by Tee Morris
The words the Director said next fell into that stillness like hard stones. “One of our own has been taken. Last night Agent Ihita Pujari was kidnapped. We activated her tracking ring, and that was how we found her hanging beneath Tower Bridge.
Eliza stopped where she was and squeezed her eyes shut while grinding her teeth together lest she let out a sob. Everywhere was stillness. Around her many agents hung their heads, crossed themselves, or shuffled their feet. It was not the first time they had lost one of the Ministry—it was an occupational hazard—but Ihita had not been on field duty. She’d been cycled back to the London Headquarters to act as a liaison and aide to Brandon.
Doctor Sound paused before looking up and pronouncing. “We will find who did this and bring her murderer to justice. You have my word on that.”
By the gods, Eliza thought, she’d been so young and kind. So full of life, and so looking forward to the future. She choked back a sob, and listened with horror as Brandon took a spot next to the Director.
“Agent Pujari was coming to meet me at the Empire,” he said, his voice low and his eyes on a fixed low point. “When she was late, I knew something was wrong. It was on my way home I found one her pistols against the pavement. I got a small shock when I touched it. I . . .” He paused and gathered himself before trying again. “I couldn’t reach her in time.”
The Director patted him awkwardly on the back. “We will start an investigation immediately. Campbell, assemble a team—”
“I want to be on it,” Brandon broke in, his voice like gravel. “I will be on it.”
Doctor Sound nodded. “Campbell, please stay behind, the rest please go back to your work. Agent Pujari’s memorial service will be on Wednesday before her remains are returned to her family.”
Eliza filed out with her colleagues, though she was numb. She made it as far as the doorway, and then stopped. Everyone else lined up for the lift, but they really didn’t matter.
As she stood there swaying, a gentle hand grasped her shoulder. When she turned, blinking back tears, Shillingworth’s beautiful face was anything but stern. It was a reflection of Eliza’s own. Ihita had made a lot of friends during her short life.
They embraced, and Eliza let a few tears escape. She would do the rest of her grieving in private, in her apartments.
“Agent Braun,” Wellington’s voice was soft. He’d waited behind after all.
Eliza straightened and stepped away from Miss Shillingworth, brushing her eyes. The secretary nodded in a silent greeting to Wellington before heading to the lift where Sound and a handful of others waited.
“I’m sorry about your friend.” Wellington pushed his glasses up on his nose. “She was a fine agent.”
“And a good person.”
“That too.” They stood staring at each other, or rather at the ground between them, before he cleared his throat. “I’m going back home. I need to start looking through the film Miss Lawrence provided.”
Eliza didn’t know what to do with herself. To reach out to him seemed to be the wrong choice right now—an insult to Ihita. So she said nothing . . .
“We know one more thing, Miss Braun. Whoever is taking these women has a machine of great accuracy, to do . . . to do what they did to Agent Pujari.”
“Just you make me a promise, Wellington.” She felt her rage begin to boil under her grief. “We’ll find them.”
“Yes,” he said. His hand went to take hers, but he stopped. Seeing his hand awkwardly held between them, Eliza noted, was something she deeply regretted. Wellington cleared his throat and pulled his hand away. “We will find them. I swear it.”
He gave a weak smile and then left Eliza standing there.
Wellington was upset, but perhaps not solely for the fate of Ihita Pujari. And it appeared he had no intention of sharing his mind with her.
This was the last thing she needed at present—yet another mystery to solve.
Interlude VII
Wherein There Is No Honour Amongst the Wicked
Chandi Culpepper could feel the gentle tendrils of sleep creep along her skin. The excitement and anticipation had reached a fever pitch so intense today that she screamed at one of her servants for tending to her needs too intently at dinner.
This would not have upset her so had the servant—like all of the clockwork servants in the house—been sentient in some way. The servant reacted to the tenor of her voice, as it had been built to do; but why had she screamed at it?
A silly thing to do, Chandi thought. I must remain calm, pray, and be led.
She made her way downstairs to the servants’ quarters—though there had not been any living servants there for quite some time. It was now given over to spare parts for the clockwork valets, her own keepsakes from travel around the world . . .
And the shrine.
The shrine like no other—but the first of many yet to come. Down here there was no gaslight, no electricity, so Chandi went down holding a candle before her, penitent and open to the universe.
It was in the room where once the servants had eaten their meals. Now it served her holy purpose. Chandi set down the candle before the sideboard, and began to arrange the offerings before the altar. Her eyes immediately went to the top of the shrine. The ivory cross, representing mother and son, appeared to shimmer in the firelight of candles that she proceeded to light.
Mother. The woman paused, as always thinking of her own mother. A beautiful flower of the East, her father had called her, but one who had not flourished beneath an English sun. She had worn a cross similar to the ivory one against her dark, nut-brown skin; and she had been punished for doing so under the lash and stones of her fellow Indians.
Chandi took her newest offerings from her pocket and laid them before the altar. Jasmine blossoms for the mother. As for blood for the son, she cut her finger with a tiny silver knife she kept by the shrine for that purpose. This fresh offering was given at the tips of the cross, to signify where the Holy Son her father had pledged his life to had bestowed His gift. She then touched a spot on her forehead, and then finally spread it in a long line before the tableau.
