The Janus Affair: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (30 page)

Chandi shot a quick glance at the pneumatic tube where the sealed cylinder waited, but she already knew. She tucked a loose curl of raven-dark hair behind her ear, and gently squeezed the teardrop jewel hanging there. Now came the hard part. “Please, while we have come forward in so many ways, we have some unanswered questions. In particular, there is one variable we have not tested . . .”

“This game bores me,” Sophia seethed. “The device. Now.”

“One crucial challenge that we have not tested yet.”

The assassin growled in her throat, stepping out of the chair and casually removing a pistol from its holster at her back.

Chandi smiled as the scent of electricity tickled her nostrils. “Distance.”

Chapter Twenty-One

In Which Our Dashing Archivist Discovers How Patience and Persistence Are Both Virtues, but Loses Himself in a Flash of Inspiration

S
omewhere in here, Wellington knew, was what he needed to prove his theory right. Somehow, Wellington knew that Chandi Culpepper was connected with these disappearances.

I just have to find it in this footage,
he thought to himself as he started resetting the four kinetoramas.

Wellington passed his hands over the brass plates of the first projection device. Inside, he could see the gas flames burning steadily. He’d put his mother’s quilts up against the windows and the doorway of the guest room to provide the best viewing environment, however it was also making it terribly hot and stuffy. The heat was in danger of melting the evidence the Protectors had “graciously” loaned him. So he propped aside a corner of one of the quilts, and opened the sash window beyond. A small square of sunlight intruded on the dimness of the room, but it also let in enough of a small breeze to keep the celluloid from sizzling in the warmth that the machines generated.

The Archivist had already looked over the footage of the last two disappearances and was certain these two new reels also held something that he was missing. Wellington adjusted the starting point of the second, backtracking the footage approximately ten minutes from the point of disappearance. The lack of sound made the whole process somewhat eerie.

Wellington shook his head as he wound back the footage from Kinetorama Number 3. The Protectors had certainly given him a dose of what it was like to be a woman in this society. It was as if his voice, far more educated and knowledgeable than theirs, had no merit or say at all. No wonder they fought against that sort of injustice. Still, he would have preferred they didn’t dish the same out to him.

He now shut the fourth kinetorama, and then passed his hands over the previous machines as a final check for their heat circulation. Satisfied, he slowly brought the switch up that fed them power. The four images began to shimmer and move until finally Wellington had reached the point where the kinetoramas mimicked relative human speed. Apart from the odd hand wave and perhaps one or two ladies smoothing out the creases of their dresses, this footage could hardly be described as “gripping.” Reaching underneath his spectacles and rubbing his eyes, Wellington watched the same ten minutes he had been watching for the past two hours. Focus was becoming more and more elusive.

Instead he was thinking about her. Eliza. He’d been working on a sketch of her in his idle moments. He could finish it, but then what? Present it to Eliza? Perhaps as a bon voyage gift for her return to New Zealand on the arm of Douglas Sheppard. Eliza would have her old life back. Wellington would have the solitude of his Archives. When she’d first been reassigned it had been what they’d both wanted.

So now why did the idea of being alone in that glorified cellar terrify him?

“Oh dash it all,” he muttered. At least seven minutes had passed during his idle wonderings, and his fixation on Eliza and her reuniting with her lover had meant he’d not taken any notice of the film. Nothing for it, he would have to start again.

As Wellington went to slow down the kinetoramas, he caught a moment in Kinetorama 2’s playback. He immediately threw the switch to the “Stop” position, and stared at the frozen moment in time.

Have a care,
he told himself as he stared at the golden-hued image of Chandi Culpepper.

His hands trembled as he glanced down at the small wheel underneath his fingertips. He only had to step back a few seconds, a minute or two at the most, and this hand crank allowed him to reverse or advance all four kinetoramas simultaneously. He could not do it quickly or for long periods of time for fear of tearing the footage. Turning the crank anti-clockwise, Wellington began a steady progression back before this tiny, insignificant moment he caught in Kinetorama 2. He counted softly to himself, feeling his heartbeat race in his chest.

With a deep breath, Wellington applied power. All four kinetoramas gradually resumed playing their respective footage. Wellington now watched the projection from Kinetorama 3. In a moment . . . in a moment . . .

There!

The switch disengaged, and now Kinetorama 3 showed Chandi Culpepper in the same position as he had seen her in Kinetorama 2. Two different days. Two different meetings. The exact same gesture at the exact same time.

Then he looked at the images from Kinetoramas 1 and 4. Her fingers were also hidden behind her ear. The exact same gesture.

