by Tee Morris
He then felt Sophia take his arm and nuzzle closer to him. She was laughing softly, even sincerely.
“That it did, Archivist. That it did. Perhaps on our next attempt—”
“If we find such an opportunity,” he interjected, “I will follow your lead on the escaping bit.” Wellington gave her hand a gentle squeeze and added, “I may not like your logic, but it is most sound.”
“I do love it so when men tell me that.”
“I am sure you do.” He unfolded his knees, seeing nothing around him. Wellington had not pictured his demise quite so bleak as this. Best to make the most of it. “I am sorry that our night ended as it did. It would have been a delight to have gotten to know you better.”
She slipped free of his arm and then he felt something—no, he felt trained assassin and wanted mercenary Sophia del Morte—straddle him in the darkness.
Her hands took his hands and placed them gently on her breasts. “We have time now, don’t we, Wellington?”
Was she serious?!
A sudden light blinded them both; and then their odd, awkward silence was disrupted by the flickering of flame. Only a few feet from Wellington and Sophia burned a torch.
“Mr. Books?” Lena called down to him. “Please move back. I don’t wish to hit you with this ladder.”
Wellington gave a little laugh of his own, but it stopped abruptly as he saw his hands had not moved from where Sophia had placed them.
She gave a sly wink. “Later,” she mouthed before removing herself from his lap.
Wellington scrambled up to his feet and joined Sophia by the flame.
“Have a care, Miss Munroe!” he called up to her. “We cannot risk you being discovered.”
As the ladder clattered down the stones, Lena replied, “Oddly enough I think we’re the only people in here.”
“And what gave you that idea?” Sophia grunted as she started her climb up.
“I checked the top of the staircase. No guards.”
Wellington steadied the ladder as Sophia climbed. “There’s no one else up there? Not even house staff?”
“Not a soul!”
Once he saw Sophia disappear, Wellington hoisted himself up the ladder. He was pleasantly surprised to reach the top of the pit without fail. Perhaps Sophia del Morte was not the same ne’er-do-well she had portrayed herself as in previous encounters. Wellington now stood in the dying glow of their last illuminati, now being held aloft like a torch in the grasp of the frayed Lena Munroe.
Sophia was saying nothing, merely considering the suffragist. Wellington looked back and forth between them, not entirely certain what he had missed or what he was currently missing.
“I assumed you two would have continued to prattle on like fishwives,” Lena hissed, “but I wanted out! As I had served my time with the Womens’ Explorers Auxiliary, I know a thing or two about climbing.” Wellington and Sophia merely stood there, silent. “Oh, I may have been bordering on madness down there, but there is a fine line between insanity and stupidity. Considering your resourcefulness and this woman’s”—Sophia lifted an eyebrow as Lena paused and then continued with—“unique skills, I was not going to assume you would simply stay down there if I didn’t return. You would, no doubt, come up with a new plan of escape. What else would you do down there?”
Sophia turned her glare, softening quickly, towards Wellington. He felt a hotness grow in his cheeks.
“The way out?” Sophia asked.
“Follow me,” Lena said, motioning behind her.
It was only a few steps and a single stone staircase later that returned the three of them back into a world of light and colour, simple and stark as that colour was. Where Wellington found himself was a palatial estate somewhere in the country as a quick glance from the windows told him. It was a crisp, brilliant day outside, but still the wind pushed through the treetops, making them sway with the grass outside.
And that was when Wellington noticed the décor of the house: there was none.
No side tables. No divans. Not even portraits or paintings of any kind. The house was empty. So much in fact that their footfalls echoed around them as their voices had in the oubliette.
“See what I mean, Mr. Books?” Lena asked him in a whisper, as they paused in a corridor.
They continued their run into another hallway, but this time, Wellington stopped.
“Ladies!”
Both Sophia and Lena skidded to a halt. They knew they were alone, but hearing his call so sharp and loud gave them both a fright.
