Phoenix Rising (13 page)

Then the moment passed and Eliza stretched like a cat would in the noonday sun streaming in through a window. Wellington felt her leg brush his thigh as it rose slightly during this stretch, this relishing of newfound freedom, and then both leg and arms slumped down. It seemed that she had stretched herself into a deep slumber.

It didn't last long. “I need to sleep on my stomach.”

“What?!” If she had been asleep, his question would have roused her easily.

“I can never get comfortable on my back so the options are either you spend the night so we can cuddle a bit, or . . .”

“All righty then, upsie-daisy,” Wellington said, lifting her on her feet.

She swayed a bit, the clatter of her bodice and corset falling to the ground causing her to blink. Eliza looked around the room, then back to Wellington. She gently patted him on the cheek. “You're a blasted good bloke there, Welly.”

Then she wobbled about to face the bed, and then fell as would a great oak cut down in a forest.

Thank you, God!
Wellington praised to himself. He bent down to pick up the discarded garments, turning the ruined bodice in his hand back and forth. Wellington wondered if there was any way his tailor could repair it.
Wishful thinking
, he lamented.

Popping out from the dark wood of the floor was the outline of a single playing card. He held it up to the dim light. The Queen of Hearts. Before he could look for where this could have come from, he instinctively turned the card over to discover an address scrawled in an all-too-familiar hand.

Dash it all
, he swore inwardly.
She hid this from me!

Wellington's mouth was open, the protestation on the tip of his tongue. Then he paused on hearing the rumble from her. She was finally asleep.

The card was still in his hand, and he considered for a moment where it had stayed concealed. It surprised him with all the flesh Braun had put on display that it had stayed put. With a final sigh, he tucked the card inside his coat pocket and then smoothed out his lapel. Wellington had served the Ministry by getting the inebriated colonial back to her apartments. Now, his own head spinning lightly, it was his turn. Hopefully, Wellington could whip up a batch of that cure for hangovers, and tomorrow morning he would be right as rain.

Albeit, the anger in him currently rising to a boil was quite sobering.

He waited for a moment, staring at Braun's sprawled form now facedown in the large, luxurious bed. There was no movement, but he could hear breathing. Steady. Perceptible. She would be fine.

One step. Two steps. Three steps . . .

“Welly?”

Dammit
. he hissed in his mind.
If I hold my breath and remain perfectly still . . .

“Don't let the bitch bother you, mate.”

He straightened up, turning back towards the bed. She hadn't moved, but she was definitely talking to him.

“What did you say, Miss Braun?”

“I said, don't let the bitch bother you.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “I'm sorry?”

“You know, that tart . . . in the tavern . . . with the green eyes. That was all about . . . the mission.” She was on the verge of passing out again. Her voice was muffled by the bed linens and her own inebriation, but it was the effort that held him fast. She had something to say and the woman was determined to get it out before surrendering to the libations. “That was about the job. It weren't nothin' personal. You're good value, Welly. Good value. I did the right thing. I did . . . the right thing.”

Whatever did she mean by that?

“Very well, in a few more hours at the Archives. At the hour of eight. I'll have coffee at the ready.”

“See?” she said, her voice now fading off as she repeated again and again, “You're good value. Gooood . . . valuuuuue . . .”

“Sleep well, Eliza.” Wellington knew she wouldn't remember him saying this, but he would. “This was fun.”

Manoeuvring out the luxurious apartments and descending the steps of her building, Wellington stood for a moment on the front step, taking in every open alleyway within sight, looking up and down the main street repeatedly. It was late. In a few hours, the sun would rise and he would be in that familiar darkness of the Archives. He took solace in the fact that it would be dark in his workplace. Sunlight and hangovers never made good companions, not even civil acquaintances. So in the quiet of all that needed sorting and cataloguing, both he and Eliza could suffer together.

