by Tee Morris
Bruce’s face was beginning to redden. “Am I to understand then, Director, that you are putting the interests of one agent before citizens of the Empire?”
Doctor Sound’s voice dropped very low, so that everyone in the room had to lean forward to catch it. “As Assistant Director you have every right to question my decisions.”
Bruce was reaching some kind of full press, like a boiler ready to pop. “I do question it! I question your judgement in this situation most emphatically! You should be reported to the Queen immediately!”
No one moved—struck with shock and horror that Bruce had uttered such angry, disloyal words. The Australian went on regardless.
“After all, you are taking the word of a field agent who was demoted due to insubordination. A person who has no evidence to prove what she is saying.” He looked around, waving his hands, his voice now cracking with emotion. Eliza was not the only one who was revealing things here and now. “For all we know Books could have snapped and gone rogue. I mean, how much do we know about that bloke anyway, locked away in that dungeon all day? He’s an odd bird that’s never fitted in.”
Eliza’s hands were now white fists at her sides.
“Or even more likely he’s already dead!” Campbell’s face was beet-red with outrage. “For sure, he’s a goner and that’s the bloody end to it.”
She swallowed hard. “If he was dead, then Chandi Culpepper would have displayed him like she did Ihita. No, he’s alive, possibly with other women who have been taken as well.”
“Bloody nonsense,” Bruce snarled.
Now Eliza. Wellington whispered in the back of her head. He’s said quite enough.
In the Archives she’d spent far too long hiding, far too long keeping her tongue in her head. This moment was going to feel very, very good.
“And the best bit of all, Campbell—the best bit is that if they are it’s all your fault.” She stepped forward and poked his finger at him. His lip curled back, but he stood his ground. “If you had done your job, then Ihita wouldn’t have been murdered! If you hadn’t thrown those files down in the Archives to rot instead of investigating as you were supposed to, we wouldn’t have lost one of our own!”
“What is Braun talking about?” the Director asked mildly, as if he were questioning what time tea was.
Campbell went red to white in an instant.
“Not what, sir. Who.” Eliza closed on her superior. (At least, her superior for the moment.) “Do you remember their names, Campbell? I do. Mildred. Glenda. Clara. Annette. Does that bring anything back to you?”
His eyes darted from side to side, but no one stepped in to assist him. No one dared to stop Eliza either.
So, she continued. “Tell me, Bruce, was Lena Munroe still at the forefront of your mind by the time you arrived home from York?”
“Campbell?” came Sound’s voice.
“I don’t care a jot where you believe a woman’s proper place is in the world, until your inactions killed my friend, Ihita.”
“Campbell,” Doctor Sound said again, his voice somehow keeping Eliza at bay, “I suggest you explain yourself.”
“Doctor Sound,” Bruce finally responded, “this is not how it appears.”
“Then refute the claim this instant, if you can with a clear conscience. Keep in mind: the Archives is only a flight of stairs underneath us.” Sound cleared his throat and asked, “Did you really bury numerous missing person cases under your care?”
“Yes, Doctor Sound,” Bruce began. “I did send the file to the Archives—but in my defence . . .”
“For abandoning your appointed duty,” the Director growled, “there is no defence. An agent is dead and Lord knows how many other women as well. These are citizens of the Empire that could be alive now if not for you.”
Bruce Campbell, a son of Australia and man of action, looked at his fellow agents assembled, and found himself utterly alone. For a flicker of an instant, Eliza felt sorry for her cousin of the Southern Hemisphere; but then she thought of Ihita, of the light in her eyes that would never be seen again because Bruce had his own personal bias.
There was something else in his confession before the Ministry, something Eliza couldn’t pinpoint. Was that relief?
“You are correct, sir. Absolutely, without doubt. Therefore, in light of this, I hereby tender my resignation.” He tried to look into the eyes of his agents, but his gaze returned to his feet. “I can only say that . . . I’m sorry.”
