by Tee Morris
Wellington took a sip of his tea just before his reply. “Well, as you are addressing my associate as one would a truculent child, a manner which I do take umbrage with, I feel social niceties have rather flown out the window.”
Douglas glanced between them. He was, obviously, someone close to Eliza and their current investigation; but that didn’t change the growing urge in the Archivist to bang some manners into his head.
“If you are quite finished, Douglas,” Eliza spoke, somehow still managing to remain calm, “I’d like to introduce you to Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire. My partner at the Ministry.”
He looked at Wellington with a crooked eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you have reached conclusions to what is going on.”
Oh, this gent was quite the charmer. “Sir, we still have not surmised exactly what sinister forces are at work. We are, however, attempting to draw a logical—”
Douglas turned his back on Wellington and addressed Eliza. “I believed you could protect Mother.”
“And we can—”
“Yes,” Wellington said, his tone matching Douglas’ own insistent one, “we can, just in case you forget I am here.”
Eliza took the interloper’s hand. “As Wellington tried to tell you, all we have are facts and bits of evidence.” Her voice became pleasant, soothing. “I cannot move mountains or change the course of the tides, Douglas, and this is only my first day on the case.”
Watching her thumb gently stroke the skin on Douglas’ large hand sent a stab of jealousy through Wellington. He forced himself to release his walking stick lest he smack the other man with it.
Douglas took in a sharp, deep breath; and then removed his hat. “Yes, Eliza. You are quite right. I am just a bit—”
“Churlish?” snapped Wellington.
“Concerned,” Eliza bit back, giving the Archivist a warning glare.
Douglas glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Wellington. “No, no, I think you’re right, mate. I did come across a bit rough there just now.” He then extended his hand. “Douglas Sheppard.”
“But of course you are,” Wellington returned, shaking the man’s hand. He decided not to present Sheppard with his card. “I cannot think of anyone other than Miss Sheppard’s son showing this level of concern.”
“Yes, of course.” He tapped Wellington’s shoulder with the top of his bowler. “So, you are Eliza’s partner in the Ministry, eh? Good to know she’s got someone levelheaded to keep her straight.”
Wellington tipped his head to one side. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, Eliza’s not changed all too much I would assume, always a gal in the midst of the action.” He gave a nod at him. “Doesn’t hurt a capable girl to have a man providing the facts and strategies that will get her through.”
Wellington looked over to Eliza who was pinching the bridge of her nose as she screwed her eyes shut. It was a look he knew all too well.
“Miss Braun is indeed most capable when anyone or anything threatens the Crown. One of many reasons she is such an outstanding agent.”
“I have no doubt.” Douglas flashed what Wellington could only assume was his most charming smile. “And better for you as you have no need to dirty your hands. Handle the logistics, and send in Eliza for the real work. It must be quite the team you two make.”
“Yes,” Wellington muttered. “Quite.”
“Douglas,” Eliza interjected, her voice now—for the first time since the brute’s arrival—insistent, “unless you would care for Mr. Books and I to brief you on what little we know, I must ask you to grant us a bit of privacy. The fewer ears involved in our discussions and deductions, the better.”
“Oh yes, yes, of course.” Douglas smiled and motioned back to Wellington. “I can imagine how tough a time you’re having keeping up with this gent’s intellect.”
Wellington furrowed his brow. He really could not tell if the man was complimenting or insulting him.
“I did want to let you know,” he said, returning his bowler to his head, “that Mother is still keeping her schedule. She has a talk in two days at the Olympia Tea Room, and we’re expecting a large turnout.”
“Even with everything’s that has happened?” Eliza asked.
“Particularly in light of what has happened. Mother intends on addressing it directly.” He passed along to Eliza a small note. “All the details are there, along with your tickets.” He tipped his brim to her, then to Wellington. “Good day, Mr. Books. Do watch our for my little Eliza, if you can.”
