Phoenix Rising (25 page)

“Yes,” she began, her voice still trembling a bit. There was the sound of a breath, and Olivia seemed to have her composure again. “There are four couples we are looking at this weekend. There are the Collinses, Barnabus and Angelique. No children. Barnabus has been referred to by some in the Brethren as a man to watch.”

“His specialty?” Havelock asked.

“Finances. Straight from University, he was snatched up by the firm of Harcourt and Sturgis.” She paused, and then added, “No formal introduction had been made.”

“Harcourt and Sturgis, without an introduction?” It was the slightest of inflections, but Havelock sounded genuinely impressed.

“Then there are the Fairbankses, Harold and Dahlia. Delilah's family owned a distillery.”

“So Harold earned his fortunes from the wife? How then did he catch our attention?”

“Harold expanded the distillery to other locations. Acquired two more that were his fiercest competitors. One sold his family's label outright. The other . . . fell to ruin. A scandal involving the competitor and his secretary. His
male
secretary.”

“A man of ambition,” he conceded.

“A man of substance, as well,” Devane added.

“The St. Johns. Seems they are doing quite well for themselves in textiles. Lovely people, what we know of them.”

“Lovely people, are they now, Olivia?” Bartholomew hadn't snapped at his wife; but even with the crackle and tinny quality of his recorded voice, Devane's syrupy contempt was evident. “Tell us more of your assessment then. You think they will make a delightful addition to the Society?”

Wellington noticed there was something truly deafening about the soft pops and hisses coming from the cylinder rotating in time with the cogs of the gramophone. For an instant, he imagined how thick the silence—even with the power of Verdi's opera in the background—must have been in the Phoenix Society's box seat.

“Finally,” Olivia continued, her voice lacking its earlier confidence, “there is Major Nathaniel Pembroke and his wife, Clementine. Two children. A decorated soldier from a long lineage of military men, dating back to Queen Elizabeth.”

“Really,” sneered Devane. “Was his ancestry a powder monkey at the battle with the Spanish Armada?”

Olivia cleared her throat and said, “He says his line reaches back to a commander four ranks under Drake. Records do show one of the vessels captained by a Lord Pembroke. The Major has been upholding his family's reputation quite well. May become the youngest soldier to reach the rank of General.”

The laughter was coming from where Havelock sat. “A fine collection of initiates, which will make for a good weekend.”

“A good weekend,” agreed Devane, “provided the wives are not as priggish as the last lot were.”

There was a sudden stutter from Olivia, and then a scream bled in from the background. The music seemed to accompany the improvisational drama occurring on the stage.

“Well now,” Doctor Havelock began, any interest in the opera notably absent from his voice, “it seems that Jossepe has incorporated a few rewrites since the last performance.”

Bartholomew's tone betrayed that he was teetering on the edge of panic. “Shall we call it a night? Brandy and cigars at our apartments?”

“Yes,” Havelock said, “that would be lovely.”

With a clatter of cogs and a soft hiss, the needle lifted free of the cylinder, and the cradle slid outward, as if it were a kitten imploring for another aural snack. Wellington's eyes glanced over his notes and then looked up to Eliza, now dressed in her regular fashion choices: a blouse and trousers.

He wondered if he was becoming used to her strange taste in attire. “As you can hear, it seems that the Phoenix Society is going to be enjoying quite the weekend.”

Eliza rolled her neck from side to side, and then twisted at the hips. She then spoke over her shoulder to Alice, now carrying wet towels. “Capital work, Alice. Now, please keep an eye on the door, and show my other morning appointments in when they arrive, if you please.”

“Very good, Miss Braun.” She curtseyed, and repeated the gesture to Wellington. “Mr. Books.”

He watched Eliza consider the girl with what appeared to be pride; a rather unusual sentiment to bestow on the hired help, but there it was, clearly in her face.

“Welly,” Eliza began, pouring herself a tea as she did, “you seemed quite excited concerning this bloke Havelock. I wondered if your zeal wouldn't have tipped our hand early.”

“Naturally, I couldn't expect you to know, considering the different circles we move in.”

Eliza scoffed. “Oh this had better be good.”

“It depends on your interests.” And he produced his journal from his coat pocket. Setting it by his breakfast plate, he took a sip of tea before continuing. “Doctor Devereux Havelock is a pioneer of modern technology. It would not surprise me if Axelrod and Blackwell have not attended one of his symposiums for inspiration.”

“I take it you have?”

“Several of them, as a matter of fact. The man is a genius, his work in engineering unmatched. He was the principal scientist in charge of the 1887 restoration of Big Ben's internal workings. In 1889 he designed the HMS
Pegasus
, a new class of airship that reset all records for commercial air travel. In that
same
year,” Wellington said, feeling elated at this particular memory, “Doctor Havelock developed, designed, and successfully launched the HMS
Mercury
. I remember watching in my telescope its impact in Mare Serenitatis. I have seen some of his work up close and his articles concerning theoretical studies in automation mechanics is fascinating. Some of his ideas are a bit incred—”

“Welly,” Eliza, interjected, “you lost me at Big Ben. So for those of us less stimulated by the sciences, give me a more simplistic picture. How does a man of letters and prestige as Havelock find himself as the grand master of a secret society?”

He paused, staring into his teacup for a moment. “Well, yes, Doctor Havelock is quite the genius, but the reason you may not know his name alongside other scientists like Tesla and Mad McTighe is that only a few years ago he started writing columns that had nothing to do with the sciences. The tenor of these commentaries was more . . .” He shook his head and drained his tea. “Political.”

