The Janus Affair

by Morris, Tee

Eliza quickly rose, and Wellington noted her smile seemed eerily relaxed and charming—even though she loathed the use of her new official title. “Sir, what brings you—”

  “Oh do not think me a simpleton. An incident occurs on the White Star’s prototype hypertrain, the same hypertrain that you and your mentor here happen to be riding on, and you believe that it wouldn’t warrant my attention?”

  “Well, it is late, Doctor Sound,” Eliza said. “We didn’t anticipate you being awake.”

  “Oh, normally at this hour, I am enjoying a deep sleep after a delightful hot toddy. Strangely enough, I have been having a right bother of a time falling asleep ever since you left London.” Sound turned his attention to Wellington as his expression darkened. “Happens with every trip the two of you undertake, I’ve noticed.”

  Wellington watched Eliza loose a wink, as her back was now to Sound.

  Doctor Sound checked his pocket watch, nodded, and then said, “Well, I hope you can regale me with the astounding events that occurred on your train ride home.”

  “But of course,” Wellington began, about to return to the bench, “After we—”

  The Director cut him off. “Perhaps we could walk as you give me your unofficial report.”

  “If you don’t mind, sir,” Eliza added, “It’s lovely to be stationary after the long—”

  “I insist.” Doctor Sound’s brows furrowed.

  Wellington and Eliza shared a look; and then with the tiniest of shrugs, the two followed the Doctor down their platform.

  He shot them an appraising look. “If I didn’t know better I would think both of you had gone to the Indies, not Scotland.”

  Wellington managed not to raise his hand to his face. “Sir, it appears whatever happened had some unusual side effects.”

  “I hope we don’t keel over before luncheon,” Eliza replied brightly. “My friend Marie in Paris is working on some—”

  “I also hear,” the Ministry Director cut her off curtly, “that you were engaging in some social time with suffragists while you were in Scotland?”

  “Yes, sir, but strictly on my time. Not the Ministry’s,” she reassured him.

  Wellington added, “I saw to that, Doctor.”

  “I’m sure you did. And this is where you met—”

  Eliza cleared her throat. “Lena Munroe, sir. A suffragist from London. There was a ladies’ group from the City giving support to an Edinburgh chapter. Strength in numbers and all that. I only met the girl a couple of times, but she was quite outspoken.”

  “Perhaps one reason you two got along so well, Miss Braun,” Wellington muttered from beside her.

  Her elbow never failed in finding a pressure point that could steal his breath. Blinking back tears, Wellington remained quiet as a church mouse while Eliza continued. “We met for breakfast along with many of the other ladies from both the London and Edinburgh groups.”

  “And was this breakfast why you missed the meeting at Deputy Director Wynham’s office?”

  He saw the muscle twitch in Eliza’s jaw. She dare not tell him what she’d been actually up to, and that the previous day had in fact been when she met with Lena. This, Wellington surmised, was his cue; and unsettling as he found it, it was proving easier and easier to lie for Eliza. “Yes, sir. I was already there—”

  “So he told me in a wireless.”

  “Ah,” Wellington gestured to Eliza and said, “then he told you that Agent Braun really didn’t need to be there. It was really only a courtesy, since we already had what we needed from their archives.”

  “The wireless was hardly that detailed.” Doctor Sound then turned back to Eliza, stopping hardly by chance at their train car. “So, Agent Braun, you and Agent Books here collect your case files from the Scottish branch, you board the train, and then—”

  “And then we settled in for the ride home. I had no idea Miss Munroe was also sharing the hypersteam with us.” Eliza motioned to where she had seen the suffragist appear. “She burst into our car, saw me, and looked as if she would break down and cry.”

  “More out of relief than out of despair, Doctor Sound,” Wellington offered. “I do not mean to sound cheeky saying that, but it was true. This woman recognised Agent Braun here, and looked awash with relief.”

  Doctor Sound furrowed his brow. “Relief?”

  “Yes, sir. It appeared as if she wanted to tell us something”—Wellington took a deep breath and then motioned along the car—“but then—”

  “But then, all hell broke loose,” Eliza chimed in.

