by Tee Morris
Wellington felt his body protest as he plodded up the stairs of Miggins Antiquities. He needed sleep, but he was not in a position to get any. Back in the safety of his home, Wellington’s kinetorama array was nearly done. Another hour or two to complete the rigging and test it, and then he would be ready to review the footage entrusted to him by the latest victim of this electrical abduction, Charlotte Lawrence. Somewhere in that surveillance footage was what he and Eliza needed. Of that, he had no question.
He did question his sanity on reaching the Ministry’s doorknob. Wellington didn’t want to go in there. Eliza could have chosen this morning to be there before him. To have words, in private, with him about his rugby tactics.
Then again, could he blame her for being outraged by his behaviour? Wellington had gone well beyond poor sportsmanship. He’d allowed his emotions to get the better of him, and he had blatantly broken the rules. For what? For his own personal gratification? It had felt good to take that arrogant prat Sheppard down a peg. What shocked Wellington all the more was that it still felt good, even as he stood in front of the Ministry’s façade. However, the cold truth remained: he had caught a glimpse of the monster his father created and his country wished to cultivate.
Shaking his head, Wellington Thornhill Books opened the door and took what felt like the longest walk between foyer and lift. With each step, he wondered what pulled him into the depths of despair more—disappointing himself, or disappointing Eliza.
When he felt a twinge in his chest, he found his answer.
He had just reached the lift gate, absently noting the movement from the other side of frosted glass, when a voice stopped him.
“Books.” Wellington turned to see the imposingly tall Bruce Campbell walking towards him. The Archivist glanced back at the windows and saw quite a few agents in the offices this morning. Was there some sort of meeting going on he didn’t know about?
“Agent Campbell,” he said, giving a polite tip of his bowler to the fellow associate. “Can I help you?”
The Australian continued to advance on him, so that he was compelled to take a step back. Campbell was well within reach, and Wellington did not care for that sort of closeness. From Eliza, it would be somewhat welcome, albeit maybe not this morning, but he could barely stand being in a room with this brash man.
“You look tired, mate.”
Odd start to a morning’s conversation. “Well, I was up late. Working on”—Wellington paused, and then licked his lips before continuing—“a personal endeavour at home. It started innocently enough but now it has become a bit time consuming.”
“A personal endeavour?” Campbell repeated.
Please, don’t press upon what it is, Wellington thought quickly.
“What have you got cooking in your mad laboratory, Books?”
He chortled, fishing out his key to the lift. “Oh I doubt it would be of interest to you.”
“I think it would, seeing as I have assumed the office of Assistant Director. Part of my duties is the well-being of my agents, and that includes what they are up to.”
Assistant Director? Campbell?! Good Lord, Wellington exclaimed inwardly, we are isolated in the Archives! “First, my congratulations, Age—er, Assistant Director Campbell, on your new office. You must be quite—”
“Bugger greasing me up. I need to know what you’re doing.”
Wellington’s head tipped to one side as he considered his new superior in the Ministry. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sound appointed me Assistant Director for many reasons, and one of them is control. He’s been slipping in that respect. For quite some time. He needs to gather up the reins a bit and get this mare back on the straight and narrow,” Campbell said, motioning around him, “and that begins with me now. I’m kicking things off with you.”
Bruce Campbell, disciplinarian of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences? And this “new order” was beginning with the Archives?
Perhaps he should head outside and start this day all over again.
“Assistant Director Campbell,” Wellington began. Not only was that an absolute mouthful to say, it did not sit right with him. “I fail to see exactly why what consumes my own time is of any interest to the Ministry.”
“Well now, that really is not your call to make. It’s mine.” Wellington assumed the smile Campbell dealt him was supposed to chill his blood. It did just the opposite. “So, I’ll ask again—what is this personal endeavour you are undertaking after hours?”
“Well, it’s an endeavour,” the Archivist stated, his voice never faltering as he added, “and it is personal.”
