The Janus Affair: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Tee Morris

  The crowd gathered here consisted mainly of women, with a few gentlemen patiently and politely paying attention—perhaps because they were escorting their female relations. In front of the group, but obscured from Eliza and Wellington’s point of view, a woman could be heard addressing the crowd. Near the back was a small group of men, continuing—rather rudely—with their own conversations. This would have not been so much of a bother had the men not been carrying on so close to the woman speaking. The din from the men was enough to make a few of the ladies turn their heads and shoot them angry looks.

  From the sound of their guffaws, they really did not care.

  Eliza shook her head and barged her way through to them, not even bothering to mutter a “Beg your pardon” or “Excuse me” as she joined the other women.

  Wellington easily walked around the men and clearly heard their opinions.

  “Bloody suffragettes,” the portly one remarked, loud enough to make certain he was heard. “Caterwaul all they like, they’re not likely to get the vote in this country. Not even Queen Vic likes ’em.”

  “I don’t mind if the hens get the vote,” another man stated, quickly silencing his compatriots, “so long as dinner is waiting on the table.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if that dish—” another said, his eyes taking in Eliza’s curves, “—served herself on my table.”

  Wellington paused. He swallowed back a reply, and tried catching up with Eliza. They mustn’t draw attention to themselves—especially after their recent misadventure with the Phoenix Society. He was certain that Doctor Sound suspected their involvement in the downfall of that hedonistic society. He could only hope the Director was not keeping them under surveillance.

  He brushed by the crass gentlemen, thinking how lovely it would have been to rap the varlet with a walking stick, at the point of vulnerability between the tibia and fibula. Sadly, today such actions would have to remain only in Wellington’s imagination.

  When the Archivist stepped clear of the small “Gentlemen’s Club,” the woman’s voice suddenly came to him clear and resonant. And resolute. In fact, overflowing with resolve.

  The women standing there, decked in half-cloaks and the large sleeves and muffs to stave off the late January chill, looked to all intents and purposes like they had just stepped out for a brisk winter’s stroll through the park. Their outward expressions however, uniform in their intensity and sombre look, were contrary to their dress. They remained stock-still, paying rapt attention to the woman at the podium.

  “A question. A question is not a harmful thing. Our children ask us questions every day. And it is our responsibility to answer them truthfully, honestly. It is the answer to questions that build character, integrity, and morality. The very foundations of Her Majesty’s Empire. And yet, when my daughter asks me why her questions are not answered by her teacher, when she is told, ‘That is not your concern,’ what am I to tell her? All we want is an answer to a question, a moment to ask our leaders ‘Why?’ when their decisions are, most assuredly, our concern. For it is the decisions of men that send our sons off to war, turn our daughters into widows. We want our voice to be counted, and our questions answered.”

  The women’s applause managed to drown out the dissention from the cads behind them. Wellington cast a glance to his partner, her once hard, sour expression now radiating with optimism and hope.

  “Really?” Wellington asked her, his own hands also offering up a polite applause. “This is my penance? To be your arm decoration at a suffragette rally?”

  “Suffra-gist, Welly,” Eliza politely corrected as the applause settled. She leaned in closer to his ear as the woman resumed her speech. “You should endeavour to know the proper address of such dissonant voices within the Empire?”

  “Dissonant?” Wellington objected. “What do you take me for, Miss Braun?”

  Eliza crooked an eyebrow on that. “Do you want an honest answer to that?”

  He shook his head and turned his attention to the speaker. “I do not know this woman’s name, but I respect her words and her voice. She is quite right. A woman’s opinion should be heard.”

  “Why, Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire,” Eliza began, “aren’t we the forward-thinking gent?”

  “I mean, who raises our children, cooks our meals, and assures that house and home remains tidy and in order?” he went on. “It is, most certainly, not a man’s job, now is it?”

