He looked to the girl and gave her the slightest of nods. If they led the monster along with this charade, and found the right moment to act, they might just live through the night.
It was at least a hope.
Chapter Five
In Which Our Dashing Archivist and Colonial Pepperpot Are Called Upon
Salcombe in April was particularly lovely. Not too hot, not too cold, and provided it was not raining, it was the perfect sort of weather for some brisk exercise. Certainly, there was plenty of that to be hand in this sleepy corner of Devon.
"Coming from me, Wellington, this may shock you," Eliza grunted, "but you are quite mad."
Several hundred feet underneath them both, the English Channel stirred languidly. The waters were particularly blue when observed from this height, but the horizon was not quite clear enough to see their French neighbours. Wellington continued a few inches upward. Hand up. Left foot. Right foot. Push from the legs. Secure a hold on the left hand. He looked around and exhaled. Breath-taking, he thought, taking in the jagged coastline they were currently climbing.
"We are supposed to be relaxing!" Eliza called out as she also ascended in the same fashion. Albeit with less confidence.
Wellington slid one of the pneumatic spikes up along their safety rope and placed it where his right hand had been. When he pressed its head, the spike let out a short quick ffpop! before securing itself into the rock. Leaning back into his rope, he called down to Eliza. "Do you mean to tell me they do not have mountains in your hemisphere?"
Eliza shot him a rather nasty look. How he did enjoy goading her like that. "I will have you know New Zealand is home to the Remarkables, the Craigie Burn Range, and of course, Mount Cook."
“Mount Cook? Why does that sound familiar?”
Wellington's smile faltered a bit as he watched her hands fumble for purchase. Eliza grunted through clenched teeth as she tucked her legs underneath her and pushed upward. "That is where Douglas trained for his summiting of Mount Everest. I trust you remember Douglas Sheppard?"
Right. That one he deserved. "I would love to make the threat that I could cut your safety line and let you fall to your untimely end, but I’m concerned you may not need my help in that."
"Truth be told, Welly, I only covered the basics of mountaineering when I was on a probationary period with the Ministry." She grimaced as she pulled herself upward. From the coil of rope across her chest, she slid a similar spike up to the rock, pressed the head with her thumb, and with a ffpop! the spike was secured. "That was years ago and I do not recall Mount Ruapehu being this vertical—and we didn’t have these Mountaineers helping us along."
Wellington let out a snort. "Hammering in spikes by hand?"
"Believe me, I was a certified expert at hammering in spikes by the time we summited."
"Nothing wrong with sharpening the skills, Eliza, wot?"
"But Sound did say he wanted us to relax."
Wellington motioned around them. "Don’t you find this relaxing?"
"I might, if we were on one of those boats floating by. You know? Those boats, hundreds of feet below us."
She was now eye-to-eye with him, her cheeks ruddier than usual.
"A bit further, darling," Wellington said, giving her his best smile.
Eliza inclined her head. "If it were anyone else..."
He stole a kiss from her, cutting off her words and earning a little, soft moan from her. That maddened him, and Eliza was fully aware of this.
The kiss would soften the blow of what he was about to offer. "One piece of advice: Three points of contact at all time." Wellington pulled on his safety line to bring himself closer to the rock. He called out as he placed his right foot on a rock jutting out to one side of him. "Right foot. Left foot," he said as he tucked his left foot into a small space in front of his stomach. "Right hand," he said as he stretched his hand above him. "And push." He left Eliza several feet underneath him as he lifted himself upward. Once his legs had straightened, and only when he was steady, Wellington released the stone face in his left hand and moved it up closer to him. "So long as you maintain those three points..."
"You climb your way..." Eliza huffed as she looked for footholds. She paused. "My apologies, Welly. Give me a moment."
He looked back down at her, his free hand slipping back to the grappling gun holstered on his hip. "Everything all right there, Eliza?"