The playing card's corner brushed his breast, and he felt a slight pang of bitterness swell in his mouth. Tonight's little exercise, Wellington surmised, was some sort of game in trust. Perhaps it was an exercise within her parameters, seeing as this clue was being kept from him. Eliza had convinced herself that he would go off to Doctor Sound and reveal this new find. And while he kept her visit to Bedlam between them, this clue warranted proper protocol. Protocols were in place for a specific reason. Perhaps it would appear to Eliza as if he were running to the headmaster to tattle; but as juvenile as it seemed, no one was above procedure and process. Both kept order at the Ministry.

Still, it hurt. He actually had been enjoying himself. A bit. He'd thought he was taking the right steps in getting to understand his unexpected ward, and he'd thought he was building a sense of trust there.

How will she react when she finds the playing card missing?

“
They'd come in most weeks, different people, men and women. All of them would have that there thing worn as a locket or a pendant, so I knew who to let at the table. But no one has been in for months . . . maybe eight months . . .”

Eight months ago, when Agent Thorne disappeared.

He remembered back then how activity at the Archives seemed to come to a halt. Wellington had considered going up to the second floor, to see what was the matter. Had there been a death? A case that spiralled out of control? Was the Ministry being shut down? Considering their eccentric nature and the mysteries they faced, it would not have surprised him in the least if the Crown closed their operations for good.

He'd thought better of venturing up to the office floor, reminding himself how the agents regarded him merely as a handy resource, an appliance that helped them get the job done. He vaguely remembered Thorne's ambivalence towards him when he had come to the Archives for research. Had Eliza been working with Thorne, Wellington wondered, the last time he loomed over his desk, considering the Archivist with an air of entitlement? He recalled Thorne describing his analytical engine as “amusing” and how it livened up the Archives. It was just another toy, just as he would be issued by the clankertons at Research and Design. Thorne, Campbell, and the others made it abundantly clear that agents came to the Archives only out of need, never for pleasantries or for small talk. The more efficiently Wellington performed his job, the sooner they could get out into the field.

Well, all of them except for Agent Brandon Hill. The tales of monkey knife fighting Hill would regale him with made the Archivist wonder if that particular agent was entirely sane.

And yet, Agent Thorne was part of the Ministry. They were compatriots, or so the shared coat of arms and Ministry rings implied, all part of the same machine that served at the pleasure of Her Majesty. Even with his distance from the offices, Wellington knew that something had happened. The confirmation came when Campbell delivered for cataloguing case files and notes that seemed to have no end in sight. In the eyes of the Ministry, closure for this particular case occurred with the demise of Agent Harrison Thorne. Wellington never did find out the details but he had read the loss in Campbell's face.

Wellington might not have liked Thorne, but he also felt the loss. Perhaps not as deeply as Eliza had, but still felt. Thorne must have been quite an individual to win her loyalties.

Now, in his pocket, was an address, an address that Wellington knew was not in the case files back in the Ministry. A new wrinkle in the mystery that no one knew about, at present.

“
As I recall, one of the younger men turned up, thought there was a game on, but none of the others did.
”

And then Agent Thorne disappeared.

“
Campbell found him, stark raving mad in one of the side gutters of the West End . . .”

This address had been the next move for Thorne eight months ago. He knew something was wrong, and that he was in danger. Agent Thorne had taken those few steps he could to see that Eliza continued the chase if something were to happen to him.

“
The Archives is where the mystery continues.
”

Those were his own words to Eliza. Did he ever really believe that rhetoric until this very moment? The mystery did, indeed, continue in the Archives, in the cases that had been forgotten by the very agents sworn by duty to solve them for Queen and Country.

He felt the earth underneath him shift. Wellington's head was reeling. Yes, he had been in his cups. The alcohol would overcome him if he did not get back home for that Mayan hangover cure.

Wellington then caught a scent in the air, something he did not associate with his own basement apartments. Something he recognised, but wherever he was it wasn't home.

Above him loomed the entrance to the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences.

