina a slight chill. Had she been impertinent?

Instead, the woman asked with great interest, “Have you always been able to see spirits, child?” Mrs Marsh smiled softly. “That’s new to our department if you can.”

“Is that useful?” she asked with hope.

Mrs Marsh nodded, prompting Bettina’s eager nod in turn.

“Well, yes, but sometimes we can’t rely solely on our eyes alone, can we?” Mrs Marsh asked with her eyebrow raised. Bettina shook her head. “Good girl.”

Suddenly Bettina wanted nothing more than to make Mrs Marsh and this office proud.

“Do note the phase of the moon and the addresses and intersections of the phenomena. In that case, you’d best take these.” Mrs Marsh lifted a pencil and notebook from the writing desk. “And this, for the safety of the device.” She then plucked a wooden box with a handle from atop one of the file cabinets and handed them over. Bettina fumbled with them a moment before grasping them tight. Mrs Marsh continued with a motherly tone. “And I’m sure I needn’t tell you, an innocent young lady like yourself shouldn’t be out past dusk. Gramercy may be safer than the territories of the Hudson Dusters and the Bowery Boys, but there is still darkness in wealthy circles. Best not get caught up with the likes of them, however haunted those poor creatures may be.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll return by nightfall. I can’t thank you enou—”

“Go be useful, child,” Mrs Marsh gestured her out.

Bettina nodded and nearly ran through the door.

With a thrill, she was off into the city. The bustling, ever-so-haunted New York City. She followed her instincts about where the most haunted places might be. Further downtown. The eldest parts of the city, the places of fires and shipwrecks and disasters of all kinds, where native populations were driven from their island home and where thousands of immigrants toiled in squalor and harrowing conditions while the successful were moving ever upward upon the vast Manhattan grid.

The first thing that captured her fancy was the harbour, heading directly due west across the Avenues as they increased in number towards the Hudson. And oh, did it yield. Perhaps the device brought out the spirits more by its presence, for they positively thronged around the waterfront. But with so many of them in tattered Union blue, haunting the harbour they departed from, it occurred to Bettina that the Civil War scars would take a very long time to heal, if they ever could. But somehow counting their numbers felt good, as if she were acknowledging their sacrifices.

Just her and a mechanical dragonfly, looking up and meeting swaying gazes as the spirits floated about, tied to the earth by some unfinished business or worldly woe. The fact that they could see her too somehow made her feel even more driven to her purpose of making them count. Her leaving the orphanage opened up whole new worlds, these spirits showing her the way.

Down blocks marred by fires and accidents, the industrial district had their own fair share of ghosts for all the limbs and many lives taken by terrifying machines. The spirits led on, showcasing where their numbers swelled and where they thinned. As Bettina made an eastward sweep along the tip of Manhattan Island, the centuries of spirits sometimes choked the air with transparent, shimmering colour, she had to keep count ten times over at least, marking in her notebook when the dragonfly whirled its completed tally and the numbers of light would begin again. The proximity beacon was flickering nearly the whole time. She was surrounded.

As the behemoth gothic arches of New York’s recent addition, the Brooklyn Bridge, began to loom before her, Bettina gasped at the flock of spirits hanging about its grand bricks and spectacular wire ropes. It was an unparalleled suspension bridge, a monument to human ingenuity, architecture, and design, its two towering arches having gained the crowning title of the tallest manmade structure in this part of the world.

At the amount of spectres hovering around the incredible achievement, she was reminded at what cost such wonder was gained.

So many spirits of men floated there, the bridge unable to ferry its dead across to Heaven, keeping them there where they died, countless from caisson disease alone, their forms bent over in pain, as man should perhaps not be so deep underwater, others from any number of perilous conditions. The awe-inspiring spectacle of engineering was haunted down to its watery foundations.

The day flew by in mere moments, and Bettina did not even notice that dusk had fallen. Spirits cast a fine light and she was more taken up in counting them than in the tracking of the sun or the darkening of the sky. Once she noticed she was taking down her notes by downtown gas-lamp, with the harrowing Lower East Side ahead of her, she doubled back and returned up to the square of fine buildings facing the gated Gramercy Park.

Tucking the whirring dragonfly that had seen such lively use into its wooden box, along with her notebook for safekeeping, she raced back to the nondescript façade of O.S.M., then around the corner and down the alley behind it.