The ivory cross was one her father had kept above the mantelpiece at the estate, but he had only had it partly right. Chandi, years ago, made the connection, and therefore implemented a sacred correction. Now, the mother was present, for the son could not be raised in the Light without the mother. She felt tears well in her eyes at seeing in the flickering candlelight the shadows of Kali intertwined with the cross.
Their combined shadows, a prefect union. A proper union. The best of India and England. Just like she was.
Chandi leaned back on her heels, pressing her hands over her eyes, and reaching out to the two of them. Their plans were so close to fruition and her oath nearly complete. The great mother and the burning son. She would be like them. She would destroy the world to create it anew, and then bestow upon this brave new world, in sacrifice, her undying, eternal love. The coming of the mother and the son. She was the hand of the god.
Tonight belongs to us.
Chandi was jerked from her prayer as a distant rumbling reached her ears. It was the throaty roar of an engine that was very familiar.
No! Her head jerked up and her eyes flicked open. No, not now!
Chandi scrambled to get upstairs, and snatched a pen from the desk in the hallway. Even with the shock, her handwriting remained neat and impeccable:
She is here. Get downstairs. The usual place.
No time to be creative.
The engine snarled just outside, and then went silent. All Chandi heard now was the rattle of the clockwork servant standing poised by the door.
Now, she darted into the parlour, slammed the door shut, hastily rolled up her missive and thrust it into the cylinder. She opened the pneumatic tube; and with a quick hiss, her message disappeared into the private network from her house. Her eyes darted back to the hallway. The first knock came when she replaced her right earring. She had reached the do
or by the time her left earring was secured.
Through the peephole in the parlour door, she saw her clockwork automaton at the front one, addressing the unexpected visitor.
“My mistress is not at home,” it spoke with Chandi’s own recorded voice.
Chandi heard Sophia reply with, “I am not expected, but the business I bring to your mistress is most important. Please, do inform her I am here.”
“It’s all right,” she called from the parlour. “Let Signorina del Morte enter.”
The automaton stepped back and then replied in a similar, tinny rendition of Chandi’s voice, “Good evening and welcome to my home.”
Chandi entered the foyer, and there the assassin stood, decked most scandalously.
“Buonasera,” Chandi offered.
“Most considerate,” Sophia del Morte replied. “I do apologise for arriving at this late hour.” She paused, her brow furrowing. “Have you cut yourself? You are bleeding.”
Chandi gave a start and immediately fished out a kerchief. “Oh, it is quite all right.” She moistened the tip of the fabric and cleaned her forehead free of her blood. “A bit silly, really. Pricking of the thumb while at needlepoint, and then rubbing out a slight headache.” She gave a meek smile and asked, “Would you care for a brandy, to stave off the chill?”
“No, that is fine. I would prefer not to drink while I am tending to matters for the Maestro.”
“Please,” she said, motioning to the parlour. “Come join me by the fire.”
Sophia gave a light sigh, her head ruefully shaking left and right as she walked into Chandi’s inviting parlour. Chandi watched as the woman she feared as equally as she detested walked around her home, seeming to inspect her paintings, her décor, and even the quality of the marble mantel above the hearth for approval. Every aspect, every detail, she seethed. Chandi silently thanked her foresight for desiring only the light of the fire tonight in her sitting room. The odd shadows cast would make her own features harder for Sophia to read.
“Due to the hour and my business, I cannot stay for long,” Sophia said, her inspection of the room seeming to reach an end as she unbuttoned her heavy riding coat.
“A shame. Fire and brandy do make for lovely companions on cold nights like this. Perhaps another time,” Chandi remarked, motioning to various pouches hanging from her belt, “when you are not engaged in your professional pursuits?”
Sophia looked at Chandi with no readable expression. “Doubtful.” She stuffed the riding gloves and goggles into her leather cap, tucking the bundle under her arm as she added, “I rarely make social calls. The Maestro wished me to attend him once our appointment has concluded.”
“No rest for the wicked,” Chandi said, a light laugh decorating her words.
Yes, the woman being here terrified her, particularly after that little admission. Chandi also knew that God and Kali—in their own way—protected her. This mistress of death would not shove a knife in her back or wrap a garrotte around her neck. She was safe for the moment, tenuous as that safety may be.
The chair was still warm, thanks to the fire. She gave herself a moment to relish the way the chair embraced her. Her father so loved this chair, so loved what she was doing right now. Contemplation by firelight. Privilege personified. Perhaps even part of the order of things. An order that should be preserved by any and all means necessary, she could still hear him say.
Chandi opened her eyes and looked at Sophia standing before the mantel, her hand well within reach of the poker. This woman was a monster through and through, and she was now in her home, in her very parlour. She must remain on her guard.
“The Maestro has sent me for the weapon,” the Italian said.
Chandi blinked. “I am still trying to understand the power source and test the limits of output. Otherwi—”
“No,” interjected Sophia. The smile brought a chill into the room that Chandi swore had not been there before the assassin’s arrival. “The Maestro is no longer interested in testing. From what he has seen, you have effectively solved the earlier problem of power stability.” Her head inclined towards her, the pride practically making her face glow. “I stole the solution for you after all—please don’t forget that.”
