Phoenix Rising (22 page)

They both gasped. Eliza brought the kerchief up to her face and gave a muffled sob, thankful the fine lace and embroidery hid her smile. It had been too long. Eliza so loved her work in the field.

“Give her the tickets, Henry,” the wife insisted.

The man's shoulders fell, but surrender the tickets he did.

Eliza was about to leave when the woman caught her arm. “My dear, I want you to have this. Please. I insist that you make it a point of joining us for next week's meeting.”

The card shook in Eliza's hand.

Clapham Committee for Women's Suffrage

Felicity Hartwell

7 Ashburn Grove

“I hope to see you there,” Felicity said, giving her arm a tight squeeze.

The laugh was in her throat, but Eliza managed a tight, wavering, “Thank you.”

There were other ways she could have played them, but that had been fun. Eliza strode back to Wellington with the swapped tickets in her hand, giving a long, heavy sigh of satisfaction.

“Everything all right, darling?” he asked, his eyes darting around the room.

A little tilt of her head was all she gave him before leaning forward, whispering in his ear as he had to hers. “They'll never find the bodies.”

As he went to ask her whatever she had done, Felicity Hartwell of the Clapham Committee stepped free of her husband and struck Wellington hard against the arm with her fan. “Brute,” she snapped, loud enough for attendants and opera patrons to hear.

Wellington looked at the older couple for a moment, then back to Eliza who oddly looked terrified of him.

Then, once they were gone, Eliza's fearful expression melted away to one of mischievousness.

The conclusion was obvious and he let out an annoyed huff, “Well then, shall we take our seats?”

Eliza smiled sweetly. “One moment, dear,” and then she turned him about towards the box seat bearing the crest of the Phoenix Society. “Our friends are arriving, and I would quite like to have a look at them, quick and fleeting as it may be.”

“Very well then,” he nodded, casually looking away. “Please, do not dally.”

Laughing and lightly touching Wellington's shoulder, she was able to get a reasonable glimpse out of the corner of her eye at the occupants just arriving. “Two men; one elderly, one in his late twenties to perhaps thirties. Two women. One elderly, smartly dressed, the other in her middle years.” She tittered as she added, “The second woman is in dark blue and wearing enough diamonds to drown an elephant.”

“I wonder if she will get to keep them,” Wellington chortled back as he took Eliza's hand and led her towards the box-seating entrance, “knowing your love of fine gems.”

“Oh, dear, dear Wellington, what do you take me for?” She sighed and gave a polite laugh as she continued, “I am merely an agent in service to Her Majesty.”

“And the benefits are most evident, from the looks of your apartments.”

“Are you critiquing my refined lifestyle?”

“Merely observant.” He chuckled.

Her fan snapped open as she allowed herself to be led through the crowd. “You know, if I didn't know better, I would swear we were actually married.”

“I can't think of anything more off-putting,” Wellington placed his hand in the small of her back as he continued, “than being married to a walking armoury. You, my dear Miss Braun, are a living, breathing advocate for bachelorism.”

Unfortunately they reached the usher and Eliza had to swallow a comeback on that particular jibe. When the attendant opened the door, she glided into their recently acquired seating with all the meekness of a proper English wife.

Once the door was closed, Wellington laid his valise on the floor behind his chair, flicked out his tails and sat. His eyes were on the stage. “I have heard this production is quite magnificent.”

Eliza glared at him, but it was quite ineffective since he didn't even glance her way. “I hope you have a good explanation for having us be situated
above
our prey? The usual practice is to be in line of sight.”

“I know that,” he replied mildly.

“So you are going completely against Ministry protocol?” She didn't enjoy the realisation that her tone was a little bit like that of a fishwife.

“It seems that way, doesn't it?”

Eliza's corset wouldn't let her sit any other way but straight. If she'd been able she would have slumped in her chair and glared at him.

Dammit, now the orchestra were tuning up.

“So, what do we do now?” Even to her ears, her voice sounded petulant.

“Now,” Books said with evident amusement, “we wait.”

“Oh.” And the houselights dimmed. “Lovely.”

It wasn't going to be. She knew this. This was, after all, opera.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wherein Mr. Books Reveals His Device and
Our Daring Duo Engage in a Spot of
Proper Eavesdropping for Queen and Country

O
pera is an acquired taste, and no two productions are the same. Beyond the core basics of the art, opera offers a wide variety of possibilities both for the visual and aural senses. An opera by Mozart will not have the same emotional range as one from Puccini; and as lovely and lush as Bizet's music is, there are few composers that can capture the epic grandeur in the same way as Wagner. So it is with Verdi and his operatic treatment of Shakespeare's cautionary tale of ambition. Through his sweeping arias, powerful chorus numbers, and staccato movements, Macbeth's rise and fall from power took on an even more ominous quality between the haunting melodies of the witches and the prophetic warnings of ghosts and evil spirits.

As Wellington's eyes drifted from the image of Macbeth and his wife plotting to kill Macduff's family to his sole companion in Box Five, his smile widened. Agent Eliza D. Braun looked ready to throw herself out of their exclusive seats.

