Operation_Endgame

by Pip Ballantine

  “Something we share in common,” she returned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I do have a bounty on my head from the House of Usher, that is true. Just as the House of Usher has a bounty on it from the House of del Morte.”

  She was surprised, if not flattered, by the shock and sympathy that crossed Brother Streeper’s face. Perhaps he believed blood truly was thicker than water, that a family's bond and commitment to one another was stronger than the brotherhood. “Your family marked you as a target?"

  "Those who survived Usher’s onslaught hold me responsible. Had I not overheard my own Nonna and sisters talking, they would have brought me before a tribunal. I would have stood before mia famiglia and held to account for what they believe I caused."

  "To some extent, it is you fault." Brother Streeper wore a slight sneer. Sophia lifted one eyebrow in response to the insult. For someone so caught off guard, he had found his courage somewhere. "Usher never forgets. You killed our own. You broke a contract."

  "Oh, that again?" Sophia rolled her eyes, emitting a soft groan. "If you wish to talk semantics, we can, with the contract in front of me. As for those in your order that I killed—" Sophia shrugged, "—they knew the risk they faced. If not, then they were fools."

  "So why reach out to me? You know of my standing in the house. Merely a footman. What sway will I carry?"

  Sophia nodded, looking him up and down for a moment. This much was true. Streeper had served as a liaison between her and the House of Usher. It was something of a surprise that he had not accompanied Alexander that fateful night at her hotel in London.

  "All it would take would be one æthermissive, and the House would send someone to collect you."

  “Ah, but you I have dealt with before.” A shudder passed through her body as she added, “The last emissary the House sent unsettled me. Greatly."

  Brother Streeper fussed with the lapels of his suit as he paced between the two buildings. Occasionally, he glanced up at her, perhaps searching for some sort of tell that would let him know her plan.

  Sophia's patience was wearing thin, "If I wanted you dead, I would be talking to myself at this point."

  "So, you reach out to your old contact Ronald Streeper, not by appointment but through deception. Then you ask for asylum in the House of Usher, the very organisation that has a price on your head." Brother Streeper stopped in his pacing and closed the distance between them. "Why would I want to work with an assassin cast out of her own family?"

  Sophia refuse to flinch at how close he was to her. Any man drawing this near to her would either be trying to steal a kiss or, for the more foolhardy, tempting her to bed. His breath reeked, teeming with some sort of early morning gunpowder tea. Typically British.

  "Consider this, Brother Streeper, I alone found you in the streets of Florence, and managed to get you in this alleyway. Imagine what an army of Sophia del Morte's, all of them sworn to vengeance, could do." She tipped her head back, smiling ever so slightly. "Without my help, you will never see them coming."

  Those words did sink in with Brother Streeper. With her limited-to-scarce resources, Sophia was able to track down a member of the House of Usher. It had been her good fortune that the one she found was a former contact. Her deception had been long and patient, just like her family’s would be with the House of Usher. They would begin with small underlings; runners first, then, known associates. Because there were still twenty or so of her family remaining, they would be able to accomplish far more in a shorter amount of time compared to her solo operation. She knew what they were capable of, and she had to make sure to get into Usher first.

  She could see the same conclusion was becoming apparent to Streeper’s mind—he wore it on his face.

  "How do you propose to proceed?" he finally asked.

  Sophia dug into her filthy rags, searching for a small satchel she wore at her hip. "I need you get in touch with Mr Badger."

  "You want Badger to bring you in?" Streeper barked a dry laugh. "You are aware that he is the one that issued the order against your family?"

  "The del Mortes, or at least what is left of them, is no longer my family. They are hunting me. If they are after me, then they are most assuredly stalking Badger." She pulled from her tattered dress the object she had wrapped up in her Nonna's handkerchief, the last reminder of her grandmother. "It is imperative that I see Badger gets to safety."

  Streeper’s gaze narrowed. "Quite the tale you tell, Signora."

  "You have no idea," Sophia said, opening the kerchief for Streeper to reveal the contents within it, “the depth of this tale."

  Streeper’s eyes grew wide. True, it was quite the story, but there was merit embedded within it. His answer would be true test of trust between them.