His parting salutation continued to ring in Wellington’s ears; and from the expression that Eliza wore, she too was feeling some sort of sting from his words. Once out of eyesight, she let out her breath and then stared at her teacup.
“This really needs to be something stronger,” she finally uttered.
“Beer?”
Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “Vodka.”
With a polite chuckle, Wellington looked back to the street corner. The suffragist was no longer there. Dancing in a light breeze, where she had once stood, was a single leaflet. It spun one way and then another, and then fluttered back to the pavement.
His eyes then jumped to a window attached to the corner building. The curtain shuddered, and then went still. He squinted to see if he could make out a form through the lace. Had someone been watching them?
“Welly,” Eliza asked, “do you see something?”
“If I did,” he said, still watching the curtain, “it’s gone now.”
“We have two days,” Eliza commented, gathering her purse and rising from her chair. “Shall we try and see if previous cases reveal anything?”
“It cannot hurt,” he agreed.
His eyes kept going back to the window. Perhaps it had been nothing. Perhaps it had been a moment’s happenstance when a building’s tenant looked out to note the traffic or the day’s weather. A simple coincidence.
“Coming?” Eliza, now standing next to him, asked.
In the time that Eliza Braun had joined the Archives, things had changed dramatically, and “coincidence” had become for Wellington a distant memory.
“Right behind you, Miss Braun,” he whispered, “and very much watching your back.”
Chapter Seven
Wherein Our Colonial Pepperpot Takes Double and Wellington Is Denied a Heroic Moment
The two days (and odd hours between Douglas’ visit and their arrival at the Olympia) of case review and investigation yielded nothing apart from possibility upon possibility of what could be happening during these abductions. Up to the moment when the clock on their desk chimed six o’clock, Wellington and Eliza both combed through the neglected cases and their own notes and accounts concerning Lena Munroe, Melinda Carnes, and Hester Langston. They’d looked for any similarities, apart from the suffrage movement. Money. Political influence. Marital status.
Nothing. And now, they were out of time, and they had an appointment.
It was a lovely after-dinner affair with tea, sandwiches, and biscuits offered at the Olympia Tea Room, and there was a surprising number of people present. The lack of conversation and the tense posture of the attendees, however, countered the evening’s pleasantries.
“I must admit,” Wellington offered as he shut the door behind them, his eyes looking over the attendance. “Those dedicated to the cause are most stalwart.”
“These people aren’t just dedicated,” Eliza returned. “They’re curious—they want to see who’s next.”
Eliza pointed through the crowd. Silently observing the suffragists, a sheen of sweat just visable across their foreheads, was the “gentlemen’s gallery” from Speakers’ Corner.
With a frown, Eliza motioned with her head towards the podium. “Come on.”
As they eased their way through the crowd, the silence around them thickened like a London fog. Mrs. Sheppard, standing in the corner chatting with Chandi Culpepper and Charlotte Lawrence, seemed drawn stiff as a bowstring. Eliza’s eyes never left
Kate as they finally found some empty seats.
Wellington glanced at his partner and sighed. “I doubt sincerely that staring at Mrs. Sheppard will prevent anyone from kidnapping her. What we should be doing is examining the crowd for suspicious behaviour, behaviour you will miss if you keep you attention trained on—”
“Wellington,” Eliza whispered softly, “do you recall what the young lady seven rows behind us, seated in this aisle, just to the left of us, is wearing?”
He scoffed. “Well, no, but why would that—”
“Green dress, leaning more towards a darker shade as it is winter. The hat though is a wide-brim which, for the life of me, I cannot understand. Whoever in their right mind would wear a wide-brimmed hat in winter? The dress is accented by a cream-coloured lace, redemption for the appalling choice of hat, and finally her hands are still cold, seeing as she has not taken them out of the muff she has across her lap.”
Wellington whipped his head around to spot the woman Eliza had described, seated seven rows behind them, just to the left.
“I would have gotten her hair and eye colour,” Eliza grumbled, “but I think being in the Archives for a year has taken a toll on my faculties.” He turned back to the former field agent and received a shrug in answer to his silent question. “No offense, mate, but it’s what I do.”
