The Janus Affair: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (5 page)

Sophia del Morte wondered if the Maestro had noticed that too.

Chapter Three

Wherein Our Intrepid Heroes Return Home, Our Dashing Archivist Settles into His Routines, and—Sadly—So Does Our Beloved Colonial Pepperpot

T
he analytical engine sounded off with a single chime, and Wellington’s morning tea tickled his nose. He took it into his hands and gave a few soft blows before enjoying its mid-morning bite. He was hoping it would clear his head of the previous morning, but all he could see were the confused, terrified eyes of that young girl trapped within the bars of the gate. He glanced at his newssheet for what could have been the fifth time, reassuring himself that indeed he and Eliza had eluded any mention. The girl was no longer nameless to him—Melinda Carnes. She had come from a family of wealth and privilege, like many in the suffragist movement. She had been part of the Ladies Auxiliary of London for three years, and her assignment to assist Kate Sheppard throughout her speaking tour had been regarded as a real honour, according to the papers. The voices of her parents and fiancé spoke in Melinda’s memory, and along with pride there was in their words a powerful sense of loss.

All the better
, Wellington thought,
that you did not witness her final moments as I did.

Perhaps it had not been in vain, however. She had managed to communicate the cryptic “two,” just before the light in her eyes dimmed and then disappeared altogether.

Eliza had not voiced any interest to return to Speakers’ Corner, which came as a surprise to Wellington. He believed his partner would have leapt at an opportunity to speak with a fellow antipodean, but even she appeared to want to keep a low profile. They’d escaped from the scene before a crowd could really gather and long before Scotland Yard appeared.

The Archivist blinked, and that was when he noticed the cup of tea in his hands had gone from hot to tepid. He had been sitting still, engrossed for some time.

By their desk, a small coal furnace glowed cheerfully. Wellington stoked the remaining embers within it, and then added two additional scoops. A few minutes later, he felt the coils built into the underside of the shared desk surge with a delightful warmth. He examined the Archives’ long lines of shelves, and pondered how he could somehow contrive a similar heating system throughout its cavernous interior; but coming up with such a contraption would take longer than his analytical engine.

Besides, he had
plenty
on his worktable back home—and even more sitting before him.

Staring back at him were his own two sheets’ worth of notes that were in reference to the archives transfered from the Scotland office. The clock residing at the meeting point of the shared desks read just shy of eleven o’clock. He looked back at the closed hatch of the Archives. Locked, as it had been when he arrived. Wellington concluded his partner would arrive sometime after lunch, as was her fashion. That suited him very well. With this recent acquisition from Scotland, there was plenty to do.

Suddenly, his stomach growled, and that was when Wellington remembered he had forgotten to eat breakfast.

“Dash it all,” he whispered.

His eyes darted up to the pillars of crates around their desk. He slipped on fingerless gloves and sighed as he looked at the top box, labeled
1891
. Perhaps with Eliza alongside him, this process would take half the time; but alone as he was, 1891 appeared as the easiest place for him to begin. Stepping away from the comfort of the heated desk and into the chill of the Archives, Wellington wrapped his scarf about his neck and extended the keypad to him.

He typed:

ARCHIVE RETRIEVAL

1891

The machine clicked and whirred and then . . .

“Now just a moment,” Wellington muttered. No one about, so no need to display his “inability” to type. He double-checked the display. It was the right command.

He pressed the “Enter” key again. Again, the analytical engine clicked and whirred . . .

This time, the engine’s display responded:

FULFILMENT FAILURE.

SYSTEM CURRENTLY ENGAGED.

He looked back into the Archives, then back to the engine’s amber display. This can’t be right.
Such a failure would mean Eliza is already—

Wellington took long strides as he went deeper into the Archives, looking down each year’s aisle, but seeing only darkness—that was until he reached
1892
.

At the far end of the shelves was a single, familiar figure sitting at the reading table, poring over a case.

He could hardly believe his eyes. “Eliza?”

“Morning, Welly,” she answered cheerily, gathering up the open files before her.

“Good—” Wellington started and blinked. Eliza had been here? All this time?
Before him?
“—morning?”

“What’s wrong, Welly? Would you care for a spot of tea, or perhaps something stronger?”

“I—I already have a cup.”

“Well, I certainly could use one myself,” Eliza said, walking past him and returning to the Archive’s analytical engine. She punched in a code, and within minutes the sharp smell of gunpowder tea filled Wellington’s nostrils.

The scent seemed to provide the jolt the drink would have eventually given him. “I never programmed—”

“Oh, come along, Welly,” Eliza chided him, “did you really think with all the adjustments you have made to this creation of yours, I wouldn’t follow suit?”

“But how did you—”

“I opened up your tea sequence, cracked the computations, and then adjusted it for
my
preferred brew. Did you not know that cryptography was a new passion of mine? You’re partially to blame for it you know, considering that trick you pulled in Antarctica.”

He felt a blush rush to his cheeks. She still remembered, and now she was interested in the art of cracking codes herself? It was almost charming.

Wellington,
he snapped silently at himself,
focus! She was here, in the Archives, before you!

As he returned to their desk, his colleague slid towards him a large jar of ointment across the desk. An aroma of mint, medicinal salve, and lavender tickled his nose. “I popped up to the clankertons’ lair and stole this wonderful ointment for our unexpected sunburn from the past two days.” She smiled brightly. “It really does do the job.” Wellington peered closer, and yes indeed, it did appear Eliza’s skin glowed a little less red than it had.

