The Janus Affair: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Tee Morris

“Caw,” Colin rubbed his cheek, thankfully, clean, on a dress of fine Chinese silk. “This is like water.”

  “But not likely Dottie’s,” Eliza said, running her hand over the rows of hanging treasures. “I’m surprised she’s got them all here.”

  Christopher scowled. “Too big for her britches she is, mum. Forgotten where she come from, and too sure the peelers will stay off her.”

  “She pays ’em good.” Callum darted in among the clothing. “You sure we couldn’t—”

  “No, we may not.” Eliza sighed, turning back to the door. “This isn’t why we came here. Let’s move on. We’re looking for a study of some kind.”

  They dared the front stairs, since they were far less likely to run into any staff there. The second floor seemed like a better chance for finding things, since the first room they’d opened there was immediately obvious as Dottie’s inner sanctum.

  Even Eliza was unable to find words in the first moments after they entered, but Callum’s comment was remarkably accurate. “It looks like a flower shop threw up.”

  Indeed the chaotic swirl of pinks, lavenders, puces, violets, and every shade in between produced a kind of stomach-churning reaction. No person who loved fashion even a jot could be moved to anything but horror. It was the kind of visual assault Eliza was totally unprepared for. Dresses, jackets, underwear, scarves lay scattered on all the furniture. It was apparent that the mistress of the house liked to keep her fair share of the Elephants’ haul—the most garish and outlandish portion. The boys were standing near the door, and they looked very much out of their depth.

  “Well,” Eliza whispered, “I think Dottie might need to hire herself a lady’s maid.” She then considered the various mismatched garments, and added, “One with a tight lip and loose morals, it would seem.”

  They had probably never seen so many, or such intimate, pieces of ladies’ apparel. Colin was beet red, and muttered, “I’ll keep a look out, mum.” He then escaped into the corridor.

  Poor Christopher and Callum stood shifting on their feet, while Eliza proceeded into the room. “Come on boys,” she hissed, “You’ve stolen plenty of clothes in your time.”

  “Not ladies’.” Christopher jerked his head. “Things like this . . .”

  For a fourteen-year-old who had lived over half of his life on the street, the boy’s attitude surprised her. But then thinking on it, the women he’d probably seen had most likely never had many underthings anyway.

  “Never mind,” she replied breezily. “There is always time for education.” And with that she dived into rifling through the treasures of Diamond Dottie. After a moment, and still rather red in the face, Christopher and Callum joined her.

  Once she had cleared a path through the scattered clothing, Eliza honed in on the furniture. Dottie had several fine pieces from the French revival, including a lovely armoire. While the boys searched through her wardrobe, Eliza picked the lock and whispered, “This is more like it.” Notebooks, with lines and numbers scrawled in them. Price and value of things probably, though there was no notation to reveal that. Eliza picked up another notebook, and this was a little more understandable.

  It contained addresses. Addresses of women. Eliza felt her heart begin to race as she trailed a finger down Dottie’s neat handwriting. She knew these names, names of those in the movement.

  Just as she was about to spin and tell the boys what she had found, Colin barged into the room. “There’s someone coming down the stairs! Running!”

  Eliza gestured to the boys to make themselves scarce. The footsteps were fast approaching the bedroom. She herself slipped behind the door and waited to see what would happen.

  A shape burst into the room, and Eliza reflexively grabbed it by the back of the jacket and whirled it around. Luckily, she managed to hold back her punch for a second.

  “Douglas?” she gasped, as her former lover’s eyes focused on her upraised and clenched fist. “What the hell are you doing here? And how in the blue blazes did you get in?”

  As Colin, Callum, and Christopher emerged from their hiding places, Douglas straightened his coat and ascot. “I am here to help you, Eliza. I followed you up the rope you left dangling since I knew that you were up to something ridiculous.”

  The agent lowered her arm, but kept a sharp gaze locked on him. “No, you are the one being ridiculous! How do you think I have managed all these years with you in New Zealand and me in London? Do you think it is sheer chance that I have somehow survived without you and your bull-headed chivalry?”

