by Morris, Tee
“Oh, dash it all,” Wellington swore.
Blades now seemed to be coming from every angle as he retreated, his own fending off both of the attackers’. There was no opening; and in the near darkness, it was difficult to anticipate any sort of attack. Wellington parried and then rolled forward, closing their gap for a second. He felt the brush of a blade as it narrowly passed above him, and then he heard the impact of something metal digging into the wall. On this, Wellington continued to scramble forward.
The Samson-Enfield roared again, this time finding a target as another attacker fell. Another shot thundered in his ears as he drew closer and closer to what he needed. From behind him came a tearing of gears and fabric. His attacker was now free of the blade stuck in the wall and was coming for him. Wellington couldn’t hear the footsteps behind him, but based on the movement and even the damaged Starlight Goggles, his life was now reliant on the next few seconds.
Wellington reached the fleur-de-lis and brought the spare Samson-Enfield’s Mark III Alice had offered him earlier around to bear. The first shot knocked his attacker back. He immediately trained his weapon on movement on the left—movement far too fluid to be Alice—and rapidly fired another round.
A door from down the hall slid open. Wellington replaced the shotgun back into its concealment and waited.
Behind him came the sound of feet grinding glass and plaster powder into the floor. He immediately turned over, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. There was still one left.
Eliza came around the corner and fired. One shot. The final intruder slipped out of the darkness in front of Wellington and then collapsed at his feet.
“I do love my Starlight Goggles,” Eliza said, stepping into the room. Her own lenses flashed against the incoming light as she lifted them to a resting position on her forehead. “Makes easy work of unexpected callers.”
“Get many of these, do you?” Wellington panted.
“Occasionally,” Eliza remarked. “Particularly when I’m progressing nicely on a case. Tells me I am on the right track.” She looked positively revived, when only a few hours ago she had appeared sunk to the depths of despair.
Wellington took another breath, but his heart simply wouldn’t calm down. Continuing to thrum in his ears was a repeated thump-thump-thump that showed no sign of slowing.
Then he took another deep breath. The thumping continued.
“Eliza, the window!”
Both Wellington and Eliza went for the window where they both heard the thudding far more clearly. While the moon was half obscured by clouds tonight, they could see gliding over the city the dark shape of what could have been best described as a monstrous bird. The thump-thump-thump was distant this time, but the monster climbed higher; and on banking to one side, Wellington could see the lone figure underneath the wings.
“Very nice,” Eliza muttered, returning her pistol hammer to a safe position. “I understand those ornithopters are quite the challenge to master.”
A set of lights slowly flickered to life behind them. Wellington and Eliza turned to view the five assailants as well as the collateral damage from this visit. The intruders were dressed entirely in black, all of them wearing Starlight Goggles and what appeared to be large haversacks.
And they were all small. Not dwarves, but petite in their build.
Eliza looked closer at one of the corpses. She idly thumbed a large O-ring dangling from the haversack’s shoulder straps. “Would you care to wager that all of these ruffians have ornithopters of their own?”
“I know better than to bet against you,” Wellington said, kneeling next to her. “Shall we?” he asked, motioning to the mask and goggles of the corpse underneath them.
“By all means.”
The cowl and Starlight Goggles slipped free and both of them started. Not even the pistons of Alice, coming in for a closer look, tore their gaze away. The girl could have been no more than fourteen, a row of freckles running across her checks and nose, her hair a sea of blonde curls that now formed a small halo around her head. Her eyes, when they were full of life, would have been beautiful to behold. She could have almost been a younger version of Eliza.
The agent immediately went to the other corpse Wellington had gunned down. She was the same age, her features revealing lineage from the Far East.
“Oh God,” Eliza said, her hand going to her mouth. “They’re practically children.”
“Miss Braun,” Wellington spoke gently, “not all unfortunates can be as blessed as the Ministry Seven.”
“But why children?” she seethed.
“If you note, they are not carrying firearms of any kind. Only blades. It is a good assumption that in order to maintain flight, they needed to remain light. As they are younger, I’m sure these young ladies possess the proper musculature to endure the rigours of the ornithopters.”