  “Really now?” His eyebrows were up again. “And the Gates of Beelzebub just happened to open in the car that two agents of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences occupied?” Doctor Sound pursed his lips. “Fancy. That.”

  Wellington gave a light shudder.

  Eliza lifted her chin slightly. After spending months with her, Wellington had observed this usually happened a moment before she did something dangerous. “Sir, I know how this may look—but I can assure you this is completely coincidental.”

  “Agent Braun, you are, indeed, a force of nature. You do not command the arctic winds to plunge Old Blighty into a harsh winter nor do you call upon the sands of the Sahara to blind the ancient home of the pharaohs. Nay, you attract mayhem, chaos, and anarchy wherever your delicate feet tread. Around you there is no such thing as coincidence.”

  “Why do you think it is always me, Director?” Eliza protested. “It could be Books. My father always told me to beware the quiet ones!”

  “Yes,” Wellington grumbled. “In my spare time outside of the Archives, I tend to get into the occasional pub brawl or even the odd boxing match, to work out the tensions.”

  Eliza blinked. “You? Boxing?”

  He turned to look at her. “The tension just so happened to arise last summer when I was assigned a charge in my Archives. Do you think that is coincidence?”

  “A tiny one.”

  “That will do, the both of you,” Doctor Sound said, his voice remaining calm, though effectively cutting through the clamour of the train platform. The Scarborough Dasher chugged past them into the station, bathing the area for a few moments in steam. The Director seemed to revel in the atmosphere. He drew in a great breath before continuing. “Whether you meant to or not, you attracted a great deal of attention to yourselves in this fateful moment. From what I have managed to gather from eyewitnesses is that the woman was quite a sight, her eyes fixed upon you, and that was when the screaming started. The screaming, and the lumières fantastique.”

  “Doctor Sound,” Eliza began, and Wellington’s stomach felt as if it were gripped by a metal fist. “As Agent Books and I were present during this obvious peculiar occurrence, perhaps you could allow us to be lead investigators on this case?”

  Directly, and to the point. How utterly colonial of her.

  Doctor Sound tucked his hands into his pockets. “I believe even a junior archivist would agree that, as the peculiar occurrence directly involved you, your judgement and impartiality have both been compromised.”

  Wellington leaned towards her ear and muttered, “I told you so.”

  She heard him, but chose not to listen. “Hardly, Director. As I mentioned, I hardly knew the girl; but for the brief moment that I saw her, she asked me for my help. Asked me. I believe that it is my duty when one of the Queen’s subjects asks of me—”

  “Stop—right—there.” Doctor Sound raised a finger as Eliza went to protest. “No, Agent Braun, I will not hear another utterance from you on this matter. Once you have offered your account of events, you and Agent Books will return to the Archives, where you will resume your duties unless the primary investigator calls upon you again.”

  Eliza crossed her arms. “Who would that be?”

  Doctor Sound motioned behind him, and Wellington felt a tightness form in his throat as he made out the man striding towards them through the parting steam.

  “You cannot be serious, sir,” Eliza grumbled.

 
“G’day, Eliza,” Bruce said, flashing her what he apparently believed to be his best smile. “I have a few questions for you.” His eyes flicked over in Wellington’s direction. “Books. Be with you in a moment.”

  This was going to be the longest interview of Wellington’s career at the Ministry.

  Eliza, once again, displayed her monumental lack of tact. “You cannot expect Campbell here to have the wherewithal to handle this case?”

  “Oh, I know that Agent Campbell is more known for action in the field rather than investigation; but when I received word on this matter, I was pleased to see him step forward and agree to take on the assignment. Considering his current caseload, I am glad to see such initiative.” The Director turned and actually beamed at the Australian.

  “How fortunate for the Ministry.” She scowled.

  The crash made Wellington, Eliza, and Campbell jump. The three turned to see a cart of large, heavy cargo—at first glance, the corner of an armored safe was visible—now covering the bench that Wellington and Eliza had earlier occupied. Two workers were yelling at each other over the scattered remains of the Portoporter. The bench meanwhile had been reduced to a pile of splintered wood and bent iron.

