by Morris, Tee
“Shoot her!” Betsy yelled as they watched the device spirit Chandi away.
“If I do,” Eliza growled, “then we will never get Kate back. Think with your goddamn head!” She slammed her fist against the brickwork of the ledge. What was her next move going to be? The image of Ihita under the bridge would not leave her alone, yet she couldn’t afford to let it paralyse her. “I have to go get Wellington,” she said finally. “Betsy, you’d better round up the remaining committee members, and get them to a windowless secure location. Just in case Chandi wants to complete the set.”
The other woman nodded, her hands tightening on her sticks. “I’ll take them to . . .”
“Don’t tell me,” Eliza cut her off. “Keep as few people aware of the location as possible, and don’t make it any of the usual safe houses—there’s no telling how much information she has on the movement.”
“And Mrs. Sheppard?”
“I’ll get her back.” She turned and fixed the Protector with a hard look that left no doubt she would not stop until that had been accomplished. “Leave it to me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wherein Eliza Discovers Loss and More
Eliza would have tried to flag down a velo-motor on the street, but such things were incredibly rare, and a hansom still so much more at hand. So she grabbed one the instant she got out of the meeting hall. Betsy would have to deal with the frightened women, and those who were injured, since the agent was now working against the clock.
“Double the fare if you get us there in half an hour,” she called, holding her money aloft through the hatch in the roof.
The driver cracked his whip at this incentive, and set a cracking pace through London. Never had a journey seemed so interminably long. She tapped her feet on the floor of the hansom, and thought about what she would need once she and Wellington set off to find Kate. The Archivist had been right, and she’d just have to right out and say it—even though apologising twice in one week for her was unheard of!
They pulled up outside Wellington’s house. Paying the driver a generous amount, she shoved open the hansom’s door, then the gate, and raced up the path to the door.
“Welly, Welly!” She didn’t care if she was making a scene in his well-to-do neighbourhood. When she touched the door handle she jerked back. The door was ajar. While a chill spread within her belly, Eliza took out her pistols from the small of her back. Poking her head into the house, she listened for any signs of life.
Nothing. Wellington’s home was silent. Eliza slipped off her boots and entered on gentle feet so as not to break the almost funerary atmosphere. When Archimedes, sitting in the middle of the stairs, meowed, Eliza’s pistols came around, their hammers pulled back. The cat tilted his head and glared at her with yellow eyes; and she gave a long, low exhale, giving the pet a slow head shake.
Still the agent was not about to call out for Wellington. Instead she padded down the corridor, glancing to the right, and left to the second set of stairs that led to his workshop. She could see the door to his den was ajar. A strange fluttering noise could now be discerned along with the slight hum of an engine, but it was not coming from down there. It was coming from her right. Yet it was not the sound that frightened Eliza, it was, again . . . a smell. It was not as strong as it had been at the meeting hall, but the faint whiff of it was enough to make her heart race.
“Oh no,” she gasped, giving up all pretence at stealth. She dashed down the hallway towards the noise.
It was quite a sight. Wellington had obviously been working hard, because this set up of four cinematic machines was quite different from that she’d seen in his workshop. The strange noise was coming from all four circular machines that were placed facing a white painted wall.
She strode over to examine them. The strange rhythmic fluttering was from all four devices which each had a length of film, the sound being small fans keeping the machines cool. It must have been. Flicking off the machines at least quieted that noise. For some reason the fans grated on her.
“No, no, no!” Eliza muttered to herself turning around in the room, eyes darting over everything. Her heart sank a little when she found his Ministry ring lying on an end table by the door. It would have been such a doddle to locate him with its signal—but she imagined he’d taken it off because he was working.
“Dammit, Wellington,” Eliza twisted her own on her finger, “I don’t like it either, but I do wear it . . . most of the time.”
She couldn’t think that he might be hanging under a bridge, perhaps next to Kate, no she most certainly could not afford that now. He was alive. Yes, he was alive and she was going to get him back. In the process someone was going to get a right thrashing.
Quickly she took the stairs down to Wellington’s workshop. The room was a mess, but it had been last time she’d been down here. An ordered mess, but one nonetheless. She poked around as best she could, but it was impossible to tell if anything was out of place. Only Wellington would have recognised that.
Looking up, the little half windows she’d taken notice of before were not as they had once been. The layer of dirt on the outside surface that had effectively acted as a screen had been rubbed clean in one spot. Eliza’s imagination filled in the gaps, and she could see that evil little bitch clearing it, spying on what the Archivist was up to.
Now here she was, doing the same. The stack of papers and calculations was still here, but it was nothing more than a collection of numbers and notes.
Eliza paused suddenly aware that her emotions were getting the better of her. She needed to look at these notes as a field agent, as evidence in an investigation. She let out a long, deep breath, then looked at the collection of notes once more.
Eliza gathered up the top five sheets and spread them out across Wellington’s central worktable. The last one she placed was the oldest one—it was best to remain logical. She narrowed her gaze on them. The numbers themselves were a tad intimidating, but their accompanying notes told a different story.