Her eyebrow crooked as she looked at him. “Books, how can you turn off your emotions to something like this?”
“The fact that these young ladies burst into your apartments in the dead of night to kill us gives me little reason to grieve their deaths. I will also hazard a guess at something else,” he said, removing a blade from the first invader’s belt.
Rolling the girl on her side, Wellington sliced into the black top and cut downward, stopping when the knife reached the haversack. He then pulled back the fabric and nodded. “As I thought. Miss Braun, have a look.”
Eliza’s eyes narrowed on the ornate, palm-sized tattoo decorating the young woman’s shoulder blade. The scene, preserved in her skin, depicted a celebration, the revelers enjoying drink, food, and—for one or two—each other. At the centre of this debauchery was a large, brilliant diamond.
“Press gang branding, it appears,” Wellington said, motioning to the tattoo. “Any idea to whom claims this moniker?”
“Diamond Dottie?” Eliza was answering his question, but it was more shock than a question. “Now I must admit, Welly, that this case has become truly peculiar.”
“How so?”
“Diamond Dottie is a step up from a common thug and brawler, but only barely. I don’t see her as the kind of criminal becoming involved in any peculiar occurrence. It’s not her style. She’s a fence, and the head of a gang of female thieves.”
Wellington gave a shrug. “Perhaps this Diamond Dottie is broadening her horizons.”
“But why?”
“That is indeed a pertinent question. Why indeed.”
“Oh, I am an utter fool!” Eliza slapped a palm to her forehead. “A world-class idiot!” She turned and grabbed him by both sleeves. “I saw her! I saw her at the suffragists’ meeting. I knew I recognised the face, but I didn’t recall until just now the name to go with it.”
Wellington’s eyebrows shot up. “Is she a well-known supporter of the suffrage movement?”
Eliza’s laugh was short and bitter. “Hardly! Dottie’s far more likely to have been scoping out the wealthy women as targets for her gang.”
“Miss?” Alice’s voice sounded behind them.
The maid was looking around at the corpses and the ruined decorations of the apartments. It was hard to decide what was upsetting her more. Finally, she straightened her uniform and stood taller. “Well, I never did like that wallpaper. It was due for replacement anyway.”
Eliza’s smile was brief and not deep. “I doubt if any of us will be getting a night’s rest, let alone set about redecorating.” She stood, looking down at the two unmasked girls for a moment, allowing her eyes to linger on their faces. Perhaps committing them to memory. She swallowed and then turned back to Alice. “I will send an emergency dispatch to the Ministry. They will send a team here to dispose of the bodies. We will have to give statements, all three of us.”
“No need to conceal anything,” Wellington offered, “as I was indeed concerned for your safety and therefore—”
“I’m more concerned about how that is going to look on a report,” Eliza grumbled. “Still, you held your own. Th
ank you.” Eliza motioned to the two that Wellington had shot. “And lovely job on these two, Alice. I heard it from the hallway. I’d first thought you were reloading.”
“Thank you, miss,” Alice muttered with a quick curtsey.
Wellington’s shoulders drooped, and the growing knot in his stomach loosened slightly. “So I suppose we should wait for the Ministry to arrive.”
Eliza tightened the belt across her shift, “Just in case it is Bruce again, I’d better change into something less revealing lest he interview my chest instead of me.”
He let the crass comment pass. Eliza had most certainly earned the right be a little common after as her inner sanctum had been violated. Wellington wondered for a moment if any of the pieces lost were irreplaceable. Even so, they would be harder for her to replace as she was no longer gallivanting around the world as she once had. As she left him and Alice in the now quiet parlour, Wellington allowed his eyes to roam over the scene. These girls were a tragedy, yes, but they were also sent to kill Eliza. What conclusion were they closing in on that would warrant the attention of a street gang scurf?
Eliza was right. Most peculiar.