  Douglas looked very much hurt, as if she’d slapped him in fact—then he looked a touch perturbed. “Bullheaded chivalry? Considering your ill choice in professions, I have no earthly idea what you have been up to since leaving New Zealand, nor do I grasp what you are doing presently. I only know I want to protect you if I can.”

  “Protect me?” Eliza could feel the heat rush to her cheeks. “You must be mad! I am in no need of protection—not even when you knew me back home. For the son of a suffragist, you really are a cutup.”

  “Mum?” Colin tugged on her arm.

  “In a minute.” She flapped her hand at the lad. Her ire was up, and part of her was enjoying putting Douglas in his place. “I doubt Kate knows you are here, does she, Douglas? Perhaps you are a world adventurer and you can cross a desert valley, scale a cliff face, and serve a high tea all within a weekend, but here you’re a civilian, while I am a trained agent. Having you here makes things worse.”

  “But, mum . . .” Now Colin was wriggling about like he needed to go to the toilet. She took no notice.

  Douglas was flushing red as he gestured to the three members of the Ministry Seven. “Now, just a moment—these boys are barely in long trousers, and yet you’ve let them accompany you . . .”

  “Hold on a minute, guv,” Christopher grumbled, more than a little annoyed by being considered a child when he was creeping up on manhood.

  “These boys are experts of a jungle far different from any you’ve conquered, Douglas,” Eliza snapped. “Now, before you are spotted—”

  “Bleedin’ Nora!” Colin stamped his foot, and yelled so loud that everyone else in the room jumped. “Would you look at that!”

  Elzia spun around to where Colin stood, looking even angrier than Douglas, and felt a scolding on her lips until she followed to where the lad pointed. Christopher had put the spider device on top of the armoire. It was doing a fair impression of a vaudeville dance—jigging around and waving its tiny brass legs. Christopher, his goggles still dangling around his neck, had shouldered its controls. The device, it appeared to everyone, was working on its own accord.

  “Eric!” Christopher whispered, his eyes widening. “He’s got the panic switch.”

  “The panic switch?” Eliza asked.

  “Eric’s the third crow, mum, remember?” Christopher quickly motioned to Colin and Callum to head out into the hallway. “Mr. Wellington made this thing called the panic switch. Works on a wireless. Eric’s gotta to be telling us she’s coming back.”

  Eliza didn’t know how long the spider had been doing its danger dance, but she knew they didn’t have long. She’d hoped to get her hands on something that would tie Dottie to the disappearing suffragists, but it was more important to keep the boys safe.

  “Nommus!” Christopher barked, scooping up the still wriggling spider and stuffing it back into the tin container. All pretence was abandoned as they ran out of the bedroom and back up the stairs to their entry point.

  Colin and Callum met them in the stairwell. “The grappling hook—it’s gone!”

  One of her pounamu pistols slipped free of its holster. “No other choice,” Eliza turned about and gestured them out of the room, “Front door or nothing.” She fixed her eyes on Douglas, but addressed them all as she said, “Follow me. Quiet as church mice. No rash moves.”

  They had all made it halfway down the corridor, but unfortunately, never made it to the stairs. Diamond Dottie emerged from the first-fl
oor landing, a coil of rope and a grappling hook swinging in one of her hands.

  “Apparently I will have to increase my security measures.” She flexed her fingers, so that the diamonds flashed, “But first I will have to take the rubbish out.” Her voice, though trying its best to be posh, still held an underlying rasp of the East End. Her outfit was as garish as her wardrobe might have suggested—yet it was not in the best of condition. Her hat was askew, her cuffs and shirt decorated in mud, and the skirts torn. Eliza presumed that was not how she had gone out that morning.

  Still she was not about to poke fun at Dorothy. The boys were frozen in fear—even Christopher. They were, after all, faced with their nemesis. The one who made their daily lives on the street that much more difficult, and now that she had seen them there would be even more to worry about. Colin looked like he might bolt like a rabbit, but his escape route was blocked.

  The weight of the other pistols on Eliza’s person tempted her, but if she shot Dottie into next week then she might never find those missing women.

