The Janus Affair

by Morris, Tee

  Wellington was coming down the gangplank to meet her. His wheaten hair shifted in the wind, quite naked to the elements. It was rather endearing. His gaze flickered over her shoulder. “So the Sheppards are going already?”

  “Their airship for New Zealand leaves this evening,” Eliza said, tucking her hand around his elbow, “so we got the timing perfectly right for a rescue.”

  “Aren’t you sad you’re not going with them?”

  His voice was calm, but there was a strange note to it that made her smile. “Oh Welly, I have been quite won over by the charms of London. I’m not missing New Zealand as much as I once did.”

  A long exhalation followed from him, and it sounded as though he’d been holding it in. “That’s wonderful, though, unfortunately, one part of London is far less charmed with us at the moment.”

  Both of their gazes drifted to the airship and the Director. Sound had finished his conversation with Shillingworth, and now had both hands locked on the railing, leaning out, and looking straight at them. His secretary inclined her head in a gesture that could almost have been a salute to her employer and strode down the gangplank. She completely ignored the Archivist and his apprentice as she made her way to the rank of hansoms. They could hardly guess what the Director had said to Shillingworth and certainly did not dare ask her as she passed them.

  Eliza felt her mouth dry up, but still she managed to choke out, “So the jig is up then?”

  “Quite.”

  “And he knows all about the cases we’ve worked from the Archives?”

  “Naturally—he’s not a stupid man. He wants us to meet him in his office.” For a man about to lose his employment Wellington sounded remarkably chirpy.

  Taking a chance, Eliza slid her hand down his arm and clasped her fingers on his. He didn’t flinch, so she squeezed a little tighter. “I’m sorry,” she murmured to him. “This was all my fault. It was my idea to chase these cases.”

  His hazel eyes met hers, and there was not one ounce of anger or accusation in them. “That is absolute rubbish, Eliza. I could at any stage have stopped you merely by going to the Director. I chose not to, and because of that, you and I have done a lot of good.”

  “I suppose,” she replied in a small voice.

  “Please keep sight of the fact that the Empire itself could have fallen under the weight of another religious crusade, Eliza. I would count that as most worthy.”

  “I hope the Director takes that into account.” She said it as cheerfully as she could manage, but they both knew that Doctor Sound could not tolerate division in the ranks. Everyone—including the Archivist—had to be trusted to obey direct orders.

  “So you see,” Wellington said straightening to his full height, “I will not apologise for our actions.”

  They might be losing their jobs, and the scene that awaited them would be monumental in its scope, but they were at least united. “Then better to go out with a bang,” Eliza squeezed his fingertips again, and only just managed to stop raising them to her lips. “That is the way I have always preferred to leave a party.”

  The Archivist looked down at her, while a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Despite my protests, I have come to realise I would not have it any other way.”

  Together they walked down the street to find a hansom, and face whatever music the Director had ready for them.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Wherein Wellington Books Handles a Situation with Aplomb

  They arrived back at the Ministry before the Director—though not before Shillingworth. By some miracle of transportation, the secretary was sitting at her desk shuffling paperwork when Eliza and Wellington stepped out of the lift.

  The Archivist observed that there was not one white-blonde hair out of place on her head, and it was impossible to imagine her toting firearms and hanging from the rigging of an airship only hours before. It could have been another woman.

  She showed them into the office, saw them settled on chairs, and then turned to them with a smile. “Can I get a cup of tea for you while you wait?”

  In all his time at the Ministry, Wellington had never seen Miss Shillingworth offer refreshment or a smile. It was a banner day apparently, yet when he exchanged a glance with Eliza she also appeared to be taking it as a bad sign.

  “Thank you,” his colleague replied, “I think that would be lovely.”

  They sat in silence while Shillingworth bustled out, to reappear a short time later with a tray. On it was a fine porcelain teapot and cups in a lovely willow pattern, and also a tray of tiny biscuits. Then with another smile, the secretary returned to her desk, shutting the door noiselessly behind her.

  Eliza poured, while Wellington nibbled on a biscuit. Somewhere just outside Ministry headquarters both of them had let go of each other’s hands. It seemed the proper thing to do when entering one’s place of employment, but the Archivist found that he missed her fingers wrapped around his.

  Being in the oubliette had made a number of things clear to him—none of which he could discuss with Eliza at this very moment. If either or both of them were dismissed from the Ministry he could not foresee the consequences. Perhaps Eliza would end up working for another government organisation, and he could enquire at the British Library. The thought gave him great concern. It was not that the venerable library was not a wonderful place—it was just not the place for him. And Eliza . . .

  Wellington glanced across at her. Though her hands were folded atop each other on her knees, he could detect real tension in her shoulders. The Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences was unique in Queen Victoria’s government, and it was unlikely any other place would suit Miss Eliza D. Braun’s skills as well.

  For both of them then, this was quite the moment. Wellington was about to reach across and pat Eliza’s hand again, when the door was flung open and the Director strode in. Like Shillingworth he appeared untouched by this afternoon’s events, but he looked considerably less happy about that.