Before he could make a move for the jar, she had darted around to his side of the desk, sat herself down on the edge, and put one hand under his chin against his neatly trimmed beard. The Archivist was quite unsure what to do with the fact that his partner had him in such an intimate grasp. It was . . . most improper, yet he found himself allowing her to tip his head this way and that. She leaned forward and examined his injuries with an intensity that would have done Miss Nightingale herself proud.

Wellington avoided looking into her eyes.

“Yes,” Eliza finally declared. “You seem to have caught a little more of it than I did. My hat provided some shelter on that train, and then yesterday we—Kate and I, that is—were low to the ground, out of the blast radius.” She dipped her finger into the jar and began to apply it to his cheeks.

He could have done it himself, however he found at present he didn’t want to. Despite himself Wellington let out a little sigh of relief. The ointment was delightfully cool and immediately eased the discomfort of the burns. Eliza’s fingers were gentle in their ministrations, and for a couple of minutes they sat in silence while she worked her magic.

Wellington finally met her gaze. “Thank you, Eliza.”

Her grip on his chin softened slightly and an uncertain smile hovered at the corners of her lips. “Quite all right, Wellington. I know how you men do fuss.” She turned him in his seat and clicked her tongue. “Oh, but did you get a delightful burn on the back of your neck. Hold still.”

The back of her fingers slowly worked the ointment into the nape of his neck, and the Archivist felt the heat return to his cheeks—hotter than ever.

Thankfully, Eliza slipped down off the desk and retreated back to her side of it. Her next comment took him completely off guard.

“You know, we really should name your mechanical monster here. Between us, it is developing quite the personality. I’ve always liked the name Lisa.”

Wellington was relieved to be back on ground he knew all too well—Eliza’s magpie-inclined mind. It did so like to hop about. It still didn’t answer the overwhelming question in his head. “All right, Eliza, out with it—you’ve been playing with the æthergates again, haven’t you?”

“Are you mad, Wellington? Or need I remind you of the last time I used them and appeared in the Sultan’s harem wearing only my pounamu pistols?”

Wellington gave a start. “I don’t remember that from your case report!”

Now it was Eliza’s turn to blink. “Oh, wait—I left that bit out. Saving it for my memoirs.” She relaxed in her chair and released a sigh that coalesced into a mist in front of her. “Yes. That
was fun
.”

“
Miss Braun,
what are you doing here?
Before me?
”

Her mouth twisted into a smirk as she shook her head at him. “Really, Welly, you think you are the only one who will walk that extra mile once a bee is in their bonnet? I, my dear colleague, am engaging in a bit of background research,” she said, motioning to the case files before her. “We have a few cases—I have found ten, so far—of missing ladies disappearing under the strangest of circumstances.”

“Missing ladies?” Wellington groaned. She was at it again. “Now just a moment—”

Her eyes flicked up to the ceiling as she held up a single finger. “Is this the ‘You promised not to do this following the Phoenix Society’ talk?”

He choked back his words and adjusted his spectacles. “Well, that seems most appropriate. You did promise to—”

Eliza raised one hand, “Actually I did no such thing, Wellington Thornhill Books. What I recall saying is that I would refrain from getting involved unless something
took my fancy.
Something about two women disappearing in a ball of light has done just that.”

They glared at each other for a long minute before Wellington glanced down at what she had on her desk. “Dare I ask, while I know I will regret what you will tell me, what you have found?”

“These ten cases I’ve discovered between 1892 and present day all report eyewitness accounts of women disappearing into a fantastic display of light. More to the point, these women were all connected, either financially or idealistically, to the building suffragist movement. Have a look,” she said, handing Wellington an open case file.

“Do I really want to?”

“You know you do,” cooed Eliza.

Wellington took the case file and immediately his eyes fell on the disappearance of Mildred Cady, treasurer of the Women’s Franchise League. “There was a strange crackling in our ears, and the smell of metal baking in a summer sun surrounded us. There was a flash of light, and she was gone. Those close to Mildred were covered in burns as one would find after an Egyptian holiday.” He glanced at the date of the report, then looked up across the desk. “This is from December 1895?”

“One of ten,” Eliza said.

His eye returned to the report and, with further perusal, he recognised the handwriting. More of the same was visible in other case files before Eliza. “You seem to be referencing open cases that have been passed along to us by their primary investigator—”

“Oh, I have some very strong thoughts concerning that,” Eliza said, nodding.

“I am sure you do, but I hope you recall another of the discussions we had.”

“The ‘Doctor Sound was clear as fine crystal that we are not to interfere’ talk?”

“The very one,” he blurted.

“Oh now, go on, Welly. Did we
really
interfere that much in Dominick’s case a few months ago? He was stuck on that business coming in from Cape Colony, and the Archives was politely providing additional research.”

“Yes, and let’s talk about that ‘additional research,’ shall we? Unsolved Case 18510421UKSL, where you picked up the trail of the Sword of the Lost Legion.”

“Happenstance!” Eliza implored. “Dominick confessed over drinks he was a bit stonewalled on how the Spear of Yemaya was constantly eluding his associates back in the Dark Continent. I recalled an unsolved case where the Sword of the Lost Legion was also eluding agents back when.”

“And so you took it upon yourself to undertake the trail of the Lost Legion, did you?”

“Begin where Hadrian’s Wall once stood and work your way back to where the Celts made things nasty for our Roman Legionnaires, eh what?” Eliza leaned back in her chair, quite proud of herself. “And while my predecessor in Case 18510421UKSL indeed had close encounters with this sword, it simply wasn’t in the cards.” She gave a light laugh. “Or should I say, stars?”