“Ah, the more critical looks at Queen Vic and her empire?”

“Yes, but they didn't just stop at the House of Parliament and House of Lords. He was calling for outlandish changes in our society.”

“Such as?”

Wellington shuddered. “Imagine a governing body that judged your standing by your family history, to which families you married into, and your upbringing? Havelock was commenting on such matters as the purity of minor nobility bloodlines. He called for a total restructure of the English class system, and the complete and total expulsion of colonials from Mother England.”

Eliza nodded, taking a sip of her now sweetened tea. “And you hold in high regard this stall whimper?”

He looked up from where he was helping himself to another cup of tea and his eyes narrowed.

“
She would object
,” jeered the voice of his father. “
She's a colonial.
First against the wall when the Empire opens its eyes and pays attention to its own people.
”

“I respect and admire the man's works in the sciences. I find it tragic that a mind so brilliant is marred by such”—he noticed the teacup in his grasp was rattling lightly—“idealistic politics. His railings of anarchy, sadly, pushed him out of favour with the Queen; and while rarely invited, he is still welcome to speak on the sciences. His name just is not as widely publicised as once was.” Wellington took a sip and added, “And the invitations have been fewer and fewer in the past years as his talks tend to stray off-topic.”

“And somewhere in all this, Havelock has taken up the mantle of the Phoenix Society.”

“Yes,” Wellington then motioned to the gramophone and said, “and it is Initiation Weekend for them.”

“And it would seem that with the untimely death of Simon,” observed Eliza, “there is an opening in the ranks.”

“Two, I would think,” Wellington said, flipping between pages of his journal. “I doubt they would be screening couples and families like this to replace what had become a loose end for them.”

“So you don't think Simon's death was a setup?”

“Oh, it was most definitely arranged, but not an arrangement of a rash nature.” Wellington unlocked his journal and flipped back a few pages to notes he had made during the night's eavesdropping. “I think the assassin's services were called upon more out of convenience and less out of impulsiveness. After all, she was in town. Why not add to her fee for additional services?”

Eliza's lips curled in distaste. “You make it all sound so proper, Books.”

His eyes flicked up from the journal to her own gaze. “Don't mistake my clinical review of facts and theories for approval, or even the slightest admiration for that matter. I find this Society's actions and demeanour, in particular of that cad Bartholomew Devane, reprehensible. I am merely making a conclusion based on what I see. The Italian . . .”

“That bitch,” Eliza seethed.

Wellington felt his jaw twitch before continuing. “The
assassin
had been hired to eliminate the good doctor and—”

He swallowed. How could he chastise her for feeling? It made perfect sense.

No
, he reprimanded himself sharply.
You have to detach yourself from this case and the people therein if you wish to solve it properly. Otherwise, your work will be for naught.

“The assassin had been hired to eliminate Doctor Smith and Agent Thorne. The assassin might as well have taken care of all loose ends, so why not Simon as well?”

“Yes,” Eliza repeated. “Why not?”

He furrowed his brow. “Eliza, how could you have known?”

“I should have.”

“Oh, of course you should have, seeing as you have this amazing ability to see into the future.” Wellington shook his head. “It was an unsolved case, buried in the Archives and, yes, forgotten. It would have remained so . . .” And his voice trailed off.

“Go on, Books,” she insisted.

Wellington felt a tightness in his throat. “I'd rather not.”

“You were doing so well trying to make me feel better, I'm sure, but the truth is—”

“That the reach of the Phoenix Society is far greater than we may realise it. Agent Thorne would have suffered the same fate if he had shown a recovery from his condition.” He stared at her through the heavy, awkward silence. “Now we must focus on the matters at hand. In particular, this initiation weekend.”

“Already thinking of that, Books.” Eliza topped off her tea from the pot. “I have associates on the way who will be assisting us in what I'm assuming is your plan.”

Wellington gave a short laugh. “You have no idea what my plan is, Miss Braun.”

She grinned at him. “You are intending for us to be there for the initiation, aren't you? Inside surveillance, disguised as—no wait, let me guess—servant staff, or possibly delivery men as there will be a grand turnout for this weekend, yes?”

A burn tingled across Wellington's cheeks.

“Yes, Welly, very textbook. A ha'penny to you for remembering so well the basics of your Ministry training. However, what will we discover about this company of ne'er-do-wells while we are scrubbing dishes, mopping floors, and changing bedsheets?” Eliza cast a glance away from him on hearing the door open, and her smile softened immediately. “While I do not claim to be a perfect field agent, I do have a penchant for finding information in the most unconventional of manners.”

With a thunder of small footsteps, a powerful odour of sweat, muck, and other less attractive human scents assailed Wellington's nostrils; and when two children entered, his eyes watered fiercely. When the remaining five ran into the parlour, Wellington made for a window. He was thankful Eliza, her own face rather pale, was also joining him in ushering in fresh air. One of the creatures looked to be nine or ten while another could pass for fifteen; their weathered skin, however, attempted to rob them of their youthful looks. All except a little girl who looked like a sweet cherub in desperate need of a good wash down. In fact, all they seemed to have in their possession, along with the threadbare clothes on their backs, was a vibrant, youthful energy, optimistic even in their dismal existence.

“Boys! And Serena!” Eliza called, openly recoiling at their collective bouquet. None of the children took offence. “What have I told you about bathing?”

“That it's something we should do?” the youngest boy asked.

The oldest lad shrugged, “Sorry about that, Miss Eliza. I know what we promised and all . . .”