The Janus Affair: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (3 page)

Directly, and to the point. How utterly colonial of her.

Doctor Sound tucked his hands into his pockets. “I believe even a junior archivist would agree that, as the peculiar occurrence directly involved you, your judgement and impartiality have both been compromised.”

Wellington leaned towards her ear and muttered, “I told you so.”

She heard him, but chose not to listen. “Hardly, Director. As I mentioned, I hardly knew the girl; but for the brief moment that I saw her, she asked me for my help. Asked
me
. I believe that it is my duty when one of the Queen’s subjects asks of me—”

“Stop—right—there.” Doctor Sound raised a finger as Eliza went to protest. “No, Agent Braun, I will not hear another utterance from you on this matter. Once you have offered your account of events, you and Agent Books will return to the Archives, where you will resume your duties unless the primary investigator calls upon you again.”

Eliza crossed her arms. “Who would that be?”

Doctor Sound motioned behind him, and Wellington felt a tightness form in his throat as he made out the man striding towards them through the parting steam.

“You cannot be serious, sir,” Eliza grumbled.

“G’day, Eliza,” Bruce said, flashing her what he apparently believed to be his best smile. “I have a few questions for you.” His eyes flicked over in Wellington’s direction. “Books. Be with you in a moment.”

This was going to be the longest interview of Wellington’s career at the Ministry.

Eliza, once again, displayed her monumental lack of tact. “You cannot expect Campbell here to have the wherewithal to handle this case?”

“Oh, I know that Agent Campbell is more known for action in the field rather than investigation; but when I received word on this matter, I was pleased to see him step forward and agree to take on the assignment. Considering his current caseload, I am glad to see such initiative.” The Director turned and actually beamed at the Australian.

“How fortunate for the Ministry.” She scowled.

The crash made Wellington, Eliza, and Campbell jump. The three turned to see a cart of large, heavy cargo—at first glance, the corner of an armored safe was visible—now covering the bench that Wellington and Eliza had earlier occupied. Two workers were yelling at each other over the scattered remains of the Portoporter. The bench meanwhile had been reduced to a pile of splintered wood and bent iron.

“Good Lord,” Wellington finally uttered, “Had we still been there—”

“Yes.” Doctor Sound agreed, glancing back at the site of the accident, and then looking back to Wellington. “Most fortunate we stretched our legs, eh Books?”

He paused in his reply, tilted his head to one side, and then slowly nodded. “Most.”

Why was Doctor Sound smiling at him?

“With the strange happenings on your train and the superstitious nature of the working class,” Sound said, motioning to the scattered luggage and twisted bench, “this platform is only going to fall deeper into disarray. Therefore, Campbell will need to collect statements straightaway—starting with yours.” He considered the two of them for a moment. “Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.” They replied—though Eliza’s was considerably less enthusiastic than it should have been.

Wellington’s eyes followed Doctor Sound to the incident. It appeared as if the Director was studying the random accident up close, for some strange reason. His attention was immediately yanked back to the broad-shouldered Ministry agent flipping open a small pad and touching the tip of his pencil with his tongue.

“Right then,” Campbell began, his tone so civil it was offensive. “May I have your name for the record, Miss . . . ?”

“Eliza Braun,” Eliza sneered. “Here, I’ll spell it for you—B-U-G-G-E-R-O-F-F.”

Bruce nodded. “That is a beautiful name, miss.” He looked up from his notepad. “Very exotic.”

“Eliza, please,” Wellington said, “Agent Campbell here has others to interview before the night’s over. Just cooperate.”

“Oi, mate,” Bruce snapped, stepping closer to Wellington, “I think I can handle her myself. I don’t need some
limey
offering assistance.”

Just as charming as Wellington remembered him.

Bruce suddenly spat on the pavement—dangerously close to Wellington’s shoes—before giving him one more warning glare, and turning back to Eliza. She herself appeared ready to explode, perhaps in a grander fashion than her favourite incendiary.

