The Janus Affair: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (25 page)

Interlude V

Wherein Doctor Sound Retires to the Archives for Research on a New Project

T
ick . . .

Tock . . .

Tick . . .

Tock . . .

Sound watched the clock as would a big game hunter waiting patiently under camouflage. He was waiting. He had to wait.

Tick . . .

Tock . . .

Tick . . .

Tock . . .

Miss Shillingworth had poked her head into his office and bid him good night with a smile and a wave. He knew few in the Ministry would have believed his secretary could smile. In reality she was a very pleasant woman. He waited until he heard the lift gate shut behind her. Now there were only the muted sounds of the dockside to keep him company.

He flexed his fingers as the clock continued in its futile service. Every second, every minute—lost forever for what? To sit? To remain static? Losing time was truly a shame, if not a tragedy.

But this would not be time wasted. He was a rogue of many colours, but he had made his honest pledge to Queen Victoria on assuming this office. He would not fail her, and the secret he kept would only remain secret if he was patient.

Tick . . .

Tock . . .

Tick . . .

Tock . . .

Thirty minutes. Perhaps that would be long enough. Agents rarely wished to stay in the offices any longer than necessary. That was their nature, after all. The incredible men and unique women of the Ministry’s ranks preferred the wide, open spaces of the world. Their theatre. A grand theatre it was, too. The lush, smothering forests of the Amazon. The open barrenness of the Kalahari. The harsh, untamed savagery of Nepal. The agents faced danger as part of their day’s work, and some of them fed off that.

Yet here he was, standing at his desk, his eyes fixed on the dossier of an agent asking for a change of pace. Quite out of character. Quite out of place.

With a final long, deep breath, Doctor Sound looked at his own pocket watch, walked over to the clock at the mantelpiece, and set it accordingly.

Then it was out into the receiving room and to the lift. When it arrived, clattering and rattling, he stepped in, pulled the cage door shut and set the Chadburn to take him down.

As it descended, Sound looked down into the gap between lift and walls. Below in the shadows of the shaft, he tried to make out any sounds from the Archives; but only the lift’s motors whined and groaned in his ears.

Reaching the bottom, he opened the lift gate and walked down the small corridor to the iron hatch. When he wrenched it open moments later it moved with a grating, high-pitched whine. Before him lay the Archives—the history of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences and its many adventures throughout the Empire and the world. His footsteps echoed around him, a light counterpoint to the rumble of the massive generators powered by the strength of the Thames. He continued down into the darkness, its heaviness pushed aside by many gaslight globes suspended from the shelving units marked by year. Sound paused on reaching the archivists’ desk. No cups of tea or morning newspapers present. Some signs of work, but nothing extraordinary. Clutter present on either side of the desk caught his attention. His eyes narrowed as he studied the details.

If he were to describe the mess on Books’ and Braun’s shared desk in a single word, it would be
intentional
.

Perhaps tonight’s personal project would take a little longer than he had anticipated.

Doctor Sound continued along the shelves, casually noting the years as he stepped further and further back in time. Reaching Year One, he turned right to see the heavy iron door marked “Restricted Access.” Withdrawing the two keys from his inside breast pocket, Sound inserted both into the hatch’s locks and turned them away from each other in one fluid motion. The latches released with a hiss and then the Director pulled the door open. With a final look behind him, he removed the two keys from the hatch, slipped the keys back into his pocket, and stepped into the soft sapphire glow.

The hatch hissed shut behind him, and the low hum and dark shadows of the Archives were replaced by the warm blue light and slightly higher-pitched thrumming of the Ministry’s Restricted Area. Doctor Sound continued further along the metal grating of the walkway, looking around as he was prone to do when he first entered this deepest of the Crown’s secrets. He smiled every single time.
Perhaps you never got too old for wide-eyed wonder.

Sound walked up to the terminal at the end of the walkway and, from the vest pocket opposite of his pocket watch, produced a small brass key, which he inserted into the keyhole and turned. Twice, anti-clockwise.

“Now then,” Doctor Sound said aloud, rubbing warmth into his hands as he watched the screen before him flicker to life, “let’s see what we can discover about our ambitious agent Bruce Campbell.”

Chapter Sixteen

Wherein Eliza Sees Things She Shouldn’t and Learns Things She Didn’t Know

D
ouglas was having a hard time keeping up with Eliza, and apparently also having some difficulty understanding her motivation. They had taken a hansom in silence, but finally, as they were walking down the street towards Wellington Thornhill Books’ house, the New Zealander could take no more of it.

“Remind me why we are going to apologise again?”

“Not ‘we,’ ” she said, poking him with one finger. “Me. I was very rude to Wellington, and perhaps, just perhaps, he is . . . right.”

At that Douglas jerked to a stop. “By Jove—did hell itself freeze over or did Miss Eliza D. Braun say she was wrong?”

He was trying to be funny, but she realised that he did perhaps have a point. However, she was certainly not going to admit it, so she now wagged the finger she’d assaulted him with in front of his eyes. “Ah . . . I said he was right,
not
that I was wrong!”

“Ah well,” he sighed theatrically, “still the same old Eliza then.”