"This terrain is... well… Ruapehu has slightly different footholds." She placed her left hand above her, then lifted her left foot up, placing it and the inside of her leg flat against the rock.
"Well, it's a volcano, yes?"
"Luckily for us, slumbering but not quite sleeping," Eliza quipped as she tucked her knee into her stomach, and pushed with her legs while tightening her grip on the rock underneath her left hand.
Strands of unbound chestnut hair danced across her forehead and face. Sunlight suddenly hit her on this ascent, revealing the deep red traces in these wayward curls. He smiled on thinking that this was why he liked challenging Eliza. He would miss the fire in her eyes and that wicked smile of hers and sometimes goading her would kindle that. Not that he did not also enjoy the contentment in her face when she slept next to him. The peace her face reflected when they were close, her smooth skin against his...
"Wellington..."
Eliza had covered the distance quite easily between them.
"See?" He smiled at her. "Child's play."
"You are quite the randy tomcat, aren’t you?"
"Whatever do you mean, Eliza?"
"I know that look in your eye, Welly," she said, before engaging another Mountaineer into the rock face. "I wonder if teaching me something new or proving me wrong does not serve as some kind of aphrodisiac with you."
"Perhaps I wanted you to pass me in our climb," Wellington said, keeping his eyes on Eliza's posterior, "to enjoy the delightful view."
"Actually, I passed you," she said leaning back expertly, giving Wellington that wicked smile he did so love, "so I could return the favour."
She was easily ten feet in front of him now, so she would reach the cliff's edge first.
That suited him fine. He would have the final word, regardless.
He had managed to pull himself up another five feet when he heard Eliza make the discovery. "Oh! Welly! This is DELIGHTFUL!!!"
My skills are adequately sharpened, he thought, drawing the pistol from his hip. I’m ready for lunch.
The pistol fired its hook up to the edge above him. Giving his safety line enough slack, Wellington engaged the winch. His stomach lurched as he was hoisted up to the cliff's edge. Catching the edge of the rock extending overhead with one hand, he swung gently there for a moment, even after his second hand got purchase overhead. He found leverage for his right foot, but completing the climb became all the easier when Eliza took hold of his right arm.
"You have outdone yourself this time, Wellington Thornhill Books."
"Tosh," he returned with a slight laugh. "The Director said he wanted us to relax, so that is what we shall do."
"But how do you get all this up here?"
"A very large, efficiently stuffed backpack, and modern technology. These two innovations make our climb a trifle," he said, freeing the grappling hook from the rock face.
Wellington holstered the pistol, and turned to face Eliza who was walking around the setting, clapping her hands together. Between them was a complete luncheon with a fine white wine chilling in a small bucket at the centre. It had been quite an effort to be sure, and he would probably nurse a somewhat tender back the next day... but for the smile on her face, it was all worthwhile.
"The chicken should still be warm," Wellington said as he took a seat on the picnic blanket. "I paired it with a white wine. A pinot gris is what you prefer, yes?"
"You spoil me in every way," Eliza said with a little curtsy.
"No, I understand that if I cock up anything, it should not be..." he paused as he pulled the cork free
of the bottle, took a quick sniff from the open bottle, and nodded, "... the wine. Now come sit and join me. That climb must have given you quite the appetite."
"Rather," Eliza said, finally taking a spot opposite him.
For a moment, there were only sounds of wind skimming along the grass and the soft tearing of chicken as they tucked in for their private, scenic luncheon.
"All right, now I am relaxed," Eliza said, taking a sip of wine as she stared out over the channel.
"Then my mission is not only complete, but a rousing success." Wellington lifted his glass and extended it to Eliza. "Here’s the following the Old Man’s orders."
She nodded, touching her glass with his. "Without question, and to the letter."
"That climb of yours was hardly to the letter," a voice said from behind them. "You looked as if you were struggling there a bit, Miss Braun."