“Wellington,” Sophia asked, her tone far from the one she had given him in the oubliette. “Where are you going?”
“The conservatory.”
Her head inclined to one side, allowing curls of raven black to spill across her face. “Is there a reason of utmost importance that you must pay that a visit?”
“Yes,” Wellington said, motioning for them to follow. “It’s the only room in the house that has furniture in it.”
Sunlight reflected off the exotic plants and flowers; and unlike the other stark, barren rooms of the mansion, this parlour was immaculate, warm, and inviting.
The Culpeppers had taken great care with this room indeed, but it was not what any civilised Englishman would have called normal. The three escapees stood slack-jawed at the intricate patterns painted in garish colours through the conservatory. Many-limbed figures climbed their way up the walls and columns. They were black, brown, yellow and white, and all appeared to be wearing halos.
“How very curious.” Their predicament suddenly faded to insignificance as Wellington continued into the centre of this manic art display. His fingers itched for a pen and paper as his neck craned back to take the detail in and attempt to make sense of it all. “Seems rather to resemble the Vimanam in the Dravidian style found in the south of India, but also . . .” He squinted at some of the figures and scenes depicted on the ceiling. No, his eyes were not playing tricks. “ . . . but also the medieval decorations of Sulsted Church in Jutland.”
When he finally reached the top of the rotunda, he felt a strange, queer feeling overcome him. A part of him wanted to cry in outrage at the blasphemy he saw, but the analytical part of him was trying to decipher the bizarre imagery and the minds behind it: a pair of intertwined figures—one was a pitch-black, many-limbed woman, the other a bearded young man.
“That’s Christ and Kali,” Sophia pointed out before he could, indicating that she had some knowledge of the East, and then surprised him further when she stepped over to the space beneath the figures. “It even looks like they have constructed a kind of twisted Vedic altar here.”
Wellington saw that indeed a hallowed-out shell carved with crosses and dancing figures contained ash and the remains of a fire. He shuddered to think what the Culpeppers had been sacrificing in it.
“Look at this.” Lena had pushed aside some of the foliage, revealing two final figures. These though were of a far more realistic nature: a man, dressed in a classic gentlemen’s khaki attire, with a broad, angry face, and a beautiful Indian woman dressed in the London fashions of perhaps twenty years ago.
“The parents,” Wellington said, leaning forward to examine the photograph.
“I know Chandi spent many years in isolation. Her father went mad after the death of her mother.”
Wellington straightened. Sophia del Morte certainly did know a lot about the Culpeppers. Observing his look, the assassin’s expression tightened. “At least that was what I heard.”
“An upbringing of two cultures, two religions—and knowing how Christianity is frowned upon in Indian cultures—might explain some of this. Add to this that they were born twins, the torment and isolation they must have felt . . .” The Archivist’s voice faded away. “They seem to have created an elaborate religious theme of their own.”
Sophia spat. “Religious zealots—my least favourite kind of person.”
“Totally mad,” Lena whispered, moving away from the drawings as if they fr
ightened her. Instead she looked out the windows, and Wellington finally took note of the breathtaking panorama beyond. The whole house was built on the edge of a massive ravine, and as the sunlight hit the window all was revealed. The three of them approached the window, then looked down.
“Dear Lord!” Wellington gasped.
At the bottom of the ravine was an airship. The rock walls had kept its massive size hidden. Wellington squinted to see if there was any activity underneath the hulk of a hull. Though the gondola was completely hidden from view, he could make out small shadows going about in forced, stiff movements from airship to a nearby structure.
He felt a soft tap on his shoulder. “That platform out there,” Sophia noted, motioning out to the ridge closest to the house, “would seem to be the access point.”
“Indeed, but a concealed airship?” Wellington looked around the conservatory. The only furnished room in the house. “There has to be a method to this madness.”