“Apologise to Ihita,” came a hard, tight reply from behind them.
No one needed to look towards the comment to know Agent Hill had dealt it.
His superior sighed, and his murmur was so soft that only Eliza really heard it: “I wish I hadn’t seen this coming, but I had hoped . . .” When he straightened, his voice was louder. “I accept your resignation, Assistant Director Campbell.” He gestured to her. “Braun, we will indeed follow your lead to rescue Agent Books.”
This day suddenly seemed like it might be redeemed. “Thank you, sir.” She slammed the address for the Culpepper country estate down on the nearest desk. “Unfortunately, Books wasn’t wearing his Ministry tracking ring when he was taken, but I have from reliable sources that this is where we will find him.”
Picking up the piece of paper, the Director nodded. “Essex it is then,” he replied, before turning to the rest of the agents. “We will need every one of you on this—including,” his lips lifted into a brief smile, “You Cassandra.”
Miss Shillingworth’s grin in return was terribly frightening. “Thank you, Director, I would be glad to assist.”
“Then send a message to the Grey Ghost. Tell her we have need of her and the Blithe Spirit immediately. We will be underway within the hour.”
“I’m happy to help also.” Bruce tilted his chin up. “As you say, you could need everyone.”
The Director sized him up for a moment, and then replied with all the chill of an Antarctic winter, “You’ve done more than enough in this organisation, Mr. Campbell. And what’s more I think you’ve done more than enough for Lord Sussex.”
Eliza blinked, as they all did. Doctor Sound was suggesting more than laziness and incompetence. He was suggesting treachery.
Doctor Sound stood aside as the rest of the agents filed back up the stairs and towards the armoury. All, that is, except Axelrod. The tall clankerton’s eyes fixed on the plures ornamentum, and his gaze shot to Eliza’s.
The circumstances of her having the power arm were not exactly within Ministry protocol, and Eliza blushed a little. Undoubtedly the inventor had got into some trouble over the loss of the experimental weapon. Yet his behaviour over their single dinner outing had deserved punishment.
When she raised one eyebrow in return, it was he who reddened. He definitely remembered the incident as well as she did. Quickly he turned away and followed the rest of the agents, without saying a word. The large iron door hissed upwards once again, and the rattle of the main guns could be heard as they returned to their hidden positions.
Eliza glanced out the door, doing the mental calculations of distance and what could be happening to Wellington right now. An hour could mean the difference between life and death for the Archivist.
Campbell was hanging around by the door. His expression was one of a kicked dog that still didn’t want to leave home. Perhaps he was regretting his actions, perhaps he was merely regretting that he’d been caught—but either way, Eliza couldn’t afford to care.
“Tell Sound I will meet him there,” she snapped at her now former colleague. “I’ve got to get to Wellington now.”
The man’s eyes met hers and there was a kind of longing that she’d never seen in them before. Gone was the bluster of past years. It was uncertain if it would ever come back.
“All right, Eliza,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I’ll wait around and tell him. Be careful how you go there.”
If women hadn’t died, if he hadn’t been so disloyal, she would have sp
ared him a kind word. As it was, she had none to offer and no time to find any shred of sympathy. At the moment she had an Archivist and an old friend to rescue. After that she would have some rather stern words with a fellow suffragist.
Perhaps fatally stern.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Wherein Our Dashing Archivist Finds Himself Walking with Madness
“Right then, that should do it.”
Wellington looked over the thin rope the three of them had woven together. Lena’s lullabies had ceased a long while ago. They were all exhausted, and he’d had to return to the grizzly collection of corpses at least two more times for more fabric. For Lena’s sanity and Sophia’s loyalty, this had to work, and had to work the first time.
“The final illuminati, if you please, Sophia,” he said, his voice a ragged rasp.
Her sigh echoed in their pit, followed by a rap hard against stone. The green light blossomed around them as Sophia shook the stick back and forth. Finally, she handed it to Wellington.