  "I will have to make few queries. I know he was receiving a new carrier from the Americas." Streeper shook his head, his eyes staring at what rested in Nonna's handkerchief. “This complicates things, you realise?"

  "Dear Ronald," Sophia began, folding up the handkerchief to stuff back into her satchel, "complicated things will not matter one bit if Badger is dead. Whatever you need to do, whoever you need to contact, do it now. I will be where you found me this morning, where you have found me every morning past three weeks, and then you will give me orders." Sophia threw back the shawl over her head, hunched over, and took on the semblance of an old beggar crone, homeless and destitute in the streets of Florence. With the creak back in her voice, she said, "If tomorrow comes and goes, so will I. If that is the case, then I wish you good luck. You will need it."

  With her walking stick tapping ahead, Sophia went from the alleyway back into the busy streets of Florence. She gathered up what few belongings she had and disappeared into the flood of her fellow countrymen set on their morning rituals. It was now up to Brother Streeper. Either he would appear the next day, offering her a purpose, or she would remain a ghost walking among the living in the streets of Florence.

  Sophia stopped at a street corner and dared to glance out from under her cowl. Mia dio, she prayed silently, please do not fail me.

  Chapter Seven

  In Which a Mad Scientist Plays a Game

  After seeing the damage the æthergates did to members of Nahush Kari’s Ghost Rebellion, Eliza was less than thrilled to step through one herself. She had to remind herself that the ones Kari took advantage of were not true æthergates, but shoddy imitations of what the Ministry and Usher battled over in the depths of the Atlantic.

  A knot formed in her stomach when she saw the swirling circular rift with Doctor Sound’s Whiterock office just visible on the other side.

  "Come along," he said, beckoning her and Wellington to follow him.

  Eliza couldn’t help her expression tightening into disapproval.

  Wellington squeezed her hand. "This sort of travel is an unfortunate side-effect of our service to Queen and Empire, darling."

  "This and the hypocrisy are just too much. Wasn’t it just last month, he ordered us to go on leave?"

  "Circumstances have apparently changed." With a tug on his coat lapels, Wellington walked past her towards the portal. "No time to be a slugabed, Eliza. Avanté!"

  Now she was alone in Salcombe, and making the jump herself. Safety was once again being left behind. It might have taken close on three weeks, but they’d finally found comfort and relaxation, and now they were just giving it all up.

  "Fine then," she grumbled to no one before stepping into the void.

  A tingle ran across her skin, the fine hairs along her arms rising, a rush of blood in her veins. Maybe this isn’t so bad, she thought.

  That very moment, the sensation of her insides being yanked forward while simultaneously being shoved backward fell on her. She came close to losing her lunch within the æthergate. Who knew what that would do? Nevertheless, she resisted her body’s demands, and pushed forward through the bizarre maelstrom of energy and light. It all was all over in a matter of seconds; and when Eliza
stopped moving, she was on the other side of the portal and in Doctor Sound’s office at Whiterock.

  She did not recall stumbling but when the world slipped back into focus, Eliza found herself in the arms of her lover. Wellington gave her a warm smile and asked as delicately as he could, "So, how’s the stomach?"

  Eliza nodded and held up a single finger. Taking a few deep breaths, she risked speaking. "I think my previous repasts will stay put."

  "Excellent, better constitution than mine. Fortunately, Doctor Sound had a waste bin at the ready. I owe Miss Shillingworth flowers or perhaps a modest tea setting in exchange for taking care of that."

  "She adores a good Willow pattern," Doctor Sound suggested as he walked over to his desk. "Now, if you please..." He motioned to two empty chairs in front of his desk.

  Wellington and Eliza took their respective seats as Sound took a sip from the teacup that was waiting for him. He gave a pleasant nod at its taste, then shifted dossiers around on his desk. Just audible outside were the sounds of the latest batch of new agents practising their ju jitsu on the bright green lawn.

  The director's face adjusted into his tell-tale scowl which he usually wore in response to a taxing case, and Eliza breathed a bit easier. Even though summoned back from leave, it was reassuring that they were not being called in because they’d done something unseemly or worse.

