Phoenix Rising (9 page)

“Please, Harrison—I don't understand. What are you talking about?” She had to be stronger than this. “Whom are you talking about?”

He stroked her hair again, a heartbreaking look of loss on his broken face. It made her think of Paris and the night trip on the Seine, one of their last missions. Her heart had been racing back then, and it had nothing to do with dynamite. Had she missed the signs because of those foolish feelings? Had her partner been teetering on the edge of sanity for months and had she been too cow-eyed to notice?

Eliza clenched her eyes shut for a moment. She was used to action, not interrogation. That had been Harrison's forte. In the last few months of their partnership though, he had developed an obsession over those cases. Bodies drained of blood, flayed down the muscle, and some mysteriously with not one solid bone left in them. The corpses, at least the ones discovered, Harry was convinced were connected, yet no connections could be made. With no plausible explanation in sight and other situations carrying the House of Usher's signature cropping up, the Ministry had dropped the cases, much to Harrison's dismay.

But he had kept this locket, a single clue. Her partner had been such a stickler for protocol and rules, except for when it came to what he referred to as the Rag and Bone Murders.

“Yes, I found her.”

“I'm sorry, Harry.” She whispered, pressing her hand against the roughness of his cheek. “If I had only taken more notice of what you were doing—”

“Don't cry, Lizzie.” His voice was heavy with sorrow. “I've found her”—his hands cupped her chin but his eyes weren't on her—“and now you have too.”

Following his gaze Eliza saw Harrison was holding the locket up to the light by its chain and spinning it. Eliza blinked, tilting her head to one side. When spun at speed the odd shape and engravings suddenly transformed into something she would never have spotted. It was still a cat—but on spinning the pendant, the cat smiled back at them.

The Cheshire Cat, made famous in the writings of Lewis Carroll.

“I see her, Harrison, I do see her,” she whispered, a dizziness seeming to creep over her, “but what does it mean?”

Abruptly he stopped the spinning effect and pressed the locket into her hand. “We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.” The singsong voice he said this in sent a chill scampering up her spine. Harry then began to frantically itch and shake, muttering his words over and over again.

His moans were like a beaten child, and Eliza's efforts to soothe him were slapped away. Her fear welled up into her throat on Harrison's feverish scratching at the nape of his neck. Gods, she'd broken him again, and returned him to the chapter of his life that remained painful.
No, Harry, I will not leave you this way
, she swore in silence, stilling his hands as best she could.

It was during this struggle she found a raised scar hidden behind his left ear.

“You didn't have that before,” she hissed, feeling her fear and pity surrender to anger, a thankful respite from her sorrow.

“It's all right, Harrison,” Eliza growled, squeezing him tight, even if it was only for a minute. Striding to the door, she pounded hard against its cold metallic surface. The orderly had only opened it slightly before Eliza yanked him into the cell. “What have you done to him?”

Thomas struggled to keep up with her, his balance restored once she released him and pointed out Harrison's scar. The fallen agent was wailing up a storm, beating at his head.

For a second Eliza didn't quite hear the warden's protestations. “That was one of the wounds he had on him when he arrived, miss.”

Harrison then erupted into a frenzy, and Thomas suddenly wrapped Eliza in his arms pulling her out of the way. She probably would have kicked the orderly's teeth in, had her former partner not howled
“LIZZIE!”

His voice caught, and his face contorted into a silent scream. The moment passed, and Harry's voice trembled as he looked at her. “Remember Lizzie, we are all mice in the maze. So it doesn't matter where you go as long as you get somewhere. You're sure to do it if you keep walking long enough. And when you get there, you have a place to rest, to eat, to drink.” He then popped up on his feet and threw his arms into the air, and screamed, “TO LIVE!”

The ramblings came to her if they were some pronouncement from on high, but she recognised it. Some small sane part of Harrison was trying to drive the point home. All the air went out of her, and she allowed herself to be hustled out of the cell.
Yes
, she thought, her eyes fixed on Harrison,
I understand.

Thomas secured the cell, Harrison's screams still audible despite the door's thickness, and then propped himself against the wall. He looked tired. “Mister Thorne's gone now, Miss. You won't get anything sensible out of him now.”

“I'm sorry about mistaking that wound,” Eliza whispered, looking down at the locket. “I just assumed . . .”

Thomas' retort came in silently motioning the way they had come, and escorting her back towards the main atrium. Passing through the Gallery, the wizened man she had seen earlier in the gallery was waiting, his eyes gleaming. “Booooooooom!” he whispered with a wink.

It was almost too much, and Eliza quickened her step after the orderly. On reaching the entrance, Thomas stomped off with no politeness or pleasantry. Taking note of both their expressions, the nurse wisely chose not to ask questions.