“I am not going to dignify that with a reply.” She tucked her hand around his elbow, while with the other she withdrew the scrap of paper with Wellington’s address on it. In all their months together she had never actually seen the Archivist’s home, yet he’d been to her apartments many times. It was curious . . . and that bolt from the blue made Eliza increase her pace. She was actually pulling Douglas along with her.

Hampstead was a nice enough location—even if it was not very metropolitan. The houses here though did have their own small gardens, and oozed a certain gentility that spoke of good money earned in good time and not too rushed. Tree-lined streets and tranquility. It was not the place she would have imagined her colleague to inhabit. He’d always seemed so much part of the Archives.

Living a life in Hampstead said that Wellington was doing well as an archivist. The thought idly crossed her mind that perhaps she should ask for an increase in her own salary.

“This is it.” As Eliza spoke, she examined the redbrick building sitting behind the ironwork fence, and then the small garden. “I would never have considered that Wellington would like topiary.”

Douglas stared at the neatly carved hedge leading up to the door. “Seems a bit of an odd bird, Eliza.”

“In the best possible way,” she shot back as she unlatched the gate and pulled him up the gravel path, “Now let’s go in and apologise.”

Wellington answered the doorbell himself—no maid, clockwork or otherwise. His jacket was off, his collar loosened, and a patchwork apron tied around his waist. There was something endearing about actually catching him, the amateur tinker, in mid-work. This was more like it—exactly how she imagined Wellington Books off the clock. Also it was one of the few times she’d seen him in a state of undress—excepting the time they had masqueraded as husband and wife. That had been quite a different kind of exciting experience all together.

“Miss Braun.” It was not lost on her that he had retreated into some formality. “I was not aware you knew where I lived.”

She waved the piece of paper before her triumphantly. “Even Shillingworth has to take tea sometime. So I managed this feat yesterday. You didn’t notice as you were still punishing yourself.”

Her colleague’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose I should have paid better attention.” He spotted Douglas. “And I see you’ve brought company—fortunately, I just put the kettle on.” He opened the door wider and ushered them in. Once formality had been dispensed with, he led them to the front parlour.

It was not what would be called formal, or indeed tidy. At least at first glance.

Douglas waited until Wellington had disappeared down the hallway before muttering to Eliza, “I told you so—an odd bird.”

Carefully she strolled around the room examining every piece of it, like it was a crime scene. Tidy piles of papers were stacked against the wall, none of them standing higher than her knee. Every surface on the dressers and table was covered with cogs and gears, or half-assembled pistons. Pinned against the walls were diagrams and schematics. She was no expert but this one looked like some kind of heavy cannon assembly. Presiding over all of this was a huge, fluffy tabby cat. He sat atop the largest stack and watched these two interlopers with bright yellow eyes. His expression precluded Eliza from daring to pet him, but as she passed by he began to purr as if to comfort her.

In between all this strangeness were semblances of a normal life. The room was littered with plenty of tiny framed landscapes. She recognised the Isle of Skye and Brighton—as well as some representations of places that could only be in Africa.

Finally at the conclusion of her reconnaissance, Eliza reached the fireplace. Hanging above the iron grate was a magnificent portrait—its grandness totally out of place in the simple room. It was the only image of a person on display. It showed a beautiful lady, her back turned to the viewer, her face caught in profile. Around the ornate gilt frame was hung black ribbon. Eliza didn’t need any plaque to tell her what she could recognise immediately. This was Wellington’s mother. He had the same strong nose and her hazel eyes.

While Eliza was contemplating that, she heard her colleague’s footsteps in the hallway. Quickly she spun away. Douglas, apparently to feign indifference or to cover up his awkwardness, went to pet the huge cat. When it flattened its ears and hissed at him, he fairly leapt back.

“Don’t mind Archimedes.” Wellington came in balancing a tray with the accoutrements of tea making, “He makes a lot of fuss and bother, but he wouldn’t hurt anything bigger than a rat.”

The tabby stared at them as if to deny that reassurance. The Archivist laid out cups and saucers, and began to pour. Though he might have little care for the décor of his house, Eliza noticed that the tea service was of the finest bone china.

“I even managed to locate up some biscuits.” Wellington shoved the offerings nearer, and then poured some cream into a saucer and put it down on the floor. Archimedes dropped down and began drinking with the elegance of a member of the aristocracy. The Archivist looked oddly nervous, and it seemed that perhaps Eliza had not made the right choice in coming here.

Finally, she could no longer take it. “Look, Welly, I didn’t go to all this trouble to track you down to make everything difficult for you. I needed to tell you something and I couldn’t wait until Monday.”

Somehow in his own house Wellington was more formidable—far more so than in the Archives. He waited while she considered the best words to use. However, there were no others. “So perhaps you were right.”

He kept silent—tilting his head and concentrating on stirring.

“All right then—you
were
right. I don’t think Dottie did it.”

Barely were the words out of her mouth, than Wellington’s house rocked. For a second the thought crossed her mind that her admission had changed the fabric of reality. The piles of work in progress tilted alarmingly, and the pictures on the walls slanted. Archimedes looked up from his careful drinking of the cream, blinked, and then resumed his snack. The rest of the occupants of the room were not nearly so blasé about it.