Campbell cleared his throat, and resumed his interview. “Now then, Miss Braun—that is right, Eliza Braun, yes? Why don’t you tell me what happened, in your own words.”

Wellington checked his watch and looked around them, noting the tired passengers and skittish hypertrain personnel. A long night’s journey home had suddenly become much, much longer, and his bed seemed a very long way off.

Chapter Two

Wherein Our Dashing Archivist Receives an Earful at Speakers’ Corner, and Our Colonial Pepperpot Finally Comes to Grips with Her Past Transgressions

T
wo hours had passed by the time Agent Campbell finished with Eliza; two long, tedious, and excruciating hours. Wellington knew from his training that questioning a witness—even if one was considered to be the prime suspect—should never take longer than thirty minutes. Brevity was not only the soul of wit, but it was key in keeping an investigation moving. Some of the questions for Eliza were purely trivial, and Wellington could not help but let the odd “
Oh for God’s sake . . .”
and “
Agent Campbell, please . . .”
slip.

When it came Wellington’s turn, however, Campbell was anything but civil. Simply put, he was nothing less than rude. He cut off Wellington in the middle of answers and yawned outright during crucial testimony. Still, Campbell’s contempt meant Wellington’s interview took a fraction of the time compared to Eliza’s.

At the very moment that Campbell’s notebook flipped shut, Doctor Sound re-appeared. He looked well rested, so he had most likely taken a moment to relax at the Royal Station Hotel. Wellington found himself thinking rather bitterly that he had probably found time for tea—something that Campbell had deliberately denied them.

“It seems that Campbell and I will both be joining you as our airship had to return to London,” Doctor Sound shouted over the building hiss of the hypersteam engine. “No need to come in tomorrow. You both have endured a rather extraordinary evening. Now, off with you both.”

While Wellington and Eliza returned to second-class, the Archivist watched with a pang of longing as Sound hopped into his
first
-class car. The budgetary concerns were apparently not an issue—for the right people. Campbell, Wellington noted, was disappearing into the crowd.

The hypersteam train, the centre jewel of technology’s crown, finally pulled into King’s Cross at three in the morning. An hour
after
the standard steam train arrived to its platform.

Wellington barely remembered getting home, he’d been so exhausted. The next morning he was able to take inventory of his complaints: aching eyes, sunburned face, and a sore backside from so long on the train. What a ghastly affair the whole thing had been.

However, he couldn’t afford to coddle himself—not when he’d promised Eliza a repast at the establishment of her choosing. Wellington knew it was the least he could do for surprising her with the hypersteam train tickets; had he simply bought them passage on a standard steam train, they would have enjoyed true luxury—blissful sleep all the way to London.

With Doctor Sound’s admonishment to have a day off, Wellington concluded his partner would take full advantage and arrive for work tomorrow, sometime after lunch most likely.

The huge pile of cataloguing waiting for them in the office was not a job to tackle on his own, and so with a slight pang of guilt, Wellington decided not to go into the office until tomorrow either. Instead he walked down in the fresh late-morning air to the main street and hailed a cab outside the
Old Bull and Bush
. Luckily, the cockneys who often journeyed to the pub on their off days were nowhere to be seen. They often caused a bit of a scene in the area.

Grateful of the lack of drama—at least thus far in his journey—Wellington travelled on to his partner’s residence. With a generous gratuity added to the fare, Wellington thanked the driver and then proceeded up the stairs to Eliza’s rooms.

The sound of his feet scuffing against the stone steps made Wellington Thornhill Books return to memories he would much rather have left in the past.

A gentleman walks with confidence, boy
, his father would say as Wellington rubbed the back of his hand. Arthur H. Books was quite adept at using a ruler as a device of discipline.
Scraping your soles like that tells the world you do not walk upon this earth so much as you lumber. You, Wellington, will not be an embarrassment to me.