Wellington took the kinetoramas back a few more seconds, popped open the square cover of his pocket watch, and then applied full power.

Chandi nodded in Kinetorama 1, while in Kinetorama 3 she smiled brightly. How did he miss this? In Kinetorama 2 she was still as a statue; and then across all four projections, like ballerinas flawlessly following the rhythm of their accompanying orchestra, the multiple Chandis reached up with their right hands, tucked a wayward curl of hair behind their ears, and tugged lightly on their teardrop earrings.

Wellington’s eyes now hopped to his watch. After two minutes, all four projections flashed white and amber, and then what followed would be pandemonium.

He cut power, and then hand cranked the footage back, careful not to turn the wheel too quickly. He went to each kinetorama, quickly checking its temperature. He looked over the footage’s tautness. Well within safe limits. He took another deep breath. He was having difficulty remembering to breathe—a sure sign he was onto something.

The switch under his fingertips snapped softly into place, and the footage played once more. Chandi tucked her hair behind her ear. She tugged on the earring. The quality of the film was not fine enough to tell, but he guessed there was some kind of miniature device there allowing her to focus the kidnapping mechanism. Wellington noted the time. Thirty seconds, one minute, one minute thirty, one minute forty-five, Two minutes . . .

Flash.

He backed the footage up once more, checked the reels, and then paused the kinetoramas. Now he needed to fetch Eliza and show her this.

Whatever this quaint device of transportation and electricity was, Chandi Culpepper served as some sort of visual cue for it. The mannerism captured on film was too precise, too purposeful, to be dismissed as merely a habitual gesture. It had been the same at each meeting, with a two-minute window between the gesture and the abduction. This would also mean that the visual cue had to have been seen by an accomplice.

Wellington nodded and smiled to himself as he emerged from the dark room.
Ah yes, an accomplice.
It would mean someone else in the inner circle of the suffrage movement. Not all of the abductions took place during meetings though. They took place at rallies, at administrative meetings, in the streets of London, on the Edinburgh express . . .

They had been daring kidnappings at various locations, so that meant the device had to be portable. In addition, the accomplice would have to be someone Chandi could trust implicitly. Someone very close.

Then it made sense. All those tricks of shadow and light made sense. “My God!”

If Eliza thought the idea of making Chandi Culpepper their prime instigator was a far-fetched theory, she would laugh in his face at who he believed her accomplice to be. With what he had seen, though, it made a rather twisted kind of sense.

Archimedes’ sudden hiss made the Archivist’s head whip around. Wellington’s brow furrowed.

“Mr. Sheppard?” Wellington called, stepping out into the foyer.

He could hear the birds outside singing gaily in the treetops. His feline friend would have to be in the parlour’s bay window, a favourite sunning spot for him. Wellington stood in the hallway for a moment, listening for anyone at the door or perhaps in the house. Nothing creaked. No sounds of footsteps.

“Mr. Sheppard?” Wellington asked again, half expecting a reply. “If you have lost track of Miss Braun, I assure you she is not here.”

His only reply was a grating feline growl from the parlour. Wellington proceeded down to hall to find his friend was circling in place. The fat cat’s yellow eyes were looking into the vaulted ceiling. In turn, the Archivist glanced up to the modest ceiling fixture hanging overhead, and then back to his agitated housemate.

“Good sir, I assure you”—Wellington patted Archimedes’ head—“that tiny chandelier has done nothing to earn your ire.”

Then he felt the hair on his arms stand up, and the smell of electricity tickled his nose.

Archimedes bolted out of the parlour as Wellington scrambled for the small notepad and pencil by his game in progress. How much time did he have? Two minutes? Or was it a matter of seconds after catching the smell of electricity? He grabbed the white and black queen, and then cleared the board with his forearm, scattering pawns, rooks, and other pieces across the room’s centre rug and hardwood floor. Wellington quickly jotted down three words and then placed the note under the two queens.

Now what?

Get out of the room,
he thought quickly.
Remember the heat?

Wellington scrambled up to his feet, nearly taking a dangerous tumble as chess pieces caught under his foot.
Don’t panic. Eliza will understand. She’s your partner, after all.

He stumbled into the foyer, and could just make out the figure on the other side of the door. Even through the curtain and etched glass, she was a beautiful-looking woman. He knew that.

Something lifted him, and his vision filled with an incredibly brilliant light.

When the light changed, he saw her.

Wellington had wished he had been wrong for once. His wish, he realised as the white light filled his sight again, had not come true.

