The Eterna Files (16 page)

THE DEADLY DAMSEL IN DISTRESS:

ONE IMPERILED BUT CONNIVING WOMAN! THREE MEN! WHO … WILL … SURVIVE???!!!

“Lovely,” Spire choked out quietly and with great effort.

Perhaps he could convince Lord Black to send his father a note expressing his regrets that “Harold was kept at work.” Victor Spire couldn't afford not to be nice to an aristocrat.…

“I'll be sure to get you the best seat!” his father cooed. “Or seats, perhaps? Do you have a special lady friend you'd like to invite? I daresay the show is rather titillating—”

“No,” Spire replied through clenched teeth.

“Pity,” Victor replied, his angular face contorting into an unattractive pout. “Now. Is that all? As you can see, I'm
quite
busy.”

Spire stared at him blankly.

Victor tapped his head. “Busy. Busy, busy, busy!” He resumed pacing, apparently immediately dismissing Harold from his mind.

Harold Spire saw himself out, crumpling the theater bill in his pocket and actively not looking at the second-floor doorway through which he inevitably saw his mother, her throat slit and blood streaming.

Much like that poor woman in Tourney's cellar of horrors.

He yearned to set to work on Miss Everhart's list of leads, to check in with his fellows on the force, learn of any new developments in the case, and be bolstered by his men's more sensible natures and pleasant camaraderie. Clenching his fists, he instead made his way toward Omega's offices. He wanted to be there before anyone else, to look around the space prior to the arrival of his ragtag team.

*   *   *

Lord Black, clad in a suit entirely of ivory silk that couldn't have been more in contrast with Rose Everhart's prim, schoolmarmish, blue linen dress, slid two brass keys on an unadorned ring across Rose's small desk.

A man whose capacity for nuance, detail, and diplomacy was as refined as his joie de vivre was contagious, Lord Black had long ago earned Rose's admiration and care. At his entry into her tiny Parliament office, she had set down her book, a rather poorly written, uselessly sensationalistic, turn-of-the-century review of various occult practices. She had been trying to gain insight into aspects of the Tourney case.

“Henceforth, you'll report here,” Lord Black said, pointing to the keys. “You and Spire will be the first ones in. Shall we go have a look, before the others arrive at noon?”

She nodded and rose, allowing him to lead her out from under the grand Gothic eaves of Parliament, recalling how thrilled she had been when she'd watched the clock tower rise, a beacon of the elegant, modern world over the muddy, old river.

They strolled in silence from Parliament to Omega's Millbank offices, Rose wishing all the while that she could talk freely to the man beside her. In her private moments, she thought of him as dear Edward Wardwick—a familiarity Lord Black allowed a scant few. Respect between them was mutual; he commended her talents and praised the fact she didn't chide him for choosing work above a family. And he never pressed her toward the same.

Today, she wished not to talk of personal matters but of work. While Rose believed it important to foil America's efforts, even though she was unsure if immortality was possible—she didn't see why she couldn't attend to both it and the Tourney case that seemed to her to represent deep demons of their manic, polarizing age. What if she could prove the Tourney case could give insights into immortality? After all, someone had been experimenting on those poor women and children in some way, and the police had no idea what the goal had been.

Ethical terror took hold of her. If she made a correlation, would the queen condone such experiments, if performed under government supervision? How desperate was the woman? Was she primarily interested in beating the Americans or did she want the compound for herself?

Rose shook herself mentally. For now, Omega needed her and all else would have to wait. She and Black paused near the corner of Horseferry Road and Millbank Street, noticing Spire approaching. His blond-brown hair was mussed by the breeze and he was dressed in modest earthen hues. As she had when they'd met before, Rose noted that his frock coat, waistcoat, and trousers were clean and well maintained but nothing he seemed to take great pride or care in. She wondered if the man owned any hats or if the idea of one had ever occurred to him beyond for warmth come wintertime. He bowed his head in greeting once he caught sight of Lord Black and Rose.

“So. Home sweet home?” Spire asked, taking in the building. Lord Black beamed.

