The Janus Affair

by Morris, Tee

“Thank you, sir,” he replied.

  “Do let me know when your progress picks up a pace, yes? I find communication is key in running an effective, efficient, and successful ministry, not that I have experience in running other branches of Her Majesty’s government apart from this one.” He chuckled. “But I doubt my day-to-day administrative goals are hardly of interest to you, a field agent of your outstanding calibre.”

  And there it was—his opportunity. “Well, Doctor Sound, that is why I wanted to talk to you this morning.”

  Sound’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Oh?”

  “Yes.” Bruce straightened in his chair slightly, the clock’s incessant ticking now fading as he took the lead. “I’m coming up on my sixth year here at the Ministry.”

  “Good Lord,” and Sound gave another small, short laugh as he added, “has it really been six years? Jesu, the days that we have seen, Master Harry.”

  Bruce furrowed his brow. “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  The Director merely waved his hand, dismissing whatever nonsense he had just babbled. “My apologies for interrupting. Do go on, Agent Campbell.”

  Bruce took a deep breath, drawing from that confidence he’d possessed when he spoke these words to an empty chair back at home. “Since accompanying you to York, I have been thinking a lot about my job. My place in the Ministry, as it is.”

  “As it is?” Doctor Sound scoffed. “Agent Campbell, you are one of this agency’s most outstanding representatives. I can name several impossible exploits that you have undertaken that go well above and beyond the expectations of myself and Her Majesty. Are you finding your work tedious, of late?”

  Bruce blinked. “I’m sorry, Doctor Sound?”

  “Well, agents of the home office, I am well aware, are part administrative in their duties. We watch over the satellite offices and are called into action when our brothers and sisters abroad are in need of assistance. We only directly become involved when the situation calls for the elite of the Ministry’s finest, or if the case is within the boundaries of the Isles.” Doctor Sound leaned forward, his eyes narrowing on him. “Before you came here six years ago, you were serving in the South Pacific branch, and used to immediate employment. You have enjoyed your fair share of assignments here, but it has been a change, hasn’t it?”

  This was not going well, and rapidly heading in the wrong direction. “No, Director.” That wasn’t true, and the Fat Man saw right through that. “Well, yes, sir, it has been a bit of an adjustment.”

  “A six-year adjustment?”

  The man’s inability to stay quiet and let him speak started chipping away at Bruce’s determination. Practicing in front of the chair had been a lot easier.

  “No, Doctor Sound, I’m not bored in my position here at the Ministry. I’m considering—” Bruce had to make this convincing. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and finally said, “—a different approach to the Ministry.”

  Doctor Sound sat back in his chair, his gaze remaining on Bruce. “I see. And our trip to York brought this about?”

  “This has been building since I worked with you locating Agent Thorne.” Bruce hung his head low. “When we found him in his frail state of mind.”

  The Director’s expression darkened, and his gaze wandered away. Sound was staring out of his large window overlooking the Thames, perhaps trying to find solace or even vindication for his decision that day. “Yes. Rather nasty business, that.”

  “When you asked me to give a hand in York, I was thinking the same thing I was that night with Harry Thorne: Why me? Then I noticed the gap Harry left behind, and the toll it took on poor Eliza . . .”

  “Hmm,” and Doctor Sound’s gaze suddenly returned back to him. “I think you underestimate your cousin from the Southern Hemisphere. ‘Poor Eliza,’ as you call her, is performing her current duties as Junior Archivist quite admirably by all reports.”

  Bruce gave a slight snort, but wiped the smirk off his face when noticing Sound’s crooked eyebrow. He pressed on. “Director, and please, begging your pardon if you consider my next words as a slight, I have been given a glimpse of your world, of your responsibilities as Ministry Director. Responsibility that I believe you can no longer shoulder—”

  “I crave a pardon, Agent Campbell?” Doctor Sound’s tone went from affable to stern in an instant.

  Bruce held up his hands as he immediately added, “Alone.”

  Tick . . .

  Tock . . .