Campbell straightened up to his full height. Wellington remained still, refusing to let the Australian’s size intimidate him.
“So this is how you want it, Books?”
“Actually I would prefer if you dropped the posturing,” he bit back in reply. “I find it tedious.”
The man’s massive shoulders shrugged lightly. “Suit yourself.”
Wellington felt the lift grate grind into his back as he was shoved suddenly against it. Campbell’s hand seemed to cover his chest, but the Archivist told himself it was nothing more than his vivid imagination. His exaggerations of reality did not in any way lessen the pain rippling across his back. Campbell kept a hold on Wellington with one hand while jabbing him lightly with the other as he spoke.
“I don’t know what your game is, but it ends now. What fiddle-faddle you cook up down there may all be part of the daily operations to Doctor Sound. I see it as something else.” Campbell ran his fingers through his hair as he took a breath. “Differences aside, Eliza was once a fine agent. One of the best.”
“She still is,” Wellington muttered, taking the opportunity to ease himself away from the painful spot.
Quick as thought, Campbell’s hand came at him, pushing him once more into the metal. He followed it up with a light, condescending slap.
“I am not done with you yet, Books.”
His glasses were knocked askew. With trembling fingers, Wellington straightened the lenses resting on his nose. He breathed softly, deeply, taking note of Campbell’s size, his proximity to either wall and his stance.
“You have your own little world down there, don’t you? Dank and miserable as it may be,” the Australian added as he peered at Wellington. “You think that you can side-step the Fat Man and do as you please? Well, Books, it’s time you did a little work for Her Majesty like the rest of us around here.”
“And that work is exactly . . . ?” Wellington began, but Campbell merely stood there, his smug expression carved deep into his face. Wellington shook his head and said plainly, “What are you expecting?”
“Full access,” Campbell stated. “I want to know what all them trinkets, baubles, and such do, and how we can make them work for us in the field.” He straightened up a bit before adding, “And ‘full access’ also includes the Restricted Area.”
That earned a raised eyebrow from Wellington. “Campbell, it is called the Restricted Area because it is restricted. Even from me. Only the Director can—”
“I couldn’t give a toss what the Fat Man tells you,” Campbell barked, jabbing his finger into Wellington’s shoulder. “That falls under your department, so you’re getting me access to it.”
Wellington shook his head. “I could more easily grant you the cypher to Stonehenge—provided you could understand Ancient Druid glyphs, which I sincerely doubt. I will repeat myself: I don’t have access to the Restricted Area.”
“Then as your Assistant Director, I am giving you a direct order to find a way to get access. Play dirty.” Campbell chuckled and looked him over. “After all, that’s something you’re good at, ain’t it?”
Wellington’s brow furrowed, and suddenly Campbell’s ire made sense. Could Bruce had been those phantoms haunting him since the beginning of their investigation? “Are you following me?”
“I am looking into concerns that threaten the well-being of this organisation,”
he retorted. “And you and Braun have become a concern, in my judgement.”
“You’re spying on us, then?” Wellington asked.
“It’s not your place to question me, Books,” he snapped.
“Considering the amount of unsolved cases bearing your name cross our desk, perhaps I should.”
The Australian’s skin paled a bit on that threat. It was clear that Campbell knew what they were up to; but on the other hand, they knew what Campbell was up to as well.
Yes, Wellington had been caught breaking the rules, but it wasn’t Campbell’s role to put him in his place.
“My priority is this agency,” he replied, but Wellington found no sincerity in the man’s words. The more Campbell spoke, the more Wellington’s anger fumed. “And I don’t care to see some bookworm undermine it, or its agents.”
That struck Wellington harder than Campbell’s earlier slap. “Come again?”
Campbell’s face twisted into an ugly smile. “You don’t think in my investigation into your dereliction of duty I missed how you regard your partner? She’s not cut of your cloth, mate. That much Eliza made clear the other day when she brought that Sheppard bloke back to her apartments. Poor sod looked a little flushed after a turn or two with her.”