Rose stared at the high-ceilinged three-story dark brick edifice that sat a stones' throw from a couple of breweries. A further stone might have landed in either the massive hexagonal Millbank penitentiary or the nearby holdings of the Chartered Gas Works, equally harrowing and potentially dangerous places. Looking toward the Thames, Lambeth Bridge was directly ahead, curving east, the stately spires of Parliament; a few wharves stretching wooden fingers out onto the river between.

With granite keystones above the wide, arched windows that were the most interesting feature of the building, the edifice looked like what it was, an industrial building with simple lines and an unadorned facade.

Lord Black let Spire do the honors; Omega's director used his hefty iron key to open the large metal front door. The threesome stepped into an open space with doors leading into separate rooms. Like the exterior, the interior was fairly unadorned: brick, solid, angular, save for the immense wrought-iron main stair with a bit of flourish on the balustrade.

The building was gaslit, direct from the nearby Works. At the center of the space hung a great circular fixture that featured the same sweep of elegant wrought-iron around a ring of glass globe lamps. At present the daylight was strong enough not to need it. The curved windows were dressed top to bottom with ivory damask curtains that looked freshly installed, which created a warm, diffuse light in the space.

In Rose's opinion, all this made for a surprisingly pleasant atmosphere. It was so open and modern though in the middle of cramped, cluttered old London. Work spaces were her havens and she placed on them a reverence that others might give cathedrals.

“The whole building is ours,” Black stated. “I'm the only one who knows it belongs to Omega. Even the prime minister doesn't know, Miss Everhart, so before you mention it, let's chat about disclosure preferences.”

Rose nodded. She'd need her Parliamentary workload altered—decreased, possibly extensively. Black could deal with the whining.

“Is it too much space for so small a team?” Spire asked. “Unless we place the new scientists here? I'd be pleased to have persons I'm meant to guard within my sights.”

“As far as I know, that's the plan, though Her Majesty has been known to override me,” Black said before turning to climb the stairs, fine boots clanging on the iron between floors, frock coat flapping behind him. “I'll have the treasures of my war room brought up here,” he shouted, “and take an office for my own!”

“Would you like to be director, then, Your Lordship?” Spire called after him. “I do have police work I could be doing.”

“Oh, no! I'll come and go on my own whims, Spire, I don't want to be director!” The nobleman yelled before disappearing beyond the upper landing.

Rose watched Spire clench his jaw and check a surge of frustration, keeping a calm and capable attitude of command. Sounds from outside heralded the arrival of the rest of the team and there was work to be done.

*   *   *

Spire took a deep breath and tried to take in his surroundings objectively.

The second floor was a wide brick room with the same arched windows and damask curtains, furnished with several long tables and tall stools, desks and desk chairs under the windows, wooden shelving and filing cabinets along the walls and between the windows, and a large, circular table at the center of the room, surrounded by chairs. Considering he'd had to share cramped, cluttered, dark, gloomy offices at the Metropolitan, the fact that there was bright light and breathing room was at least an improvement.

Then he saw
his
office. An anterior room, partitioned from the open space by tall wooden walls. A wooden door bore a brass placard; fine, noble script, it read:

HAROLD SPIRE, DIRECTOR

This did something to his heart that he didn't expect; this proof that he was trusted unequivocally by the highest authorities in the land. He swallowed hard, a sudden swell of pride and sense of duty that entirely shocked him out of his dismay at how little he'd been a part of the department's decision-making thus far. In the next breath, he was damning himself for his response, which would make it all the harder to go behind their backs and continue on the Tourney matter.

Lying on the circular, central table was a file, labeled in typeset letters:

THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA'S ETERNA COMMISSION

Frowning, Spire walked over and was about to pick up the documents when the Wilsons exclaimed in sudden unison and everyone in the room—even Spire—jumped.

“Thank heavens,” Mr. Wilson cried as he whipped aside a dust curtain to reveal a large tea cart with full amenities and behind it, a small coal-burning stove and a teakettle.