  While she was contemplating her options, Douglas took an unfortunate initiative. Stepping forward, he swung his fists up. “I don’t want to hit a woman, so you’d better stand aside.”

  Dottie, who at nearly six feet stood eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe with the man, tilted her head, her eyes darting over his shoulder to meet Eliza’s. “Is he having a laugh?”

  “Douglas,” Eliza hissed, her gun now pointing to the floor, “did you fail to heed my warning about rash moves?”

  Clearly, when Douglas cleared his throat, he had. “I said step aside,” he repeated.

  This was more than enough encouragement for Dottie. Up until now she had probably been holding back, but she did no longer. Grabbing hold of the New Zealander’s shoulders, she pulled him down onto her upraised knee into a most vulnerable spot between his legs.

  Douglas let out a muffled groan, while the boys winced in male sympathy. Eliza could tell that this was not the first kick to the bollocks dealt out by Dottie. The underground queen pushed the wheezing Douglas out of her way, tossed their rope aside, and stepped towards Eliza.

  The agent sized her up, sheathed her pistol, and then shoved the boys behind her. “Once you get an opening, down the stairs, lads. I’ll keep her busy.”

  Dottie looked down at her and grinned. “For a spell, love.” Dottie remarked, tossing her purse to one side. “Aren’t you a pretty little wisp of a girl.”

  “Enough of a ‘wisp’ to handle your angels sent from on high.”

  “Yes,” she said, “about that—”

  And with speed rivalling a mule’s, Dottie’s kick lifted Eliza off the ground and sent her sprawling into the boys.

  Eliza gave a hard, harsh cough as she stood. With a quick glance to the three boys, she strode back towards Dottie. The tower of a woman remained stock-still; so when the punch came for Eliza, it would have taken her by surprise.

  Eliza, however, was not Dottie’s average opponent.

  The moment her arm flinched, Eliza evaded and grabbed Dottie’s extended limb and threw her into the adjoining room they had previously searched. Dottie’s feet caught on a pile of clothes, sending her to the floor. With the thundering of footsteps behind her, Eliza followed her opponent into the gaudy parlour, and promptly clocked her in the chin with a quick uppercut. Dottie stumbled back which Eliza was fortunate she didn’t see her waving her hand. The woman’s skull must have been made of granite.

  Dottie staggered to a small end table. From the drawer she pulled a pistol and checked the cylinder. She stopped though, giving a slight wince on trying to stand. “Well now,” she said, rolling her foot a few times before saying, “fancy that—you are wearing a reinforced corset. Expecting trouble, were you?”

  “Perhaps,” Eliza wheezed, still trying to catch her breath from the first kick. She looked down to see the clear imprint of Dottie’s sole and heel in the centre of her stomach. With the muddy impression against the bright colours of her dress, the outfit looked somewhat comical.

  “Oh dearie, that stain isn’t going to come out,” Dottie chided.

  Eliza motioned to both their dresses. “Seems to be a new fashion, doesn’t it?”

  Dottie looked down at her stained, destroyed outfit. “You’ll be getting a bit more than the cleaning bill.”

  “Mud stains, I have no doubt. Blood stains though . . .”

  Dottie clicked her tongue while cocking the pistol. “I can replace the carpet.”

  Eliza felt around for some kind of shield and saw a tea service set out for later use. She swept her hand across the serving dish, sending the cups off in one direction while she held up the tray. The bullet slammed hard against the metal but stopped there. Eliza immediately threw the tray at Dottie, its edge connecting nicely with that annoying protrusion commonly known as the funny bone. The shock caused Dottie to release her gun.

  In the brief time before the tray struck the taller woman and Dottie looked up from where she dropped the gun, the Ministry agent was on top of her.

  Eliza’s fist came down from a high angle, the coffee table supplying ample altitude, which she needed to compensate for Dottie’s height. Her brief descent helped with the fist’s momentum but instead of the temple, she caught Dottie’s jaw, driving her down and away from where she was landing.

  “I’ll give you this, dearie,” Dottie groaned, catching herself on the back of a couch and giving a begrudging nod, “you do know how to punch.”