Wellington had heard more than enough.
“I do not have to entertain your—”
He was for the third time thrown back into the grate, and this time Campbell’s slap was harder. Much harder.
“You do, Books, seeing as you have forgotten your place here. Eliza is not just a field agent. She’s a sister. A kissin’ cousin, if you will, an’ I’m not gonna have some stuck up toff like you getting ideas that he shouldn’t have.”
A part of Wellington was strangely flattered that Campbell would regard him as such a cad. The rest of him was more than done with this lummox.
“Would you mind,” Wellington said, trying to calm his wavering voice, “stepping back?”
Campbell instead moved forward. Wellington could feel the man’s body heat. “Why would I do that?”
Wellington did not really need to administer all the power he dealt to Campbell’s kidney. He was close enough that a punch at half the force would have been enough to knock the Australian back a few steps. His sudden strike drove Campbell back a few steps and down to one knee.
“That’s why,” Wellington replied.
Campbell gasped for breath, but then lunged upward. It was an attack Wellington would have been more surprised by if he hadn’t tried it. As he slipped out of Campbell’s way, his hands caught the man in a bind and in a moment the Australian’s arm was locked against his back.
The advantage was not his for long as Campbell’s head snapped back, catching him in his cheek. Wellington’s lip rapped hard against his lower teeth, closely followed by the metallic tang of blood. There was little pause between Wellington letting go of Campbell and the fist clocking him against his temple. Somewhere, Wellington heard the clatter of glasses. At best, one of his lenses would have a crack.
He couldn’t clearly see Campbell, but he could hear the man perfectly well. His opponent was a brawler. He knew as much. There was also the problem of the man’s mass and brute force, which he now felt in full as the Australian picked him up off the floor and tossed him against the wall. Even with his compromised vision, he could see a few rivulets of blood splatter against the white spiral pattern of the foyer’s wall.
“This is a real shame, Books,” he heard Campbell grunt. “Ministry representatives, squabbling like a pair of drunkards, but this was your decision,” he said, moving in for another round, “not mi—”
No matter the size or girth of an opponent, there were certain vulnerabilities everyone despite their carriage shared. For this one brief opportunity, that vulnerability was the nose. With a dash of extra power, Wellington spun about and drove his fist forward, his angle, stance, and delivery of attack all based on where he heard Bruce’s voice. His fist connected low on the bridge of Campbell’s nose. He felt and heard a most satisfying pop on impact, and the punch sent his opponent stumbling back. He hit the wall opposite of him, rattling the frosted window in its pane.
Wellington slid down to the floor of the foyer, and his outstretched fingers found his spectacles. They were indeed cracked, but he put them on anyway. Campbell, his own laboured breaths punctuated with a soft laughter, sat opposite him, gently cupping his nose. He nodded, and then gave the bleeding appendage a hard shove. Wellington winced as he heard the cartilage surrender a dull snap.
“Nice punch,” Campbell said. Wellington was surprised at the Australian’s sincerity. “But you know I’m not done. I’ll make sure that by tomorrow you won’t have a job here.”
“Neither will you.”
He barked a laugh, but the mirth faded from his face as Wellington kept his gaze on him.
“When I show them the cases you’ve submitted to the Archives under ‘Unsolved,’ including the case of Lena Munroe, we will both be sent packing.”
“You think so, Books?”
“No, I don’t think so.” And with a huff, Wellington gave a smile, flinching a bit at the sting from his bottom lip. “I know so.”
The door to the main offices opened and Agent Arthur Townsend appeared, giving a start on seeing the two men on the floor.
“S’all right, Townsend,” Campbell slurred, “this was . . . personal. A misunderstanding, right then, Books?”
The Archivist kept his eyes locked with Campbell. No, this was far from over.
“I just need to get myself cleaned up, is all.”
