Surely.
Frederick’s lip curled, revealing an ugly row of broken teeth. It was a heartbeat later that Wellington caught a whiff of fetid breath. Wealthy enough to ride on the Orient Express, he thought, but not enough to keep their teeth in good order. How predictable.
Clearing his throat as he laid a napkin across his lap, Wellington focused on Ida. Hopefully, a sweeter disposition awaited him there. "Madame, in the spirit of this breath-taking adventure to the Ottoman Empire, you surely must let me push you to the Observation Car. The mountains we are passing through are quite—"
"You’re planning on stealing my wife, are you?" From another man’s lips the sentiment might have come across as a light quip, but Frederick Castle’s words accompanied by the hard slap on the table that turned a few heads in the dining car came across as a prelude to a duel.
Wellington’s gaze darted to Ida, who had still not spoken a word. Her own cold, suspicious glare, spoke volumes. Her head receded amongst the many layers of clothing wrapped around her, like she was a tortoise in distress. No one would ever imagine her being stolen away in such a fashion—could they?
Frederick’s fist striking the table made him think again. Wellington noted the large size of the old man’s mitt, the rows of black curly hair in sharp contrast to his pale skin. This man would have made for a wonderful brawler in his younger days, and perhaps in present ones too.
Not that he wanted to test that theory. "No-no-no," Wellington said quickly, waving his hands in the air. "As lovely as your wife is, my dear fellow, I can see she is quite smitten with you."
In truth Ida had not removed her gaze from Wellington to anywhere near her husband. He had never understood the expression ‘if looks could kill’ until that very moment. Mrs Ida Castle was practically poisoning him with her gaze.
This wasn’t really going as Wellington had imagined it.
Sweat was now breaking out on his forehead, trickling down his neck. Was it his imagination or had the room suddenly got far too hot? "Perhaps I should start again? Orville Isaac. I am in construction and real estate. Thought I would meet some of my fellow adventurers and share stories over tea. And you are...?"
"No one of concern, especially to you, sir," Mr Castle replied, his voice turning positively into a growl. "We hate tea. Almost as much as unexpected, unwanted company."
Well then, that settled that. Interview done.
"I crave a pardon," he said, rising, and jamming his hat back on his head. "I won’t trouble you further."
He tried to make sure he didn’t break into a run to get away from the Castles’ table. He had only made it a few paces before the husky, exceptionally polished accent stopped him in his tracks. "Bad time of it, then?"
Wellington looked down to see where the query came from. He was standing next to Professor Henrietta Falcon, the smoke from the end of her cigar lazily slinking upward from its bright orange tip as she rested one hand on the book on her lap.
"The rich, I have found, tend to be a little harder to crack than those of more humble backgrounds." She looked up and a strange dizziness almost overcome him. The woman was mature, late thirties or even early forties, but the darkness in her eyes, and raven hair wrapped in bun all created a striking impression that caught him completely off-guard. "You’re too kind, is your problem. Pleasantries are not always the best way in."
There was something in the way she enunciated her words. Her speech punctured the air, but it suited the sharp lines of her cheekbones. She did resemble the predator whose names she bore. Lifting the cigar to her lips, she took a slow drag from it before leaning back in her chair and exhaling. The sharp, sweet smoke only made Wellington’s dizziness worse.
"Perhaps I misjudged the Castles as the affable sort," he confessed.
"I would find such a miscalculation from a man like you unexpected, and even a bit disappointing."
Wellington blinked. "I’m sorry?"
"You strike me as a man of intellect," she said, her mouth bending into a crooked smile.
"Well, I usually am." He shrugged. "I suppose the axiom of the ancients is true."
"Which one would that be?"
Wellington attempted to mimic her grin. "No one’s perfect."
She stared at him, sizing him up just by looking into his eyes. From a distance, Professor Falcon demanded admiration and respect, but up close, Wellington found her to be most formidable.
After a short lifetime of fighting to keep his balance while maintaining eye contact, Falcon offered him her hand, "Professor Henrietta Falcon, from the Ada Lovelace Centre."