  Granted, she enjoyed being unseemly with Wellington, and while on holiday they’d made up for lost time. She let out a muffled sigh as the director addressed them.

  "This came from Scotland Yard two weeks after you’d left for Devon," he said, sliding one of the dossiers over to them. "The man’s name was Wilbur Inversill. The lady’s name, Esther Simmons."

  The man wore a beautifully tailored suit. A rather fine cut, Eliza thought. He also had spectacles as well as being groomed in a most gentlemanly fashion. Unfortunately, the man’s clothes and face were stained horribly by the gash in his neck. His body lay twisted at an odd angle, but Eliza noted his bowler was much like the way his spectacles appears—straight, neat, and clean. Not a drop of blood on the lenses or hatband. He was holding the hand of the lady at his side, her throat also cut in a brutal fashion.

  "The angle of the man’s body is odd," Eliza noted, tapping the photograph.

  Doctor Sound peered at her from over her spectacles. "How so, Agent Braun?"

  "Well, for starters, his body appears to have dropped where he fell from blood loss," she said, motioning across the photo from top to bottom, "but after he fell, someone had flipped him over. He landed face down, but died on his back."

  Wellington, studied the image over her shoulder. "Yes, post-mortem he has been turned, otherwise there would have been more blood on the carpet. His suit is stained more than where he landed."

  "And look at his arm here. His right is at a straight angle. That had to be posed."

  "Very astute, agents," Sound said.

  Eliza followed the man’s arm over to the woman. The corset she wore transformed her hips, waist, and bust into an attractive hourglass figure; the cleavage created bordered on the scandalous. Even more eyebrow raising were the tight breeches she wore. It was a style and a fashion Eliza could appreciate.

  "So they were lovers?" Eliza asked.

  "From what the Yard tells us, they were complete strangers. Both happened to be in Paris at the same time. He resides in the Wimbledon area. She was from Cornwall. Just embarking on a holiday, tragically." The director deposited another dossier on top of the one opened before them. "Now, this case. Lucius Northall and Isabella Bradley. Again, seemingly total strangers. Found dead at a train station in Plymouth. He was a construction worker. She was a rather influential haberdasher, quite the seamstress tycoon it seems."

  Eliza opened the file and gave a slight gasp.

  The couple were holding hands, their throats torn in a similar manner to the other couple. Their fashion almost identical. He was wearing spectacles and a bowler, again both touches immaculate. Her corset was very tight, with her breasts on display.

  "The bowler and glasses," Wellington said, leaning forward, "have been put on post-mortem. That hat is far too big for him."

  Sound offered another dossier. "Lawrence Tarkington, a banker from Wimbledon. The lady, Zylphia Jenkins. Schoolteacher."

  This time, the couple—still wearing the trappings of a woman of adventure and a man of a proper British upbringing—were almost in flagrante. He was behind her, holding the woman in what would be an eternal embrace. Both had suffered the same fate: throats cut, heads twisted at unnatural angles.

  However the man's eyeglasses and bowler showed very little blood. He could not have been wearing them at the time of death. They were obviously placed there after the deed was done.

  "Finally," Sound said, opening another dossier. "Edwin Carlyle and Lulu Summers."

  Again, captured in an embrace of death, their necks a mangled mess.

  This time, Wellington jabbed at the image. "I say, I have a brown jacket just like that. In fact I have a bowler and eyeglasses similar to those. Interesting how the gentleman is always taller than the lady, and she is notably short in stature."

  Eliza looked at the other cases and then began reshuffling the photos, organising them by date. "Wilber Inversill, Esther Simmons. Edwin Tarley, Lulu Adele." Please, God, let me be wrong, she thought as she placed the third photo next to Tarley and Adele. "Lucius Northall and Isabella Bradley. Lawrence Tarkington, Zylphia Jenkins."

  "He’s spelling our names, isn’t he?" Wellington said in a low tone.

  Dammit, so he saw it, too. "Yes."

  "We were called in on the third murder. I had my suspicions based on the clothes they were wearing," Sound admitted, "but my hunch...?"

  "Wilber, Edwin, Lucius, Lawrence... Esther, Lulu, Isabella, Zylphia..."

