The Janus Affair

by Morris, Tee

  “Hester,” the Indian said, chuckling pleasantly, “not cynical. Cautious. Something we all have to be, considering recent events.”

  A soft murmur of agreement rose from the collected suffragists. Kate glanced at Eliza, giving her a slight nod. The cracks were, indeed, starting to show.

  “I’ve observed you at some of the meetings, dear,” Hester said, looking at Eliza with a hesitant smile.

  The agent knew a mention of the government would not be comforting to these women; bureaucracy had failed them at every turn. Instead she offered another, equally true explanation. “We’re investigators, and yes indeed, we both believe strongly in the cause.”

  Alva brought in the tea tray, set it before her mistress on a table, and disappeared in a most efficient manner. Alice could never quite manage such silence. Hester leaned forward to pour, but her hands were shaking too much.

  “It is all right, Hester, let me.” Chandi took the teapot and began to make sure everyone had a cup. It was a full-bodied black tea that Eliza took with relish.

  Kate took hers with her usual grace. “Given this week of terrible events, everyone is on edge; but you can perhaps help set things right.”

  Hester Langston did indeed look a little on edge herself—at least on the precipice of her lavender settee. She had the neck of a swan, and such a delicate manner about her, that Eliza would never have imagined that she had a spine of steel.

  And yet she must. On receiving the card from Douglas, Eliza had done some light legwork on Miss Langston. Merely the highlights: a member of the suffrage movement since she was only fifteen, left a large inheritance by her mother, and fighting the good fight with as much determination. Eliza recognised her name from the papers, as well. For the suffrage movement, Hester had suffered police intimidation, including three stretches in prison where she had been force-fed. This woman had been called many things by London journalists, but “shrinking violet” had not been one of them.

  Yet now she sat in her overwhelming blue parlour and looked terrified. She held out her hand, and Chandi took it and held it firmly. “Even with the Protectors around, I still don’t feel safe, but you trust these people, Kate?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Kate assured her, smiling warmly, “with my life.”

  Hester nodded. “I will do whatever I can to assist.”

  Wellington set down his cup on the thick doily that covered the mahogany table and smiled. “As Shakespeare attested, there are more things on heaven and earth than are dreamt of. In these days of modern marvels that is even more so.”

  “It’s hardly a marvel what is happening.” Chandi pressed her lips together, but her voice remained calm. “All those fine women disappearing and no one held accountable.”

  “My apologies,” Wellington replied after a moment. “This is why Kate called upon us and asked us to lend a hand.” He glanced at Eliza and added, “Discreetly, of course.”

  A threat of tears lingered in Hester’s eyes, compelling Eliza to press her hand on top of the older woman’s knee. She couldn’t have borne to see this doyen of the movement weeping. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this. You have my word on it. We just need the lists of the people at the meeting before Lena Munroe disappeared—it will give us the starting point.”

  “And why should we be giving those to you?” The question snapped at them like the crack of a coachman’s whip. “You’re not a member!”

  Wellington’s eyes shot up at the vision of womanly ire standing abruptly there in the doorway, but Eliza was totally unsurprised. When she had heard that the Protectors were now guarding the top members of the movement, she had expected this confrontation. The newcomer acknowledged Kate with a little bob of her head, but nothing more.

  Eliza heard Wellington flipping through his journal, stopping as he searched, and then he looked up from its pages. “Charlotte Lawrence, the captain of the Protectors, I take it?”

  She crooked an eyebrow, her cheeks flaring crimson. “And who might you be?” she asked, her voice surprisingly even.

  “Wellington Books, I am with—” And the words stuck in his throat before he continued. “Miss Braun and I represent a concerned party.”

  “A concerned party?” Charlotte asked, nodding. Her lips pursed for a moment and then she said, “In the past year we have lost six of our sisters under mysterious circumstances, and now you turn up. Your concern is most touching.”

  Wellington cleared his throat, and then motioned to Eliza. “This is my associa—”

  “Good morning, Chaz.”

  Charlotte Lawrence did not greet her at all but her glare only sharpened on Eliza.

