by Tee Morris
Wellington did not pay the stench any mind now. The Archivist had acclimated himself to this familiar smell, and even thought to himself, it could have been worse. Far worse. He recalled, as he rolled Charlotte free from the others, how the African sun tended to speed up infection in the wounded, and decay in the dead.
The blade slid cleanly through the dress. He tried not to think of the body within it. In the African bush he’d been forced to use the dead as camouflage. Another time they’d used their slaughtered friends to stand watch while he and the survivors of a failed push safely made it back to base camp.
His task was made more difficult as the light dimmed, casting more and more shadow around his grim works. Wellington paused cutting and shook the illuminati, the phosphorus glugging quickly as he worked the glass light back and forth. The glow flared, but not by much. Time was running short, and so he grimly kept cutting. He promised himself to head back once the light began to dim again. Another long strip fell at his feet. Then another, and another.
This was about survival.
He needed as much as he could carry, but this served him no comfort as he cut the dress free of the second corpse. If their supply started to dwindle, he would have to come back here and gather more. He preferred not to. His willpower was not that strong.
The light began to dim. It was time to go.
Wellington gathered up the long strands of fabric that once made an impressive overskirt, the underskirt, and the dress in his arms. He was about to leave when he paused on catching in the dim light the curves of Charlotte Lawrence, the sturdy corset still wrapped snug around her. A quick swipe of Sophia’s knife later, and the corset rested spread over top the mass of fabric within his arms. The light of the illuminati was far from its original brilliance, but all Wellington needed to do was place himself before the macabre tableau, turn his back upon it, and walk straight forward. As it had before, the darkness seemed to swallow him. This time, his light seemed much dimmer, while the oubliette consumed sound and life. The gooseflesh along his arms tingled. Had the ladies moved from where he had left them?
He paused in the darkness for a moment. He had to keep calm.
“Wellington?”
In an instant he wished that was Eliza’s voice, but then quickly changed that. He was glad his colleague was far away and safe.
The Archivist continued forward, and two forms sitting against the oubliette’s curved wall slowly materialised out of the darkness.
“That illuminati does not have much time. Perhaps ten minutes,” Sophia stated.
“Then we must make the most of each moment,” he said, setting down the small collection of fabric before them.
“Monster,” hissed Lena, jerking backwards.
“Perhaps,” Wellington said, his eyes measuring the clothing bundled before them, “but as we have so little in our favour presently, we must make do with what we have.”
Sophia ran her fingers through the strips of cotton and linen, keeping her eyes locked with Wellington’s. “Your intentions?”
“I will show you the weave. While you do that, I will continue to cut. It may be tricky, especially in the dark; but it is a simple enough task so long as you keep a focus on what you are doing. When we are done, we should have enough of a rope to get one of us out of here.”
The sharp sound of breath catching turned both Wellington and Sophia to the girl pressed hard against the stone wall. “One of us?”
“Yes, Lena. One.” Wellington removed the corset, feeling its weight one more time before taking a seat on the oubliette’s floor and positioning the dying illuminati next to him. “Between these strips, this cloth,” Wellington placed a hand on the corset, “and our grappling hook, we must hope we have enough. Now, ladies, if you please?” he asked, motioning to the space before him.
Lena and Sophia looked to each other; and with a single nod from the Italian assassin they leaned toward him.
“In the few moments of light we have left, ladies,” Wellington said, distributing the strips of cloth to them, “focus on the motion of your hands. We will, after all, be weaving in the dark.”
“Weaving? In the dark?” The laugh from Lena was dry, completely free of mirth. “What a ladylike pursuit . . .”
Wellington looked at her, his eyes narrowing. The laughter stopped abruptly. “This is our only chance,” he said. “Do as I do. Study your pattern. Know it intimately.”
“And when we run low on our weaving, Signore Books?”
“Then, you let me know and I will supply more. If our supplies dwindle, we then utilise one—and only one—illuminati in gathering more fabric. We will need the last one for our escape. Now, let us begin.”
Over. Under. Over. Tug. Over. Under. Over. Tug. Their pattern was a simple one, but as the shadows closed in around them, the challenge grew more and more clear. Satisfied that the ladies were comfortably in a routine, Wellington gathered up the underskirt and began slicing into it as he had done with its accompanying dress. He measured the width with his fingers. He would have to cut carefully, and slowly, hoping that the ladies and he had a good long time to achieve their task.
“Mr. . . . Books, is it?” came Lena’s voice.
“Yes, Miss Munroe?”
“Would you mind if I sang a bit?” She sniffled, and then added, “My mother would do so when I was scared.”
“Signorina?” Wellington asked.
“So long as the woman’s voice is pleasant,” the Italian snapped in reply.
Wellington took in a long, slow breath. “Go on then, Miss Munroe.”
Her voice cracked now and again, but there was in fact a calming tone in her singing.
Sleep my child and peace attend thee,
All through the night.
Guardian angels God will send thee,
All through the night.
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping.
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night . . .
As Lena Munroe sang softly in the darkness, the women toiled in their task. Wellington concentrated on slicing the fabric and holding the hope of their work before them.
