The Janus Affair: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Tee Morris

  He reached his sanctuary—his study. As he turned on the lamp at the corner of his large desk, the shadows retreated, exposing in their wake a solitary parchment, sealed with a blank wax imprint. Sussex’s brow furrowed as he picked up the letter, turning the missive in his hands. He reached across his desk and yanked at the bellpull. As he waited, his eyes swept the room. Nothing seemed out of place or disturbed. Placing the letter back on the desk, he checked the drawers. They all remained locked.

  “Your brandy, sir,” the butler announced as he entered Sussex’s office.

  “Fenning, I thought you said I had no callers?”

  The servant held the silver tray under his arm as he set the snifter by Sussex. “That is correct, sir.”

  “Then what the hell is this?” he snapped, waving the parchment in his hand.

  Fenning looked at the note and then, with no change at all in his expression, stated plainly, “Forgive me, sir, but I do not recall that note being delivered by myself, or being informed of any missive delivered to your office by the staff.”

  “Really. You’re certain?”

  “Most assuredly, sir.”

  The man had been in service to him and his family for well over forty years. He would hate to have to start doubting him, but the butler’s resolve did not waver in his eyes or demeanour.

  “Very well then. That will be all.”

  Fenning gave a slight bow, and bid, “Good night, Your Grace.”

  He watched the butler silently retire for the night. For anything in his London dwellings—or any of his country estates, for that matter—to be out of place would be extraordinary. Fenning would not allow it. If the butler did not recall delivering the letter or was not informed of its delivery, that was the truth of it.

  Sussex broke the seal and unfurled the paper. He lifted the snifter to his lips . . .

  Peter . . .

  The glass tumbled out of his grasp, shattering softly against the fine rug underfoot.

  Peter,

  I am gravely disappointed in you.

  My God, his mind screamed. He got in here. Into my home. With my boys. My wife.

  No one had seen him. He entered his home—the home of a Duke and member of the Queen’s Privy Council—and no one saw him? How was that possible?

  With his heartbeat thudding dully in his ears, Sussex returned to the letter now trembling in his grasp.

  Peter,

  I am gravely disappointed in you. We were to have made progress by now, but in light of recent events I see I am asking far too much of you. Need I remind you of how important your control of The Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences is in what we are working to achieve?

  Sussex wiped the sweat away from the back of his neck. Through the pounding in his head, he could also hear the clock ticking away.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  The seconds now seemed fleeting. Each passing moment one closer to his own death. His displeasure carried consequences.

  We must talk. Either a new strategy is agreed upon, or our relationship must terminate. Permanently.

  The clock suddenly sounded much louder in his ears.

  My associates will collect you Monday at ten o’clock in the evening. You will not keep them waiting. I look forward to our talk. I do hope you can prove me wrong, Peter.

  Sussex stumbled to his office chair, the parchment now crumpling against his chest. His eyes returned to the brandy staining the carpet, the shards of his snifter shimmering in the gaslight. He remembered that he had relieved Fenning for the night. Still, he could call on the man. It was his right, after all, yet Sussex could not move to the bellpull. He could not even will himself to get up from his chair and pour himself a drink.

  He had been in here. No one saw him. There truly was nowhere Sussex would be safe. Nowhere.

  With one hand still pressing the letter into his chest, Sussex covered his face with his other hand. His body shook as his sobs grew louder and louder in his private office. Thankfully, there was no one there to hear them.

  Chapter Five

  In Which a Mess Is Made and Miss Braun Has Nothing To Do with It

  “Once more unto the breach,” Wellington grumbled in the stillness of the carriage.

  Eliza looked up from the address Douglas has given her. “Sorry, Welly, what was that?”

  “Shakespeare. I always recite it just before placing my career in harm’s way, or have you not noticed that when we began casually stepping out of Ministry protocol?”

  “And here I thought you were whispering sweet nothings in my ear when you were spontaneously breaking out into passages from Romeo and Juliet yesterday.”

  “You failed to notice I was reciting the scene at Juliet’s tomb.” Wellington snipped, but she got the impression that it was rather wrung from him.

  “And yet here you are, following me onward, crying, ‘God for Queen Victoria, England, and Saint George,’ yes?” She was pleased with herself on that one. “Go on. When you found the case file in your basket—”

  “That hardly nullifies my real concern on your vendetta against Agent Campbell.”

  Whatever his concerns were, they remained unvoiced as they came within view of the elegant white stone building and saw another carriage just pulling up. When the woman alighted from it, Eliza smiled again. She almost didn’t notice the tall young woman who hopped down after the elder woman descended.

  The first lady, Kate Sheppard, was wearing a long mauve tea dress underneath a thick fur muff. She was more than fifty but still beautiful and elegant. Her silvered hair was piled atop her head underneath a stylish matching hat. She could have just stepped out of a fashion plate—were it not for the curved brass that covered the left portion of her face.

  “One obstacle at a time, Welly.” She found herself whispering the words of the young King Hal at the gates of Harfleur. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood . . . and yet she couldn’t. Eliza was overwhelmed with a strange shyness, but that was soon washed away as Kate spotted her.