  He took a seat behind his desk, and fixed them with a stare that should have been reserved for insects beneath glass. “Once again,” he began, steepling his fingers before him, “I find you two in my office—a situation I was hoping never to have repeated.”

  Wellington swallowed, glanced across at Eliza, and then when she showed no signs of speaking, addressed his superior. “Director, I just want to express my colleague’s and my own distress at being here as well. We never expected—”

  “—To be caught?” Doctor Sound tilted his head. “That was a very foolish expectation then. I may be a shuffler of papers, as Agent Braun here once called me, but I am not without intelligence.”

  Wellington began mentally running through his contacts at the British Library.

  “I gave you leeway after the Phoenix Society affair—even though your excuses were as transparent as glass—because you did the Empire a service, and I expected one incident would be enough for you both.” He pulled a stack of brown folders over to sit in front of him. “Do you have anything mitigating to offer?”

  Eliza brushed her skirt, and gave Wellington a warning stare before replying. “Yes, I do, Director. This was all my fault.”

  The Archivist went to protest at her throwing herself in front of the carriage like this, but she held up a hand. Wellington’s good breeding forbade his interrupting a lady.

  She turned back to the Director. “It was at my insistence that Wellington helped me investigate both the Phoenix Society and the missing suffragists. Both cases were dear to me. As Harrison Thorne and Mrs. Kate Sheppard were and are personal friends, I felt I needed to help them—especially since neither was being investigated properly by the Ministry.”

  Eliza sat tall in her chair, meeting the Director’s eye, and Wellington had never been so proud of her. Ever since setting out on their first adventure she had expressed concerns that he would abandon her to the wrath of Doctor Sound. Yet now here she was, claiming all the responsibility.

  It was not
going to make a difference.

  The Director’s forehead furrowed. “You are once again, Braun, taking me for a fool. Our Archivist was aware of what you were doing, and could have easily reported your activities at any time.”

  “Yes indeed,” Wellington replied, “I could have, but decided that the greater good was being served.”

  “You feel you are qualified to decide that?” The Director’s glare flicked between the two of them, and sensibly, both remained silent.

  “Yes, sir,” they replied together.

  Doctor Sound jerked back in his chair and peered at them in surprise. “And pray tell, what gives you this authority over me?”

  “The number of cases that have gone unsolved by our agents. I have to look at them daily.” Wellington leaned forward in his chair. “When do you see them, sir?”

  The Director’s mouth opened, then shut as he considered. Finally, he nodded. “Touché, Books. The truth of the matter is that both the Ministry and I are in a precarious position. We are under constant scrutiny by Her Majesty.” He adjusted himself in his seat. “On one hand I cannot have you undermining my authority while our venerable Queen is keeping such a close eye on us.”

  “And we all know how she feels about the suffrage movement,” Eliza muttered. “She called it a ‘wicked folly’ after all.”

  The Director cleared his throat and silenced her with one look. “However, I also cannot with a clear conscience dismiss the two of you for such heroic acts.” He flipped open the folder. “My own investigations have revealed that you have solved six of our forgotten cases.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” Wellington couldn’t help interjecting, “it was actually seven.”

  Doctor Sound glanced down and made a notation in the folder. “Thank you, Books.”

  Eliza shot the Archivist an exasperated look.

  “Fortunately, a solution to this little pickle has fallen into my lap. Tell me, have you ever been to the Americas?”

  It was such an unexpected comment that Wellington barked out, “No, sir.”

  “Well then, with Eliza by your side it will be quite the education, since our American counterparts have asked for assistance.”

  “I didn’t know that the United States had an organisation like ours,” Eliza said, tilting her head.

  “They did not consult with you, Agent Braun? How shocking!” Wellington was not so foolish as to think this touch of humour from their superior meant they were out of the woods just yet. “As a matter of fact,” Doctor Sound continued, “it is still somewhat in the formation stages, but they have a case that resembles one from your forgotten files section.” He tapped his finger on a case file in front of him. “So both our Ministry and their organisation may benefit from this exchange of minds.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Wellington offered, trying to keep his voice level.

  “I would expect no less. Airship passage has been booked. You leave at midnight. I will have the particulars of this peculiar occurrence waiting in your respective staterooms to study while you travel. Here is a brief summary,” Sound continued, handing Wellington a single sheet of paper. “As it is close to five o’clock, you should have some time to gather a few case notes from the Archives before returning to your respective homes to pack.” He looked between them both. Wellington knew he was smiling. Broadly. “I suggest you do not dilly-dally—lest I change my mind.”

  The Archivist was so giddy with relief that he really didn’t care exactly which case it was, for it appeared that they were being temporarily exiled rather than dismissed. Eliza, too, looked as if she had been given a gallows reprieve. Both agents leapt to their feet immediately and made for the door.

  “One last thing.” The Director stopped them before they could get there. Wellington held his breath but dared not turn around.

  “I also suggest you pack what things you need from down in the Archives. Miss Shillingworth will be overseeing them while you are away. I presume, as our Archivist, that meets with your approval?”