  “If our voices do not count,” came the suffragist’s words, her voice now stained with real ire, “why should we be so supportive of decisions that, society tells us, are not our concern?”

  Wellington nodded, offering his wordless support for the woman’s plight. He happened to glance over at Eliza and felt a sinking feeling on meeting her gaze. Eliza was just staring at him. He noted shock in her eyes, a touch of anger roiling just underneath her gaze.

  “What?” he asked, completely unaware what he might have done to earn such temper.

  The speaker paused for a moment, leaned down so that a nearby woman could whisper into her ear, nodded, and then stood tall with a smile. “Perhaps there are some of you that may think this is a fool’s errand we are embarking upon—”

  “Finally!” barked one of the gents from the back. “The voice of reason!”

  Only the men gathered there found the comment amusing. The men alongside their ladies would chuckle but covered their approval in a cough.

  “Perhaps, a word from one of the Empire’s children would give you a touch of reassurance.”

  From behind a group of ladies—a group of ladies which, Wellington noted, were all armed with small clubs seen usually in the hands of police officers—a figure emerged that caused Eliza’s breath to audibly catch. This newcomer carried herself with confidence, her modifications, while striking, seeming only to add to that bearing. The morning sunlight caught the gleam off the brass fixture of her jaw while the light where an eye would have been flared with an emerald glow. She was still able to smile warmly, even as half her face was covered in metal and clockwork. A few of the women closer to the podium stepped back, but she did not take offence to it. Even the men behind Wellington and Eliza went deathly silent.

  “Good morning, my sisters,” this new speaker began, “for while I do look quite extraordinary, do not think for a moment that we are not sisters. We are. Under the flag of our beloved Queen Victoria, we are one, part of the great British Empire.”

  Eliza, recovering from whatever her shock was, whispered, “Kate?”

  “I am Kate Sheppard, a citizen of New Zealand and a servant of the Empire. I also have a voice, a voice that came with a cost,” she said, motioning to her face. “A cost that, I believe, was well worth paying.”

  There was a smattering of applause. Wellington looked over at Eliza. Her eyes were welling with tears.

  “You know this woman?” he murmured.

  The nod was imperceptible.

  “Back home in my beloved land of New Zealand, I have a voice. Perhaps it is a quiet one, at present, but it is still a voice. A voice that, rest assured, will no longer remain ignored.”

  “You overestimate yourself, tinkertot!” shouted a heckler from the group of men. He waved his cigar as he added, “I can easily shut out your shrieking. How about a ding-dong? All things bright and beautiful . . .”

  Then the rest of the men joined in. “All creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful, The Lord God made them all . . .”

  Wellington looked back to Kate who raised a single finger to the wall of women originally shielding her from the audience. His eyes jumped to Eliza. The emotional display he had seen earlier was all but gone now. He was expecting her to be staring down the hecklers. Instead, Eliza was watching Kate, a grin across her face. She was clearly expecting a rebuttal from her New Zealand cousin.

  Kate waited until the men reached “God made them high and lowly, And ordered their estate . . .” verse and burst into laughter. She turned to an attendant and moti
oned to a small box behind her. With a nod, the attendant hefted the box up into her arms.

  “Gentlemen, your song is quite apt as God did make us all. As the child’s hymn proclaims—none are better or worse. And yet, gentlemen such as yourselves are content with having us stay silent, still, and making your dinner.”

  The hecklers watched as Kate’s attendant set the box at their feet, and turned the lock on its lid. The box fell away to reveal a skinned goose, frozen solid.

  “You gents want dinner?” Kate asked the men, reaching underneath the podium. What came into view next caused the women up front to scream in horror and the crowd to part as if they were the Red Sea and Eliza’s New Zealand cousin was Moses. The staff this Moses brandished in Speakers’ Corner took aim on the goose in front of the retreating gentlemen. Kate pulled back the bolt on this monstrosity of a rifle, bringing the beakers on either side of its chamber to a wild, furious bubble. The air around the rifle’s barrel-bell distorted and wavered until brilliant pearlescent rings of heat and power burst from it, striking the frozen bird over and over. Wellington, who had been the only one remaining where he stood, watched with fascination as the goose went from a sick pale colour to yellow. The smell tickled his nostrils when the fowl turned to a golden brown, and his mouth instantly began to water.