Wellington splayed his fingers and then slowly balled them into a fist. He had tried so hard as a youth to please his father, but eventually he had worked out how little the elder Books’ regard was worth.

All these unpleasant childhood memories were haunting him now for one very good reason: he was exhausted. He’d just realised that, when the door above him swung open, and Eliza appeared before him, looking rather smart. If she had been a gentleman.

“Oh come along, Miss Braun,” Wellington began.

“Not a word about my trousers,” she barked. “You booked us passage on the new McTighe contraption—”

“The hypersteam engine is a Barrington invention, not a McTighe. The Edinburgh Express is the first train to be fitted with it, and White Star is usually known for their comfortable travel—”

“For the
first-class
passengers, yes.” She gave him a stern look and a slight shake of her head. “Awfully considerate of the Old Man to invite us to ride along with him.”

“But he didn’t.”

“I know, Welly. I was being sarcastic.” Her eyes narrowed on him, her tongue running inside her cheek as she pulled her coat in tighter. “Your brilliant plan to get us back to London in ‘half the time of the usual express’ was a bit of a bust, Welly, so you owe me this morning. Therefore, my attire is not open to your criticism, understood?”

Wellington cleared his throat, went to reply, thought better of it, and instead took in a deep breath.

“If I am a bit grumpy,” she continued, slipping on her decidedly masculine jacket and shutting the door behind her, “it is because I did not get enough proper sleep.”

“Lack of sleep makes for an irritable Eliza.” He nodded. “Right then. I shall keep that in my memory lock’d, and I myself shall keep the key of it.”

She glared at him but did not reply.

They walked in silence then, Wellington doing just as he’d promised himself he would do—following her lead. As expected, Eliza’s fashion was attracting many a disapproving look from passersby.

“Wellington.” Eliza finally spoke, her eyes still fixed on the pavement as they walked. “I know a little café with a lovely view of Hyde Park. Thought that might be a pleasant way to enjoy luncheon. So much more enjoyable than last night.”

“Quite.”

Their rapid pace managed to keep Wellington warm against the chill. They were most fortunate that it had not been a characteristically windy sort of January day; but whatever this café promised, Wellington was looking forward to a good, hot cup of tea and a scone fresh from the oven. However, Eliza’s stride began to shorten the closer they drew to Speakers’ Corner, and Wellington’s curiousity was piqued.

The crowd gathered here consisted mainly of women, with a few gentlemen patiently and politely paying attention—perhaps because they were escorting their female relations. In front of the group, but obscured from Eliza and Wellington’s point of view, a woman could be heard addressing the crowd. Near the back was a small group of men, continuing—rather rudely—with their own conversations. This would have not been so much of a bother had the men not been carrying on so close to the woman speaking. The din from the men was enough to make a few of the ladies turn their heads and shoot them angry looks.

From the sound of their guffaws, they really did not care.

Eliza shook her head and barged her way through to them, not even bothering to mutter a “
Beg your pardon
” or “
Excuse me
” as she joined the other women.

Wellington easily walked around the men and clearly heard their opinions.

“Bloody suffragettes,” the portly one remarked, loud enough to make certain he was heard. “Caterwaul all they like, they’re not likely to get the vote in this country. Not even Queen Vic likes ’em.”

“I don’t mind if the hens get the vote,” another man stated, quickly silencing his compatriots, “so long as dinner is waiting on the table.”

“I wouldn’t mind if that dish—” another said, his eyes taking in Eliza’s curves, “—served herself on my table.”

Wellington paused. He swallowed back a reply, and tried catching up with Eliza. They mustn’t draw attention to themselves—especially after their recent misadventure with the Phoenix Society. He was certain that Doctor Sound suspected their involvement in the downfall of that hedonistic society. He could only hope the Director was not keeping them under surveillance.

He brushed by the crass gentlemen, thinking how lovely it would have been to rap the varlet with a walking stick, at the point of vulnerability between the tibia and fibula. Sadly, today such actions would have to remain only in Wellington’s imagination.