“Location of Speakers’ Corner, location of Melinda Carnes,” Eliza read aloud. “Note theft and Case 18820502AURZ Location of Empire Hotel Location of Ihita Pujari.”
Attached to this notation was an article cut from a newspaper. It was about the museum heist the Ministry Seven had mentioned, and the item stolen—a geological curiosity that, one scientist claimed to have been investigating and believed behaved similar to . . .
“A lightning rod?” Eliza whispered.
Now her eyes darted around the pile of notes, and there it was—a case file from the Archives. She flipped it open and scanned the summary for the 1882 Australian anomaly known as the Rock of Zeus.
She jumped back to the most recent page of Wellington’s notations, a map with words written on it in a large triumphant hand. Wellington had obviously been very pleased with himself, and so he should be:
No more than 25 miles
This proclamation was written under a hastily drawn circle encompassing London.
A smile spread on her lips. Wellington had cracked the enigma of the snatching machine’s operation range. Just in time.
“Quod erat demonstrandum, Welly,” Eliza whispered.
Yet he was gone. She stood there in the midst of his workshop and felt her throat tighten. This place was so very, very him. It was like standing in the centre of the man’s imagination. If he died, then this would be all that was left of him.
“No,” she spoke loudly, as if by doing so Chandi Culpepper would hear her. “That is not going to happen.” Eliza folded up the calculations and stuffed them into her jacket.
As she went back upstairs, her mind was whirling. She’d have to track down the traitor some other way, find out what property she owned. Damn it, that would take time, and scouring through Archives. Something Wellington would have been very good at—were he not in deadly peril himself.
Sometimes fate was a cruel bitch with a rotten sense of humour.
Just as she was about t
o leave, Archimedes twined around her feet. He wasn’t purring. Even a cat apparently needed to be comforted now and then. Eliza picked him up and held him facing her. “If only I could have seen what you did.”
She was about to put him down, when her eyes drifted to the door frame that led to the parlour. Then she noted the step Archimedes had once been on. It, and others near the foot of the landing, were the same. The warped and twisted wood was immediately apparent. “So it happened here,” Eliza muttered. She was standing directly in the place where Wellington had been snatched. Putting Archimedes on a nearby chair, she poked her head into the parlour. The sun was bright for a winter’s day, and fell on the room she’d seen before. However, there was one thing very different. A table set with chess pieces she’d noted previously was now in disorder. The pieces were scattered all over the floor, except for two.
Eliza walked a little closer. How was it possible for the game to have been upset, yet the board and two pieces standing proudly on it remained on the table?
It wasn’t.
“Very clever, Welly.” She smiled to herself. He must have taken advantage of the gap between the smell and his abduction. Eliza’s hands dropped to the two chess pieces remaining. Two queens. Black and white. She could understand the imagery of one queen perhaps—a confirmation that Chandi was involved as he had theorised. But why two queens?
While she was contemplating that, she slid the note out from under where it rested beneath the white queen. Wellington’s handwriting on this note was decidedly cruder—he must have been in a much greater hurry. Turn them on, was all it said. Eliza looked around, and saw nothing nearby that needed turning on. Then she made the leap of understanding.
Quickly making her way back to where she’d already been, into the room at the rear, she stared at the four machines lined up facing the bare wall. It took her a few moments to ascertain that she needed to light the little filaments within the boxes. When she did that, four still images of four suffragist meetings appeared in a grid of two by two.
“Four of the kidnappings,” she whispered. “Now Welly, show me what you saw.”
Luckily she had seen a few kinetoscopes in her time, so knew the basics for those smaller versions of these larger machines. It appeared that Wellington had rigged them to work in tandem. By virtue of cranking the lever to the right, the images started to pick up speed, eventually going at a lifelike pace.
And there it was. Chandi Culpepper tucking her hair behind one ear, and then, unmistakably tugging on one of those earrings. A tell.
Just to be sure, Eliza pulled back on the lever, reversed the film and played it again. “No mistaking it,” she stopped the celluloid and stared. “Evidence.”
That was simple enough, but the meaning of the two queens escaped her. Eliza didn’t consider herself stupid, but without Wellington she did feel lessened. She had to get back to the Ministry. Once there she could talk with Hill and the Director. The time for pretending was long past, and there was no way she was going to put Wellington’s safety over the secrecy they had been working on in the Archives. Doctor Sound could kick her out of the Ministry, as long as the Archivist was returned safely.
Clutching the two queens in one hand, Eliza shut down the array. She then ran down the corridor, opened the front door, and found herself at the wrong end of a dozen gun barrels.
“Eliza D. Braun.” Diamond Dottie sat astride a lococycle. “A pleasure to see you again.” She must have turned the huge machine off and rolled in on it, so as not to alert the agent. Her ring of minions must have come in by some other means. It would have been comedic in any other circumstances. The thieves were all beautifully dressed, but held their pistols with a steady grip. None could doubt that if they shot, they would hit.
