Phoenix Rising (20 page)

A valid conclusion. One he wished had not been so solid in reasoning. “And that is probably what is keeping him safe at present. As for us, we're still shrouded in secrecy, for the moment.”

That's when Eliza's eyes flicked open, any sign of tears effectively held back. “You know that won't last.”

“Perhaps not, Miss Braun, but right now there is only one thing that protects us—our anonymity.”

With a nod and a deep breath, Eliza went for her coat pocket and then smiled. “Welly.” She chuckled. “My hands?”

He tightened his grip on them. “Yes, Eliza, what about your hands?”

“I'd like them back, if you please.”

Wellington looked down and felt his skin heat up slightly. “Oh dear,” and he tore them free of her as he returned to his feet. “I . . . I thought there was something wro—yes, right then.”

She watched him return to his side of their desk, and her grin made his skin prickle with sudden heat. From her own pocket, she produced a small, worn journal of her own. “Along with being ghosts to the Society, we also have an insight into their company. I was doing some digging of my own, Welly, remember?”

“Ah, very good.” He cleared his throat and asked, “What do you have to add to the pot?”

“Well, the good Doctor Christopher Smith was just that, an outstanding man of his profession. The man was very talented, very gifted.” Eliza then flipped to the marked page of her journal. “I also found out that the impressive Doctor Smith was something other than what he appeared. I spent a good portion of the early morning talking with a nurse formerly of his practice, a Miss Mary Grissom, the name I dropped earlier? She had worked alongside the doctor at both his general practice and a clinic located on Ashfield Street until a few months ago, when she was dismissed.”

“Perhaps Nurse Grissom wants to blacken Doctor Smith's name?”

“Now, Welly, is it polite to interrupt someone when they are talking? It is behaviour such as that which breeds ignorance.” With a very satisfied smirk, she took a sip of her tea and then returned to her own notes. “Had you let me continue, you would have heard me tell you about experiments Nurse Grissom witnessed at the Ashfield clinic. She happened to note a patient's reaction to one of Doctor Smith's treatments and brought it to his attention. He
increased
the dosage. Grissom, from that point, then noted that this was Smith's process: Any sign of an adverse reaction, Smith would continue treatments with keen interest. The more dramatic the reaction, the more he would intensify treatments, as if testing subjects' tolerance levels.

“It seems that Smith was running the clinic for two reasons. The first was for his own standing in the eyes of the Society. The charitable work did win him many accolades. The second reason, though, was a bit more diabolical as Nurse Grissom discovered. She was, near the end, asked to assist in surgeries that were not only unnecessary but unethical. All these trials, and the deaths that occurred, all centred around the human muscular system. When she insisted on understanding what she was party to, he apparently answered with, ‘The betterment of the Empire.' ” Eliza closed her notebook and looked up at him. “It fits. Considering the condition of the corpses Harry and I found, it would have taken a curious surgeon with a great amount of skill.”

“Indeed.” Wellington then went pale. “Wait a moment. Nurse Grissom—”

She raised a hand, silencing him. “Already taken care of, Welly. I saw her off on the first airship leaving the country this morning. I called in a favour and now our Singapore office has a new head nurse.”

He pushed his spectacles higher up his nose. “A lovely notion, Miss Braun, but what will Doctor Sound say when he receives a communication from—”

The hatch unlocking boomed throughout the Archives, making them both start. Even in the sparse lighting that reached the top of the staircase, the portly man descending was most distinguishable.

“Ah!” His voice was cheery and bright, providing an odd contrast to the darkness of the Archives. “There you are! How fortunate to find both of you present!”

Wellington felt a sudden urge to flee, or perhaps excuse himself to use the lavatory; but that would have been far too conspicuous. Eliza, her movements in his peripheral seeming graceful and fluid, merely straightened up to her full height while closing the books on her desk. Wellington's eyes quickly glanced down to the open volumes under him. No etchings, photographs, or sketches. Merely dates and notes that might go unnoticed.

Yet this was Doctor Basil Sound, Director of the Ministry. His fingertips locked under the book's edge in order to close it before Sound reached their desk.

Too late. “So here are the unsung heroes of the Ministry, eh what?” Doctor Sound chuckled. Under his arm, a collection of papers crinkled as he clasped his hands together, considering them both. “From the looks of the shared desk, you two are keeping yourselves quite busy.”

“Yes, sir,” Eliza answered back, her voice that of a respectful soldier to her commanding officer. “Tea, Director?”

“No,” he replied warmly, “thank you.”

Eliza finished her cup and motioned to Wellington. “What Books does here is par excellence. I do have a great deal to learn.”

“Well, I assure you, Agent Braun,” Doctor Sound beamed, “when it comes to the facts and the figures, no one does it better than Books. A walking, talking analytical engine, you are, aren't you Books?”

“I suppose so, sir,” answered Wellington, his voice wavering slightly.

Doctor Sound gave a hearty laugh, but then focused his attention on the six jars lined up between the two piles of books.

“Forgive me, Agent Books,” Sound began, his eyes recounting the jars, “but didn't Agent Hill bring back
seven
jars from South America?”

“That was before Agent Braun's assignment here, Director. I'm sorry, sir.”

Wellington went to glance at Eliza a silent apology but found himself caught in her astonished gaze.

“Yes, I was a bit of the butterfingers when I first got down here,” she stated, her eyes never leaving Wellington's.

The Director sighed, and then seemed to cast off the disappointment. “Well now, that is the price for change, I suppose.” He leaned in. “I should have warned you that when you were to break in a new partner, it would be in the literal sense with this pepperpot.”

Was the Director
winking
at him?

Wellington took his seat and drew in a slow, deep breath. This couldn't be good.