  “Oh my dear Eliza!” she exclaimed, and darted the few feet up the street to embrace the agent. “Oh kia ora!” The green light where her eye would have been flared as her smile widened, and she embraced her heartily.

  For a second Eliza enjoyed the moment, even though she was aware of the Protector and Wellington shifting in embarrassment beside them. Even among acquaintances such behaviour on the street was a little common.

  When she pulled back, Eliza felt herself actually blushing. She shot her hand out and yanked Wellington closer. “Kate Sheppard, I would like you to meet—”

  Eliza floundered for a moment as she considered what exactly he was to her. She wasn’t about to call him her superior, but her position was so nebulous at the Ministry maybe that was exactly what it was.

  “Her colleague.” Wellington extended his hand to take Kate’s.

  Eliza never knew if Wellington intended to turn that handshake into a “gallant” kiss on the fingers (nonsense that Kate would outwardly refute) as the Protector suddenly slipped in between them, one of her hands catching his wrist while the other pushed him back a step.

  Ye gods, but that woman was fast!

  Kate’s own form broke the Protector’s hold on Wellington. “For pity’s sake, Betsy, do you really believe every man in the Empire is out to kill me?” The Protector shot Kate a hard look, but glanced at Wellington and then at her charge once more. As she stepped back, Kate restored her demeanour to a cheery one as she motioned to the Protector. “This is Betsy Shaw, my own personal virago to keep me from harm.”

  The tall woman smiled, but didn’t say anything. Betsy looked strong but perhaps a little shy of the famous lady she was given the charge of. Eliza knew exactly how that felt.

  “Quite,” Wellington returned, tipping his bowler to her. “I could say Eliza serves a similar office when it comes to my well-being.”

  The suffragist’s good blue eye narrowed but the bright sm
ile remained. “Such a bold man to consort with lionesses!”

  “Boldness? Hardly, Miss Sheppard,” Wellington said, turning back to Eliza. “I think it’s more of your fellow countrywoman’s influence.”

  “Not surprising,” Kate replied.

  Eliza had met many committed people in her life—mad scientists, leaders with the glint of power in their eye, and some who were actually committed in Bedlam—but none had ever come close to the steely backbone of this suffragist. She left them all in the dust. If there was one other woman in the whole world, besides her own mother, who Eliza D. Braun admired, it was Kate Sheppard.

  Now the suffragist was looking at her for support and help. The last time that had happened, it had ended well for the movement, but badly for Kate.

  The older woman took Eliza’s arm. “Please give us a moment.” She directed her request so sweetly at Wellington and Betsy that neither of them could really complain. Besides, both had just seen what could happen when Kate Sheppard was cross.

  She led Eliza down the causeway a little bit, glanced over her shoulder, and began to speak in a low tone. “So, Douglas found you.”

  “Kate,” Eliza began, her heart pounding in her ears, “I—”

  “—am sure you have a great deal to tell me, but considering the circumstances, let’s clear the air quickly.” The smile widened, and her hand rested gently on Eliza’s cheek. “I am very glad to see you again. I have missed you.”

  The words—everything she wanted to say, everything she implored from her since leaving, every burden she wished to unload—lodged in her throat. In Kate’s gentle gesture, it was Aotearoa reaching out to her. She felt aroha. She felt home.

  The emerald glow in Kate’s clockwork eye diminished, and she removed her hand from Eliza’s cheek (good thing too, for Eliza could not have held back her tears if it had lingered there). “I wish seeing you were under better circumstances though. We in the movement are in danger every moment. The other day at Speakers’ Corner . . .” Kate paused to catch her breath.

  Eliza clasped her hands, feeling them warm, even inside the gloves. “This is nothing new, Kate. I uncovered some files at work. There are other disappearances that no one else seems very interested in pursuing.”

  The women shared a glance. Kate knew of the Ministry—had been exposed to it in rather a spectacular manner back in New Zealand. “A real shame,” she murmured under her breath, “but to be expected, I suppose, especially being of Her Majesty’s government.”

  Eliza glanced back to Wellington, who appeared to be trying—unsuccessfully—to strike up a conversation with Betsy.

  “Not everyone in the Ministry is all bad,” she muttered.

  Kate didn’t seem to hear her. “I only arrived a few weeks ago,” the elder suffragist went on, “and I can tell you, though the ladies are trying to put on a show of being brave, they are beginning to crack. All of the missing women are very influential in the movement. As these abductions are growing more frequent, it won’t last out the year if this continues.”

  Eliza didn’t comment on what she was thinking, because she knew that Kate would be thinking the very same thing: many people in high places would delight in that outcome. It made the list of suspects rather long—including Queen Victoria herself, knowing her attitude towards the suffrage movement. This could serve as a mundane explanation behind the Ministry allowing cases to slide down into the Archives.

  Eliza pressed her lips together before asking, “Do you know if there is any other connection between these women?”

  Kate’s brow furrowed. “I don’t, but the woman who lives here might.” She pointed to the graceful abode Wellington and Betsy were lingering on the doorstep of. “Her name is Hester Langston.”

  “The chief secretary for the London movement?”

  “Indeed,” and Kate’s smile went wry. “She is also known as its chief gossipmonger.”