Just then, his eye fell on a small patch of glass in the window. Red. Not a discolouration or some odd trick of light. It was purposefully red. Wellington stepped back and noticed more shards of red glass, along with green and blue. These markers within the glass wall would have appeared nothing more than random dots; but the longer Wellington stared, the more the pattern took hold.
“So where is the key?” And then his eyes went up to the top of the conservatory window. “Oh, very clever, ladies.”
With some excitement, Wellington grabbed a nearby hook and yanked the grand blind down. The translucent fabric now added the outline of the world map, as well as an expanded section of London streets that filled where the expanse of the English Channel would have been.
“This is a map of navigation, do you see?” Sophia motioned to the grid along the top and side, and within the larger grid there appeared to be a secondary one.
Wellington looked closer, adjusting his spectacles. “Quite right. This is a map providing accurate longitude and latitude. And these marks . . .”
His eyes happened to fall on the expanded map of London. He tilted his head to one side, narrowing his eyes on one marker a little outside of the city proper.
It was his home. The mark was red.
“Sophia,” Wellington said as he stared at the marker on his address. “Where exactly were you snatched?”
“From the Culpepper townhouse. Thirty-four Craven Street, in Charing Cross to be precise.”
Charing Cross, Wellington saw, possessed a red mark similar to his own.
He pointed to another between London and Edinburgh, and glanced back at Lena. “That one is you.”
Lena covered her mouth in horror. There were well over twenty markers decorating England, Africa, and India.
Then there were the green marks. “Canterbury, Rome, Jerusalem, Mecca, Varanasi,” he whispered as his gaze flicked once more to the figures hanging above them. They were scattered across the Empire. Another ten in England, five in Scotland, and twelve in Ireland. Ten in Canada. Seven in New Zealand. Four in Australia. Twenty in India . . .
“A religious war,” Sophia hissed, “was not part of our arrangement.”
“It will be the ultimate crusade,” Wellington said, turning to the Italian, “and with their device the Culpeppers will be able to start it. Imagine them snatching whoever they want from the holiest places in the world—and where they could drop them . . . this cannot be allowed to happen.”
Sophia gave a nod and led Wellington to the window she had been standing at.
“Then now is the only chance to stop them,” she said, motioning to the airship outside the window.
“Mr. Books,” implored Lena, “perhaps I should stay here and gather my wits about me. I would love to assist, but I have had nothing to eat, and I—”
“I understand completely,” Wellington said, taking her hand and leading her out, “but we cannot leave you here.”
“Why,” she protested, much like a petulant, tired child might when being told it was time for bed, “this place is abandoned . . .”
“All for the conservatory. Why leave their plans behind unless—”
“Unless they intend to destroy this place,” Sophia added, now looking to every corner of the building. “Explosives?”
“Possibly, or a barrage from the airship’s armament shortly after liftoff.”
Wellington opened the front door of the mansion and was delighted to see two horses tethered by the house. It stood to reason. If the Culpeppers were going to leave the three of them to rot, what were two horses on their conscience? He untethered one and set it loose. The other one he handed to Lena.
“Ride fast. Ride hard,” Wellington told her as he lifted her onto the steed’s back. “Do not stop until you reach the London suffragists, and have them contact Miss Braun immediately!”
With a nod, Lena heeled the horse and began her ride away from the mansion. Wellington turned back to Sophia and motioned back to the mansion. “Shall we pay a call on our hosts?”
Her grin was broad and terrifying. “Most assuredly. I think that is long overdue.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In Which Curious Allies Are Made and Enemies Must Make Do
The lococycle roared through the snow-sprinkled lanes and between the mounds of the hedgerows. Essex resembled a Christmas card this time of year, which would have been charming if Eliza had been able to enjoy it. She’d been forced to stop once already and fill the boiler with water from a stream, but she would still be ahead of the Ministry airship. Every moment could count towards Wellington’s life.