Chandi felt her muscles tense. She needed time. Only a moment or two longer.
“It’s not perfected yet,” Chandi stated flatly.
“Not perfected?” Sophia’s laugh made her flinch. “Oh, I do find feigned humility most trite, particularly when it comes from the likes of uppity English, or whatever you consider yourself. Perhaps the humility comes from your mother’s side?” Her thick Italian accent added venom to those words. When she stepped closer, Chandi felt her grip on the brandy snifter tighten. “You claim the weapon is not perfected, and yet you took that poor suffragist from a moving train, and the fate you dealt a sister from your own homeland—”
“She was an insult,” she spat, hoping her venom matched Sophia’s. “Do not dare presume that we were cut from the same cloth simply due to our origins.” When she saw Sophia lift a single eyebrow at her, Chandi folded her hands demurely in her lap, and cast to the assassin what she hoped was a softer gaze. “She needed to be made an example of.”
“And you did,” Sophia agreed. “In doing so, you have successfully proven the accuracy of the weapon’s targeting system. The Maestro was impressed. So was I.”
“It was—” Chandi’s voice caught in her throat. She wanted so desperately to indulge the scientist in her and proclaim the truth, but she could not part with the device. Not yet. “—a mere instance of random variables that yielded a favourable outcome. I don’t know if the conditions could be replicated.”
“Are you saying, in so many words, that you got lucky?”
Chandi could feel her skin burn with resentment. What kind of scientist would dismiss their work as a mere stroke of luck? An utter clankerton.
She rose from the chair, but walked over to the window, parting the curtains to look over the quiet streets of London. Her eyes went up and down the lane before her house as she continued.
“We are just scratching the surface of its potential. We must continue testing all variables, thereby guaranteeing that your Maestro is satisfied with its capabilities.”
“My dear star of India, what makes you think that we are not impressed with your progress since granting you patronage? Or have you forgotten?”
Chandi turned to see Sophia talking to her over the back of the chair, one foot on the floor, one knee tucked in the seat. Her fingers laced together as she rested her forearms against its high back. “Your starting point with us was the poor condition in which your own father was found. Thank goodness within that mass of organs and tissue, a hand still wearing a wedding band was intact.
“In the past year, you have managed to capture and deliver a mark without complication, capture and deliver while on a moving train, and then we have the death of that sweet Indian agent. That is more than progress in our eyes. That is accomplishment.”
It was, and now they were so close. So very, very close.
“Signorina, this was not what we agreed to,” Chandi insisted. “When we agreed on help from your Maestro, we were promised that once our uses for the device were done, we would then hand it over to you. We are closing in. You taking the device this early in our agenda was not part of our agreement.”
“Agendas and agreements change.” Sophia shook her head, her sigh heavy and tired. “The Maestro will have his weapon. Tonight.”
A moment’s silence, save for the light crackling of the hearth, and then Chandi’s answer seemed to fill the room, even when spoken just above a whisper. “No.”
Sophia started. Chandi found the assassin’s surprise delicious.
“Forgive me, Signorina,” Sophia began. It surprised Chandi how controlled and polite her tone was. I think your previous tactics were better executed, not to mention smarter.”
“Be that as it may, my answer will not change. No, you shal
l not have the device. Not yet. Your Maestro, as we agreed, will have the device . . .” Chandi took in a breath and said with finality, “ . . . when our work is done.”
The metal delivery tube striking the pneumatic delivery glass interior across the room made both women jump. Chandi gasped slightly as the firelight caught a glint off the knife’s edge that had suddenly appeared in the assassin’s hand. She had not seen Sophia produce it, nor had she spied it anywhere upon her person. Where had it come from?
Sophia bent her wrist back, revealing a slim open tray, part of the gauntlet’s mechanism. The knife returned with a snap, and then retracted back inside Sophia’s coat.
She smiled at Chandi and resumed her earlier thought. “Do consider your next words carefully.”
Chandi shot a quick glance at the pneumatic tube where the sealed cylinder waited, but she already knew. She tucked a loose curl of raven-dark hair behind her ear, and gently squeezed the teardrop jewel hanging there. Now came the hard part. “Please, while we have come forward in so many ways, we have some unanswered questions. In particular, there is one variable we have not tested . . .”
“This game bores me,” Sophia seethed. “The device. Now.”
“One crucial challenge that we have not tested yet.”
The assassin growled in her throat, stepping out of the chair and casually removing a pistol from its holster at her back.
Chandi smiled as the scent of electricity tickled her nostrils. “Distance.”
Chapter Twenty-One
In Which Our Dashing Archivist Discovers How Patience and Persistence Are Both Virtues, but Loses Himself in a Flash of Inspiration
Somewhere in here, Wellington knew, was what he needed to prove his theory right. Somehow, Wellington knew that Chandi Culpepper was connected with these disappearances.
I just have to find it in this footage, he thought to himself as he started resetting the four kinetoramas.