He knew where to find the cure in the Archives. He was also well aware of the cure's side effect if taken without the safeguards he had introduced to the mix. Ascending the steps, carefully, Wellington took a glance to either side of him, and produced his clockwork key that turned the main lock while disengaging the added security measures of the doorframe.

There was no one else in, as far as he knew. When the security locks re-engaged after he cleared the foyer, Wellington was assured privacy. The lift's gate rattled throughout the building as the trident-shaped key once more clicked thrice in its panel before returning to his waistcoat. The shadows and featureless furnishings of the main floor disappeared on his descent. A few moments he would find himself awash in gaslight and standing before the hatch that led down to his corner of the Ministry.

Wellington was going to need privacy. After downing his trusted remedy, he had a good amount of uninterrupted reading to do.

CHAPTER TEN
Where Miss Braun Pays for Her Overindulgence
and the Archivist Ventures Outside His Domain

E
liza wasn't exactly sure how she found enough strength to get into the Ministry the next day; yet by some residual instinct, she was up and moving, every inch of her being protesting violently, particularly at the smell of breakfast. With half-lidded eyes, she managed to get dressed and out the door, declining the breakfast her housemaid had prepared. She had no doubt it would have been lovely, but her stomach would not hear of it. The sound of carriage wheels rolling over the surface of the street outside was like thousands of gleaming knives fired into her head. The summer sun shone directly in her face, even in her vain attempt to shield aching eyeballs. She felt cursed this morning—like everything in London was out to get her.

Eliza recalled a previous mission where she had been dragged by a carriage through the streets of Prague. She could still remember how she felt the morning after. This morning was far worse. Everything ached, every movement hurt, and she was not looking forward to Wellington's dressing-down—because yes, she was several
hours
late. Now she was about to find out how much pity existed inside the Archivist.

Eliza crossed over the street and entered Miggins Antiquities. No agents met on the way, in the lobby, or even at the lift. It was a blessing for everyone. It would not have ended well for Campbell if he had tried his usual antics with her this morning.

Eliza made it to the Archives without interruption, and she found herself elated with her reassignment. There it would be dark and quiet. Wellington's refuge was now hers. She let out a long sigh and pulled open the iron hatch.

The high-pitched whine made her knees buckle.

She had made it to the second landing when Wellington greeted her with a cheerful, piercing, “Good morning, Miss Braun!”

Eliza winced. Her head felt like Quasimodo should be swinging off it. It took a moment for her to focus on Wellington, sitting at his desk as bright eyed and bushy tailed as no man had a right to be, especially not when she was feeling so miserable. She stumbled to her chair, not daring to reply until she was seated.

“A little worse for wear there, I see.” If that was an “I told you so,” it was delivered with unabashed cheerfulness. “Still wonderful to see your commitment to your job got you here only a scant few hours late.”

It was hard to concentrate on his words when the room swayed as it did from where she sat. The worst of it was, she was embarrassed. No one had ever outdrunk her—
no one.
If she were back home in New Zealand there would be more than a bit of ribbing coming her way; but since she wasn't back home, it would be Wellington to loose upon her the jibes and playful insults.

When Eliza finally focused her eyes on him she realised he wasn't taking the ample chance to do so. Instead he was looking at her with something that might have almost been . . . anticipation? Sitting bolt upright in his chair, Wellington Books was waiting for her to say something.

Marshaling her fading resources, Eliza scrutinized him for some clue why. A large box was on one side of his desk, while the rest of it was covered in paper and folders. Then, as she looked closer she noticed something strange.

“Welly—those are the same clothes you had on yesterday.” If it had been anyone else she would have made a joke about carousing the dark hours away with some “lady friend.”

He smiled. “Yes, well I had some things to work on so I came here straightaway after escorting you home.”

“Oh,” she said with a light nod, and then her eyes went wide. “Oh, so
you
got me home and . . . in . . .”