“I suppose if the Ministry is on the way, we should put the ket—”
Wellington’s words caught in his throat. Alice had not moved from where she stood. Her hands still gripped the Samson-Enfield Mark III, her fingers splaying lightly when his eyes met hers. Certainly there could be no mistaking it: Eliza might still be unaware of his abilities with a gun, but her maid knew, most assuredly.
Alice continued to stare at him in silence, until a voice made them both jump.
“Alice,” called Eliza, “would you mind coming in here to assist me? I think Mr. Books would rather make the tea than lace me up in a corset.”
“Coming right away, miss,” Alice called back. She gave Wellington a little nod, sharp enough to have been mistaken for a kind of salute.
A heartbeat later, and still holding the Mark III at the ready, the maid walked out of the parlour, heading for Eliza’s bedroom.
The knot in Wellington’s stomach tightened as he wondered just what she would say to her employer.
Interlude III
Wherein Madcap Ambition Drives Agent Campbell Towards Lofty Positions Within the Ministry
Bruce had considered any and every option before him. Outside of pinning Doctor Sound to his desk, twisting his arm to where his chubby shoulder would lock painfully, and demanding access to the Restricted Area of the Ministry, this seemed to be the opportunity that Sussex was on about. Really the only one he had.
His fingers rapped quickly against his knees as he sat in the doctor’s antechamber. Across from him, Miss Shillingworth continued her own work, the clackety-clack of her keys he found slightly unnerving. The two half domes with their twenty-six respective keys sprang up and down as she made quick note of what was, no doubt, dictation from the Fat Man. Even though she couldn’t see the paper her typography appeared on, something in the way she quickly glanced over the completed sheets told Bruce that her work was error free.
Now this bird, Bruce thought, allowing his mind to wander, must have been one of the benefits of this lofty office. Miss Shillingworth was a fine specimen of female, and when she held the paper in front of her face, it afforded Bruce a moment to stare at her breasts. Maybe not as full as Eliza’s, but the curvature led him to believe they would be just enough to fill his hand. A pleasant size. The desk between them and her current task deprived him of any sort of glance from the waist down, but what he could see most certainly suggested that it would be fine. Even with the office lacking any windows, her blonde hair wrapped tightly on the top of her head seemed to glow. Bruce could imagine himself very easily removing the hairpins, watching with delight as it fell to tickle the small of her back.
The quiet, bookish ones, he thought, his head nodding gently as he watched her type. The librarian in Scotland. The receptionist in Paris. And then there was Greta, from the Frankfurt mission. He remembered Agent Dinsdale telling him, “I don’t envy you. There’s not much to do in Frankfurt.”
Poor sod had clearly not met Greta.
Miss Shillingworth was that same sort of woman, he wagered—icy on the outside, until you got them into bed. All that pent-up desire, hiding behind a façade of civility. Bruce loved that in a woman. A good reason why he himself enjoyed the wives of respectable gentlemen. Those poms spent so much time working on their respectability, they would ignore their fine fillies at home. I bet you are a goer, he thought darkly towards the secretary.
Leaning back in his chair, Bruce flashed a smile at Miss Shillingworth. “You make that look easy.”
He felt the air grow heavy when her fingers stopped, but it was the look she shot over octagonal spectacles that made him shift nervously in his seat. Her glacier blue eyes locked on him, and Bruce felt as if he were in danger. Hold on, did she catch me staring at her tits? He immediately dismissed the notion as he was a trained field agent and she was just a secretary.
Then, considering this place, what if she wore a necklace or a ring that gave her the power to read minds?
With the slightest of twitches at the corners of her mouth, Miss Shillingworth returned to her typewriting.
He was about to excuse himself when the door leading to the hallway opened. The Fat Man had never been a more welcome sight.
“Good morning, Miss Shillingworth,” Doctor Sound said. He gave a small start when he saw . . . “Agent Campbell? Well now, this is most unexpected.”
“Yes, Doctor, I know—”
When Shillingworth spoke, Bruce felt himself stiffen like ice had been poured down his back. “He had no appointment this morning, Doctor.”