The Archivist peered up into the darkness above him, taking a few steps back as he again tried to catch in the shadows any hint of the lip of the pit.
“And you are sure about the sturdiness of this illuminati?” he asked, still peering upwards.
“Yes, most certain,” Sophia answered.
“Well, let us hope Fortune favours us.”
With a quick, silent prayer Wellington threw the stick upwards, and watched the illuminati fly. His throat tightened as it cleared its apex and descended.
Then it disappeared from view, and a few terrifying seconds later it clattered against a stone floor. Now the glow of the illuminati could just be discerned against the distant edge.
“A bit closer than I’d expected,” Wellington said, slowly walking his way forward, hands reaching into the darkness.
What they reached first wasn’t brick, firm as what he touched might have been.
“Why, Signore Books,” cooed the Italian, “I do like what successful ventures bring out in you.”
The Archivist snatched back his hands. Wellington was thankful they were back in darkness.
“Not quite yet,” he said, his voice trembling a bit. Clearing his throat, Wellington bent down, now feeling his way across the oubliette floor. His hand finally came to rest on the steel strips he’d salvaged from the corset. He gave the four-pronged hook another check, and then began to coil the rope. “Once we are out, I will revel in my success but not before.”
“I look forward to it,” she whispered in reply.
Wellington took a few steps away from the wall and studied the now-visible curve above him. Yes, he insisted silently, this will work.
I would hope so, the old man spoke in his ear. Otherwise, the deaths of these women fall upon you.
Wellington felt a chill on hearing his father’s whisper. No.
Oh yes, Wellington. His father’s ghost was gloating. And imagine, if you will, what havoc those hell-spawn will wreak, due to your failure.
Quiet, Wellington spat silently.
How proud your mother would be.
Wellington felt the chill replaced by heat until Lena asked, “Mr. Books?” There was a pause, and then a more desperate, “Mr. Books, what’s wrong?”
The Archivist looked back up to the curve, gave the hook a bit more slack, and said, “Nothing. Just judging distance.”
“Please,” she said, “judge faster.”
“Signore.” Wellington felt a hand on his arm, and the assassin’s breath warm on his neck. “Do you have much experience with grappling hooks?”
Wellington cleared his throat.
“So I thought.” When her fingers touched his, Wellington recalled how taken he once had been with her. “Perhaps this calls for a lady’s hand?”
“Need I remind you that when I last trusted you,” Wellington said, his grip tightening on the rope, “I found myself in the hands of the enemy, bound for the frozen wastelands of Antarctica.”
“Hush now, that was purely business. Right now, there are no clients, no ulterior motives. There is only me, a frightened girl, and a devilishly handsome archivist nurturing a grudge.” She sighed and stroked his hand. “Trust me, Wellington, as I have trusted you.”
This opportunity was their only one, and Sophia had far more experience at this sort of thing. It was a logical conclusion, and that made Wellington hate it all the more.
His fingers slipped free of the hook and rope as her own fingers tightened around them.
“Stand clear,” she said as Wellington moved forward towards the wall.
The whipping sound filled his ears; and then with one final cut of the air, the silence returned. Wellington held his breath. A silly thing, but he didn’t wish to chance anything disturbing the silence. This moment now rested on an assassin and a blind throw into the darkness.
The rope slapped against the wall of the pit. Moments crept by, and then came another sound. Fabric whispering against fabric, and then something moved against his pants leg. Their rope was now gathering by his leg. Please, Lord . . .
A valiant effort, my son, but I’m afraid—
Sophia let out a gasp, which turned into a laugh. A glorious, beautiful laugh. “The rope has caught!” she exclaimed, her voice echoing around them.
Wellington felt a smile on his face. You where saying, Father?
No reply from his ghost.
“I won’t be but a moment, Signore,” Sophia said, her voice trembling with something Wellington would have described as ecstasy.