  Tick . . .

  Tock . . .

  Tense moments passed between them, and then—had Bruce taken a breath, he might have missed it—Doctor Sound asked, “Alone, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. I see you taking on a great deal. In particular, dealing with the death of one of our own—”

  “Death is nothing new to the Ministry, Campbell.”

  Why did he insist on interrupting him?

  He could hear a slight warble in his voice, a control he could feel waning, “Considering the manner of Harry’s death and the difficulties you face up here, day after day, alone . . .” Bruce straightened in his seat, and said, throwing every ounce of conviction he had in him. “I’m ready to shoulder more responsibility, sir.”

  Now it was Doctor Sound’s turn to blink. Bruce felt a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitch, but he fought the urge to smile. He was pleased with himself. The Director was the type that was hard to surprise.

  “Perhaps it was your concern cloaked in an insult, or perhaps I am growing old and my hearing is blasted to hell, but are you telling me that you are interested in an administrative position in the Ministry?”

  Now he let his smile shine. “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “You?” Sound asked again. “In administration?”

  Hearing the disbelief in Sound’s voice made him flinch. So he was a man of action. Bruce knew that about himself. That did not make him thick as this pom’s clotted cream. Did Sound regard him as some kind of lummox? It was bad enough that Sussex regarded him so dismissively. He did not need that from his superior as well. After all, the training that Ministry field operatives were subjected to tested more than just personal mettle. There were tests of literature, mathematics, and the sciences. True, Bruce had just managed to squeak by those trials, one or two of them yielding to his charms.

  Campbell’s building tirade was interrupted by the door opening. Miss Shillingworth appeared, pushing a small trolley of a contraption resembling Mad McTighe’s automated tea butler, but this model was smaller, less intricate. His eyes scanned it quickly for the coat of arms of the McTighe household, but he could see no identifying craftsman’s crest.

  “Ah, the tea!” Doctor Sound beamed at Miss Shillingworth. “Cassandra, your timing is—as always—impeccable.”

  Bruce started at what he saw next. Miss Shillingworth blushed. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Help yourself, Agent Campbell,” he said, motioning to the apparatus.

  “Yes, sir.” Bruce leaned forward and added, “Thank you, Cassandra.”

  His finger was about to press the service button when his instincts lurched into “flight” mode. He looked up.

  Miss Shillingworth’s charming blush had disappeared. Completely. Through her spectacles, she shot him a cold, deadly gaze.

  Bruce swallowed. “Miss Shillingworth,” he said gently.

  With a heartbeat of a pause, she turned back to Doctor Sound. “Your next appointment is at ten o’clock. It’s Sir . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as she looked over at Bruce, now watching the contraption’s small arm extend, grab a cube of sugar, and then repeat, as the dark liquid poured out of the spout closest to him.

  “Go on, Miss Shillingworth,” the Director said, motioning with his free hand to continue, while his other was helping himself to tea.

  The secretary turned away from Bruce, and continued. “It’s Sir William Christie.”

  “Oh?” His eyebrows raised at the man’s name. “Things amiss at Greenwich?”

  “He�
��s been noticing odd volcanic activity on Mars.”

  “Oh dear,” Sound muttered, his face darkening slightly. “Ten o’clock, you say? Very well. That will be all.” He waited until his secretary left the office, and then turned back to Bruce. “So, what do you think?”

  The cup had just reached Bruce’s lips when Sound’s question was put to him. He set his cup back on the saucer and shook his head. “Sorry, Doctor, but I was never much a bloke of the sciences. I know Mars is a planet. It’s red. And it’s not made of cheese, like the moon, eh?”

  The tea was a jolt to him. Two sugars barely blunted its sharpness.

  “No, I mean what do you think of the life you are considering.” He motioned to the door. “You got a taste of it.”

  Bruce set his tea on the trolley and leaned forward. “I’m sorry?”