“Do you know what would be a lovely addition to this production?” she asked, her frustration simmering underneath a marginally thin layer of concealment. “Dynamite. Lots and lots of it.”

“Miss Braun,” Wellington chided lightly, trying very hard to quell his amusement. “Remember that we are here for Queen and Country. Keep in mind the task at hand. And besides,” he said, tipping his head back as he reclined slightly in his chair, “this is culture at its peak. Refined tastes for refined palates.”

“It's
opera
, mate,” Braun seethed. She watched the stage for a few moments, and then growled, “I know enough Scotsmen to know that if a group of men were wandering across the moors screeching like this lot, they'd be tossed like cabers back here to Pommyland.”

With the scene drawing to a close, a light applause rose from the house. Wellington joined in. He looked over to Eliza who was considering her fingernails.

“Oh, do make an effort,” he said over the applause.

“I don't like encouraging such behaviour,” replied Eliza, her disinterested gaze returning to the stage as the scene changed to the hills of Scotland. She sighed heavily before whispering, “I'm still a bit confused as to what we are waiting for.”

“We are waiting for one of the constants in our world, Miss Braun,” Wellington assured her. “At the end of every opera, there is the grand finale, where the music continues its gradual crescendo, the tenor and tempo rising ever so gradually for that pinnacle of dramatic tension, that moment of anticipation—”

“Welly, are you talking about opera or about sex?”

His next words caught in his throat. For a woman of higher tastes and seeming refinement, this woman could be utterly crass.

The grinding noise ripped in both their ears, and Wellington's gaze narrowed on her.

“That,” Eliza whispered harshly, “was
not
me!”

It came again, not as loud at last time but still as grating. Both Wellington and Eliza looked out over the audience, their collected attention rapt with the opening of Act Four. They did not hear the slight rattle. Wellington looked at Eliza, this time motioning with his head to the box beneath them; a few minutes more, and just at the end of the music's decrescendo came the light, relaxed rumbling.

Someone in the Phoenix box was snoring.

A voice from the box whispered harshly, “Ye gods.”

“Yes, Father always did complain about the snoring,” they heard in retort. “Help me move her to the back. Otherwise she will attract attention.”

Wellington stood, smoothing out wrinkles in his coat that were not there. Eliza watched him carefully as he undid the ties of the curtains, casting more of their visible seats into shadow. Her eyebrow crooked as he offered him her hand. For a couple, such as they were posing to be, lowering the curtains after the show's opening usually insinuated one's boredom with what was happening onstage and therefore devising other entertainments, discreetly of course.

Doing my part to perpetuate the illusion
, Eliza thought with a smirk as she slipped her own lace-decorated hand into his.
Apologies, good thespians, but this is for Queen and Country.
Together, they disappeared into the shadows of their exclusive seats.

“Are you ready?” he whispered, crouching low as he slid his suitcase between them.

“Ready for what exactly?”

The locks snapped open, and the top half of the case split and folded back, “A bit of modern technology in the field.”

The music was now beginning to pick up in its pace, and this was Wellington's cue. From his inside coat pocket he produced a set of brass keys, one of which he turned over to Eliza.

“On my cue,” he said, inserting the key in the opening closest to him. His head bobbed a bit as he kept time with the music. “Eliza, the—key—in—the hole—if—you please . . .”

She quickly slipped her key in place, and waited. More voices were joining in, the violins building in their tempo. Wellington kept time with the musicians, and then gave a sharp nod to Eliza. Their keys turned, and—as Wellington had timed it—the brass sounded in full, the voices and strings giving way to the call of trumpets, trombones and tubas. This “call to arms” from the orchestra effectively drowned out the hiss of steam jetting out through the two escape valves. Now Wellington could see her curious smile clearly in the glow of the two glass orbs that pulsated to life. Gears now spun and clicked, keeping time with Verdi's musical creation. The amber glow illuminated the device well enough for them both to see a small control panel collapsed against the clockwork apparatus, and two long coils with cylinders at their respective ends flanking the contraption. One of these coils Wellington handed to Eliza.

“Welly, what in the name of God is this thing?”

“In good time,” he said, pulling the control panel down and away from the whirring device. “Right now, we must remain quiet. This will be hard enough to filter out the opera.”

“This device can filter out opera?” Eliza grinned. “I love technology.”

Wellington shushed her as he pulled from the machine a small cone attached to a coil that ran back into the heart of the machine. With the cone cupping his ear, he motioned for Eliza to place the extension in her hand down to the floor. He pressed one of the keys on the pad, and the amber glow darkened slightly. Then he reached inside the suitcase and worked an array of knobs connected to the chassis. The device's gears sped up slightly, but still the ticking kept perfect time with
Macbeth
. He waited a few beats and, on the call of Macduff's troops at Birnam Wood, adjusted the settings. Quick blasts of steam were once again smothered by the orchestra.

“And the other microphone,” he whispered, his own cylinder reaching parallel to Eliza's, “here.”

He then returned to the case and gave a second array of knobs their own adjustments. “And now, this should . . .” The glow of the two orbs turned a rich honey, outshone only by his bright, radiant smile.