  Kate got to her feet smoothly. “I didn’t know you knew Eliza, Charlotte.”

  “A friend of yours?” Wellington asked Eliza. “Or perhaps a lost relation?”

  In an instant both of them were looking at him with daggers in their gaze, and he squirmed.

  Yet Eliza could grudgingly see why he might get that impression. Since Chaz had been training the Protectors she had instituted similar costuming to the Ministry’s standard issue for female agents. Stab-resistant corsets were, despite being a little behind the fashion, still a sensible precaution. The Protectors, dressed in these and simple black men’s pants, conveyed the proper measure of menace to men who might otherwise wish the movement harm. Instead of the plethora of pistols and guns that Eliza favoured, the Protectors carried thick fighting sticks that in a pinch could be screwed together to resemble a walking stick. (Handy when police were on the lookout for “those trouble-making suffragists.”) Also often carried in their bags were “Indian clubs,” smaller versions of skittles. Chaz’s own weapons were tucked into bandoliers on her back, poking out from behind each of the women’s shoulders like the remains of broken wings. Yet she was not a fey creature. Chaz’s strong jawline and muscled body were the virtual antithesis of Hester’s fragile strength.

  “Mr. Books, do try to keep a civil tongue,” Eliza said, tilting her head and smiling disarmingly at this bruiser. “Miss Lawrence, you will find, is most proficient in Bartitsu. In fact a foremost member of the Bartitsu Club in Soho—”

  “Oh,” Wellington said, nodding appreciatively. It had been the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences that brought Barton-Wright back from Japan early to teach his new form of combat to their employees. “Quite the honour.”

  “—until Mr. Barton-Wright had her barred,” Eliza added.

  Charlotte barked a dry laugh. “Not my fault old Barty bruises so easily.”

  Eliza gave Wellington’s knee a gentle pat. “I would not recommend taking the last biscuit off the plate until you have checked if Chaz wants it.”

  “Charmed I am sure,” Wellington croaked out, getting to his feet hastily.

  It was quite the wrong gesture for this particular woman. “Don’t rise on my account,” she said, smoothly sliding into the room—all the time keeping an eye on both the window and the door.

  While poor Welly hovered between the gentlemanly thing to do and the risk of getting punched—Eliza sipped on her tea. “Left quite a gap there, Chaz. We’ve been in this room for some time now and you only turn up now?”

  The Protector’s lips curved. “Actually I have been here the whole time,” she pointed to the rear of the parlour, and the agent nodded. A concealed room then.

  “See, Wellington.” Eliza turned to her partner. “Don’t you feel safer already?”

  He cleared his throat and then took his seat again—but did not look nearly as comfortable as he had only moments before. “Indeed.”

  Kate spoke, her voice cutting through the conversation like an elegant knife, “Come now, ladies—we are both on the same side. Charlotte, you surely can’t suspect Eliza of involvement in this dreadful business?”

  “I was thinking more about your face, Mrs. Sheppard,” the Protector replied, “and how it ended up that way.”

  Eliza swallowed hard. “For your sake, Chaz, I hope that glass house you live in is reinforced.”
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  “Well now, Lizzie, is it the concern or the guilt that suddenly brings you here? Now?”

  “It most certainly isn’t your competence on the job, now is it?”

  Charlotte turned to face her. “Would you care to test that competence now?”

  Eliza stood, allowing her shawl to drop free of her shoulders and slip into Wellington’s lap. “I promise to make this quick.”

  “You’re both being perfectly ridiculous.” Kate’s glass eye swiveled between the two of them. “We can’t afford to fight amongst ourselves like this.”

  “Indeed, ladies,” Chandi added. “Shall we focus on the matter at hand? Our missing sisters?”

  Kate and Chandi were right. If this kept up, Miss Lawrence’s delightful parlour would be the next victim of what threatened the Auxilliary. Eliza had already sized up the poker by the fire as a go-to weapon. So Eliza turned back to Hester, her smile soft and sincere. “If we could, please, secure lists of past attendees over the previous year, we can return to our business.”