  “I will admit, the Ministry—even on its limited funding and resources—has grown exponentially in the past decade. Perhaps it is the impending turn of the century that has brought said peculiar occurrences to the forefront of people’s minds or perhaps the House of Usher is preparing a dramatic move against the Empire. Who knows? I have noticed, though, more demands upon my person, and I have actually considered the need for an assistant director in the home office.

  “You, however—and now it is my turn to ask for your pardon if you take this as a slight—were the last person I would expect to ask for such a promotion, if that is how you would regard such a position.”

  He felt his pride recoil from that blow. Far from Bruce to back down in a fight. “I assure you, I could handle this job without a fuss. No worries.”

  “Could you now?” Doctor Sound laced his fingers together as he asked Bruce, “Could you settle for using protocol instead of pistols? Could you commission instead of call on combat? Could you, a man of action, settle for a life in administration?”

  What Bruce had planned following Sussex’s visit suddenly came to roost, and the undercurrent of panic he had been feeling since taking a seat to wait for the Fat Man now swelled inside him. He was about to give it all up. The travel. The adventure. The women of all fashions, all cultures. All that, gone . . .

  . . . and in its place: paperwork, delegation, and meetings with various hoity-toity types.

  “One benefit, I’m sure you have considered, is there is considerably less travel involved.” Sound smiled warmly. “I suppose this means more time at home with your wife and children. You could finally bring them over to join you here in London.”

  He hadn’t thought of that. Good Lord, what the hell am I doing?

  Campbell felt his head give a slight nod, but that was the only thing in agreement with Sound. The rest of him was silently insisting that he gather himself together, apologise for a brief moment of madness, and then go back to the field and pick a fight with a group of complete strangers.

  Bruce kept at the front of his mind the image of Sussex. The man had a hold on him, and promised to end a lifestyle that Bruce had grown accustomed to. He continued to remind himself that this was not a permanent assignment. Sussex assured him he would be needed in this new branch of the government that he wanted to helm. Even if Bruce didn’t fulfil Sussex’s wishes, assuredly someone else in the Ministry would. The difference would be Bruce would be without the Ministry, without his wife and children, and back in Australia. This would truly be . . .

  “ . . . quite the departure for you, Agent Campbell.”

  Had Sound been talking to him? Bruce took in a slow, deep breath, and then shrugged with hardly a care showing on his face. “I never blink at a challenge. This opportunity would be a much needed change of pace for me.”

  “And what of your current case load?”

  “Oh that shouldn’t be a bother,” Bruce said, waving his hand dismissively.

  “Even the Edinburgh hypersteam case?”

  The Fat Man caught him on that one. “Ah, yes, well, I can easily look into that case while understanding my new responsibilities. As people like to point out, these are massive shoulders. I can handle it.”

  “Perhaps, Agent Campbell.” The politeness seemed to drain from his face the longer he looked at him, and then finally: “I will think on your offer.”

  Doctor Sound then turned his attention to another folder in the “Active” bin, and continued to sip his tea as he reviewed the notes of whatever case was now before him. Bruce couldn’t tell at a glance if the notes were from an agent in this office, or from one of the Ministry’s remote offices.

  “Doctor Sound?” Bruce asked.

  “I’m sorry, was there anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  He looked up from the open report and smiled. “Very well then. Off you go. As you mentioned earlier, you have leads to pursue.”

  Bruce nodded and made his way for the door. He stopped just shy of the door handle, and turned back to the Director’s desk, his mouth open, ready to offer more inducements to Sound.

  “I said I will think on it.” He didn’t look up, but his voice was even and controlled. “As I consider your proposal, you will serve at the Queen’s Pleasure as you have most admirably done in these past six years.”

  And that was the end of their discussion.

  “Thank you, sir,” Bruce muttered.

  The door latched behind him and now he was back in the waiting area of Doctor Sound’s office, Miss Shillingworth’s fingers once more dancing along the keys of her Hansen Writing device. His stomach grumbled a bit. Perhaps he could sneak out for a quick snack somewhere close. He snorted, remembering he had the entire morning as Doctor Sound believed he would be out and about chasing leads on a case Bruce had already sent to the Archives.