  “Good Lord,” Wellington finally uttered, “Had we still been there—”

  “Yes.” Doctor Sound agreed, glancing back at the site of the accident, and then looking back to Wellington. “Most fortunate we stretched our legs, eh Books?”

  He paused in his reply, tilted his head to one side, and then slowly nodded. “Most.”

  Why was Doctor Sound smiling at him?

  “With the strange happenings on your train and the superstitious nature of the working class,” Sound said, motioning to the scattered luggage and twisted bench, “this platform is only going to fall deeper into disarray. Therefore, Campbell will need to collect statements straightaway—starting with yours.” He considered the two of them for a moment. “Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.” They replied—though Eliza’s was considerably less enthusiastic than it should have been.

  Wellington’s eyes followed Doctor Sound to the incident. It appeared as if the Director was studying the random accident up close, for some strange reason. His attention was immediately yanked back to the broad-shouldered Ministry agent flipping open a small pad and touching the tip of his pencil with his tongue.

  “Right then,” Campbell began, his tone so civil it was offensive. “May I have your name for the record, Miss . . . ?”

  “Eliza Braun,” Eliza sneered. “Here, I’ll spell it for you—B-U-G-G-E-R-O-F-F.”

  Bruce nodded. “That is a beautiful name, miss.” He looked up from his notepad. “Very exotic.”

  “Eliza, please,” Wellington said, “Agent Campbell here has others to interview before the night’s over. Just cooperate.”

  “Oi, mate,” Bruce snapped, stepping closer to Wellington, “I think I can handle her myself. I don’t need some limey offering assistance.”

  Just as charming as Wellington remembered him.

  Bruce suddenly spat on the pavement—dangerously close to Wellington’s shoes—before giving him one more warning glare, and turning back to Eliza. She herself appeared ready to explode, perhaps in a grander fashion than her favourite incendiary.

  Campbell cleared his throat, and resumed his interview. “Now then, Miss Braun—that is right, Eliza Braun, yes? Why don’t you tell me what happened, in your own words.”

  Wellington checked his watch and looked around them, noting the tired passengers and skittish hypertrain personnel. A long night’s journey home had suddenly become much, much longer, and his bed seemed a very long way off.

  Chapter Two

  Wherein Our Dashing Archivist Receives an Earful at Speakers’ Corner, and Our Colonial Pepperpot Finally Comes to Grips with Her Past Transgressions

  Two hours had passed by the time Agent Campbell finished with Eliza; two long, tedious, and excruciating hours. Wellington knew from his training that questioning a witness—even if one was considered to be the prime suspect—should never take longer than thirty minutes. Brevity was not only the soul of wit, but it was key in keeping an investigation moving. Some of the questions for Eliza were purely trivial, and Wellington could not help but let the odd “Oh for God’s sake . . .” and “Agent Campbell, please . . .” slip.

  When it came Wellington’s turn, however, Campbell was anything but civil. Simply put, he was nothing less than rude. He cut off Wellington in the middle of answers and yawned outright during crucial testimony. Still, Campbell’s contempt meant Wellington’s interview took a fraction of the time compared to Eliza’s.

  At the very moment that Campbell’s notebook flipped shut, Doctor Sound re-appeared. He looked well rested, so he had most likely taken a moment to relax at the Royal Station Hotel. Wellington found himself thinking rather bitterly that he had probably found time for tea—something that Campbell had deliberately denied them.

  “It seems that Campbell and I will both be joining you as our airship had to return to London,” Doctor Sound shouted over the building hiss of the hypersteam engine. “No need to come in tomorrow. You both have endured a rather extraordinary evening. Now, off with you both.”

  While Wellington and Eliza returned to second-class, the Archivist watched with a pang of longing as Sound hopped into his first-class car. The budgetary concerns were apparently not an issue—for the right people. Campbell, Wellington noted, was disappearing into the crowd.

  The hypersteam train, the centre jewel of technology’s crown, finally pulled into King’s Cross at three in the morning. An hour after the standard steam train arrived to its platform.