“There is that old saying, Books, that you cannot make omelets without breaking a few eggs . . .” Doctor Sound counted the vases again, and shrugged. “Or in this case, irreplaceable vases leading to El Dorado.”

“It won't happen again,” assured Eliza. “I am still adjusting to the change, and I am learning, sir. I am learning quite a bit.”

“Excellent,” Doctor Sound replied. “I would be disappointed if you were not, or if I had made an error in my reassigning you. You are a superlative field agent, Braun, but I believe to round you out, to temper your need for mayhem, you must find a place here. It is also my intention that you would find a mentor in Books here, because he is—in my humble opinion—one of the most disciplined agents we have at the Ministry.”

Wellington blinked. “I am, sir?”

“Of course you are, Books.” Sound chuckled. “You work down here diligently . . . undisturbed. You keep your own hours within the stacks . . . unsupervised.” The mirth was receding from his tone. There was no malice or warning in his voice, but he was speaking with a slight air of curiosity. “What I mean is that you have been down here for years working without immediate supervision, and still you have worked wonders in restoring the Archives and remaining reliable as clockwork. That is a true mark of discipline and dedication to work.”

“Yes, sir,” Eliza answered.

“With the Archives seeming to be a world unto itself, practically detached from the Ministry's offices,” Doctor Sound continued, “it is a wonder you two are, in fact, doing your assignments at all and not gallivanting on your own through the streets of London . . .”

Then, Doctor Sound unfurled one of the papers from underneath his arm and placed it on Eliza's side of the desk.

“. . . Like
this
couple that I've been reading about in the papers.”

Wellington slowly rose from his seat, the creak of his chair conjuring in his mind the sound of the gibbet. The headline screamed back at both of them:

CHARING CROSS SLAUGHTER!

Unknown Samaritans Attempt to

Apprehend Dealer of Death

“A most fascinating story from the
Times
,” Sound said, nodding his head while unfurling another newspaper. “But no need to worry if you missed it there, because the
Daily Telegraph
also covered the story.”

THE BLACK DEATH!

Mysterious Coach Kills Innocents

While Brave Husband-Wife Attempt

To Save the Queen's Subjects
!

This story landed in front of Wellington, and his earlier desire to run to the lavatory increased tenfold.

“Oh, but I must give credit to the
Daily Mail
for their coverage of this calamity,” Doctor Sound said, unfurling the last remaining newspaper. He held it before them, displaying the chronicle's impressive, imposing headline that Wellington did not doubt sold papers. “They captured, perhaps, the excitement, the madness, and more importantly, the
detailed eyewitness accounts
of what happened.”

CARNAGE AT CHARING CROSS!

Woman in Black Ministers Death

But Flees in Sight of Daring Duo!

For a few moments, only the low rumbling of the Ministry's generators filled the space. Wellington read the
Daily Mail
headline several times and tried to remember to breathe. He felt the confession on the tip of his tongue, but he was too far invested into this forgotten case now. He would probably meet the same fate as Agent Braun, even if he withheld nothing from the Director about what he and Eliza had really been up to in their brief time together.

As if in answer to Wellington's prayer, Eliza asked, “Could it be the House of Usher, sir?”

“Well, Agent Braun, the black carriage with—” Doctor Sound turned the newspaper back around and, after a moment, began reading. “—‘wheels of nefarious construction smiting down innocents as would the scythe of the Reaper' does sound very House of Usher, but then I have to stop and consider the other particulars in this story.

“Note, if you will: ‘Eyewitnesses report that Mistress Death was locked in mortal combat with a hansom that kept chase, its drivers a man and a woman lacking modesty most proper.' Now, here is a detail I find most curious: ‘The heroic hansom did carry a lone passenger, the man's purpose unclear as all he seemed to be doing was screaming as would a banshee of the rolling moors of West Yorkshire.' What do you make of that, Books?”

Wellington felt his tongue swell. He found himself totally paralyzed by the cool steely gaze of the Director. His mouth went to open, his throat dry as if he had been walking though an Egyptian expanse.

“As I read about such outrageous behaviour from the subjects of Her Majesty,” Doctor Sound said, folding the newspaper and placing it where the seventh vase should have been, “I thank God in heaven above that I am the director of a
clandestine
organisation where our specialty is our subtlety.” He slowly turned to Eliza, his eyes narrowing on her. “Isn't that correct, Agent Braun?”

Eliza nodded. “Most of the time, sir.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Most of the time.” Sound's eyes went back and forth between them both, and Wellington could feel a tightness in his chest. “Well then, I shan't keep you. I just thought I would pay my Archives a visit, and I am quite glad I did so.” He took in the shelves, the massive analytical engine and its vast network of pulleys, and finally their shared desk, and he nodded approvingly. “I should do this more often. So please, if I ever do pop down here when the mood strikes me, just go about your business. Pretend as if I am not here.” He lifted a finger up to his moustache and tugged at it a bit. “You can do that, can't you?”

With a final look at the two of them, Doctor Sound headed for the stairwell. “Agent Braun, Agent Books, good afternoon.”

They both watched in silence as he made his way up the stairwell, opened the hatch, and disappeared.

“Books,” Eliza said, shattering the silence. “How many times has the old man paid you a visit like that?”

“Including your arrival down here?”

“Yes.”

“Twice.” Wellington finally tore his eyes away from the metal hatch and glared at Eliza. “What in God's name have you talked me into, woman?!”

“Oh, this is my fault, is it?” She stopped for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, I suppose it is, but you were hardly coerced. You could have left me out on my own . . .” Then she leaned forward, her gaze seeming to chill in the glow of the warm gaslight. “. . . Or did you want the pleasure of turning me over to Doctor Sound yourself?”