Eliza and Wellington shot looks over their shoulders. "Doctor Sound?" they exclaimed in unison.
"This is a bit of a surprise, I am sure," he admitted, leaning into his walking stick.
"As you can see we were not expecting company; we only have two wine glasses," Wellington said, taking another sip.
"We were under the impression that we were on mandatory leave," Eliza said, with a slight note of annoyance in her voice.
"And those were my orders," he said, looming over the idyllic setting. He motioned with his hand at the picnic and smiled warmly. "I must say this is very romantic."
"'It was," Eliza seethed. "You certainly did not find us with our Ministry rings, seeing as we left those behind once ordered to take a holiday. So how did you do it?"
"Very astute of you, Miss Braun," Sound stated without answering her question. Instead he pointed at their plate. "Oh those cucumber sandwiches look delightful."
"I wouldn’t believe for a moment that Alice would reveal our destination," Wellington said to Eliza. "She will make a fine agent to the Ministry, but she’s loyal to you first."
"That she is, and that loyalty is not broken, I assure you."
Eliza shook her head before asking Wellington, "You didn’t tell Bruce we were coming to Salcombe, did you?"
"Why would I tell Agent Campbell of our holiday plans?" he blurted. "It’s not like we are ending the work day over pints at the pub."
"Besides, Campbell is still in the field."
Wellington could plainly see their Director was enjoying flummoxing them.
"That rules out Hill as well," Eliza said, polishing off her wine. She immediately refilled her glass as she thought aloud, "I didn’t mention anything to Cassandra, not that I had an opportunity to do so."
"My, it’s a bit like a Sherlock Holmes mystery, eh wot?" Sound’s eyes widened as he motioned to the bowl of fruit. "Oh, those grapes are quite tempting. Would you mind?"
Wellington took the small bunch and offered them up. "Bon appétit."
"Merci," the director said, popping a few off their stem and popping them into his mouth.
She glanced at her glass, half full of wine, and continued to pour, muttering, "We. Can’t. Win."
"Give up?" the director asked, a gleam of victory in his eye.
Eliza crossed her arms and glowered, so Wellington had to be the one to concede. "Yes," he said, "yes, we do."
The director shrugged. "Your protégé Serena does love to talk about you."
Wellington was a little surprised, but the Ministry Seven had rather made themselves at home at Whiterock, and it wasn’t as if their location was a state secret.
"So am I to assume," Wellington said, holding his own glass towards Eliza. He could hear wine pour as he continued, "that we are being called back in?"
"I have an æthergate waiting for us, yes." Sound looked a little upset at not being offered a glass.
"An æthergate?" Eliza asked with a crook of her eyebrow. "You must be desperate."
"We were a hazard to Ministry operations and reprimanded for it. Not officially, but strongly encouraged to take leave. And now, you have personally come to call us back in?" Wellington toasted the director. "And here I thought there were more than two skilled agents at the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences."
Sound glanced at them both for a moment before giving them a curt nod. "I suppose I have brought this upon myself, but yes, I need you in the office. Now."
"Would you mind if we finished lunch first?" Wellington asked, glancing hopefully at the sandwiches. It had been rather a bother getting it all up here.
Sound tossed the remaining grapes over the edge of the cliff face and tightened his grip on his walking stick. "Yes, I do." He no longer had any laughter in his voice, and Wellington understood the jovial director was now long gone.
Eliza flicked her eyes to one side, and they shared an understanding. In such little ways had they learned to communicate in the field. It worked as well with Sound.
If he was being curt, it had to be serious. Luncheon was quite wasted, but such was the lot of an agent.
Chapter Six
Where a Last Resort Is Employed
"Alms?" her voice croaked. "Alms for the poor?"