Chapter Twenty-Two

In Which Eliza Finds Both Unexpected Friends and Enemies

S
he should have been back at the Ministry, sitting at her desk with the pretence of being a good little junior archivist—but the time for that was long past with Ihita’s death. What use was the Ministry if it couldn’t protect someone like her—someone within their very ranks?

It was also something she had to alert Kate Sheppard to. The escalation in disappearances made Eliza deeply aware that her friend and mentor was a prime target. Whatever the kidnapper’s—or perhaps murderer’s—motives were, the presence of an influential suffragist would be too juicy of an opportunity. Eliza knew what she would do if she were that person.

So Eliza got dressed as she did for work, allowed Alice to do the one hundred brushes of her hair she insisted on every morning, and went around to where the Sheppards were staying.

She really did not want to run into Douglas—but Kate’s safety was more important than any awkwardness Eliza might feel.

The young maid, smartly turned out, met her at the door. “I’m sorry Miss, Mrs. Sheppard is not in. She is at the meeting.”

“Meeting?” Eliza’s hand clenched on her umbrella. “I didn’t hear there was a meeting today.”

The maid’s lips pursed, then she replied with a touch of smugness—as if she were part of some inner circle of knowledge. “It’s an emergency one. Called it last night.”

Now Eliza’s mouth was dry. She spun about without another word to the maid and began running down the street. It started raining but she didn’t bother with the umbrella, throwing it aside so she could pump her arms. She almost ran in front of a packed bus and its four horses as she turned the street corner.

The meeting hall was not far, but it felt like an eternity. As Eliza approached it, she scanned the exterior. No one was lingering outside, the doors were shut, the windows all shuttered and locked, and as far as she could see there was no one on the three-storey structure’s roof. Taking a deep breath she entered as calmly as she could manage.

The atmosphere inside was far less convivial than the last time she’d been here. A midday meeting was unusual for the movement, yet today it was packed. Many of the women still wore their raincoats, so obviously it had been called in some haste. Up on the stage Lady Pethick and a gaggle of the other remaining committee members were talking to Kate. They were waving their hands and looked nothing like the calm, collected women she had seen last time.

News of Ihita’s death had reached the movement then. Eliza was not really surprised. She was not the only suffragist in the Ministry. She had suspicions that Miss Shillingworth harboured an affiliation. If it was she who had alerted these women about what had happened she couldn’t be faulted for it. They needed to know.

At the edges of the gathering, she saw the darkly dressed Protectors standing at the shuttered windows, their clubs strapped to their backs and out in the open. Betsy Shaw was there, the raw burn marks on her face somewhat faded, but she inclined her head to Eliza when their eyes locked.

Eliza tried to work her way towards the stage, but the press was thick, and not many of the women inclined to move out of her way. The snippets of conversation she caught were panicked. These were women who were prepared to die for a cause in front of police, or to be locked up and force-fed through a tube. Those were known and expected things, but the possibility of being snatched into thin air at any moment was something else entirely.

This was when Kate stepped forward. Brushing away the chatter of the committee, she took the front of the stage. “Ladies,” her voice cut above the chatter and she did not have to repeat herself. They stilled and, as one, turned to her.

Eliza smiled, because she recognised this Kate: the person she had first heard as a girl of not more than fifteen, who had inspired her to put her tomboy talents to good use. One who had helped her understand the wider world and what needed to be done to make it better. For a moment, Eliza quite forgot about the danger and the risk.

Kate’s white hair gleamed in the sun coming down through the skylight, as she stood tall and straight before the crowd. “Ladies, I will not insult your intelligence by telling you falsehoods. Here, in the centre of our great endeavour, all must be truthful, for if we cannot trust our fellow sisters, then all is lost.”

Eliza glanced over the assembly, and felt them take a collective breath.

“It is true,” Kate went on, clasping her hands together, “that we have lost many of our sisters, and that yesterday one of them was found dead, moved by some unholy hand to a place of hanging.”

A stifled sob came from near Eliza and she could feel her own throat seize up. The image of Ihita swinging under Tower Bridge consumed her mind, even though she had not seen it for herself.

Kate continued. “We must keep our grief and our anger for the loss of our sisters tempered with the knowledge that they are still with us in spirit. They were taken from us, but our path must remain clear. We cannot afford to stray from it, otherwise all the efforts of those here and those gone will have been for nothing.”