Eliza cleared her throat and smiled. “Dorothy, lovely to see you again, and so . . . unexpectedly too. Unfortunately, you have caught me at a rather inopportune time.” Her gaze darted among the women, but she could see there was no real way to draw on any of them and not be filled with lead herself. Only now did Eliza wish that she’d stopped at the Ministry to grab a few extra pieces of armament. With only her pistols it was like being out naked.
“I am sure you are busy.” Dottie tapped her fingers on the brass covering on the lococycle. “But dearie, we need to have a talk. A really serious girl talk.”
One glance around told her that refusal was not an option.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In Which Eliza Makes an Ally of a Most Multi-Faceted Nature
Perhaps things weren’t as bad as Eliza thought. Diamond Dottie hadn’t tied her up and bundled her into a hansom. Instead she’d slid forward so that the agent could take a place behind her on the lococycle. The machine hissed to life beneath them, and Eliza was jerked backwards as they accelerated away from Wellington’s house. She was forced to grab the queen of London’s underground around the waist rather hastily. The rattle of pistons and the tremendous hiss of the boilers did not exactly make for a calm ride.
Despite all that, Eliza yelped with delight. “Dottie, this really is a most marvellous method of travel. I’ve never seen one of these before. Where ever did you get it?”
Dorothy’s laughter was loud enough to rise above the cacophony of the engine. “Why, I stole it, dearie—but let’s save that story for now.”
Their journey returned Eliza to Mayfair, and ended where Eliza had never expected nor hoped to see again in her present or future lifetimes—the home of Diamond Dottie. She was no longer the fly lured into the spider’s web as she once had been, but she was being given a proper escort and formal invitation to its very centre.
Once the lococycle rumbled still before the house’s main door, a hard reality hit Eliza: she and Dottie were alone. Her Elephants were trailing far behind, leaving their leader alone with a mark that had survived a full-on ornithopter assault.
“Before you think you got a cokum,” Dottie began as she stripped off her gloves, “take a look at the second floor window, to the left.”
Eliza looked over to the indicated window. It was a chilly day but regardless, it was open to the elements, even though its curtains were drawn. Peculiar to any passerby, but to Eliza it made perfect sense. Especially when she saw the thin rifle barrel protruding from the part in the fabric. “I’ve got two maids in the house, and both can part a man’s hair with a single shot.” She then gave her a hard look. “We got to settle our hash.”
Eliza stood there for a moment. Was there any point in running? The bullet would cut her down, and Dottie could spin any tale she desired on who she was and why she had been gunned down in her front yard. There was no choice in this matter. Eliza steeled herself and followed Dottie.
She glanced out of the corner of her eye. The barrel followed her all the way to the front steps.
When the door opened, she was welcomed into the house at gunpoint. The second maid had picked up where her counterpart left off, and slinked back silently as Eliza now entered the foyer she only saw during a mad dash out of Dottie’s home. The lady of the manor was hanging up her own coat and then outstretched her hand to take Eliza’s.
“You’ll have to forgive my maid,” Dottie said with a shrug. “She’s currently preoccupied.”
Eliza slowly slipped her own coat free, her eyes never leaving the gun-wielding house servant. When she finally looked away, over to Dottie, she was astounded at the woman’s demeanour, her outward confidence. She had something to say to Eliza, and remained more than assured that Eliza would hang on her every word.
“Right then, Eliza Braun, is it?” Dottie asked, looking her over. “Follow me.”
Their first few steps to Dottie’s library were in silence, but Eliza finally snapped, “I really don’t have time for this!”
“You will make the time, missy.”
“My partner has gone missing and I’m going to get him back.”
“You’ll be needing all the help you can get then, now won’t you?” Dottie turned back to look at
her. The smile was neither sincere nor menacing. Contemplative. “After what you said last time you paid me a visit, I did some poking around for you.”
London’s most feared gang-leader? Doing leg-work for the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences? Unbidden? Dottie could not have surprised Eliza more if she had offered to teach the secret agent how to knit.
Particularly in light of their personal history. “Why the hell would you do that for me?” Eliza scoffed.
The courtesy Dottie was extending to her disappeared into the æther, her polished character switching from Kensington to East End in a moment. “Oi, watch your tone with me, you jammy bint! I is doing you a favour!”
“You tried to have me killed in my apartments!”
Dottie took a step closer to her, her finger raised in the air as if she were going to retaliate with another barrage; but her finger remained suspended there. Then, she inclined her head to one side, and her reply was even as she gently tapped Eliza’s shoulder. “That was my misunderstanding. You were making an effort to get to me when you saw me at that meeting what went all possessed like. Thought you were with the blue bottles.” She then motioned for Eliza to follow her into the library. “Then you broke in here. Saw that little bob you used to get into my house. Then all your prattle about suffragists? Definitely not with blue bottles. So I thought I’d help out a fellow sister—especially since you have a passable left hook.”
“Get to the point then,” Eliza seethed. She knew she needed to proceed more cautiously, but every word shared with Dottie meant another moment keeping her from going after Wellington. Still, she needed to know. “Why would you want to help the movement at all?”