Even in the dimness of the Archives, Eliza could see Wellington blush. “Yes, Agent Braun, I . . .” he began, his mouth open to form just the right word, “. . . aided you in your sleeping arrangements.”

“Ah,” and now it was Eliza who felt her cheeks burn, “well then . . . fancy that. I did say I wanted to get to know you better.” She furrowed her brow as her eyes had now adequately adjusted well enough to read the label on the side of the box. “And you've been here all night? Investigating Harry's case?”

Gods, her own loud voice was making her head ring. She placed both hands up to hold it together, just on the off chance it flew apart and made a mess in the Archives.

Wellington got up, his chair making a terrible racket grating against the stone floor, and bought over the cup of tea by his elbow. “After last night, I felt I owed it to Agent Thorne to look into the matter. It seems he unearthed some intriguing leads that deserve attention, and since the Ministry is rather stretched right now—”

Eliza waved at him like he was a flying insect that she wished would buzz away. “Get to the point!” She tried not to shout, as it caused her pain, but Wellington was irritating her so much right at the moment she just wanted to lie down.

“There is a cab coming for us in fifteen minutes.”

“Beg pardon?” And Eliza screwed her eyes shut as she weathered the ripple of pain tearing through her skull. “By the gods, Welly, can't you see I'm ready to swallow a stick of my own dynamite to make this hangover disappear?”

“Then drink this Miss Braun.” He slid the mug of warm liquid closer to her. The smell that rolled off it was the last straw. It was a lucky thing she had done all her vomiting earlier that morning; yet as it was, Eliza gagged for a good minute. It was obviously
not
tea.

“For pity's sake man, are you enjoying making me suffer?”

“Perhaps a little.” Wellington smiled. “Drink this, because I think you will find it will make everything better.”

“Only a bullet would do that,” she grumbled. “What is it?”

“An Ancient Mayan cure for the common hangover made with the native cocoa bean.” His words were tumbling over each other a little, and Eliza had difficulty understanding him through the fog of misery.

She levered herself upright. “Hold on—you drank some of that last night?”

“Ah, yes.” His smile was now definitely sheepish. “Just after our night of intoxication. Immediate consumption of the cure can mitigate the side effects.” He looked at the cup, and then back to Eliza, his grin hardly convincing. “Sometimes.”

“And what exactly
are
the side effects of this ancient remedy?”

Wellington returned to his side of the partners' desk. “Well, it does in fact act as a stimulant which means you do tend to stay awake for quite a while,” he admitted, gesturing to the files covering his half. “I'm not positive, but I believe the aftereffects will probably involve a lot of sleeping. But for our purposes today it will do the trick.”

The mixture still smelt vile. Eliza picked up the cup with suspicion. Would she talk as fast as Wellington afterwards? “And what exactly are our purposes?”

“We need to follow the footsteps of Agent Thorne,” he said, pointing to her side of the desk, “as you were doing last night.”

Eliza looked at where Wellington directed, and she felt her fingers wrap more firmly around the cup. There was the Queen of Hearts she had concealed from him last night.

“Wellington . . .”

“Tosh, Miss Braun,” he replied dismissively. “I am not expecting us to have full trust in one another until a time when you are more comfortable around me. At present, I just need you to be alert, so drink up.”

And with a sigh she obeyed. What could possibly be worse than this hangover?

“Gahhh!” Eliza stuck out her tongue and shook her head. The protest made no difference: the taste lingered.

“Finish it,” Wellington insisted.

With a final exhale, she downed the whole lot. Considering everything, she owed him as much. Her face remained fixed in a twisted expression of disgust, and not from the burn of the liquid. Scalding her throat would have been a lovely alternative to the bitterness. When she finally found her voice, Eliza already sounded far less groggy. “You know Wellington, I believe you cheated. Stacking the deck and all in not telling me about this cure of yours—but since you managed to not tip your hand—I have to admit you are a better man than I.”

Wellington choked back a laugh on that one. “Thank you Miss Braun. From you that is a real compliment. Now the effects should kick in before the cab arrives.”