Her voice was clear and lovely in the meeting room, bringing some of the women to tears, and straightening the spines of all. Eliza was reminded of the power of such charisma, how it was even more dangerous than dynamite. With a start, she remembered her purpose here, and it was not to draw strength from Kate Sheppard—it was to protect her.

She began squeezing and wriggling her way towards the front. Then she tasted it in the air—the sharp tang that burned the nostrils.

“No!” Eliza yelled, her voice breaking through silence, and then, “Get down!” Everyone spun about instead, but no one dove for the floor. In fact it became harder for her to get to the front as all the women were frozen like statues. Out of the corner of one eye, the agent saw Betsy having the same problem.

Kate was standing up on the stage, her clockwork eye focusing on Eliza, while her remaining eyebrow drew down. She held out her hand, perhaps to remonstrate with Eliza, perhaps to call for people to let her through—but whichever it was no one ever found out.

Previously Eliza had only caught a portion of the kidnapping events. She’d seen Lena outlined in light in the doorway, and seen the devastation after. What she had never experienced was the full force of it in daylight. The air became sharp and so dry it was painful. Everyone flinched back. Not fast enough though, not fast enough by far.

The ball of blue lightning snapped into existence on the stage, engulfing Kate Sheppard in an instant. The nearest committee members were knocked off their feet as a ring of displaced and heated air fanned out from the sphere. Those on the floor nearest the stage were also pushed back, screaming in shock. Eliza, twenty feet away, felt the air brush her, but managed to stay upright.

The lightning was only there for a heartbeat, and then it snapped once more out of existence, taking Kate with it. Eliza turned to her left and saw her. Chandi Culpepper. She was conveniently at the edge of where the effects of the sphere ran out. As she had been in Hester’s library.

Wellington Thornhill Books, that annoying yet brilliant man, had been proven correct. Eliza would have to tell him that when she next saw him, once she had secured that lying bint Chandi Culpepper. She had been hiding in their midst like a poisonous snake, with no one the wiser. On exchanging glances with Eliza, comprehension slid over her face. Her eyes went wide.

The jig was up.

As Eliza leapt and dodged groaning women to get to her, Chandi did not linger for discourse. Instead she darted for the closest door. Everyone was stunned and horrified, except for Eliza, and a few steps behind her was Betsy. They followed her out of the main room and into the stairwell. Chandi was young and fast, pelting hard up the stairs; but the other two women were only a single flight behind her.

Eliza was already thinking about what she would ask—and if left alone with Chandi, do—once in the interrogation room, because she knew there was no escape off the roof. The meeting hall stood apart from the rest of the nearby houses. Chandi had not expected to be caught, not expected anyone to suspect her, and now the blind panic of that all happening was going to catch up with her and bite her rather hard on the rear. The agent would happily follow it up with a kick. They’d have Kate back before dinner.

Chandi burst out onto the roof, the door slamming into the wall in her haste to get away. Eliza and Betsy were hard on her heels. The roof was not entirely empty. The agent didn’t get a good look at the odd device on the roof, but feared it was an ornithopter such as the children who had attacked her apartments had used.

“Betsy!” she yelled, but they were both running a fraction too slow. Chandi launched herself at the device, so that she and it toppled over the edge of the building. Her two pursuers scrambled to the side, but they were not lucky enough to see her splattered on the ground.

Chandi, her body clamped in straps, spread across a flying machine the like of which Eliza had never seen in action, or indeed in reality. She had, however, seen
cornuretorta
as a concept on a drawing board in the Ministry. Two spinning, screw-shaped wings buzzed above the narrow frame that shuttled the traitorous bitch away from them. Wellington would have loved to see such a thing, but Eliza found nothing to enjoy about the moment.

“Shoot her!” Betsy yelled as they watched the device spirit Chandi away.

“If I do,” Eliza growled, “then we will never get Kate back. Think with your goddamn head!” She slammed her fist against the brickwork of the ledge. What was her next move going to be? The image of Ihita under the bridge would not leave her alone, yet she couldn’t afford to let it paralyse her. “I have to go get Wellington,” she said finally. “Betsy, you’d better round up the remaining committee members, and get them to a windowless secure location. Just in case Chandi wants to complete the set.”

The other woman nodded, her hands tightening on her sticks. “I’ll take them to . . .”

“Don’t tell me,” Eliza cut her off. “Keep as few people aware of the location as possible, and don’t make it any of the usual safe houses—there’s no telling how much information she has on the movement.”

“And Mrs. Sheppard?”

“I’ll get her back.” She turned and fixed the Protector with a hard look that left no doubt she would not stop until that had been accomplished. “Leave it to me.”