  The words came out of her dry throat, and she could not stop the thought flashing through her mind. "They are meant to be us. All of them. Jekyll is baiting us, killing people he can get to instead of us."

  "Jekyll?" Sound asked. "How can you be certain?"

  "Look at the photos, Director. Only one person would come up with something so depraved." Eliza glanced up at Sound and added, "It would not surprise me if there were evidence of sexual intercourse between..."

  Doctor Sound’s complexion went ashen.

  "Good God," Wellington whispered.

  "God has absolutely nothing to do with this," Sound replied darkly.

  Eliza’s gaze focused on the images, looking for details that she knew Jekyll would include. "Seems that you so upset the mad doctor, Director, that he wants us to continue the chase."

  "What are you looking for, darling?"

  Her head shot up. Wellington focused on one photo. "Darling?" she repeated.

  "As far as Doctor Sound is concerned, we are still on mandatory leave on account of disciplinary action. He can sod off for all I care in the wake of this."

  "I am sitting right before you," their director grumbled.

  Eliza moved her hand from one photo to another. "Jekyll would not stage such a tableau without giving us a bread crumb to follow. He wanted us to figure out that he was on the move. He wanted us to follow him, of course. But there would be something Jekyll would offer—not as blatant as this."

  "True, I think Jekyll was considering our efforts less of a pursuit and more of a sport. And then the director took us off the case..."

  "His gallivanting seemed diminished, didn't it?"

  Sound cleared his throat. "Consider your reinstated status as my apology. It seems the mad doctor is, indeed, keen on you both nipping at his heels."

  Wellington smoothed his moustache. "Here is where Jekyll’s ego will prove the death of him. He wants us so badly on his trail that he has actually foreshadowed what he is planning."

  "Another murder. This time, a gentleman with a name that starts with 'I' and a lady with 'A'. Complete strangers." Eliza chewed her bottom lip. "Unless he decides to change that detail."
<
br />   "We should put nothing past him," Wellington said.

  Eliza leaned forward, then pointed to something in the photo before her. "Director, do you have a magnifying glass?"

  "Actually, something better," he replied, opening a drawer to his left.

  The monocle looked sturdily built, but then, housing so many other lenses, it had to be. Suspended from its side were additional multi-coloured lenses, but Eliza could not even begin to guess their functions. She secured the eyepiece against her right eye and experienced a bit of vertigo as everything on that side was suddenly magnified to the point of distortion.

  "All right there, Agent Braun?" Sound asked.

  "Yes, just a little..." She placed her hand against Wellington's chest. "Well now, that’s quite a sensation, now isn't it?"

  "Just focus on the picture, and when you are ready, close the other eye, relying only on the magnomonocle."

  "Yes, quite," Eliza said, bracing herself against the table. She closed her right eye and pressed a thumbnail against the detail in the original photograph. "Let’s try this."

  Switching dominance from left to right, Eliza could now see everything magnified, albeit so extreme, that the image was fuzzy. She turned back the magnification until the detail took on a more discernible shape. Daring to experiment with this new technology, she slipped one of the lenses into place. It was the red one as the hue spread across her field of vision, but details jumped from the image.

  "I see it now," she said, adjusting the zoom of the magnomonocle. "It’s a ticket. For the Underground."

  "How can you tell, Eliza?" Wellington asked.

  "It’s the bar-and-disc symbol. And the destination was St Pancras. Welly, would you please?"

  "One step ahead of you, Eliza," and underneath her finger slid another photograph. The second murder scene.

  "Now you wouldn’t be so thick as to put the next crumb in the same place? You’re too clever for that," she whispered as she worked across the photograph. "There, underneath Summer’s right boot heel. Another rail ticket. Standard fare. Plymouth." Eliza lifted her hand free of the photo. "Wellington, go on and put the Paris murder underneath my hand." The image slipped into her grasp. "So, Boston to London. London to Pancras. Pancras to Plymouth. Plymouth to Paris. So now Jekyll is destined for..." She paused. This time, in the waistcoat pocket of Jenkins’ outfit. "A ticket for that new hypersteam that runs between Paris and Constantinople?"