  “Naturally,” the secretary replied, and then hesitated, pulling at the cuff of her blouse. “Those are quite a few ledgers we’ve collected over the past year . . .”

  “I’ll help you, Hester,” Chandi murmered.

  The secretary left the room, shooting a concerned look over her shoulder. Perhaps she had caught Eliza’s eye on the poker, and was now in mortal fear for her décor.

  All six of them trailed out into the hall, where Betsy and another Protector were standing guard. Their expressions were serious, but not nearly as unwelcoming as Chaz’s.

  Kate smiled at her young guardian. “Betsy, would you be a dear and help Miss Langston and Miss Culpepper upstairs with some ledgers?”

  “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on these two.” Chaz’s hands flexed on saying that. Eliza pressed her lips together, tempted to grab those fighting sticks herself.

  Wellington, no doubt looking for a method of escaping this rather awkward situation, stepped forward. “If I can be of any assistance, Miss Langston, I am a trained archivist and I have brought my portable vellum scanner.” He gestured over to the valise he and Eliza had struggled to carry from carriage to foyer.

  “ ‘Portable’ is truly a term of endearment with you, isn’t it, Welly?” Eliza asked.

  “We carried it this far,” he retorted.

  “You’re staying right here.” Charlotte actually waggled her finger at the agent. Eliza now recalled that Miss Lawrence had once been a schoolmarm.

  Although Wellington Books was technically Eliza’s superior and had been tasked with teaching her alternatives to gunpowder as the answer to any problem (which still she had some problems with), it appeared he had also been learning from her. Wellington held his gaze with Charlotte for a time that felt slightly inappropriate, and then glanced at his colleague with quite a furious look. Eliza was suddenly sure if she said the word, or indeed gave so much as a gesture, Agent Wellington Thornhill Books would have barged past Lawrence, or at least given quite the try.

  For a second she contemplated it. It might have been very interesting to see how he would fair with Charlotte Lawrence.

  Instead, while Kate chitchatted with the grim-faced Protector, Eliza took Wellington’s arm and led him over to where Hester had displayed the most insipid watercolour she had ever seen. “We’re just here for the names,” she whispered to him. “And though I might appreciate your gallant gesture, I can assure you these other ladies would not.” She shot him a wicked smile that he returned in kind.

  “Quite,” he said adjusting his ascot. “Forgive me. A rush of blood to the head.”

  Eliza felt a saucy reply itching the tip of her tongue; but instead, the two agents waited in silence, the magnificent grandfather clock ticking in the hallway, and Kate kept an eye on the red-faced Protector. Upstairs, they could hear Hester, Chandi, and Betsy moving around. These ledgers indeed sounded heavy, and they were asking for close on a year’s worth of meetings and minutes. Three women, with so many records? They were most likely having trouble.

  “This is ridiculous, Chaz,” Eliza blurted out, and started towards the stairs.

  The Protector grabbed her arm, and the agent froze. Eliza noted the wider Chaz smiled, the tighter her grip became. “Give me a reason, Lizzie. Please.”

  Eliza inclined her head to one side, her eyebrows lifting slightly. “Forget your last sparring lesson with me at the club?”

  “Ladies,” Kate stepped between them. “Once more I implore you, try and remember who our true enemy is!”

  Charlotte held her gaze for a moment, but eventually flicked away Eliza’s forearm with a grunt. It was somewhat similar to the sound she’d made when the agent had thrown her to the ground at Barton-Wright’s. It had been a most satisfactory defeat, and one that Eliza still savoured. She judged that Hester’s hallway was quite large enough to bear a repeat, though some of the paintings might be put askew, and a couple of the rather ghastly majolica items could end up smashed.

  From Eliza’s point of view that might improve the ambiance.

  Then, still from that place on the stairs, an odd scent filled her nostrils. When she looked at Charlotte, the Protector too was scrunching her nose at the sharp smell permeating the air. Screams erupted from upstairs. Eliza had heard her fair share of screams: outraged ones when she shot someone, unexpected ones when an explosion went off a little too close, and ones from Wellington pretty much whenever she did anything sudden. These screams spoke of shock and genuine terror.