  Kate released the trigger and hoisted the rifle upwards, her green eye flaring brighter than ever. “Gentlemen, your goose is now well and truly cooked.”

  The crowd, even some of the men keeping company with their wives and sweethearts, erupted into applause. The hecklers, however, were slowly regaining their composure while in front of them a large goose sizzled. Wellington gave her a healthy ovation as the crowd gathered back around him.

  Over the thunder of appreciation, Eliza called to him. “Welly, time to go.”

  “Did you see?” Wellington exclaimed, the crowd still cheering on Kate Sheppard. “That’s a Matford-Randleson Ætheralternator rifle your friend has there.”

  “And she knows how to use it. Now let’s go.”

  He motioned to Kate who was now passing the rifle to her attendant. “But don’t you want to—”

  “When Kate gets this way, the bluebottles are not far behind, now com—”

  Her word caught in her throat as an odd scent in the air made them both pause. Stray hairs that had escaped Eliza’s braid waved back and forth a fraction. The expression on her face said this was—for once—not her doing. Wellington looked up to the podium, and saw the young attendant reach for the Ætheralternator—only to recoil as if shocked.

  Now, overpowering the cooked goose, there was another odd scent in the air. Like copper baking in the sun, or . . .

  “Ye Gods, Kate!” Eliza said before shoving her way through those around them.

  A mix of men and women were now being thrown into Wellington’s arms as Eliza fought her way through the crush of bodies. The crowd had not seemed that large to him when they first arrived at the rally, but now there appeared to be more people between them and the stage than he’d estimated. His nose burned with the building scent of electricity, but he pushed aside both men and women in order to keep Eliza in view.

  Then he was through. Instead of a thick press of fabric and flesh, he only saw Eliza, running undeterred. As she was unhindered by skirts or cloaks, Eliza bound for the podium and leapt for Kate. He heard their bodies impact with each other, and that was when he turned to face the crowd.

  “Get back!” Wellington shouted, stretching his arms wide and running back towards the mass of people. “Get! Back!”

  The concussion threw him forward, pushing him into the curious that were trying to watch the excitement on the stage. He knocked at least five over when he went flying; like he was a ball and they were the skittles. Wellington gingerly pulled himself free of the startled ladies, some of them trying to gather their wits, while a few looked at him and blushed.

  Pulling himself up to his feet with apologies flowing left and right, Wellington gave a tug on his lapels and ran back to the smouldering podium.

  “Miss Sheppard,” Wellington called, “are you well?”

  Kate Sheppard, the voice of the women’s suffrage movement in New Zealand, was still trying to get her bearings. She must have landed hard against the ground when Eliza tackled her. Her head lolled from side to side, but came to an abrupt halt when she locked here eyes, both real and substitute, with her saviour.

  “Kia ora, Kate,” Eliza said, flashing her a friendly smile. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “Eliza?” Kate asked, her breath short.

  Wellington looked around them. “Eliza, who was—”

  The scream cut through the lingering silence.

  Kate’s glass eye swiveled around, and she jerked upright. “Melinda? My goodness, where is Melinda?”

  Eliza shot a look back to Kate. “We’ll have to catch up another time. Good to see you.” She grabbed Wellington’s forearm and used it to pull herself up to her feet. “Sounds like near Grosvenor Gate, Books!”

  Again they were pushing their way through the stunned crowd, though it was easier going since many of their fellow audience members were streaming away from the podium. Once beyond the initial impact zone, they reached pedestrians who had no idea what had happened and were instead enjoying the remains of the morning. At least until they processed that terrified screaming was coming from somewhere up ahead. Wellington remained only a few steps behind Eliza until they came within sight of Upper Grosvenor Street. By then, the screaming had stopped, but the crowd of onlookers had started to gather.