He took her hand, but could not stop from his brow creasing. "Not the Brunel Institute?"
"No longer," she said, gesturing for him to join her. "That particular institution is much like this train and its guests." She flicked slightly with her head back to the Castles. "Full of the most annoying, irritable people on God’s green earth." Wellington cast a glance over to the couple, but Henrietta simply took another puff from the cigar. "I wouldn’t worry about the dear things hearing me. Both are quite deaf."
Wellington blinked. "Deaf?"
"I could state the obvious, that Frederick is a cheap old bastard who won’t even offer his valet a shilling for his troubles, and that Ida’s wheelchair should wheel itself to the grave, and yet..." Henrietta craned her neck over her shoulder. Wellington followed her gaze to where the Castles sat. Ida was asleep once more. Frederick was busy scraping the last of the meat off the chicken's bone. "See? Deaf as wooden planks."
"I tried to be pleasant, at the very least. So... rude!" Wellington said with a huff.
"Or simply inconsiderate. They don’t bother. They have what they believe a good life and damn the world around them."
"And you?" Wellington asked, catching the attention of the automaton before turning his gaze back to Professor Falcon. "What do you believe you have?"
Falcon crooked an eyebrow, then leaned forward to gently rest her elbows on either side of the open book. "Cutting to the chase, are we?"
"No, if I wanted to cut to the chase, I would ask what made you move from Mechanical Design to... what are they calling that science at the Lovelace Centre again?"
"Quantum Engineering," she said, smiling brightly. "But something tells me you already knew that, Mr...?"
"Oscar. Isaac." Wellington gave a slight nod to the book between her elbows. "And I did know that, yes. The notations in this already published book you have here indicates that you are about to begin work on your sixth book."
"Seventh. I handed my latest to the publisher just before I packed for this little jaunt."
The automaton arrived with the tea, and Wellington watched the machine perform effortlessly. It did not seem to struggle with its balance as the train rocked back and forth in its rhythm. He glanced over to Falcon, who was still staring at him. "One of your works, I assume?"
"The internal gyroscope system is mine, yes, and so is the voice and motion recognition programing and the overall design of the automosteward. I do think aesthetics should matter."
Wellington raised his cup to Professor Falcon and then winced.
"I cannot take claim for the tea recipe, however," she said, sliding to him the bowl of sugar cubes.
He gave a slight nod and then said to the automosteward, "Breakfast Number Three, if you please."
"Yes sir," the synthetic voice replied before turning towards the kitchen. "Your name and Passenger Identification, please."
"Orville Isaac," he returned. Wellington then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his ticket, assigned to him by Petit. "Passenger 0422."
"Thank you, Mr Isaac. I will make certain the toast is to your liking."
Wellington watched the automaton walk away before turning back to Falcon who was enjoying his reaction to the innovation. "I take it the name and identification is..."
"... for the kitchen staff so that a passenger's specific tastes or requirements are always met. Your toast, for example."
/> "I do prefer it to be more of a golden brown and soft, yes."
Professor Falcon gave a slight nod. "Those details matter to a passenger. The automosteward also uses passenger references for the train conductor, in case of additional charges to your fare," she said, motioning to her own cigar.
"Brilliant, that is," he said.
"So, Mr Isaac, you asked me a moment ago what I think I have," she began picking up her cigar. She went to puff, but paused and then motioned to the vice. Wellington gave an assuring nod, and she proceeded to smoke. He had expected this woman based on her reputation and character in interviews to be quick witted and clever, but he did not count on the woman being this seductive. "I believe it to be a sense of adventure and wonder."
"I would imagine that is expected, considering our current mode of transportation?"
Henrietta chuckled. "The OHX-1 was hardly inspiration. More like evolution."
"I beg to differ. Hypersteam travel is an incredible feat, even though it is now expected in train travel. To combine all the luxuries of the Orient Express and the innovations of hypersteam all so seamlessly?" He shrugged as he stirred two cubes of sugar into his tea. "That is a touch of brilliance."