  Eliza spun on Kate as Chaz pushed past her. “Please, Kate. Stay here.”

  “Hester! Betsy! Chandi!” Charlotte bellowed as she thundered up the stairs and sprinted for the door. She grabbed the handle before Eliza could warn her, and now Charlotte’s scream echoed in the corridor. The strange odour—the same sharp, almost choking tang to the air that had assailed them immediately after Lena disappeared—was now joined by the smell of burnt flesh.

  “Miss Lawrence!” Wellington caught Charlotte as she fell back into his arms, cradled one hand with another, sobbing. “Let me help you. I am trained in—”

  “Don’t you dare!” The Protector howled, spinning away from him. The tears in her eyes were not something she would allow a man to see. “Get in there, you dolt!”

  Eliza was staring at the door to Hester’s library, now warped in its frame as if it had been punched from inside.

  The agent didn’t care about the Protector’s pride; she was already laying shoulder to the door. The wood protested, and something snapped. It was solid oak, yet it actually buckled under a bare shoulder strike? She wished she had the plures ornamentum with her, but all she had was the archivist. “Welly,” she asked, motioning to the door, “I could use a spot of help here, there’s a good fellow.”

  “What does this to oak?” he gasped, looking at the dilapidated door.

  “Lend me a shoulder and let’s find out,” she said.

  Together they slammed their weight against the wood. A loud snap echoed in the hallway, and then both agents tumbled into the library. Despite the warped condition of the door, there was no fire or explosion in the library. However, it was very, very dry. Eliza had been many times in the desert, and the experience inside a British house on a rather cold, wet day was decidedly odd.

  Poor Betsy was on the floor, while Chandi was against the back wall sobbing. Wellington scrambled over to the downed Protector, but immediately recoiled, waving his hands about him in a wild, spastic manner. “Damnation!”

  “What?” Eliza asked.

  “Her body,” he said, splaying his fingers and then balling his hands into fists. “It’s charged. Static electricity!”

  He looked around the room, and quickly grabbed a small coat tree. He then hefted it and placed it by the fallen Betsy. Still grasping the metal tree, Wellington then gently touched her body. With a small sigh, he bent closer to her.

  “She’s alive,” he gasped, “but look at her.”

  He turned
her head gently, and Eliza felt her breath sucked right out of her. Betsy could be not much over twenty, but her face looked as dry as a sun-baked rock. It would be quite the shock for a young woman to wake and find herself so badly damaged.

  Jumping to her feet, Eliza ran to Chandi. The woman was sobbing, clutching at the library shelving. Her immaculate hair was out of place, but she was not as damaged as Betsy.

  “Are you all right?” Eliza asked, cautiously taking the younger woman’s hand.

  Chandi shook her head, her eyes wide and her mouth working around words that would not form. Seeing there was nothing to be immediately got out of the woman, Eliza looked around the room. Papers were lying scattered about the library, and several chairs were turned over—but there was no sign of Hester.

  While Wellington continued to try and rouse Betsy, Eliza darted to the window and yanked at it. The sash was down and locked, and when she peered out through the glass, she saw immediately that there was no chance that an assailant had leapt from the window with the secretary over one shoulder. It was a straight drop three stories, and no sign of any drainpipe anywhere near it. She might have considered ornithopters or a mechanised climbing rig, but it had only been a moment since they’d heard the screams, and the window was locked from the inside.

  Chandi slid to the floor, wrapping her arms around her head. The sound of her sobs echoed in the crackling atmosphere of the library. Eliza would have gone to comfort her, but her colleague gestured her over to his side.

  “She’s coming to,” Wellington said, gallantly holding the poor Protector in his arm. Eliza slipped on the opposite side of Betsy and both lifted her to recline into the couch. Eliza, having experienced a milder version of this effect, winced in sympathy. She would have to get a large jar of the ointment from the Ministry for the poor creature . . .

  Charlotte kicked the door away from her, causing Betsy’s eyes to crack open, and by cracked that was very nearly the case. Betsy’s eyes were startlingly blue in her reddened face.