Her hands trembled, her fingertips stinging with the morning’s cold. She took another deep breath, the smell of Florence’s nightwater filling her nostrils. They’d rinse the drains soon, and the tantalising odours of fresh-baked bread and brewed coffee would replace the stench. Visitors from other countries would walk the streets, peruse the shops, examine wares they offered, and dine at the various restaurants. That was still hours away though. Mornings belonged to the working class, those labourers and businessmen, scurrying off to their work places. In this narrow alleyway, she’d found a spot, and even picked up a few coins from passers-by.
Examining the people walking around she did see a few tourists out though. They probably wanted to get going early before the crowds started. Watching carefully, she hoped the kindly foreigner who had become a regular past this spot would appear. He never hesitated to offer her coin. Many of the locals gave her disdainful looks for begging. She was, after all, the reflection they did not care to see. She embodied the less fortunate side of their country. With all the struggles Italy had been through, generosity was tempered with cold logic. If you have the strength to beg for money, then you have the strength to work. Maybe for a few more days, they would tolerate her presence at this spot. She had already been there for three weeks. It was high time for her to kick herself off ground to find good, honest work. That was the Italian way.
Today was different though; heartbeat raced when she spotted his flawless top hat high above the other pedestrians. He was very distinctive; standing a full foot taller than the Italians, and wearing a sharp, tailored black ensemble.
Strangely enough, she suspected he knew how important he was to her, how her survival had become reliant on his generosity. Perhaps he perceived his coins less of a charity and more of an investment—one he could use in the future.
"Alms for the poor?" she begged, lifting her hand up a fraction higher.
"Good morning, love," he said to her with a crooked smile. This was the first time he actually talked to her. She always hoped he would stop for a moment, but to actually speak to her? "I do hope these coins are a help to you," he said, dropping money into her open palm.
"May God bless you and keep, sir," she managed.
"There is no need for that," her benefactor returned, looking to either side of him. Pedestrians were milling about, paying no heed of either one of them. Strange how in such a public place, the two of them shared a modicum of privacy. "Your state is one of man's greatest tragedies, and whatever has fallen upon you, I can only say I am truly sorry."
"Thank you, sir."
"I have noticed you here for some time, and I want to help beyond this morning’s meagre offering." The gentlemen leaned in even further, closer to her than he had ever been. "I work for people that can help. If you are willing, perhaps we can assist one another."
"God bless you, sir," she said looked
up into his eyes. His face grew even paler as recognition flashed across it. "So long as you are willing, Brother Streeper."
The coins in her palm clattered against the sidewalk as one hand slapped around his wrist while her second hovered over his pulse point.
"One tap," she warned him, "and ten minutes later you collapse from a stroke."
He did not make a move. Brother Streeper knew not to challenge her in this matter. She was mistress of poisons and toxins. She understood what they would do and how quickly they would take to kill.
"Now then, you will be so kind as to help me to my feet." She moved the needle closer to his skin. "Do take care, lest I slip."
"As you wish, Madame del Morte," he replied.
With his free arm, Brother Streeper reached underneath Sophia's elbow and gingerly lifted her up. She motioned with her head to the alleyway. They slipped deeper in between the stone buildings, far away from pedestrians’ eyes. She wanted her time with the House of Usher completely and utterly void any distraction.
Sophia released her grip and took two steps back, holding her hands up in surrender. “As difficult as you may find this to believe, I mean you no harm."
Brother Streeper reached into his coat and pulled out a “Crackshot” that Sophia did not detect. Impressive, considering the bulk of the Wilkinson-Webley creation. The compressors hissed as he took aim at her forehead. “Tell me why I should not pull the trigger here and now.”
“Because my death will bring down the House.”
His fingers flexed around the handle of his pistol. He wore the uncertainty in his gaze much like his suit from the House. It was evident, pronounced, and fit him like a glove. Sophia remained quiet. She had nothing to offer him in this moment. If he killed her, it might well put her out of her misery.
Streeper took a step closer, his face still reflecting a little confusion. “I would imagine killing you, would move me several steps up the Usher ladder. You have quite the price on your head.”
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