He gave a slight sniff. “Don’t you mean what you used to do?”
Eliza glared at him. “Don’t you mean what we are doing at this very moment?”
“Well played, Miss Braun.”
Eliza grinned, but briefly as she looked around at the other ladies. “I even recognise a few journalists in the house, far more than usual for a suffragist speech. Word on what has been happening to the sisters, it would seem, travels fast.”
“Almost as quick as lightning,” he remarked. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
She patted his hand. “Why, Mr. Books, is that a touch of levity I hear you attempting? For a so-called proper gentleman, you can be most inappropriate sometimes, you know that?” She winked at him. “Stop playing with me, Wellington.”
He could not ignore the sudden surge of heat in his skin. “Now, now, I simply am trying to lighten the mood a little,” Wellington blustered. “This sort of anxiety is so heavy, it could very well break the back of the movement.”
The sharp look she levelled at him made him realise how foolish he must seem in her eyes. “Don’t you think that is the whole reason for the attacks?”
“Oh come along, Miss Braun,” he grumbled. “The suffrage movement is far larger than merely its key members. It’s a strategy. There are generals, captains, and lieutenants, and victory does not solely rest on the shoulders of one officer.”
“True,” a voice said from beside them, “but what happens to an army when no one wants to pick up the mantle of the fallen general?”
Eliza and Wellington both gave a start, their seats creaking loudly as they turned to face a dapper gent seated next to them. The spot had been empty only moments ago, a small placard reading RESERVED resting on the middle of its cushion. Neither of them had heard or seen Douglas’ arrival. The gentleman regarded Wellington for only a moment before focusing intently on Eliza.
“Ye gods, Douglas,” Eliza seethed, slipping the small pistol that she’d automatically dropped into her palm back up into her sleeve holster. “How did you do that?”
“Surely you are joking, Eliza?” He chuckled. “I am used to spending my winters sneaking up on entire lion prides in the Serengeti and whiling away summers doing the same to fur seals in Antarctica. Do you think a suffragist meeting would pose any sort of challenge?”
“You do have your ways, don’t you?” she said, and Wellington did not like her almost gentle tone. The Archivist knew very well had he attempted to surprise Eliza in such a fashion, he would have more than likely been rapped on the nose for it!
“As do you,” Douglas said, giving her a rakish wink.
When he had met Mr. Sheppard two days ago, Wellington did not care for his company.
Now, he was sure he did not care for this gent at all.
“So I am to assume that this is a rally for morale, not necessarily for attention?”
“It is now. After word got out of what happened at Hester’s, the Protectors tried to have Mother cancel this talk. She, of course, refused, and insisted that the sisterhood should make this rally a defiant stand, at the very least in memory of Hester. That struck a nerve.” Douglas took his eyes away from Eliza—something Wellington was quite happy about—and looked over the crowd. “These Englishwomen are very strange. While they are force-fed and labour under police brutality they cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war. A few of their number disappear and suddenly they jump on sight of their very shadows.”
“Or perhaps it is the unknown,” Wellington blurted, feeling moved to defend his countrywomen. “There were eyewitnesses, and the stories passed through the grapevine have grown more fantastic. However, there is one thread of truth binding them: the fantastic manner in which these ladies are disappearing.” He held his chin up a bit higher as he added, “That might be a good reason to take caution, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Mr. Brooks, correct?” Douglas asked. He made no attempt to mask his appraising glance.
“Books.” Wellington’s blood now rushed to his face, and a tingle crept across his skin, reminiscent of the sunburn he had just about recovered from.
“So tonight,” Douglas continued smoothly, ignoring the Archivist and motioning to Kate, “my mother is planning to address what has been happening, and—in that fashion we know oh so well—turn it in to a rally that could even persuade Queen Vic herself to join us. She should be starting any moment now.”