  Bruce then considered, provided he could hold off for an hour or so, if Cassandra would wish to join him for a light repast.

  The typewriter keys then stopped. Miss Shillingworth’s head turned slightly. She was not looking at him, but she was regarding him. Somehow, Bruce knew that.

  Bruce cleared his throat and passed by the desk, his invitation to Miss Shillingworth for elevensies abandoned. Hastily.

  As the lift descended to the main offices of the Ministry, Bruce felt himself relax more and more. The seed was now planted and Doctor Sound would think on it. Something in his demeanour suggested he would take the bait. What overworked civil servant would not?

  A soft laugh rumbled from his chest. That stuck-up toff Sussex had been right, and he was one step closer to the Restricted Area.

  Chapter Nine

  In Which Eliza and Wellington Meet Up with Old Friends

  Wellington tried desperately not to stare, but he could not help himself.

  Pistons pumped and miniature boilers hissed within the inner workings of Alice’s prosthetics. Truly modern marvels they were. While granting her walk a bit of pronouncement, the artificial limbs allowed Eliza’s maid incredible mobility, her managing of fine delicate tea settings or china finery through an application of push carts. This morning presented more strenuous work as Alice was single-handedly attempting to restore Eliza’s apartments back to order. At least the “Caretakers,” as the Ministry referred to them, had tended to the tragic corpses, leaving in their wake the remains of what had once been an immaculate dwelling. The Caretakers had also delivered a missive from the Director granting both archivists a day to gather their wits. Eliza, instead of taking advantage of the reprieve as Wellington expected her to do, was out early in the morning. Wellington had somehow managed to sleep through her repast and departure, waking up to the smells of a late breakfast and reminders of Eliza’s late-night callers.

  Now around this delightful wonder of fortitude and science was Eliza D. Braun’s domain, a domain that appeared to be maintained and kept by a staff of four. Only Alice reigned here; and in the short time between his breakfast and joining her in the parlour, she had restored a good portion of Eliza’s luxurious apartments to their pristine and fine appearance. These apartments stood as a testament to the public persona that the one-time f
ield agent now archivist-in-training wished to maintain, as well as the skill of her chambermaid.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Books,” Alice said suddenly as she polished a brass statue of Athena. Most appropriate for them both, Wellington thought in passing. “But you’re doing it again.”

  “Beg your pardon?” And that was when he noticed Alice’s reflection in the statue. “Oh. Yes. I told you to remind me of when I did that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, nodding as she finished with the Greek goddess.

  “My apologies,” he said.

  “No need for that,” she chided lightly. When Wellington had first met her, Alice’s speech still carried hints of the past Eliza had rescued her from. Now and again she would slip back to that, but only in moments. In the brief time he had known her, she had come far. “I understand my enhancements put off some.”

  “Just the opposite, Alice,” Wellington returned. “I find them utterly fascinating. While I now know that in your leg you are carrying an impressive firearm, that bit of trivia hardly warrants my impropriety.”

  Alice turned to Wellington, her smile quite sincere and disarming. This was another unique trait of Eliza’s semi-clockwork housekeeper: she was not a fixture or addition to the household. Alice was a breathing entity, and she had a voice.

  “Mr. Books, the mistress insists that when I have a question of her, I should ask. If I may be so bold, sir, might I make the same insistence upon your person?”

  He unlaced his fingers and rubbed his hands against his knees, considering Alice’s kind offer. “Would you mind?”

  “Sir, I am flattered by your concern, but really, it might be for the best if you had a question, you might wish to ask it of me as I’ll feel much better.”

  “Better?” Wellington considered that for a moment. “Better in that you answered whatever question I deemed inappropriate to ask?”

  “No, sir,” she replied. “Better in that you wouldn’t be staring at me.”

  “Ah.”

  He noticed Alice’s eyes catching the sunlight and an odd smile formed on her face. “But sir, would you mind after you ask your question that I ask a question of my own?”