“We are in a civilized building after all,” Mrs. Wilson declared. “For a moment I was very afraid.” Smoothing her soft scarf, she immediately set to stoking the stove while her husband filled the kettle from a water tank at the corner of the wide room.

Blakely and Knight strolled about the space arm in arm, Blakely guiding Knight. Her eyes were closed; she was quietly asking the building if any spirits were present and listening for a response.

Tucking the file under his arm, Spire called to his team: “I'll be in my office, familiarizing myself with this file. Please assess any security weaknesses of this building. Lord Black will see to the financing of their improvement.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Wilson replied over his steeping tea.

Spire opened the door bearing his name, closed it behind him, and breathed deeply at the beautiful sight before him: a large, oak desk with blotter, inkwells, fountain pens, and a ream of paper, a leather chair, an empty bookshelf upon which sat a crystal decanter of liquor and two snifters. For Spire, peace of mind was hard to come by; work was the only thing that gave him any solace and this simple, quiet space, fit with sturdy, well-made things, entirely without ostentation, this was pure luxury.

He dove into the file. It contained a compilation of the Eterna origin story, a hodgepodge of memoranda; timelines; names of known operatives; newspaper articles alluding to the formation of the United States' Secret Service, under whose umbrella the Eterna Commission had evidently crept; telegraph messages and various correspondence from the past decade.

Andre Dupris's letters were useful: they set the discussions and work of the place in a more human context, not merely fact but a glimpse of life. Spire wanted to know the sorts of people he was investigating; making decisions on facts alone without ascertaining the personalities surrounding a given situation invariably would lead to error. He didn't believe in the endgame of what America was after, or even in the experiments or theories themselves, but he needed to know what drove those involved.

Well, it was obvious what drove America. Empire and conquest. The apple didn't fall far from the tree of Mother England, but over across the pond, the orchard was far more wild and the rules of the land less certain. After their Civil War, the country's military had strengthened, codified, and redeployed westward. Industry was booming. The natives that hadn't been massacred were driven to far-flung corners of the nation and America's insatiable appetite for expansion plumped its borders. It had even dared to invade British holdings in the north early in the century. The loose assembly of states didn't know when to cool its unruly heels.

While Eterna may have been born out of assassination, it continued out of the need for dominance on a world stage. Eterna, in theory or practice, hadn't managed to do anyone any good, but the legacy of a young girl's impetuous suggestion of immortality lived on to frighten (or seduce) Queen Victoria.

Spire began to find all of it fascinating. Absurd and stupid, to be sure, but magnetic all the same. He wondered if any of his team would see Eterna and the political theater in which they were engaged as he saw it: a grand, posturing, ridiculous dance.

When Spire finished his review and reentered the main room, he found the team scattered about at various desks and tables, each with a cup of tea. Knight had laid out a tarot spread for Mrs. Wilson, who was in turn teaching her the names of the Major Arcana in Arabic.

Spire seated himself at the circular table and in moments the others had gathered around him.

“The Knights of Omega's Roundtable,” Mr. Wilson stated as a palpable excitement rose among the team that Spire couldn't help but notice, even if he was reluctant to embrace it.

“So,” Spire began. “What we know of the Eterna Compound is that it was the brainchild of Clara Templeton, who was a friend of Mary Todd Lincoln, then the first lady, due to her”—Spire grimaced at the word—“
clairvoyant
tendencies. After her parents died of tuberculosis, Templeton became the ward of another spiritualist and fierce supporter of President Abraham Lincoln, Republican Senator Rupert Bishop. While Templeton was not a member of the Eterna team, Bishop appears to have spearheaded the early commission, which was formed shortly after Lincoln's assassination.”

Spire paused, resting his hands on the papers before him and waiting for Blakely to pull some magic trick, Knight to start speaking in tongues, or the Wilsons to cite some angle of espionage. But no. They simply listened, taking in the information with the focus and dedication he expected of his former colleagues on the Metropolitan Police. Spire doubted this illusion of an actual, working department would last, but he would enjoy it while he could. He continued, indulging in the dark humor he found in the information: