"Ragnarök," Tinsdale choked out the word. When Bruce arched an eyebrow at him, he went on. "The House is aware that the Ministry found some things in Russia late last year, but they are moving on with it, regardless."
"And what is ‘it’ exactly?" Bruce leaned forward. "Because we’ve been looking ever since then to find out what Ragnarök is."
Tinsdale motioned to a table tucked away in the corner of the parlour. At the sight of the modest tea setting, Bruce’s stomach growled. "Nothing good."
"Not a tea drinker, myself," he said. "But I could go for a bite to eat." He took a seat opposite of his informant and started stacking cucumber sandwiches on a plate. "What do you have for me?"
"Ragnarök is the brainchild of the new Lord of—no, he calls himself the Chairman," Tinsdale corrected himself as he poured a cup of tea.
"And who would that be? Mr Badger? Mr Fox?" Bruce waggled his eyebrows as he reached for the tea. "Mr Ostrich?"
The young lad shot Bruce an icy stare. "When you reach the heights of Chairman, anonymity is no longer allowed."
"So what is this bloke’s name?"
"Herman Webster Mudgett, but he insists on being referred to by his alias. Dr Henry Howard Holmes."
"In my experience, names like that signal you’re dealing with a tosspot." Bruce took a quick sniff of the tea he was about to sample. He hated tea, but if it kept his informant talking, that was all that mattered.
"Holmes is the reason I am leaving the House. That, and Ragnarök."
"Must be a massive operation if this Holmes fella is pushing it along, despite our Russian operation. You got munitions and weapons development there, human trafficking in the United States from what OSM insinuates. What's going on here in delightful Italy, I wonder?"
"Research and development," Tinsdale said simply.
"What kind?" Bruce said, before the growl of his stomach sounded again.
Tinsdale motioned to Bruce’s sandwiches. "Agent Campbell, why are we talking when you are on an empty stomach. Please, tuck in. I will get you properly caught up once we finish our tea and are safely underway."
Bruce glanced down to the plate in front of him. It wasn’t the pasta dish he was craving earlier, but these nibbles would tide him over until he could eat properly.
Only when picked up the top cucumber sandwich with two fingers did he notice the soft glow rising and falling from his Ministry ring’s stone.
"Mind if I pick up an extra cushion?" Bruce asked in an even voice. "This chair isn’t suiting me."
"Help yourself."
Rising from the table, Bruce nodded to Tinsdale as he meticulously buttered his scone. The pillow was within reach, but Bruce knew he would never make it when he heard the soft scrape of a chair leg against the floor.
His left hand shot out as he turned and slapped hard around the Remington-Elliot Tinsdale was now brandishing. With the pistol pointing away, Bruce drove his right hand up into the boy’s elbow, bending and breaking the arm in one strike. Gasping for breath, Tinsdale went to scream, but Bruce stopped it by breaking the poor sod’s nose. Now Tinsdale was struggling for breath. With the right arm useless, Bruce slipped around and grabbed the nape of the boy’s neck. He swept the informant’s legs out from under him, driving the lad’s face into the large pillow of a chez lounge. Tinsdale kicked and bucked, but Bruce simply braced his knee into the informant’s back and pushed him deeper into the cushion. The muffled scream turned into a rattling gasp, and Bruce only pressed harder. Shoes that had scrambled for purchase now scuffed out a weak, worn effort. Then Tinsdale was still.
Bruce didn’t move. Not for another few minutes or so.
And there goes any hope for a smooth operation, Bruce thought glumly as he pulled himself off the dead man. Combing his hair back with his fingers, he took in a deep breath and swallowed back his distaste. Tinsdale was not even twenty, and Bruce had killed him. He needed a drink, but he did not want to chance anything in here. Returning to the table, he waved his ring hand over the tea setting. The cucumber sandwiches, the salmon sandwiches, and the biscuits. Only the scones and tea failed to make his ring blink. Yeah, Tinsdale was a lad, but he was also ready to kill Bruce. Premeditated like.
He took another look around the room. No doubt someone would be here soon, especially if Tinsdale didn’t send word that there was a corpse in need of Usher’s attention.
Bruce crossed the parlour for the informant’s desk, open to the world with no semblance of security. Why would he lock it? Tinsdale expected to murder me with cucumber sandwiches, Bruce thought. His hand paused over a blank pad of paper while his gaze darted from corner to corner of the desk. Tinsdale had a few notes scattered across part of this roll top. Grabbing a pencil, Bruce drew from the pad its last entry. Tearing it free of the pad, he stuffed it in his pockets. A quick check of the desk drawers yielded a black book only a little larger than his hand. It was full of notes and numbers.
This would be more for Brandon’s expertise.
Bruce returned to Tinsdale’s body and started rifling through his pockets. A set of keys, a wallet, and a small scrap of paper, folded only once. He glanced at the writing.
Garg0yle
With a final glance around the flat, Bruce closed the door behind him and began his descent down the stairs.
When he emerged from the stairwell, Harker sprang to his feet. "Any word on my Virginia?"
Bruce shrugged. His answers tumbled out like running water pouring out of a pitcher far too fast. "Possible lead. Need to follow up on it. Talk as we walk. Let's go."
"Mr Campbell? What is—"
Bruce grabbed the man's arm and dragged him out into the afternoon sun. While Harker looked about him and kept returning his confused gaze to Bruce, the Australian simply kept his eyes forward and his stride strong and confident.
He had to hope his partner had not been observed on his trip to the bell tower of Assisi. From now on he had to assume, all eyes were on him and his irreverent Canadian partner.
Chapter Thirteen
Wherein a Monster Strikes
"You look stunning," Wellington said.
Eliza glanced at herself in the mirror, turning slightly. The evening dress was a recent purchase from her last visit to London. The black patterns which wound and twisted their way along the dress and its train were quite lovely while the plunging neckline was very daring. Oh, how her mother would find this look scandalous.
"I sincerely hope in this fashion I can hold a candle to the formidable Professor Henrietta Falcon," she said pointedly.
Usually when Wellington blushed, she found it charming. Endearing, even. When he did it at the mention of this academic’s name, though, she found it insufferable. "Eliza, I am sure you will find her as impressive as I did when we meet her tonight."
"I can introduce myself as a kindred spirit or perhaps as an old friend," she said, crossing the room to pick up her modest purse. The weight of her Ministry-issue pistol gave her much comfort. "You did rather go on about her this afternoon."
Wellington cleared his throat. "I did... yes..."
"In quite excruciating detail, I might add."
He dodged that barb by taking stock of himself in the mirror. Eliza made a note in her mind to put Professor Henrietta Falcon at the top of her suspect list. Out of spite.
"Ready, are we?" he asked.
Staying mad at Wellington was nigh on impossible, she realised as she took his arm. "Very well. Into the belly of the beast we go."
They proceeded towards the dining area of the hypersteam in silence. Outside was darkness so heavy and absolute that only the lights from within their train reflected back to them. Eliza glanced at their strange, transparent reflections against the train’s long black mirrors. We do make a fine couple, she thought, squeezing Wellington’s arm.
He looked around them before he asked her in a hushed voice. "No sign of Jekyll today?"
Eliza twisted her lips. "I was careful, though having to mingle with the passengers, I expected the worst. Sti
ll, I didn’t see him. If he’s here, he is keeping his head down."
"I have been combing the passenger manifest," Wellington said. He took a breath that made his entire body shudder. "You would think an anagram of Jekyll would be easy to find, but that was obviously not his tactic. We’re trying to eliminate possibilities, but it is taking too long. We're only a day or two out of Constantinople."
"I know, Welly, I know," Eliza reassured him, although the same inconvenient truth gnawed away at her resolve. The madman’s combination of barbarity and brilliance she found most unsettling. "Perhaps he’s using another kind of cypher for his name. A play on words, a name from his own past..."
"What’s in a name," Wellington said, his words punctuated with a mirthless laugh. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."
Eliza rapped him on his shoulder. "If you insist on quoting Shakespeare, please, anything but Romeo & Juliet. I found Juliet to be rather dim if you must know."
"Which of his works do you prefer?"
Eliza tilted her head. "Much Ado About Nothing. A rather charming romance if there ever was one penned by the Bard."
That earned her a sincere smile. Dressed as he was in his own finery, an elegant dinner jacket of the finest cut with a crisp white bowtie and a waistcoat, the smile was the last detail his outfit needed.
They approached the door to the train’s parlour. On the other side of the ornate glass pane, opaque and featureless figures milled about. The scent of fine tobacco tickled Eliza’s nose, and her mouth watered.
"I could go for a cigar myself," she said wistfully. "Lead the way, Orville."
"With pleasure, Angelica."
Opening the parlour door, before them was a less formal, more relaxed version of their boarding ceremony in Paris. The influential, the powerful, and the famous were now merely people, all sharing stories, opinions, and observations on the world. Perhaps some of them were discovering unexpected commonalities while others were testing their convictions. Whichever it was, one thing was sure; it was impressive tableaux of prestige.
Jekyll could well have regarded it as a delightful feeding ground.
"Mr Isaac!" a voice called from across the room to their right.
Eliza mustered up a smile she hoped would read as charming and affable and turned to look at Professor Henrietta Falcon. She couldn’t help crooking an eyebrow crook at what the academic was wearing this evening. Perhaps she underestimated the woman as the eye-catching red dress she wore was a delightful union of silk and lace, her own neckline challenging Eliza’s in scandalous depths. The colour was also labelled inappropriate in these social circles, but Falcon wore it with confidence.
"Frederick-Worth?" Eliza asked, motioning to the professor’s dress.
"Why, yes, the man did leave quite the legacy, did he not?" Falcon turned on Wellington to demand, "Mr Isaac, your thoughts? It is rather bold and daring for a woman of my academic profession, but I would argue that my femininity is just as worth celebrating as my scientific achievements. So, why hide it? From the looks of your wife’s tastes in fashion, I would think she is in agreement." Falcon turned her attention to Eliza. "Or does Mr Isaac keep you in a gilded cage, as do most men with their sweethearts, and allow you to shine only when it suits them?"
Her crooked eyebrow inched higher. What, my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?
"My dearest Angelica, is a woman of her own accomplishments. I am most fortunate to have her in my life."
"And what do you do, Mrs Isaac?" the professor asked.
"I’m a writer," Eliza stated, "and in between publications, I engage in competitive target shooting."
Falcon’s eyebrows raised. "You are?"
"Oh yes," Eliza said with a tilt of her head. "I’m quite a crack shot."
"I would love to test your mettle. Perhaps we could find a range somewhere in Constantinople?"
Eliza blinked. "That... that would be lovely."
"Your husband here was quite vague with your plans at the end of the line."
"Angelica is researching a novel, so I am taking some time from my own work to assist her."
"How very supportive," Falcon said with a broad grin, "and what are you writing?"
"Scientific Romance," Eliza stated as Wellington blurted out, "Spy adventure."
Falcon looked to each of them, her smile widening. "Crossing genres. How exciting."
"Perhaps drinks are in order," Wellington said, taking Eliza’s arm and threading it through his own. "Professor?"
"Delightful, Mr Isaac," Falcon replied. "I want to hear all about your book and the research therein."
The three of them made for the bar where Eliza took quick stock of the OHX’s special guests. Mustafa Solak held court at a corner table, and from the gestures he was making, she gathered he was reciting poetry. She also caught sight of Douglas Keating. He gave his luxurious moustache a gentle stroke before smiling and raising his glass to her.
Eliza was about to return the smile but instead went cold. Keating was alone. Ashe Robbins was nowhere to be seen.
Esther Pimms. Lulu Adele. Isabella Bradley. Zylphia Jenkins...
Ashe Robbins.
A drink appeared behind her which she snatched up and took a deep swallow. The burn of bourbon—a particular spirit she did not care for—jolted her back, and her eyes darted around the parlour.
"Angelica?" Wellington said, appearing at her shoulder with a glass of wine for himself and some kind of clear liquid intended for her. "I believe you snatched up Professor Falcon’s drink."
"From the looks of her, she was in need of one. Never mind," Falcon said with a grin as she took the tumbler out of Wellington's grasp, "I was in a vodka sort of mood, anyway."
Eliza toasted the academic and, against her instincts, took another swig of the American spirit. How proud Bill Wheatley would have been of her.
"Angelica," Wellington asked, the concern in his eyes more than earnest, "are you not well?"
Eliza looked around them and glanced at Falcon. Sod it if she knew, her life was at stake along with everyone else. "Wellington, I know who is next."
She watched as he went pale. Falcon lowered her drink from her lips and glanced between them. "Perhaps you are drinking that bourbon rather too quickly, or did you call your hus—"
"Professor Falcon, time is of the essence. My name is Eliza D Braun, and this is Wellington Thornhill Books, and we are agents of Her Majesty’s Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences."
"We are searching for a madman on this train, have been for days now," Wellington added, before taking hold of Eliza’s hands. "Who’s next?"
"The actress. Ashe Robbins. 'A' is next for my name, and she is not here."
"Are you certain of that, darling?" Wellington asked.
Eliza looked at him with her head cocked to one side. "An actress missing a chance to shine in a social setting? You saw how she was dressed at the train station."
He went to answer, but swallowed instead. "I... I didn’t pay much attention to her if you must know."
"I did not find her particularly appealing in that shade of blue."
Both Eliza and Wellington turned to the professor. She had forgotten the intellectual was standing there, and from the look on her face, she was not at all put off.
"So, we are to have a bit of an intrigue on this journey, are we?" she asked taking a sip of her drink.
"Professor, what we do is rather dangerous," Wellington said. "I must insist that—"
Professor Falcon kicked back the vodka, not flinching in the slightest. "Mr Books, have you ever hunted tigers across the Serengeti? Or have you scaled Mt Kilimanjaro, and on your descent shouldered your Sherpa when he’s broken his ankle? Or have you bungie jumped from an airship over the skies of Auckland?"
Wellington’s brow furrowed. "Bungie jumping?"
Eliza rapped his shoulder with the back of her hand. "It was all the rage when I left New Zealand." She leaned in towards the professor. "What we are about to undertake is not
something to tick off an Adventurer’s Club To-Do List. This man is a monster. Literally."
"The person we are chasing," Wellington added, "is killing random strangers and spelling out our names. He is up to ‘A’ in Eliza's name. With me, he’s up to ‘I’."
"Ashe Robbins, the actress," Professor Falcon said, "and you are now wondering about the ‘I’ and who is not here."
"We have not found Jekyll anywhere amongst the passenger list, so we have no idea if he has found his next target."
Falcon pursed her lips. "How did you have access to this list?"
"We’ve been masquerading as French Police assigned to the Express."
"Jekyll could be travelling under an assumed name," Eliza offered.
"So, you believe this Jekyll chap has been spending the journey looking for his next victims?" Falcon asked, her eyes glittering.
Something about that the question made the idea of Jekyll interviewing close to seventy-five passengers within three days ridiculous. Twenty-five people a day from the moment they departed the Travel Plaza? Even for Jekyll that would be insane and easily noticed.
"Of course not," Eliza muttered. "That would be rather silly, now wouldn’t it? And when you put it that way, how did we bloody miss this?"
Now it was Wellington who inclined his head. "Eliza?"
"Think on it, Wellington—you have three days to find two victims amongst over seventy passengers. So who has access to the passenger manifest?"
"Security," Wellington replied. "The Conductor and Stewards."
Eliza circled her hand like an impatient wheel, urging him to think faster. "And?"
Wellington shook his head, but the professor took Eliza’s arm. "The staff. In particular, the kitchen staff."
"The automostewards," Wellington said with a triumphant grin. "They take your name and ticket number and deliver it to the kitchen."
"Each passenger, delivered to you, literally on a silver platter," Eliza added, feeling like a total dunce.
Falcon’s mouth opened as if to ask something, but she stopped and frantically started searching the parlour. "Mr Books, do you happen to have the time?"
Operation_Endgame Page 13
