Phoenix Rising (17 page)

The Archivist shook his head and motioned to the wall. “See—there was some sort of mark here.” With one hand he brushed away as much of the scorching as he could, then placed her mirror against it and tilted it. “And now can you see what it is?”

And she could indeed. It looked very similar to the pattern on the playing cards. “A Phoenix,” she whispered, tracing the shape.

“And look,” he went on, “there is some sort of banner at the bottom. I hazard perhaps with a Latin inscription on it—but I cannot possibly work it out from this fragment.” Wellington sat back on his heels. “I will need to get back to the Ministry and do some more research into who would lay claim to such a heraldic symbol. I know the phoenix is a popular moniker, but this particular design is fairly intricate.”

Eliza could feel dread building inside her. What sort of people could be responsible for fire, explosions, and madness? She was beginning to wonder what Harry and his odd little locket were leading them both into.

Apparently, so was Wellington. “We have made at least one connection between yesterday's events and the Rag and Bone Murders: this coat-of-arms. But we are now faced with a new intrigue.”

“We are?”

Wellington produced the coachman's ledger and flipped to their current address. “This foundry was burned down shortly after Harry's disappearance and eventual admission into Bedlam.”

“Yes.”

“The fare recorded here is from this week.”

She stepped out of the storage room and back into the ruins, her eyes scanning across them quickly. “They came looking for something.”

Whatever could be here that would bring the perpetrators of this crime back, after such a long period of time? Rocks. Rubble. Scrap iron. There was nothing in sight, but something had to have brought them back. Something vital, something important. Something right in front—

Eliza's sapphire gaze jumped back to Wellington Books, his complexion pale and sickly as he joined her, his eyes still in the coachmen's ledger.

“What is it, Books?”

He swallowed, and flinched. “I know what they were looking for.”

By the gods, he really did need to learn better skills in sharing with his partner. “Out with it!”

“Eliza, this fare occurred following your visit to see Agent Thorne.” He looked around. There were no other souls to be seen by him, apart from herself and the driver watching them from a distance. “These people were looking for
us
.”

Harry, you were right.

Swallowing hard on her own concerns, she took Wellington by the arm and led him back to their carriage. “The time has come to divide and conquer, Welly. Get back to the Archives. You do what you are good at. I will do what I am good at.”

He glanced at her, “Blowing things up?”

Eliza gave a nod, shrugging lightly. “I stepped into that one. No, I have
other
skills, you know,” she returned. It was fun to see him blush. “Interrogation.”

“You mean investigation.”

She was barely able to contain a little snort. Life had sheltered dear Mr. Wellington Books down in the Archives. Unfortunately life had not been so kind to her. “Investigation. Interrogation. What you will. As you'll be in your element, I'll go back to Charing Cross and see if I can find out a bit more about the good Doctor Smith. Is that all right with you?”

“Of course, Miss Braun.”

Eliza returned a nod, and then cast her eyes to the Thames slowly progressing by them. If she were exceptionally fortunate, her “investigation” wouldn't involve employing her other skills—the skills she was terrified of losing while serving in the company of Wellington Books.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wherein Agent Braun Causes a Bit of a
Ruckus While Making Friends

I
t felt so good to be out pounding the pavements again
, Eliza thought as she stood in the alleyway opposite Royal Hospital. She was actually smiling. Not a put-upon, cordial smile one wears about the office, but an honest-to-goodness smile of joy and delight. Usually this kind of legwork, with its long periods of doing nothing, was her least favourite, but after weeks away from it she was enjoying the moment. A thicker than usual London Particular had swept in off the Thames and that made the whole setup just about perfect in her eyes.

Whitechapel was certainly not the kind of place people like Wellington Books would be comfortable with, especially at night, but to her it was very familiar. She and Harry had spent a great deal of time down here as many Peculiar Occurrences happened in the cramped houses and narrow alleyways of this part of London. This was the corner of the City, forgotten and ignored by the upper classes, full of rabble-rousers, Fabians, cut-throats, and Dollymops. It was dirty, dangerous, and dank.

It also felt like a warm and welcoming home following her time in the Archives.

She fished out a warm chestnut from the little bag she'd bought off a street seller, popped it into her mouth, and bit down on it with relish. Across the road, even with the fog diffusing its warm lights, she could still make out the imposing brick and stone façade of the hospital and catch sight of people coming and going.

When trying to get information about a recently deceased person, there was always a critical moment when the cracks would be easier to find. It was usually within the first two days. Lovers, enemies, and co-workers were at their most vulnerable when in shock, before they could apply a varnish of respectability over the dearly departed. Eliza had considered this when planning her attack on those touched by the oh-so-recently exploded Doctor Christopher Smith.

It would have been effortless to access the Thames Pneumatic Dispatch from her old office to find out the basics; but if she were by the receiving centre, awaiting the cylinder addressed to her, that would have got people wondering and—more importantly, less helpful—asking what she was up to. She had spent the afternoon assuming the role of a journalist investigating the tragedy of Charing Cross. Her efforts granted her access to public records that revealed Smith was a single man whose parents had died when he was young, and had left him with no siblings. Nothing beyond that.

Then she discovered his residency was at the Royal Hospital. It was not a surprise but more of a confirmation that this doctor's demise would be connected to Whitechapel. Whatever answers waited for her had to lie within these walls.

Finishing the bag, she crumpled it up and stuffed it in her pocket. Under her cloak, the brass of the
plures ornamentum
arm had finally warmed. Taking out her favourite weapon once more onto the London streets was the icing on this evening's cake. The contraption had cost her an evening on the town with Axelrod, the least-annoying of the two clankertons in Research and Design. That sacrifice was ample compensation for getting her hands on it. Or rather her arm in it. The
plures ornamentum
had been the last privilege she'd weaseled out of the gadgetheads before heading off to Antarctica—but she had decided at the last moment not to pack it. It stood to reason that encasing her arm within brass in the freezing cold was a truly bad idea.

Luckily, clankertons were not the best keepers of paperwork.

The gauntlet moved seamlessly when she wriggled her fingers and a deadly part of her hoped that their elusive assassin would make another appearance.
Things would be very different then
, she thought smugly. The cogs ticked and whirred as she rotated her wrist and went from splayed fingers to a tight fist. Her heart thrummed in her ears lightly, as it did when she chased an enemy of the Empire through the city streets, or made love to an overseas operative when the assignment drew to a close. Tonight, Eliza D. Braun was finally back where she belonged.

Let Books have his Archives.
This
was living.

So engrossed by her elation was she that Eliza almost missed the group of men she'd been waiting for, coming around the corner of the Hospital. They had not come through the main public entrance, for that was the domain of visitors and nurses. These men were either the porters or orderlies of Royal Hospital, the medical equivalent of mill workers.

As they made off up the street, roaring with laughter, glad to be free of their work, Eliza followed a short distance behind. She could have forgone the gauntlet and, continuing her guise as a journalist, interviewed Smith's fellow doctors, could have heard what a fabulous man he was, how they would miss him, and how they could not understand why such a terrible thing befell such a kind soul.

It was what those well off would do—hide true feelings behind good manners.

If you wanted the truth about a person, you asked those subordinate to him—especially if they were working class. They'd tell you what they really thought of him, no matter if he'd been blown all over Charing Cross that very day or not.

Three streets later, the men disappeared into a little corner pub. Eliza paused outside, taking note of its name—the Liar's Oath. She gave the working men a few moments to their beers and to settle in for a time between mates. Her dress this evening was more subdued, so she did not expect to be mistaken for a Judy. Even so, feeling her brass-encased hand pressed against the Ministry-issued corset reminded her how perilous walking the streets of Whitechapel could be for an unarmed woman.

For a woman as armed as she, an evening here was an invitation to trouble.

Pushing open the oak door, Eliza entered the Liar's Oath. As it was with the multitude of small working-class pubs in this part of London, it was packed. The smell of smoke and alcohol easily catapulted Eliza straight back to childhood, and for the briefest second she thought if she turned her head she would see her mother pulling pints behind the bar. Yet when she did catch a glimpse of the bar through the crush of people, there was no one there. What she did see made here eyes wide. How she loved the technological marvels.

Lord McTighe, an aristocratic inventor from the Highlands, had created the Combobula bar; and in a gesture of eccentric philanthropy, had given it to working-class public houses all over the nation. His reason for the invention apparently could be traced back to the fact he was, aside from being as mad as a March hare, madly gallant. “
Women shouldna be pawed by drunk patrons!
” he had been overheard to slur at his favourite Edinburgh pub.

The shiny brass-and-wooden bar was probably responsible for the overcrowding in the small space, but even Eliza could not deny its grace, beauty, and sheer novelty. Using her elbows she managed to get closer to the contraption. On closer inspection, the bar was divided into sections with a menu set into its gleaming brass surface. Eliza nodded appreciatively at the wide array of drinks the Liar's Oath offered. It was evident to her now why this place was so crowded: variety from the clockwork barkeep.

She dropped her coin into the slot closest to her and ordered a pint of bitter by pressing the appropriate button, and heard, even over the din of people, the cogs begin to spin. The rather odd tune it selected to play while she waited for her drink was “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” another fine example of McTighe's madness. However, no one seemed to take much notice or even bothered to sing along. The laughter, mirth, and friendly chatter was the house's true music. This was where the working class of the City came to revel and repast.

One pair of the half dozen arms sprung out from under the back of the bar, giving Eliza a start. Articulated fingers of brass wrapped themselves around the tap handle and slowly pulled in a precise fashion that only an experienced bartender would manage, while a second arm tipped her tankard at an angle, slowly righting it the fuller it became.

Eliza took stock of the bar and how it segregated itself. At the Combobula, it was men, as it was throughout the Oath. Against a far wall women put up their feet and chattered amongst themselves.

She smiled as the pint was level, and the arm once pulling the brew now produced from its metal skeleton a long file that dragged itself over the tankard's rim, removing any excess foam from the bitter's head. An experienced barkeep would have done this smoothly, gently. As this was one of McTighe's creations, the file whipped across at the end of the rim, flecking the drink's foam onto patrons who didn't flinch when the bubbles struck. One worker merely wiped his cheek clean and continued talking to his mates while another sampled the bitter, nodded, and proceeded to order one for himself.

With libation now properly prepared, the serving arm swung over to where Eliza stood while the other returned to a neutral position under the bar. She picked up the bitter carefully with her left hand, keeping her gauntleted right under her cloak. As Eliza took her first sip and glanced down the length of the Combobula bar, she decided perhaps Mad McTighe hadn't been totally mad. The arms did serve a lot more people than three barmaids ever could.

Though there had been that
incident
in Colchester last year. Eliza counted off in her mind how many had been rushed to the local hospital . . .

She took a careful step back from the bar just on the recollection, and stepped right on a man's toe.

“Careful, love,” his hand actually slipped around her waist and she controlled herself enough not to elbow him in the gut to get free. The grateful man could hardly be held at fault—the Oath was heaving with women on the make.

Wriggling free she worked her way back towards her targets. Their burly forms were clustered at the far end of the bar and as she managed to move closer, she caught some very interesting conversation . . .

“Best bloody news I've heard all day,” barked one of the men just before wiping foam free of his impressive moustache.

“Only sorry I weren't there to see it.” Another chuckled. “Bet he made a fine ol' mess all over Charing Cross.”

Yes, these were indeed the right people, so she planted her toe in the floor and tripped. It was better than any music-hall actress could possibly have managed—though she lost half her pint down her front and knocked into the largest of the three so hard he lost most of his on the floor. A noble sacrifice.

The giant of a man spun about ready to pound the drunk who had soaked him, but then he stopped. Eliza smiled her most winning smile. “Sorry, mate, some bugger tripped me up. Let me buy you another?” Her accent was carefully chosen East End, and—if she said so herself—damn well done.

“That's all right love,” he muttered, still hot from being doused with bitter. “Needed a bath anyway.”

She pursed her lips and gave them all a saucy look over. “You boys look like you've had a hard day, and I can't take a man's hard-earned drink away from him. Wouldn't be right.” The men made way for her so she could slip more coins in the bar. The mechanical wonder whirred and the beer was poured. “Name's Emma. Emma Kincaid. You boys don't mind a lady buying you all a round, do ya?”

“Well now,” the big man said, his demeanor softening a bit, “if a woman wants the right to vote an' have a voice an' all, I sees no fuss in a woman buyin' th' rounds.”

The guffaws and raised tankards were Eliza's invitation. Never failed. The way to a man's heart was best fueled by beer.

They were quick enough to introduce themselves: Buford, Seth, and Josiah, all orderlies at the Royal Hospital and all possessing the most magnificent moustaches. After some prodding—and two more rounds for the lads while Eliza continued to nurse her original tankard—Seth admitted their facial hair was a competition the orderlies in the hospital were hosting. On the following round, they were calling on her to judge, at least the three of them.

“Oh now, come along, sweet Emma,” Josiah urged, his gravelly voice attempting to smooth itself into something seductive. “Fine blue eyes as yours should declare a lucky lad a winner, eh?”

“Please,” she held up her hands, genuinely laughing, “I cannot possibly chose between you fine gents.” She paused, taking a sip of her dwindling cup. With a silent prayer that the men wouldn't notice how little remained in her own pint, she looked at each of them before asking, “Fine 'staches you gents have. Why I would not reckon any of the high-class types could hold a candle to you three.” She waited for their chuckles to subside. “So exactly what are you handsome, strapping lads celebrating tonight?”

Seth, the tallest of the three, twirled the end of his ginger handlebar moustache, and raised his glass. “The death of the biggest bastard in London!” The other two whooped and hollered in agreement.

“That's quite a title,” Eliza laughed with them, her ears ready for what had to come. “Who's the winner?”

“Doctor bloody Christopher Smith,” Buford slapped her on the shoulder, his careless gesture nearly knocking her down. “Always looking down his nose at us, at the nurses. Even the bloomin' patients!”

“Like we were something ripe on the bottom of his shoe,” Seth added, swaying a bit against the bar. “But worse than that . . .” He looked around and then leaned forward into the group. “That clinic of his down on Ashfield Street—”