  Eliza and Wellington forcefully managed their way through the gawkers to the source of the cries.

  The young girl was trying to speak, but found she couldn’t as the thick iron bars comprising the large gates surrounding the apartments were now running through her throat. And her chest. And her skull. She was no longer holding the Matford-Randleson Ætheralternator, but it never fell to the ground as it had also been fused into the gate. The body, being part of the ironworks, twitched as much as it could; and Wellington gave silent thanks that he and Eliza had not taken in a tea or an early lunch. He swallowed back the queasiness and, with Eliza at his side, approached the poor girl who was gasping out her final moments.

  “It was the rifle,” Wellington whispered. “She had taken it from Kate just before you got her out of the way. The rifle must have attracted the electricity to her.”

  “What does this?”

  “I don’t—”

  The woman gave a tiny whimper, and Wellington felt completely impotent. The victim was looking at them both, though, and her brow was creasing. Then her eyes looked out and then down. Out, and then down. Again. And again.

  “Wellington,” Eliza said, causing him to jump. “Her hand.”

  The woman was trying to make a fist of her right hand, all except for her index and middle finger. She had wanted them to see this gesture.

  “Two?” Eliza asked her.

  The hand relaxed, and the woman looked at Eliza and smiled. Or at least, tried to.

  Then her eyes stopped looking at them, and now looked through them to some place they could not see.

  In the distance, a police whistle sounded out.

  “Eliza,” Wellington muttered to her. “We need to go. Now.”

  So much for that low profile that he’d hope to maintain. As they disappeared into the bustle of London, Wellington considered exactly what he would tell the Director tomorrow.

  Interlude I

  Where Many Things Go Bump in the Night

  The clouds above the greatest city in the Empire were grey and thick, and just before midnight they finally let loose their promise of retribution.

  Most of London was hiding inside from the downpour, but Sophia del Morte loved the rain and thunder. It was not just that her nefarious comings and goings were less likely to be noticed—she also enjoyed the way nature’s opera rattled her bones. Unfortunately, it also made her feet, braced as they were
into the window frame of London’s Natural History Museum, slightly slippery. She was wearing the latest fashion in rubberised footwear, but even that was having difficulty in these conditions.

  When her foot slipped Sophia sneered, shaking her head in disgust. Breaking and entering? This was an utter waste of her abilities. True, being an assassin meant she was well versed in stealth and infiltration—but she was not a common cracksman. She had served aristocracy, minor nobility, and on the rare occasion high ranking members of government. It was most likely her mention of procuring the plans for Lord Fontaine’s time actuator that led the Maestro to believe this sort of thing was part of her repertoire.

  She’d managed to suppress her disdain for this charge when in front of her master, but now she was free of such restraints. While she knew nothing could keep her from gaining access to what she wanted, it appeared citizens of a most law-abiding nature were attempting to slow her night’s progress. It only contributed to her wrathful mood.

  One such device that had put a proverbial stick in Sophia’s spokes this evening showed all the hallmarks of the McTighe-Fitzroy Laboratories. It was bad enough to have Julia McTighe taking up the family business, but since she had teamed up with the young Verity Fitzroy, their combined inventions had become far more complicated. Sophia contemplated sending them the bill for her ruined chemise and time wasted when she could have been dining at the Savoy with a delightful Argentinian trader.

  When she’d first arrived at the museum, it was immediately apparent that the doors, main and side, were locked with a cypher that would take her until morning to crack. She simply didn’t have the time—or indeed the inclination for such things. Luckily, that arrogant little strumpet Fitzroy was not the only woman with devices on hand. The ascent claws strapped to her palms and her knees had got her this far up the side of the towering stone building in rather quick order.