  “From you,” Eliza said, stepping back to assure herself a good stance, “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

  The tall woman’s signature, a row of thick gold rings studded with diamonds on each hand, caught a glint of sunlight. If she were to land a punch with that anywhere on her person, it would turn flesh into minced meat. When Dottie’s left hand came around, Eliza grabbed her forearm and slipped underneath the attack. Dottie’s greater reach could threaten to catch her, so Eliza drove her elbow deep into the woman’s ribs. The punch intended to return the gesture of Dottie’s earlier kick merely caught the woman off balance.

  With a hard shove, she bent Dottie over the small end table where she had fetched the gun. Eliza twisted as she lifted, but kept her eyes on the table as well as Dottie. This house offered too many surprises for her liking.

  “You’re my kind of lady.” She chuckled. Eliza wrenched the arm harder, but Dottie still laughed. “It happens that I’ve got some openings in my gang, thanks to you.”

  “That’s enough, Dottie!” Eliza hissed into her ear. “Where are they?”

  “Where are who?”

  “The suffragists! Where are they,” and she leaned in even closer, “and why do you want Kate Sheppard so badly?”

  “Oh dearie,” the woman purred, “you shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Done what?”

  “Leaned into me,” she said with a slight gasp. “Now you’re off balance.”

  Dottie then turned into her trapped arm, teetering Eliza further forward as she pushed hard against the table. The agent stumbled back, fists up, as her opponent whirled about and charged. A wild left hook cut the air in front of Eliza, followed by another right hook that she batted away. At least Dottie was angry enough. Perhaps that would serve her when another opportunity presented itself.

  Eliza shuffled back. In fact that was all she felt like she was doing. By the gods, Dottie was tall!

  “Come on, just a step or two closer,” she taunted, slowly circling with Eliza to one side. “For someone who fights like you, retreating wouldn’t be your style.”

  “And wind up like your other dance partners?” Eliza said with a tiny laugh now peppering her own words. “Unlikely.”

  Dottie glanced at her fists, the tightly clenched fingers sporting the finest specimens of diamonds and sapphires.

  Eliza lowered her guard only by an inch. “I’m going to ask again—”

  “You can keep asking, but whatever makes you think I would tell you anything?”


  “Is that how you want to play this little game then?” Eliza countered.

  “Right now I’m following your lead, dearie.” Dottie’s gaze darkened. “At least, I was.”

  Dottie took one step—one confident, wide step forward—and Eliza’s wrist disappeared in the woman’s two-handed grasp. Damn that reach! Far longer than she had anticipated. Eliza found herself flung aside, her knee and foot catching a couch that she landed on hard, causing both it and her to tumble forward. She rolled back up to her feet and reassumed her defensive crouch, but felt a clamminess creep over her skin as she saw Dottie calmly cross over to her discarded gun.

  “This is a disappointing stalemate, dearie,” Dottie lamented, “because as much as you want to know about disappearing suffragists, I want to know who you are and why you are rummaging through my place. Something I do not take kindly to.”

  Eliza felt her jaw twitch. She couldn’t reach Dottie in time, not before the bullet reached her; and there were no fine tea trays of any sort now within reach.

  “I take it,” Dottie began, still closing the distance between them, “you’re not going to tell me who you are then?”

  “You sent ornithopters to my house, and you didn’t know who I was?”

  “All I knew was that you were some privileged bint what’s taken an interest in me,” she said, waving the gun lightly, “and a rather unhealthy one at that. You seem to know all about me, except for something to do with me and suffragists.”

  “Dottie—”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, “I really don’t care.”

  The gun reached forward, and she pulled the trigger pulled just as the poker struck the base of her skull.

  Dottie’s gun went off, and the bullet did fly, but both gun and bullet were dreadfully off target thanks to the bullheaded chivalry of Douglas Sheppard.

  “That woman,” he wheezed, dropping the poker by her body, “was not very pleasant, I’m telling you.”

  Caught in the moment, Eliza ran up and kissed him. She meant it as a gesture of thanks, but the longer she stood there, the more her lips lingered.