"Maybe you are not perfect, but I was right: you are a man of intellect and intelligence. Rather refreshing."
Wellington didn’t try to fight the blushing. Being referred to as "a man of intellect and intelligence" from a mind as brilliant as Professor Henrietta Falcon was quite an honour. He cleared his throat and finally asked, "Refreshing, you say?"
"My colleague and I could see at the departure ceremony the calibre of travelling companions. Politicians, stage celebrities, business tycoons. Not what you would expect to be passionate about the sciences."
"I could easily be that average passenger," Wellington offered.
Professor Falcon leaned back in her chair to take a drag of her cigar. "Tosh, don’t be so absurd. You're a man passionate about knowledge. It’s in your vocabulary, and in your eyes."
Wellington chucked. "Must be quite the skill you have there, Profes—"
"Henrietta."
Wellington took another sip of tea. "Must be quite the skill you have there, Henrietta. Anyone else on this train strike you in such a similar fashion?"
"Well now, Mr Isaac, I can assure you, I do not invite all men to my table as you have been. Not even my associate from the Lovelace Centre, and he’s a fine gentleman."
"As you said—sometimes, it is most difficult to find a like-minded adventurer to share with." Wellington managed to tear his eyes away from the professor to see the automosteward approaching with his breakfast. The scent of eggs, ham, and toast—perfectly prepared—tickled his nose.
"Perhaps, if you attend tonight’s soirée, I would meet a gentleman such as yourself and make an introduction."
"Is this event in the parlour tonight?"
"A chance for Her Majesty’s subjects and cultural authorities from all of Europe to share drinks and chit-chat, yes. Tonight, at seven." A strangely playful smile crossing her face. "Are you saying I have convinced you to attend?"
"I was not planning to do so, but yes, it sounds most delightful. And I am anxious to get to know my fellow adventurers."
"I don’t even think this lot are bold enough to be labelled tourists. They intend to stick very close to the itineraries the Cook agents have meticulously designed for them, and that includes the closest restaurants that cater to their sensitive palates."
"I take it you do not adhere to such conventions?"
"Burned my itinerary before arriving to the station," she said with a self-satisfied smile. "If I am to journey beyond the Empire, then I want to experience it all, free of the trappings Her Majesty is so fond of assuring her citizens are always omnipresent."
Wellington nodded. "Then I am indeed most fortunate to be at your table. You do not seem to be the kind to suffer fools lightly."
"So, tonight. At seven." Falcon then stood and slid next to Wellington’s teacup her card. "Do not be fashionable. I prefer promptness."
With the slightest of nods, Professor Falcon gathered up her book and notes, and continued back towards the passenger cars. Wellington was certain he was watching her with the same fascination as he did with the automosteward. He turned back to his breakfast, but not before making eye contact with the Castles. They were glaring at him.
Wellington looked back at his breakfast and then took up the announcement card of Professor Henrietta Falcon. Quite the turn of events.
Dropping a third cube of sugar into his tea, Wellington gave the brew a few stirs, then raised his cup to the crotchety old couple.
Bugger off, you wankers, he thought with a smile. I have plans tonight with a scientific legend.
Chapter Twelve
In Which Gentlemen of the Ministry Attempt to Mend a Broken Heart
"That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard!"
"You mean to tell me," Brandon Hill began, his jaw somewhat slack out of shock, "in all the years of butting heads with the House of Usher, you never heard about the code names for their regional directors?"
Bruce gave his Canadian partner a rap on his shoulder. "Mate, you understand me better than anyone in the Ministry. I just need to be told what must get done, and who I need to punch."
"Well, that’s who we’re contending with here. The bloke goes under the moniker of Mr Badger."
"I hate bloody badgers," Bruce grumbled. "Little bastards live underground but jump out and chew your toes given half the chance."
Brandon shot him a look from under one arched eyebrow. "You know nothing about badgers, Bruce. You just don’t like Italy."