Eliza now left Bedlam as she had arrived but feeling considerably more shaken. She hadn't even been able to say goodbye to Harrison—not that he would have noticed.

As she walked down the path towards the gate, she took the odd locket and put it around her neck to serve as a challenge to those who ripped her partner and friend from her. It lay chill against her chest and she pressed her hand against it, as if to memorise the feel of it.

Her racing heart had not quite returned to normal when she looked up to see a familiar figure. Standing beneath the statue of Madness was Wellington Books, as dapper and well turned out as Harrison had once been. All his outfit needed was a walking stick, and he would have turned a few of the ladies' eyes in his direction.

“So.” He spoke dryly, his words sobering. “How is the luncheon in Bedlam, Miss Braun?”

INTERLUDE
Where the Agent of the Outback Makes
New Friends in High Stations

A
gent Bruce Campbell was happy in a variety of places: hanging off a cliff face in Bengal, fighting off belligerent Sherpas in Nepal, or even swimming amongst the deadly great whites in his own Australian waters. And he was adroit at any number of activities; shooting, chasing beautiful women, and mixing the perfect after dinner aperitif.

What he was not happy doing was drinking tea with a Privy Counsellor in the midst of the finery at the Grosvenor Hotel. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Bruce realised that the people surrounding them were mostly ladies of fashion. He shifted in his seat. Dammit, he recognised some of them—even with their clothes on. As long as they weren't with their husbands, he had a fighting chance of getting out of here and into more friendly settings like, say, a gunfight.

That was, if the man opposite of him would allow it.

Peter Lawson, Duke of Sussex, needed no card, no introduction—Bruce knew very well who he was, but not quite how to address him. So instead he sat still and waited for the Privy Counsellor to speak.

Sussex leaned back in his seat, replaced the cigarillo carefully between his lips, and fixed Bruce with a gaze that he recognised from a hundred different predators. The agent knew how to cope with such looks when locked in a stare-down. Flash a devil-may-care smile, wink if time allowed, and then deliver his world-renowned (at least as far as he was concerned) “Thunder from Down Under” blow that left many a jaw shattered and opposing agents on the floor.

This time, the look was coming from someone with the ear of Her Majesty the Queen. A bureaucrat. And he was in a tearoom.

Bruce did the only thing that came naturally—he froze.

The sound of the dumbwaiter rattling up from the centre of the table was a welcome relief in the middle of this tense moment. Bruce swallowed—he would have much rather had a beer than tea. With the poms however, it was always bloody tea.

Sussex stubbed out his cigarillo, leaned forward, and took the pot off the brass multi-tiered plates, one of which kept the liquid at just the right temperature.

“Another bloody McTighe device,” Bruce muttered, leaning away from it.

“Not a fan of the Scotsman then?” Sussex carefully poured two cups. “What a pity. He is the nation's foremost inventor.”

The Australian shook his head, “When his gizmos don't kill people.”

“Progress has a price. Civilisation must move forward.” The Duke glanced around the room, taking in the quiet chatter of the ladies, and smiled. “And sometimes we do have to thin the herd a little.”

Sussex reminded Bruce of nothing more than a crocodile. He'd dealt with plenty of those in his younger days in the wilds of Queensland, and was confident this one would be no different. He might lurk under water, but now he was ready to strike.

“So tell me, Agent Campbell, your position at the Ministry? Do you find satisfaction in your role defending the Empire?”

Finally, they were coming down to the heart of the matter.

“Doing my part, Your Grace, to defend good Queen Vic,” he answered with a shrug of his massive shoulders. For a few moments, they exchanged no words; and Bruce wondered in a panic what he needed do. Help himself to a tea? Grab one of those frighteningly dainty sandwiches.

It was when he caught the eye of the table next to them, the looks of shock and condemnation clear on the patrons' faces, that it dawned on him. His voice apparently carried beyond the table.

“I see,” Sussex said, still stirring his tea. “Well, I'm sure Queen
Vic
appreciates your efforts—efforts that I will assume do not include diplomatic negotiations?”

Bruce cleared his throat, squirmed in his seat, and took a chance to reach for a cup. “Well, I'm not the talker when partnered with other agents. I'm more of the . . . ah . . .”

“The muscle.”

He saw that one coming. Bruce was more than fists and guns. He knew that. He was just more
comfortable
with the fists and guns than the diplomatic aspects of the Ministry. Bruce also knew that, and preferred it that way.

“Nothing wrong with being a man of deeds, not words. I assure you, there are members of Parliament who would prefer to hold open debate in the local pubs as opposed to the House of Lords. Strike a man on the floor, and it is an outrage. Strike the same man at the Prospect of Whitby and it is fair sport.” Sussex smiled, and Bruce felt the desperate need for a water closet. “You have a place in this world, Agent Campbell, but I must wonder if it is at the Ministry.”