“Should what?” hissed Eliza.

Wellington removed the attachment from his ear and offered it to her. “Have a listen.”

Eliza stared at the cup cradled between her fingers, its coil seeming to tug back when she lifted it up to the side of her head. She immediately pulled the earpiece away from her, as if it burned her skin. She caught her breath, and looked at Wellington, her mouth slightly agape.

“The
auralscope
is still a prototype, Miss Braun,” he admitted, “but with the music being as intense as it is and their voices coming in that clear, I think it is performing admirably.”

Her soft laugh was her reply for the moment. Wellington assumed that his invention was a rousing success, at least for her. He afforded himself a small accolade. The auralscope was a real accomplishment, he knew that; but to impress Eliza, considering all she had seen? It felt good but he kept his elation in check. He would know for sure exactly how successful its field test had been after they returned from the opera.

Extending from the auralscope its second phone, Wellington joined Eliza in her eavesdropping on the box underneath theirs.

“I assure you,” the male voice insisted, his voice in the auralscope clear but still seasoned with pops and crackles like distant fireworks, “we could be at a performance of the
1812 Overture
with cannons and my dear mother would remain in a deep slumber. I'm just astounded at her stamina tonight. Normally, she's out by Act Two.”

A second voice chimed in. “To discuss this matter in a public place, though?”

“That has always been a weakness of yours, Simon,” a third male voice sneered. It seemed that the gathering in the Phoenix Society's private box had picked up a new guest.

Wellington produced from the pocket of his evening coat his journal, unlocked it, and jotted down the name “Simon” while the conversation continued.

“A lack of daring,” mocked this voice. Not Simon. Not identified, yet. “When our time comes, people will look to this box not out of curiousity but out of reverence. At present, we are simply set dressing. There will come a day when they will look for approval from whomever occupies these seats.”

“So, my dear associates,” the first voice resumed, “concerning recent events—”

“Damn sloppy, if you ask me,” the voice which had spoken of “reverence and approval” interjected.

“Stuff it, Barty!” Simon shot back. “I had the situation well—”

Wellington and Eliza both shot glances to each other as the voice grew faint. Setting his pencil aside, he adjusted the dials, earning him a quick hiss of steam . . .

Unfortunately during the opening of “Una Macchia Qui Tuttora.” Christina Nilsson's tormented Lady Macbeth and a few strings. Nothing more.

Both of them froze. Eliza's eyes motioned to her earpiece, then she slowly shook her head. He found he was holding his breath. Wellington was convinced, irrational as it was, that those underneath them could hear the ripples of his muscles and the sweat running down his back as he slinked over to his own headphone. He placed it to his ear, his heart tightening in his chest, pleading for a breath. The silence coming from the box below them was chilling.

“Are you sure you want to reconsider that answer, Mr. Ross?” the still unidentified voice asked.

“Smith was no longer a threat,” he insisted. “Besides that, he was one of our order.”

“Then let this be a hard lesson learned, Mr. Ross. The Society had been breached, and we never did find out where that gentleman's loyalties resided. Once upon a time I would have agreed with you, that the matter had been handled. If only our former initiate had not received that visitor at Bedlam, I think Doctor Smith would have enjoyed the performance right where you sat.”

“Go on, Simon,” a female voice implored. Timid as she sounded, there was a touch of entitlement in her tone. “Admit that my Bartholomew tidied up your mess. After all, it was you and Christopher who invited that man into our ranks.”

They finally had a full name: Simon Ross. That left “Barty” and the dominating voice that seemed to be the leader.

“Olivia,” Bartholomew cooed, “as sweet as your gesture may seem, I do not need you gallantly coming to my rescue.” His voice dropped, but carried such intensity that both Eliza and Wellington could still hear him. “Do my family name proud by being silent and speaking when addressed, like a good and obedient pet.”

Wellington's eyes immediately went to Eliza. She was not looking at him. Her gaze was boring through the floor. He glanced at her fingernails, digging into the carpet of the theatre's box. With a long, slow exhale, Wellington wrote down the names “Bartholomew” and “Olivia” as, after a moment's pause, the conversation continued.

“Mr. Ross, I am not holding you responsible for what happened. You all found him charming, educated, and a most suitable candidate. Had I not this God-given suspicious nature, he would have charmed me as well.”

“And we are thankful, Doctor Havelock, for your insight into this matter,” Simon admitted.

The small peep escaping Wellington earned him a sharp, cold look from Eliza. He immediately scrawled out on a blank page of the journal a name that warranted all capital letters, an underline and several exclamation points:

DOCTOR DEVEREUX HAVELOCK!!!

Eliza looked at the name, shrugged, and returned her attention to the conversation underneath them. Crestfallen, he did the same.

“But to assassinate your colleague in such a—”

“That man,” Havelock snapped, “was hardly my colleague. He was a member of the Society, but he suffered delusions, and these delusions nearly exposed our plans to that rogue attempting to infiltrate our ranks.”

There was the
click-click
of a door opening, followed by the rustle of fabric.