Chapter Twenty-Six
In Which the Troops Are Mustered
Driving the lococycle was much like wrestling a bull while perched between its shoulder blades. Eliza’s dark hair streamed out behind her; her hands clenched tight on the steering horns, and her lips pressed together in concentration. She would have been having a throughly enjoyable time of it, were it not for the fact that her colleague was in mortal peril. Whoever the machine had originally belonged to, before Dottie made off with it, must have been quite the daredevil. Whipping through the streets of London, frightening horses, and causing hansom drivers and pedestrians to shake their fists at her was just a pleasant side dish. The main advantage was how she avoided the hurly burley traffic of the capital. Soon enough she reached her home.
Brakes were obviously the last thing the designer of this particular madcap creation had taken into account. Eliza had to rapidly work the levers to cut the supply of steam to the pistons, and then jerk the front of the lococycle to one side, least she smack into the wall opposite her property and decorate it in a most unseemly fashion. It was apparently the wrong thing to do. She was thrown to the right, and was forced to slam her boot down on the cobbles to slow her approach. The street gobbled up some of her shoe leather, but at last, panting, she brought the devil to a halt.
Racing up the stairs, ignoring the stares of her fellow apartment dwellers, she banged on the door. Her neighbours had seen many a strange occurrence in Miss Eliza D. Braun’s domicile—the least of it being her running. Her excuses of owning a very large dog were starting to wear a little thin. Alice opened the door, and her mistress brushed past her.
“Bring me the plures ornamentum,” she said pulling off her jacket. “No, wait—undo my buttons. I need trousers for what’s to come.” She would have jerked the dre
ss off her, but it was a sturdy tweed.
Alice’s fingers flew over the row of closures at Eliza’s back. “And what exactly is to come, Miss?”
“Wellington’s been taken.” She swallowed hard on that admission. “I need to get to the Ministry and alert them.”
“And then?”
Eliza was finally free of her feminine attire, and stepped out of it with alacrity. “Then we’ll get him back.”
The gears in Alice’s legs spun, and her hand went to lift up her own skirt. “Then you’ll be needing some assistance.”
The maid had already made apparent that she had a soft spot for the Archivist, but that she would offer to step outside the apartment was unusual. Alice loved the house. It was something she was fiercely protective of, so much that Eliza wondered what her priorities were sometimes. Yet, here she was offering to take up arms for Wellington Thornhill Books. With a tilt of her head, Eliza considered. “I think the Ministry should provide more than enough in that department—besides, I need you to protect the apartments, just in case our enemies come calling again.”
It was a sensible enough suggestion, and Alice gave a tight nod. “The plures then, Miss. And may I suggest a selection of knives and guns to go with it? No, high explosives, for Mr. Books’ sake.”
Eliza arched an eyebrow, but thought better of complaining. These two mad women were not the House of Usher, and this time she would not risk the Archivist’s life.
While Alice hurried to the wardrobe to retrieve the powered arm, Eliza slipped into a pair of tweed pants, a worsted wool shirt, a shoulder holster, and a knife sheath, and swapped her short boots for a much taller pair. By the time her maid returned with her further accoutrements, she had slipped knives into the boots, the sheath at her waist, and slid her pistols into the holster. Then she held out her right arm.
Alice began to buckle the multi-tool on, taking care to make sure the straps that wrapped around the opposite side of her chest were firm, but not so tight as to restrict movement. The combination of pistons, gears and weaponry was heavy, but Eliza could bear it for a short time. It could be invaluable in the rescue of Wellington.
“Do you think he’s still alive?” Alice’s whisper conveyed more emotion than a shout would have.
The image of Wellington’s lifeless body would not leave her, and every time it appeared, a knot of panic began to well up inside Eliza. She spun about and grabbed hold of her maid’s hands. “Alice, I have made a terrible mistake—just terrible.” Tears were welling in her eyes and she had the horrible feeling if she were not careful they would spill over. “What if he dies without me telling him . . .”
“Enough of that,” Alice snapped. “He’s not dead, and you’re going to get him back. Then you can make everything right.”
It was a bucket of cold water over Eliza’s running thoughts. She’d gone into plenty of dire situations, but she now understood why this one was so terrifying to her. She straightened up. “Yes.”
Alice held out her long winter coat. “Then hurry off. I have faith we’ll be seeing Mr. Books back here for tea tomorrow.”
Eliza abandoned protocol, grabbing her maid in a tight embrace, and planting a kiss on her cheek. “Keep the pot warm then.”
Pelting out of her apartments, she leapt much more gamely onto the lococycle. She always felt so much better when properly armed. It was only a short but exhilarating ride to Miggins Antiquities. This time she was better at releasing the pressure in the lococycle, and managed a far less alarming stop.
Springing off her transportation, Eliza sprinted into the building. It was, as usual, full of the worker bees scratching away on their ledgers. It was time for drastic action that they would most definitely not enjoy. Directly inside the front door stood a tall grandfather clock, ticking away the minutes until the regular workers could leave. Without hesitation, Eliza flipped open the case. Within was a large lever, painted bright red. She’d never had cause to touch it—but if now was not the time, then she didn’t know when would be. Grabbing the lever firmly, she yanked it to the left with as much determination and assuredness as she possessed.
The reaction was immediate. The raised warehouse door dropped down like a guillotine, sealing the outside world away behind two inches of bound iron. Inside the klaxons began to sound and everything turned to figurative custard. The front shop workers leapt up from their desks and scuttled into the aisle between their desks. From there they raced towards the back of the warehouse where the safe room was. People only pulled the red lever when the Ministry was about to be attacked, and the general workers knew when to make themselves scarce.
Eliza tilted her head. Several noises all at once were coming from above: the whirling of the Gatling guns on the third floor as they slid into their firing positions, and the drumlike rattle of many feet. Everyone was dropping whatever they were doing, grabbing up their weapons and preparing to defend Miggins Antiquities. It was exactly what she wanted.
Yet she swallowed hard.
The entire population of the upstairs offices were now running down the stairs to the ground floor. Agents Hill, Campbell, the Director himself, and half a dozen others including Shillingworth. All of them, even the redoubtable secretary, were touting weaponry and looked ready for trouble.
Doctor Sound’s eyes swept the area and then he strode over and cranked up the telescopic-viewer. When his examination of the scene outside revealed nothing, that same steely gaze turned on Eliza D. Braun.
She hadn’t moved from her spot by the grandfather clock, even though her heart was thumping. Once she opened her mouth, all of their secret investigations down in the Archives would be revealed. Her future with the Ministry no longer mattered. She knew she needed backup. For Wellington. For Kate.
“Our Archivist has been kidnapped,” she said loudly enough to ring down the length of the large building, “and we must get him back.”
The Director’s face tightened, so she knew he was thinking about the last time this had happened. The time when she had been given the orders to kill Wellington Books. It was ignoring that very command that had meant her exile to the Archivist’s domain and started whole new adventures. Life had quite the sense of irony.
Doctor Sound tilted his head. “He’s been kidnapped, you say? Did this happen last night while he was sleeping?”
Eliza knew where this line of questioning would lead, but she went on. “No. Sometime between yesterday and today.”
“But Wellington would have been down in the Archives then, so now pray tell me how did that happen?”
Eliza glanced around: the other agents had their eyes fixed on her with breathless anticipation. Now was no time to back down. “No, sir, he wasn’t—he was at home reviewing evidence.”
The Director wasn’t given a chance to reply to that as a grinning Bruce Campbell appeared at his shoulder. “Evidence? Eliza darling, sure sounds like you’re working on a case.” He stroked his chin, “But that can’t be true since you don’t do that anymore—not as a junior archivist.”
She glared at him, ready to explode, but then heard the persistent voice of Wellington Thornhill Books in her head. Not yet, Eliza. Not quite yet. Wait a little while.
That damn well better not be his ghost haunting her. Ignoring Campbell, she fixed her gaze on the Director. Just him. “Mrs. Kate Sheppard asked me, as a personal favour, to look into the disappearance of the suffragists in the last few months. I convinced Wellington, against his better judgement, to assist me.”
His expression was stern, but maybe she was imagining it, or was there a glimmer of respect in his eyes? “So instead of Wellington’s cool head rubbing off on you, you have instead corrupted our Archivist?”
Bruce let out an almighty snort and muttered, “I could have told you that was coming.”
Ignoring him, Eliza held her focus. “Time is of the essence for Wellington, Director. Disciplinary action against me can wait until after he is recovered—safe and sound.”
Maulik Smith
pressed the button on his throat, and his voice came out in the rasping croak that Blackwell’s engineering skill had given him. “Considering what Books knows, considering what he has access to, we can’t afford to be compromised. Director, I second Agent Braun’s recommendation.”
Agent Smith rarely spoke, so when he did it carried great weight. Eliza felt the tide turn her way, and her colleagues begin to come around to her way of thinking.
Bruce must have sensed it too, because he suddenly snapped, “Damn it, we can’t afford to do that, since we’re all up to our ears in active cases. As Assistant Director it is my duty to put the public first!”
Bruce’s contradictory ethics incensed Eliza. They waxed and waned depending on what he wanted to get done. When he’d first arrived at the Ministry she’d thought he was merely a harmless moron. Now she was seeing he was more than that: he was a dangerous moron. He’d never once used the words “put the public first.” She knew full well that in his mind there was only one person of any importance—Agent Bruce Campbell.
Still not yet, Eliza. Wellington seemed very close at this point.
Doctor Sound nodded. “You are absolutely right, Assistant Director, however Smith is also correct. Wellington Books is indeed a walking analytical engine that is a valuable asset to anyone who has him.”
Brandon piped up from the rear of the room, “He’s also a wonderful bridge partner.”
The rest of the agents turned their heads, examining the Canadian curiously.
Doctor Sound cleared his throat. “Be that as it may.” He fixed a look on Eliza. “We should do everything in our power to recover him. After all, allowing him to be eliminated would be a dreadful crime—wouldn’t it, Braun?”
She tilted her head at his not-so-subtle dig at her past assignment. The Director could be as kindly as her grandfather, but then turn around and slice her with some well-chosen words. Before she could formulate an answer, she was cut off.