“Yes, sir,” Bruce began once more, “I know you were not expecting me, and I wasn’t sure if you would have previous commitments so—”
“And so you took in an early repast and have been waiting here for, what, fifteen minutes? Thirty minutes?”
Bruce blushed. “An hour, sir.”
Doctor Sound gave a cheerful chortle as he clapped Bruce on one of his massive shoulders. “Well then, it is I who have been keeping you waiting, haven’t I?” As Doctor Sound guided Campbell to his office, he called over his shoulder at his secretary, “Miss Shillingworth, a spot of tea for us both. An Assam would be lovely . . .”
“Oh, Doctor Sound,” Bruce said, every instinct in his body screaming for him to run for the door, find his own, modest desk, and hide under it as the secretary’s eyes drew down on him. “There’s no need to put out Miss—”
“Oh stuff and nonsense, Agent Campbell, your fortitude has earned you at the very least a good cup of tea.”
The mere moments between crossing the threshold of Doctor Sound’s office and taking a seat before his massive desk were more like a languid dream where Bruce might have taken a month, or a year, or perhaps a decade to cross from one point of his beloved Outback to reach the other. Walkabouts, they were called back home. Instead, he had only taken a few seconds to reach his destination, a comfortable, cushioned chair with ornate carvings in its handles. The dock sounds from outside were muffled in here, turning the Director’s office into an oasis from the clamour of the City.
Then he became cognisant of the clock behind him. His mind reached for a memory: 1890, spring. His first meeting with the Director, only hours off the airship. He should have tried to get some sleep but he was ready to get cracking, whether it was his own knuckles or another man’s jaw. Bruce was itching for a fight in the name of his country, Australia. He remembered the mantelpiece behind where he sat, and there was a clock. It kept perfect time . . .
Tick . . .
Tock . . .
Tick . . .
Tock . . .
He’d wanted to smash that clock against the ground in 1890. Six years later, along with Sound’s office, nothing had really changed.
“Were you intending to wait in silence for the tea, Agent Campbell?” Doctor Sound asked, snapping him out of h
is reverie. “Or did you have something more urgent to talk about?”
Bruce’s head whipped forward on hearing the Fat Man’s voice. He gave a nervous cough as he shifted in his seat. “Sorry, Doctor Sound, I, uh—” What the hell was wrong with him? He’d faced dozens of madmen, boxers, and brawlers twice the size of Sound, and yet here he was ready to shit himself! “I, uh, don’t really know where to begin.”
“The start.” Sound winked mischievously. “I’ve always found that a good place.”
“Right.” Bruce nodded, cleared his throat, and was about to begin when the Director interrupted him.
“How are things coming along with the Edinburgh hypersteam case?”
He was suddenly caught in mid-syllable, his mouth locked in an odd pucker that made his lips feel queer. Bruce leaned forward and asked, “I’m sorry, sir?”
“The case you are currently working on, concerning the suffragist that disappeared in—oh, goodness me . . .” Sound turned his eyes to his desk, and then began to rifle through a small tray at the corner.
Bruce felt a cold chill run up his back. The tray Doctor Sound was looking through was labelled ACTIVE.
“Ah, here it is! Yes, let me see, how was it described? Ah yes—the witness claimed the woman disappeared ‘in a dance of light and show of a Yorkshire summer rainstorm.’ What a colourful description,” he said, giving a slight chortle. “Witnesses can be rather dramatic when describing what they see.” Sound held up the paper before Campbell. “This is my copy of open cases currently being investigated by Ministry agents. At least, the United Kingdom. The most basic of notes, you understand.”
“Of course.” Bruce tugged lightly at his tie. That tea was taking forever, and he was thirsty. Very thirsty.
“So, how goes the progress?”
“Slow.” Bruce had lied to the Director before, in communiqués and closing reports; but face-to-face made him uncomfortable. “Very slow, sir. I’ve got a few more leads before it becomes a concern, so I’ll press on.”
“That’s a good chap.” Sound beamed.