“Well, be quick about it, the both of you,” Townsend muttered, his gaze darting between them. The tightness in his voice sobered Wellington up swiftly. Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. “Doctor Sound has called in all active London field agents.”
Now it was Campbell’s turn to pause. “All of them?”
By Townsend’s guilty look it was easy to see he knew more than he was revealing. “Not my place to discuss it. Doctor Sound will explain everything.” He looked at them both again, and shook his head, disgusted. “You have five minutes. For God’s sake, pull yourselves together.”
Wellington knew whatever news awaited him on the other side of the door, Campbell’s enmity was assured. Everything had just changed for the worse.
Chapter Twenty
Wherein Agent Books Makes Assumptions and the Agency Mourns
Eliza had felt trepidation heading to work on Monday morning before—yet never for this particular reason. She was not worried about seeing the Director, though once again they were working on a case instead of filing in the Archives. Neither was she worried about a run-in with Bruce and his crass comments on her attire. No, this time she was concerned about seeing Wellington.
Self-examination was not something she was very good at, which is why she seldom did it. Things happened, people passed through her life, and she made the most of every opportunity that came her way. Wellington Thornhill Books and his hazel eyes was a complication she now understood. More than she had realised until the moment she sat on Douglas’ lap.
So when she went into Miggins Antiquities her mind was fully occupied with what these revelations could mean for the future. The instant she entered the ground floor and saw all agents assembled, such concerns were washed away. The usual clatter of the cover workers here was stilled. Instead they stood in small groups, talking in low voices. This could not be good.
As she contemplated what could have happened, Dominick Lochlear appeared at the head of the stairs. His tanned and creased face, usually an emotionless mask, contained hints of sadness and rage. Eliza’s hands clenched. She knew that expression—the only event that could reach the chill heart of her colleague. Somewhere an agent had died.
Dominick caught up to her, and they silently shared confirmation that one of their own had indeed fallen. Together they entered the offices. Eliza swallowed hard as they pushed through the collection of agents. The Ministry had many
divisions, all over the Empire, but there were not many people in London at present. So whoever it was, she would know them.
When she stepped inside Eliza felt herself shiver. The current agents packed the room, the tension thick and heavy. She was not the tallest member of the group, so she could only glimpse the Director between the shoulders of others. She spotted Wellington over by the window. She noticed his spectacles were cracked and, completely out of character, his suit looked dishevelled. If she’d had to guess, she’d have suspected he’d been roughed up. Curious as his appearance was, she didn’t care. Of course she had questions; but concerning the present news, she just wanted to be near him.
Eliza wriggled her way between the strapping men of the Ministry to stand next to her colleague. Wellington glanced her way, but she immediately saw she was going to find no comfort there. Behind the Archivist’s broken glasses, his hazel eyes were hard and still.
“Miss Braun,” he spoke tersely.
“Wellington, what hap—”
“We can discuss it later.” He turned his eyes back to where Sound waited.
Wellington had looked at her in so many ways—in surprise, relief, exasperation (quite often), and occasionally with a grim sort of humour. Now she regretted some of the impish pranks she had pulled at his expense, teasing him with stories of supposed trysts with rajas, counts, and cowboys. In that brief exchange, she knew whatever had happened to Wellington had something to do with her.
He looked more than physically hurt. It should have made her happy that he cared that much, but in this setting such feelings got all muddled up. Yet she knew of only one reason he could possibly be this annoyed. Before she could explore that possibility, Doctor Sound’s voice broke through the silence.
“I am sure some of you can guess what has happened,” he began.
Through the ranks of her colleagues she saw Brandon Hill, his face white and set. Eliza abandoned Wellington and worked her way through the agents towards him. As she did so he passed a shaking hand over his face. He was not crying, but he might as well have been—for this was the most emotion she’d seen the quiet agent display. Suddenly that knot of worry was washed away in a wave of comprehension. Now her fingernails bit into her palms, and the world became a distant blur.