  The two women shared a secret smile and a quiet giggle.

  Kate’s tone was somewhat bittersweet. “She is one of those ‘sisters’ who want to believe themselves progressive but are still a touch set in their ways. After all, an upstart little branch of the Empire getting ahead of the mother country?” She motioned to herself, raising her one remaining eyebrow. “Some of the ladies here are tainted by a bit of jealousy. I’ll help where I can, but I am not entirely welcome here. I am a show-pony for success.”

  She slipped her hand into Eliza’s arm as they started walking back to the estate. “Now just remember to look behind you often, Eliza. And keep your pistols handy.”

  On reaching their companions, it was Wellington who took Eliza by the arm and removed her from Kate’s side. “Eliza, if you please?” he asked, motioning to the back of their carriage.

  The crate strapped there immediately conjured for Eliza their adventurous night at the opera; but while the auralscope had been slightly cumbersome, this case was an eight-hundred-pound gorilla that had stolen a ride on the back of their cab. It took both of them to heft it off the carriage and carry it up to the open door where, thankfully, a maid waited for them.

  Kate eyed the massive case with curiosity and then looked up at Eliza.

  “The ways of men,” Eliza said, motioning to Wellington. “For some, it is an enigma. With Welly here, it is a mystery for the ages.”

  It did not go unobserved that Betsy remained in the hallway. Guarding the entrance would have been an excellent tactic, if they had not observed yesterday what they had. The room they entered was a cacophony of styles, colours, and knickknacks. Eliza favoured a certain style of interior décor: oil paintings, mixed in with eclectic items she collected on her travels for the Ministry. She did not like chintz, doilies, or anything that took long to dust. Alice was relieved about less housework but was always trying to get her employer to conform to more current trends. Eliza had lost track of the number of times she’d had to throw some atrocious majolica monkey jug or parrot hat stand out of her rooms.

  Alice would have loved Miss Hester Langston’s apartments in Hampstead. She would have cooed over every surface covered with lace, pictures and curios. The riot of purple vines embossed into the wallpaper would have sent her into paroxysms of delight.

  Eliza, however, felt a little ill.

  Still, both agents of the Ministry and Kate perched among it all; Books with great aplomb while Eliza was terrified to move lest she topple something expensive. The only thing of interest to her was a series of long, clear pipes screwed to the far wall. It was rare for a private house to be connected to the pneumatic tube exchange, but did indicate that Kate’s description of Hester as the centre of information and gossip might well be true.

  “Mrs. Sheppard.” A low, sweet voice made them look up.

  The two women who entered the room were completely different from one another. One was older and had flyaway blonde hair accompanied by a long Roman nose, while the other was, like Ihita, a lady of Indian persuasion—or at least her mother had been. She had a paler complexion than Eliza’s agent friend, and so could “pass” as society. Only her first name, and occasionally her dress, gave her away. Eliza knew her by sight at least. Chandi Culpepper was a well-known and ardent supporter of the movement. Today she was wearing a sash of deep umber over her very English walking dress, and a pair of elaborate drop earrings that looked to be made out of gold. Though she was only at the most twenty, she and Miss Langston had become great friends over the right for womens’ vote and a shared love of romance novels, or so the New Zealander had heard.

  It was Chandi who had spoken. “And we have guests, it would seem?”

  “Yes, Miss Culpepper.” Kate motioned to Wellington. “This is Wellington Books, a gentleman sympathetic to our cause.”

  Wellington smiled awkwardly. “Indeed, miss.”

  Eliza felt her skin flush slightly as Chandi offered her hand to Wellington. The smile she gave him was quite brilliant. “How fortunate.”

  He fumbled a bit before taking it. “Ah, yes, Miss Cu
lpepper. I, uh—I hope I can—” he stammered, and then blushed. “Quite.”

  When she turned to Eliza, that brilliant smile beamed only brighter. “And our guardian angel from Speakers’ Corner. This is a pleasure.”

  “This is Eliza Braun,” Kate said, “and if it weren’t for her, the sisterhood of New Zealand would not have the vote.”

  Eliza’s cheeks burned. “I think Kate downplays her own efforts.”

  “If your actions the other day are the indication of your character, Miss Braun,” Chandi replied, taking her hand in greeting, “I have no doubt you are an ally to keep close.” She glanced to Wellington and then winked at Eliza. “At the very least, for the company you keep.”

  Both ladies turned to Wellington, and now Chandi’s smile was more mischevious than cordial.

  “What?” Wellington asked, shifting a little on his feet.

  Both women gave a slight start when Hester’s voice, her manner reflecting the no-nonsense tenor in her words, interrupted. “I believe, Kate, you came here for matters more pressing than introductions, yes? Your message was most mysterious.” She turned and rang the bellpull. “Alva will bring us some tea and I hope you can explain.”

  Kate pulled off her gloves slowly. “I have. Mr. Books and Miss Braun might be able to help us sort out the events that have been plaguing your work here.”

  The new arrivals all sat, while Chandi examined Eliza and Wellington. It was not a piercing gaze, but it was most curious. “Apart from additional protection, I fail to see how they can help?”