Douglas leapt to his feet. “By Jove, what was that?”

“No need to worry!” Wellington exclaimed, in a tone that had the completely opposite effect, and then bolted out of the room and back down the hallway.

“Stay here,” Eliza barked to Douglas as she darted after her colleague. “In case this whole thing goes pear-shaped.”

The house was settling back on its foundations like a lady with a bad case of indigestion, but now there was smoke oozing up through the floorboards. Eliza shouted out his name, but Wellington snatched up a bucket of something and dashed down a set of stairs.

Eliza followed in his wake, though she had to take care because the smoke was so thick in here she could barely see where her foot was going. A whirring sound filled the house now, like the engine of a dirigible. As she stood poised on the last stair, the haze began to clear and she could finally see where she was.

Strings of yellow lights hung suspended from the ceiling, which gave the underground space the air of a mining operation. Which it somewhat was, by the look of it. Thick iron beams held up the house above them, and that was surely not an original feature to the property. Once again there were stacks of paraphernalia and a laden desk, but in addition there were a number of curious-shaped objects under oilskin cloth.

While Eliza marvelled at that, Wellington was busy in front of a whirring fan device that was responsible for sucking the smoke out of the room. Since he was preoccupied, she decided to pad around the room instead, and find out what she could about her co-worker. It didn’t seem like he had even noticed she’d followed him, and the rattle of the machine drowned out the sound of her footsteps.

Eliza knew that the Archivist had an interest in tinkering, but had always assumed it was a gentlemanly hobby. The scale of what she saw now disproved that little notion. The downstairs workshop was packed full of tools that the clankertons at the Ministry would have been proud of. They might have considered Wellington a novice, but they would have been wrong.

As she examined the workbench she found a real surprise: a half-assembled Gatling gun. Eliza shot a look over her shoulder but Wellington was still working the levers of the fan device. “Quite the contrary man,” she muttered to herself before moving on.

Against the wall she found a small shelf where a row of medals hung. At first she thought they might have been his father’s or grandfather’s, but she read with some surprise that they were for the Boer War. She even recognised the Queens South Africa medal—though she was not well-enough versed in military regalia to identify the various clasps on it. In previous conversations he had touched on the fact he’d been in the army, but she understood his reluctance to discuss it. However he certainly had not continued military neatness.

Her gaze travelled on across his workbench. It was scattered with papers and notebooks. On them were the kind of mathematical workings and formulas that she’d seen in the research division, and on Blackwell and Axelrod’s desk. Wellington had been hard at work on something. None of it made any sense to her, but she was impressed anyway.

In the centre of the room was a large lump of a device that took up most of the space, and running in front of it was a ramp angling up. Whatever Wellington was creating down here, he wanted to roll it to the surface at some stage. Cautiously, she lifted the corner of the oilskin. She caught a glimpse of a wheel and the front of some kind of velo-motor when she ran out of time.

“Eliza!” Both of them jumped when Wellington’s hand clamped down on her wrist. She dropped the corner of the tarpaulin. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugged. “Forgive me—but when a house shakes like that and smoke starts coming from every orifice I think you might need a helping hand.”

“Oh tosh.” Wellington waved at her. “It was a little experiment I left brewing—that’s all. No need for alarm.”

“I am so glad you don’t ‘brew’ experiments in the Archives.”

The smile he shot her was both wicked and rather enjoyable. “As far as you know.” He turned back and flicked off a row of levers. The fan shut off and conscious thought was once again possible.

“This is quite impressive, Welly.” Eliza tucked her hands into her pockets, lest she be tempted to touch more things. “You should bring Axelrod and Blackwell down here.” Naturally, she was messing with his mind, but this whole downstairs revelation had shaken her, and she needed time to acclimatise.

As an answer Wellington snorted. “I really don’t think they would appreciate it.”

“Well, you are certainly beavering away on your off hours. And by the by, I thought you disliked guns! Have you been withholding information from me?” She pointed accusingly to the dismantled Gatling on his workbench.

“I dislike
using
them,” he corrected her tartly, “that doesn’t mean I don’t like the engineering challenge of working with them.”

Her fingers trailed over the remaining pieces he had laid out. They were the mountings for the gun to be attached to a vehicle. “A Gatling gun on a velo-motor? Remind me not to cross your path when out on the town.”

“Please, Eliza.” He produced another oilskin and threw it over the pieces. “This is my domain. I don’t come into your house and poke about.”

“No, you do worse than that—you make a mess.”

In the low light it was hard to tell if Wellington was blushing, but he turned away.

Perhaps she had taken her ribbing too far. Eliza placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it seems to me you are in the wrong place, Welly. You should be in Research and Design—not the Archives.”

Her colleague fixed her with a hard look. “I did originally apply for the position of junior inventor, but was not successful. The Director said my talents were best served belowstairs.” It didn’t take a trained field agent to hear the trace of bitterness in his voice. It certainly explained a few of the barbed comments he had directed in Blackwell and Axelrod’s direction. “Besides,” he went on, “did you think the creation of the analytical engine was a one-off event?”