  Wellington barely remembered getting home, he’d been so exhausted. The next morning he was able to take inventory of his complaints: aching eyes, sunburned face, and a sore backside from so long on the train. What a ghastly affair the whole thing had been.

  However, he couldn’t afford to coddle himself—not when he’d promised Eliza a repast at the establishment of her choosing. Wellington knew it was the least he could do for surprising her with the hypersteam train tickets; had he simply bought them passage on a standard steam train, they would have enjoyed true luxury—blissful sleep all the way to London.

  With Doctor Sound’s admonishment to have a day off, Wellington concluded his partner would take full advantage and arrive for work tomorrow, sometime after lunch most likely.

  The huge pile of cataloguing waiting for them in the office was not a job to tackle on his own, and so with a slight pang of guilt, Wellington decided not to go into the office until tomorrow either. Instead he walked down in the fresh late-morning air to the main street and hailed a cab outside the Old Bull and Bush. Luckily, the cockneys who often journeyed to the pub on their off days were nowhere to be seen. They often caused a bit of a scene in the area.

  Grateful of the lack of drama—at least thus far in his journey—Wellington travelled on to his partner’s residence. With a generous gratuity added to the fare, Wellington thanked the driver and then proceeded up the stairs to Eliza’s rooms.

  The sound of his feet scuffing against the stone steps made Wellington Thornhill Books return to memories he would much rather have left in the past.

  A gentleman walks with confidence, boy, his father would say as Wellington rubbed the back of his hand. Arthur H. Books was quite adept at using a ruler as a device of discipline. Scraping your soles like that tells the world you do not walk upon this earth so much as you lumber. You, Wellington, will not be an embarrassment to me.

  Wellington splayed his fingers and then slowly balled them into a fist. He had tried so hard as a youth to please his father, but eventually he had worked out how little the elder Books’ regard was worth.

  All these unpleasant childhood memories were haunting him now for one very good reason: he was exhausted. He’d just realised that, when the door above him swung open, and Eliza appeared before him, looking rather smart. If she had been a gen
tleman.

  “Oh come along, Miss Braun,” Wellington began.

  “Not a word about my trousers,” she barked. “You booked us passage on the new McTighe contraption—”

  “The hypersteam engine is a Barrington invention, not a McTighe. The Edinburgh Express is the first train to be fitted with it, and White Star is usually known for their comfortable travel—”

  “For the first-class passengers, yes.” She gave him a stern look and a slight shake of her head. “Awfully considerate of the Old Man to invite us to ride along with him.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “I know, Welly. I was being sarcastic.” Her eyes narrowed on him, her tongue running inside her cheek as she pulled her coat in tighter. “Your brilliant plan to get us back to London in ‘half the time of the usual express’ was a bit of a bust, Welly, so you owe me this morning. Therefore, my attire is not open to your criticism, understood?”

  Wellington cleared his throat, went to reply, thought better of it, and instead took in a deep breath.

  “If I am a bit grumpy,” she continued, slipping on her decidedly masculine jacket and shutting the door behind her, “it is because I did not get enough proper sleep.”

  “Lack of sleep makes for an irritable Eliza.” He nodded. “Right then. I shall keep that in my memory lock’d, and I myself shall keep the key of it.”

  She glared at him but did not reply.

  They walked in silence then, Wellington doing just as he’d promised himself he would do—following her lead. As expected, Eliza’s fashion was attracting many a disapproving look from passersby.

  “Wellington.” Eliza finally spoke, her eyes still fixed on the pavement as they walked. “I know a little café with a lovely view of Hyde Park. Thought that might be a pleasant way to enjoy luncheon. So much more enjoyable than last night.”

  “Quite.”

  Their rapid pace managed to keep Wellington warm against the chill. They were most fortunate that it had not been a characteristically windy sort of January day; but whatever this café promised, Wellington was looking forward to a good, hot cup of tea and a scone fresh from the oven. However, Eliza’s stride began to shorten the closer they drew to Speakers’ Corner, and Wellington’s curiousity was piqued.