He reached towards her, and then gave a soft sigh of relief. He had grabbed hold of an arm.
“Just a moment; but for Lena’s sake and myself, exactly what are you planning?”
She placed a hand on his chest. Her touch caused him to flinch. “I have been working this plan through since we began to weave. I climb out, find you both a proper rope, and then we find our way free of this place. I am the most qualified to climb, the most apt at this sort of espionage, the best chance against any opposition.”
Wellington rested his other hand over hers. “Indeed, but there is one tragic flaw in your strategy.”
“And that is?”
His grip tightened on her hand. “The part where you are climbing out of the pit?”
She gasped. “Wellington, you think me so heartless as to abandon my compatriots?”
An advantage of the darkness was that she couldn’t see his face, so there was no tell to let slip when he pulled her closer to him, and farther away from the rope. “I believe your opportunistic spirit is far more passionate than you believe we think it is.”
He felt her muscles twitch, so the break she attempted on his hold was to no avail. The same went for her attempt to twist against his arm and turn his bind against him.
“How are you doing that?” she grunted, her third attempt quickly countered as Wellington spun her and pushed forward, not stopping until she slammed against the oubliette’s wall. “For a librarian,” she gasped, “you are quite apt in the martial arts.”
“Archivist, if you please; and yes, I read. A lot.” He leaned inward to whisper in her ear, “Do not play me for a fool. My trust is already at its limits.”
“Oh, Wellington,” Sophia purred, causing his skin to tingle, “I think we should get to know one another better. Such as the same experience I have in throwing our quaint creation. Tell me—how many structures have you scaled in recent years?”
“As I told you, I read a lot.” He grabbed her shoulders, and shoved her back against the wall, pinning her there. Wellington could feel her cheek on the tip of his nose, and her smell was quite the welcome respite from the scent he had grown accustomed to. He quickly pulled back and guessed exactly where her face would be. “A brilliant plan you have there, Sophia, but it will be yours truly that will be climbing out.”
He suddenly felt something strike his chest hard, then his feet kicked out from under him immediately followed by the feel of a flat-soled boot against his chest.
“Forgive my forwardness, Signore Books, but I think you are blinded by your English chivalry . . . or panic. Sometimes the two are most hard to distinguish.” He was expecting to be left there, but was surprised at feeling himself lifted back to his feet by her. “I was planning to relieve myself of weapons for they make me close to the same weight as yourself. The lighter our climber, the less strain on our rope.”
Wellington was truly loathing this woman’s logic. “Perhaps, but if you think even in the darkness of this cell I will trust you—”
“You have no options!”
“There are always options,” Wellington snapped.
And so there were, as the scuff of feet against stone proved to be true.
“Mio Dio!” Sophia swore as she felt for the rope while Wellington called, “Lena!”
A sole snarl was her reply. In that fleeting moment Lena Munroe made clear her desperation for freedom. Her grunts were growing harder, sharper, like borderline sobs; and if she were to fall midway through her climb, she could endanger all their lives. A body, even as frail as Lena’s current condition, could snap a neck or incapacitate one of them.
Then Wellington heard a sound that brought him equal parts of hope and despair. Lena’s open palm struck stone. The groan she gave cried now of determination. Her voice rang through the dankness above their heads, and then came a thick silence.
“Lena?” Wellington cried out. “Lena, please answer us!”
“Lovely.” Sophia seethed. “Now our fate rests in the hands of a madwoman.”
“As if placing our faith in you would be any more comforting?”
Sophia gave a dry laugh. “So, how comfortable are you now?”
Wellington looked up. The illuminati’s glow was beginning to fade. “Not very. If she is caught . . .”
“Exactly.”
Wellington gave the rope another tug. How far could he scale before one of the Culpeppers or even house servants were to discover them? He slid his back against the wall and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, at least we did accomplish something.”
“And what was that?”
Wellington let his breath out slowly. “The rope. It held.”