She reached the Culpepper lands long after her cheeks grew slightly numb from the speed at which she cut through the winter chill. She looked around her at the property that appeared surprisingly well-tended, considering the farms and the smaller homes that had whipped by her were all woebegone buildings with little to remark on. Though coming from an impressive and aristocratic upbringing, the Culpeppers were not located in the most affluent part of the English countryside.
From a distance, the house at the end of the long drive appeared dark and quiet. The Culpepper country home showed a Georgian style with grand white pillars at its entrance and lines of windows overlooking a barren garden. Again, the grounds around the house were kept, but only at the minimum. There was no feeling of the tenant’s style. Simple, straight lines. A general lack of any finesse. It was almost as if the house were tended to by automatons.
Eliza shielded her eyes from the sunlight and peered harder at the lone house. It appeared as if the front door was wide open, adding to that feel of abandon. No butler—not even the faultiest of McTighe’s creations—would leave such a detail unattended.
“This can’t be the right place,” Eliza muttered to herself.
On those words leaving her lips, a lone rider crested the rise in the long causeway between the main road and the Culpepper manor. The animal thundering down the path was a skinny nag, its head held high, eyes wide; and on its back was an equally frail-looking Lena Munroe, clinging to the horse like a burr. Their eyes locked in surprise and amazement, and by a process of hauling on the beast’s bridle, the suffragist was able to slow her escape.
“He’s back there,” she shouted, her voice cracking as she pointed behind her. “Wellington Books and an Italian woman—they’re back there!” Then the horse tossed its head and galloped on, carrying Lena out of sight. The agent looked back where she had gestured and saw the broad shape of an airship rising above the hill.
“I stand corrected,” Eliza muttered, revving the lococycle’s engine. “This looks exactly like the place.”
Her teeth ground together as the lococyle rumbled down the dip in the causeway adding to her speed. Somewhere in that house was her partner and an Italian? Another suffragist they hadn’t encountered yet? She would know soon enough. She glanced up at the house, and that was when she could make out the growing curve of an airship hull taking to the sky. Her well-honed instincts told her that this was where
she would find Kate. Once the causeway opened around her, she turned the handlebars and made for the ascending craft.
The sun was glinting off the airship, making it sparkle prettily. Some kind of quarry must lie on the other side of the rise—quite a clever place to hide the bulk of an airship if you didn’t want the neighbours to talk. Eliza had a few moments to think about such things as she strained the engine to its greatest limits, racing across the lawn.
Airship engines roaring hard now provided a steady thrum under the clatter of the machine between her thighs. Eliza bent low over the control bars, her heart racing and her palms becoming sweaty. Sizing up the blimp, she knew of only one way to get on board that leviathan at this crucial moment. The realisation both terrified and exhilarated her, and served as a sudden reminder why she needed this. Much like Kate, this was Eliza’s calling and she would not be denied.
Pulling her feet under her, she shoved the lever down hard as the airship cleared the edge of the quarry, and drove the lococycle into the intervening space. The experience was a moment frozen in time. Eliza felt the wind battering her face, caught glimpses of the hundred-foot drop beneath her, and her breath jammed in her chest. She windmilled her arms, and one of her hands caught a trailing mooring line.
Her arm was nearly pulled from her shoulder. “Bloody hell,” she groaned, as her full weight swung from the abused limb. Unfortunately, it was not the one with the plures ornamentum—but then that was usually her luck with these sorts of things. For a moment she was in a most precarious position, her whole body hanging off a single rope dangling in open space. She spared a glance down to give herself an incentive to do something. The monumental drop, the sharp rocks below, and the lococycle’s boilers exploding on meeting its rather grand end in the quarry did the trick. She threw her free arm upwards and began the slow climb.
Suddenly, the mooring rope began to pull her in. The line was retracting into some internal housing within the vessel. When the winches finally came to a stop, she found herself inside the hull, somewhere near the back of the airship. She pulled herself upright and dusted herself off.