  Wellington turned and gave a thoughtful nod. “I cannot think of anyone better, sir.”

  “You know, Welly,” Eliza whispered as they made their escape, “I think we have bloody well earned a holiday.”

  Her bravado was thin, but still attached. Still for once, Wellington did not rise to the bait. Not today.

  Interlude VIII

  Wherein the Duke of Sussex Makes a House Call

  Music played in the library of the Duke of Sussex. Peter Lawson was allowing himself the briefest of recollections to how things had been once, when he had been a younger man of wilder passions—passions that threatened his standing. That was another lifetime ago.

  He had learned control since then. Control had brought him to one of the highest offices in the land. Her Majesty the Queen had given him the task of assessing the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. And that was what he finally felt he could do.

  The transfer of rogue agents Eliza D. Braun and Wellington Thornhill Books to the Americas, while an admirable effort on Doctor Basil Sound’s part to bring order to the fledgling agency, hardly restores his authoritative control over the agents he is responsible for. The insubordination of these agents, coupled with the unexplained and tragic death of Ihita Pujari, only confirms my suspicions that the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences is no longer the institute of logical deduction or reason it once was. Doctor Sound’s inability to adequately discipline his agents as well as keep them safe from the opposition has displayed the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences’ scant regard of the voices of authority, including, I would dare say, the Crown itself.

  He smiled, slowly nodding his head at that bold proclamation. True, he hardly had any proof to back up those words. At least, not yet. His colonial would provide him what he needed for such a claim. Still, he had compiled the assessment, ready to be presented right after Campbell brought him the secrets of this mythical “Restricted Area” deep within the Archives of the Ministry. This small piece of paper would cut out this cancer from the monarchy.

  It would also appease the Maestro, and maybe Sussex would finally be free of the abhorrent presence once and for all.

  His pen returned to the paper as incidental music from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream continued on the gramophone.

  What disturbs me most of all in the decay within the Ministry is Doctor Sound’s delusions in believing he can employ the Ministry’s resources for his own benefit. Underneath the offices of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences is an area Sound refers to as “Restricted Access,” which is just that— restricted from all personnel save for Sound himself. At one time, it was unclear exactly what was kept in this dungeon within a dungeon; but in concluding my own investigation—

  “Sir?”

  Fenning’s voice stopped his master’s pen in its tracks. Sussex had made it very clear that he was not to be disturbed. Most nights, he did not mind the tending to from his London house staff, but tonight he needed total concentration.

  “Fenning?” Sussex asked, lifting his eyes to the butler. “I do hope you have a very good reason to disturb me.”

  “A Mr. Bruce Campbell is at the door, sir.” His voice quivered slightly as he spoke. “He was most insistent on seeing you immediately. He would not set an appointment, nor would he take no for an answer. I threatened to call the constable.” Fenning paused and then added, “He welcomed it.”

  Sussex glanced at the assessment under his fingertips. Could he possibly earn his freedom that quickly?

  “Show him in.”

  When Fenning reappeared, Bruce remained a few paces behind him, strangely hunched somehow.

  “That will be all, Fenning.” Sussex kept his eyes fixed on Campbell.

  The butler glanced over the colonial with an air of contempt before leaving the study. Campbell stood there, gripping his bowler hat tightly as his eyes darted around the room.

  Sussex turned a chair towards his visitor and started back to his own. “Please have a sea
t.”

  “I won’t be staying long, sir, so I’d rather stand.”

  “Tosh,” Sussex said, waving to the chair, “I believe we have a great deal to talk about.”

  “No, Your Grace, we do not.”

  The insistence in Campbell’s voice made Sussex pause in taking his own chair. Finally, they were looking at each other, and the Duke did not care for what he found in the colonial’s hard, cold gaze.

  The Australian said softly, “I’m leaving London.”

  Sussex chuckled, shaking his head. “What? You’ve been reassigned? Well, I can certainly—”

  “I have been dismissed.”

  A tight, gripping sensation—perhaps the cold grip of an armoured hand—began to slowly squeeze around Sussex’s throat. “Campbell, whatever are you on about?”

  “I’m not on about anything, Your Grace. Doctor Sound terminated my service with the Ministry.”

  Sweat. He felt sweat on the back of his neck. “Why?”

  “Dereliction of duty. It came to light I was letting certain cases go unsolved on account of personal bias. That personal bias led to the death of Agent Ihita Pujari.” Campbell smiled bleakly.

  The Duke’s head swam, as if he had drunk far too much brandy, or perhaps quaffed it too quickly. His heart pounded in his ears, but a single, deep breath later, he could feel himself back under control. “I will speak with Sound on this matter first thing in the morning.”

  “No,” Campbell said, “you won’t.”

  He wanted to sit down. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I’m going home.” The Australian crossed the office to a shelf of small books—his collection of William Shakespeare—and read along the spines until he found the volume he was apparently looking for. “Now Henry VI, Part 3. That’s a funny ol’ play, Your Grace, if there ever was one.”

  Sussex blinked. What was Campbell on about?