When the Archivist stepped clear of the small “Gentlemen’s Club,” the woman’s voice suddenly came to him clear and resonant. And resolute. In fact, overflowing with resolve.

The women standing there, decked in half-cloaks and the large sleeves and muffs to stave off the late January chill, looked to all intents and purposes like they had just stepped out for a brisk winter’s stroll through the park. Their outward expressions however, uniform in their intensity and sombre look, were contrary to their dress. They remained stock-still, paying rapt attention to the woman at the podium.

“A question. A question is not a harmful thing. Our children ask us questions every day. And it is our responsibility to answer them truthfully, honestly. It is the answer to questions that build character, integrity, and morality. The very foundations of Her Majesty’s Empire. And yet, when my daughter asks me why her questions are not answered by her teacher, when she is told, ‘That is not your concern,’ what am I to tell her? All we want is an answer to a question, a moment to ask our leaders ‘Why?’ when their decisions are, most assuredly, our concern. For it is the decisions of men that send our sons off to war, turn our daughters into widows. We want our voice to be counted, and our questions answered.”

The women’s applause managed to drown out the dissention from the cads behind them. Wellington cast a glance to his partner, her once hard, sour expression now radiating with optimism and hope.

“Really?” Wellington asked her, his own hands also offering up a polite applause. “This is my penance? To be your arm decoration at a suffragette rally?”

“Suffra-
gist
, Welly,” Eliza politely corrected as the applause settled. She leaned in closer to his ear as the woman resumed her speech. “You should endeavour to know the proper address of such dissonant voices within the Empire?”

“Dissonant?” Wellington objected. “What do you take me for, Miss Braun?”

Eliza crooked an eyebrow on that. “Do you want an honest answer to that?”

He shook his head and turned his attention to the speaker. “I do not know this woman’s name, but I respect her words and her voice. She is quite right. A woman’s opinion should be heard.”

“Why, Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire,” Eliza began, “aren’t we the forward-thinking gent?”

“I mean, who raises our children, cooks our meals, and assures that house and home remains tidy and in order?” he went on. “It is, most certainly, not a man’s job, now is it?”

“If our voices do not count,” came the suffragist’s words, her voice now stained with real ire, “why should we be so supportive of decisions that, society tells us, are not our concern?”

Wellington nodded, offering his wordless support for the woman’s plight. He happened to glance over at Eliza and felt a sinking feeling on meeting her gaze. Eliza was just staring at him. He noted shock in her eyes, a touch of anger roiling just underneath her gaze.

“What?” he asked, completely unaware what he might have done to earn such temper.

The speaker paused for a moment, leaned down so that a nearby woman could whisper into her ear, nodded, and then stood tall with a smile. “Perhaps there are some of you that may think this is a fool’s errand we are embarking upon—”

“Finally!” barked one of the gents from the back. “The voice of reason!”

Only the men gathered there found the comment amusing. The men alongside their ladies would chuckle but covered their approval in a cough.

“Perhaps, a word from one of the Empire’s children would give you a touch of reassurance.”

From behind a group of ladies—a group of ladies which, Wellington noted, were all armed with small clubs seen usually in the hands of police officers—a figure emerged that caused Eliza’s breath to audibly catch. This newcomer carried herself with confidence, her modifications, while striking, seeming only to add to that bearing. The morning sunlight caught the gleam off the brass fixture of her jaw while the light where an eye would have been flared with an emerald glow. She was still able to smile warmly, even as half her face was covered in metal and clockwork. A few of the women closer to the podium stepped back, but she did not take offence to it. Even the men behind Wellington and Eliza went deathly silent.

“Good morning, my sisters,” this new speaker began, “for while I do look quite extraordinary, do not think for a moment that we are not sisters. We are. Under the flag of our beloved Queen Victoria, we are one, part of the great British Empire.”