Bruce furrowed his brow as he leaned forward. “I don't think I follow you, Your Grace.”

The Duke spread some clotted cream on his scones with the precision of an artist. He raised his eyes and smiled at the agent. “It is not common knowledge amongst your fellows yet, but I would be surprised if the organisation sees the year out.”

Bruce blinked. “Bloody hell!” he whispered as he brought the cup to his lips, pinkie extended. He had learned some things in London.

The ladies around him shot him a second round of horrified glances, but this time he was too shocked to care.

“Yes, I am sure it comes as quite a surprise to you.” Sussex devoured his scone, and then dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. “I know you have become used to a certain lifestyle—as have your children.”

His children? Bruce sat up a little taller, the one hand lowering the cup gingerly while the other clenched in a white-knuckled fist under the table.

“I understand you have quite a number. Some with your darling wife”—the Duke tilted his head, that crocodilian smile flicking over his lips—“some not.”

Despite the coolness of the tearoom, Bruce felt a thin line of sweat break out on the back of his neck. He found his intimidation of Sussex quickly waning. This pom was treading on matters that were not his concern. “With all due respect to your title and position within Her Majesty's council, Your Grace, get to the damn point.” he hissed under his breath.

“The point, my dear colonial, is that you should spend less time at the boxing matches and more at the card tables,” he purred, helping himself to a salmon sandwich. “When the deck gets shuffled, it's nice to have made friends with the dealer earlier.”

Bruce heard Sussex, but his attention was divided. In his mind, he was preoccupied with financial sums, imagining what his wife Grace would say, and seeing the many shining faces of his children.

“I've played my fair share of hands,” he replied cautiously. “Which way are you cutting the cards?”

“Sound is proving most ineffective with this . . . this organisation of his.” Sussex went on, “The Ministry has always been less of a representation of the Crown and more of his private agenda. I feel—as does Her Majesty—that its time has passed, and the formation of a new entity would be entirely in the Empire's best interests. Something more dedicated to clandestine operations that concern both internal strife as well as international dangers. ‘British Intelligence' has a lovely ring to it, do you not think?” With the sandwich, he merely nibbled at it, his eyes no longer regarding Bruce but seeming to lose themselves in a grand painting covering the tearoom's far wall. “Regardless of what we call this new branch of the government, it will fall on me to populate it with the brightest minds, the most valuable resources.”

The croc had its teeth in him now, and Bruce could feel it dragging him down. Surely there was only one way to make this less painful—let the bloody thing have its way. If he had to guess who had the more power between Sussex and the Fat Man, his bet was on the Privy Counsellor.

Bruce sighed, “And what would I need to do to get into this new department?”

Sussex's eyebrows raised, his eyes looking above him as if he were searching for the answer to be floating in the aether above him. “Oh, let me see, a branch of Her Majesty's government specialising in intelligence gathering and clandestine operations requires an individual of strength, cunning, resourcefulness . . .” His gaze then locked on to Bruce. “. . . and loyalty.” He leaned forward, his face hardening, the veneer of gentility disappearing completely. “I think you are more than the sum of your parts, my dear colonial; and while it may seem I am strong-arming you into roguish behaviour, I assure you the final choice is yours.

“Help me bring down Sound and the Ministry. Serve as my eyes and ears on the inside. I assure you that your actions for the betterment of the Empire will not go without proper compensation.”

Only by tightening his jaw did Bruce avoid spitting out another crass comment. He thought of the friends and colleagues he had in the Ministry, and even the Director himself—who had been nothing but kindly to him. He wouldn't call them “mates” like his friends back home, but they were individuals that relied on him to cover their backs. Even that loudmouth tart, Braun, he wanted beside him in a fight. She was a crack shot, handled explosives as if she were in a kitchen cooking up breakfast, and nastier than a Gurkha in a bar fight. This was a betrayal of trust at the highest level. A point of absolutely no return.

Then he thought of Grace and the children. He owed them more.

Sussex, seeing his pause, smiled thinly. “If your conscience is bothering you, Agent Campbell, then please remember we are all on the same side. Your ultimate loyalty must lie with Her Majesty after all, mustn't it?”

Bruce looked at the finery, the luxuries of the upper crust displayed all around them. It was so beautiful, so perfect, and yet it was so hollow. But it was the place he, and his family had to live in. He'd been at the bottom of the barrel before in his life—he wasn't going back there ever again.

“Tell me what you need, mate. I'd hate to let ol' Queen Vic down after all.”

Sussex's smile was chilling and humourless. It was how things would be from now on.