The Australian rubbed his nose and looked around the street market of Assisi. It was a sunny day in the province of Umbria. Everyone was having a fine old time buying cheese, artichokes, tomatoes and what have you. The olive skin, raven locks, and tantalising curves of the locals almost made the trip across the Atlantic worthwhile for Bruce.
Almost.
David Harker was as miserable and insufferable as Bruce feared. Even the slow ascent of Cloud Dancer made him lose his lunch while his complexion fluctuated between green and yellow.
And if Bruce had to hear about how “his darling Virginia” was in such a state of fright one more time...
A muscle in his jaw twitched, but another Italian beauty—this one with a body and a face that would have made Venus jealous—caught his eye. She smiled and dared to wink at him.
"Whatever they feed the locals here sure does make for some good-looking people," he admitted, allowing his smile to widen.
"I shall not debate you on that," Brandon said cheerily, buffing a bright red apple he had purchased from the market. "Italy is a place of beauty. Music. Art. Architecture. Produce."
That last item ripped Bruce out of his flirtation. "Come again, mate?"
"Look at this, will you?" Brandon asked, holding the apple up to him. Admittedly, the fruit was bigger than his fist. Impressive, to say the least. He took a deep bite out of the shiny apple. "Oh, and what of the technology? If only Da Vinci were able to see this brave, new world we live in."
"Are you purposefully not noticing the bits o’ jam here in Umbria?" Bruce watched as Brandon took another large bite. "How’s that fruit, mate?"
Brandon shrugged, sending bits of apple in every direction. "I have tastes, like you; but they are more..." He thought a bit through his exaggerated chewing until his eyes widened. Seems that he found the word he was looking for. "Exotic."
"More exotic than the women of Italy?"
"Well, there’s exotic women of Italy, and then there are those exotic women of Italy. Women that are as dangerous as they are alluring."
Bruce cocked his head to one side, but he deduced what Brandon was on about. "Good Lord," he whispered, shaking his head. His partner, regardless of the way the two of them get on and the results that they brought back to the home office, was sometimes completely off his nut. "The del Mortes?"
Bruce asked in a hushed voice. "Are you mad?"
"We can all dream, my friend."
Casting glances left and right, Bruce leaned in even closer. "How many of them have you seen?"
"Only a few, at a distance," Brandon replied with a slight sigh.
"You’re lucky, mate. Close up, they’re pretty. I mean, gorgeous. Ravina and I tangled with one another in Kenya. Monica... yeah, Monica, quite a looker, that one.” Bruce paused, taking in the somewhat dopy grin painted across Brandon’s face. His partner was completely and utterly clueless. “Something else that is quite pretty? Angel’s Trumpets."
Brandon furrowed his brow. "Angel’s Trumpets?"
"Wait... this is something you don’t know?"
"Oh, when it comes to botanical matters, I’m afraid I am far from a green thumb."
"Well, let me enlighten you about this little plant from home. Angel’s Trumpets. Beautiful little buggers, they are, all yellow and orange, like those Daylilies but maybe not as big."
"Oh, they sound delightful."
"That they are, and the scent? Just loverly." Bruce crooked an eyebrow at his partner. "They are also highly toxic. You eat these seeds or brew up a bit of tea with those leaves, and you’ll be dealing with headaches and maybe some disorientation... if you are lucky."
"And pray tell what if you are unlucky?"
"Paralysis and death." Bruce gave a little nod before adding, "That is the del Morte family in a nutshell."
Brandon’s shoulders slumped. Was he going to give up like that?
"Now hold on a moment!" He chimed in, as Bruce expected. "Sophia del Morte helped us with that trouble at the Diamond Jubilee and, according to scuttlebutt at the office, assisted Eliza and Wellington in India last year."
Bruce replied with a derisive snort. "I am sure she had her own reasons. Kind of difficult to do something out of the goodness of your heart when you don’t have one."
Operation: Endgame (Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Book 6) Page 11