As if on cue, Kate Sheppard patted the arm of one of the Protectors and then stood. She walked over to the podium and scanned the assembly. There was no welcoming applause, but her smile communicated confidence.
Wellington discerned a few accusatory glares from the women watching her, yet most seemed to be calmed merely by Kate’s presence. She did make a striking figure with the gaslight gleaming off her brass-encased jaw as she inclined her head.
“Sisters . . .” And her smile widened as she let that word carry across them all. As she began to speak, Wellington let his gaze drift over the crowd once again. While Eliza was mesmerised by her heroine’s speech, he could not afford to be drawn in. He sat quietly and watched the crowd while Kate drew the movement’s spine straighter and strengthened it with iron.
He tried not to lose his focus, even as he observed Douglas take Eliza’s hand and give it a slight squeeze while her gaze locked with his. A tightness welled in his throat, and Wellington reclined back in his own chair, unable to deny Douglas Sheppard’s courage to do what he could not.
“Eliza,” the Archivist said in her ear, causing her to jump slightly. “I will go on and check the door, see if anything is amiss.”
“Very good, Welly.” Eliza nodded. Her hand remained in Douglas’ grasp. “I should have a handle on anything that goes awry here.”
He glanced at Douglas who, unlike Eliza, was looking at him. The adventurer nodded, giving a blessing at his tactical decision to “take a walk.” Wellington eased himself out of the row and strode quietly along the outside of the assembly. While the centre aisle beside him would have been the faster exit, he felt using one of the outside aisles would attract less attention. He had guessed right as no eyes left Kate Sheppard as he made his way to the main entrance.
The cold outside slapped him hard. In truth, this was what he wanted—a bit of fresh air and some clarity on the matter at hand. He did get the fresh air, or at least fresh for this part of London. With the cold, the smells were not as unbearable as in the summer. As far as gaining a touch of clarity, that was proving more elusive.
All he could see was Douglas Sheppard holding Eliza’s hand. Such a small thing, and his rational mind knew that. So why was Wellington so bothered by it? Was it the fact that Shep
pard was a part of Eliza’s past and of her distant home? Was it that he was Douglas Sheppard, the first mountaineer and explorer to reach the summits of Everest, K2, and Kangchenjunga all in one year? Was it that Sheppard was well known for his survival tactics, skills that kept him alive in the Australian Outback for a week when he found himself separated from his expedition? Or was it Sheppard’s reputation for being a master chef, hosting his own celebration of another thrilling adventure across the Amazon?
Why would any of those things bother him?
A flash caught his eye, and Wellington turned to the building across the street. All but three of the windows were dark, with their blinds drawn. He walked to the edge of the pavement. Wellington couldn’t be certain something was amiss, and yet some primitive part of him said something was not right.
A curtain moved, and someone placed a kerosene lamp by the window. The person disappeared into the room’s darkness before he could get a better look at her, but the glance he had stolen was quite disturbing. Perhaps it meant he should go back inside. It was too cold.
Wellington reached for the door handle. His hand recoiled immediately at the sudden shock to his hand. It had been so powerful, he had caught sight of a small blue bolt jumping between the handle and his fingertips. Wellington had not felt anything like that since . . .
He yanked open the door and dashed for the assembly. Kate Sheppard’s inspirational words had earned her a standing ovation—so his warning would be drowned out. He just had to reach the stage and get her clear of what was coming. What exactly that was remained uncertain, but Wellington could guess from what happened at Hester Langston’s home. Whoever was doing this had decided to have a second potshot at the target that had evaded capture at Speakers’ Corner. Just shy of the front row, the smell of electricity—that odd scent of copper or brass heated by a summer sun—reached him, making his mouth grow dry. His foot hit the first step leading to the stage—
His legs were suddenly kicked out from underneath him as his arms also shot forward. Wellington felt an odd, dizzying sensation of flight. Then he realised he was in fact being pulled backwards—it dawned on him—by the collar of his coat away from the stage and Kate Sheppard.