“Where is it we are going?”

It was the first wicked grin she had ever seen on Wellington's face. It actually suited him. “Eliza, you wanted to know when I was having fun . . . well I believe I have found something that might be worthy of that title.

“In my research, I found where this address leads. It is the address of a certain doctor in Charing Cross.” Wellington turned away from her and began flipping through the files on his desk. “It appears Agent Thorne had infiltrated some sort of underground society—an underground society that is
not
the House of Usher. After last night's conversation with the publican we can deduce that his identity had been compromised.”

Eliza was starting to feel the headache recede, and her faculties return. She also felt that slight rush when a piece fell into place during an investigation. She hadn't felt that in nearly a month and it felt damn good. “So what does this doctor have to do with it?”

“An intriguing question. However there is nothing in Thorne's files on this fellow, so I presume it was a new lead.” Wellington put on his bowler and coat. “Let's go and find out.”

Certainly she was not going to challenge Wellington Books and his unexpected interest in this forgotten case. Eliza felt herself teeter for a moment, nearly swooning from the optimism that filled her. Could this be a side effect of Wellington's apothecary, or the fact that he had chosen to jump in with both boots that made her feel that way?

She didn't care, and they had a carriage to catch.

By the time they exited Miggins Antiquities, the cab was waiting, as Wellington had assured her. They both hopped in with the enthusiasm of children. London was busy around them, worked up to a noonday pitch.
So much better than being locked away in the Archives
, she thought selfishly. She dared not open her mouth and risk sharing this only to have Wellington turn the cab around. On the ride, Wellington droned on and on about the case, about the murder that she already knew of. His words continued to tumble, so fast that even the cab driver looked back in wonderment. Wellington probably sounded like he was speaking in tongues, and Eliza would have shushed him had he taken a breath and given her a moment to interrupt. She already knew most of what he was rambling on about, but Wellington felt the need to take her through the files once more, this time from his perspective. Her attention on him was polite, at best. Eliza was surrendering to the elation of being back in the field, even if that field was merely London.

Reaching Charing Cross, they came to a halt across from the doctor's practice. It was a two-storey building, white-painted stone like every other one in the row. This address did hold a distinction for her, though, as this particular address was a
lead
. She could feel her skin tingle. How many weeks had she been in the Archives?
Or is this the remedy? Of course not
, her mind retorted immediately after.
You're back in the field. You are where you should be. Harry would be so proud. Make sure you set aside some time later today to visit him in Bedlam. You did promise yourself to do so. Jolly good. Now, what was Books on about? A doctor. Yes. The Lead.

All that came to her in a blink.
The Mayans must have been a fun lot
, she thought absently.

“Oi gent,” a gruff voice from above her snapped, “payment is appreciated!”

Books scrambled through his pockets, producing his own wallet and fumbling for fare. As he rectified his oversight, Eliza took the chance to examine the building, tucked as it was behind a narrow strip of garden. The brass plate on its gate proudly displayed the name Doctor Christopher Smith, and it conveyed discretion and elegance—no doubt a reflection of Doctor Smith's success. The garden was well looked after, as were the brass fixtures in the door and the iron of the gate. A lovely business establishment. She could see nothing troubling about it.

And yet she was. Deeply.

Eliza hadn't truly realised how much she missed the thrill of the chase until this moment—the most fun to be had with clothes on as far as she was concerned.

The cab rumbled away as passersby continued along past Wellington and Eliza. Both of them took in the pedestrians, all very neat, proper, and a slight step higher than Wellington who was still wearing an outfit in need of a good launder. “I suppose,” Eliza said, straightening his lapels and giving them a light press with her palms, “we will have to make do with your current state.”

“I should have considered we were going to Charing Cross.”

“No need to fret,” she said, attempting to dust off his shoulders with her fingers. “We will just tell the good doctor your problem is you cannot sleep. Quite close to the truth, so the lie will not be hard to sell.”