They both burst out laughing, not having a care what disparaging looks they earned.
The rest of the day, they agreed, belonged to the Ares. Wellington and Eliza needed something other than their own carnal delights to distract them as it felt they would never reach the shore. She was anxious to get back to headquarters, regroup with the others active in the City, and begin investigations into Peter Lawson, the Duke of Sussex. What they had seen did more than just threaten the integrity of the Ministry, but hinted to a possible threat against the Crown itself. Sussex was far too close to Her Majesty for comfort, but they would need to build their case and make it as strong and as airtight as it could be. The Ares gave them both a focus and a distraction that took less of a toll on their bodies.
Or so Eliza thought.
Once more, as they had been their first night together, they were stained with grime and grease, weary worn from their work on Wellington’s motorcar. With materials that the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical had supplied to them just before launch, the Mark I was now outfitted with the lighter, slimmer Maxim guns behind the headlamps. It was a real surprise to see that the Americans, who prided themselves as being innovators of technology and industry, were so well stocked in products from Samson Fox and the Leeds Forge. Wellington seemed most excited to incorporate these flues into the engine array. She recalled how Wellington, a year ago, bored her to the core with his prattling on about the sciences and modern marvels. Now, listening to him talk about the importance of corrugated boiler flues and how it would increase efficiency and output from the Ares, was akin to reading a good book. She had seen what the Mark I had done in its initial test run, and provided Wellington’s theories were correct—and she had this feeling that they would be—she could share in the thrill Wellington took from this addition.
Albeit, for probably different reasons.
The refitting of Ares was going smoothly. The only thing that could slow down their progess . . .
“I have been reconsidering the replacement of all the Gatlings, Eliza.”
. . . would be if Welly questioned her judgement call concerning the ordnance.
“Strange, as I could swear we had shared this conversation yesterday.”
“We did.”
“So you’ve reconsidered after sleeping on the matter.”
He pursed his lips, then said, “I wouldn’t say I slept on the matter per se.”
She paused, then felt a smile form on her lips. “Oh yes, how silly of me to forget that.”
“I’m surprised you could.” Wellington grimaced, working a kink in his neck. “I am tenderised enough that I’m ready for stew.”
“We just need to build up your stamina, Books,” Eliza said, rapping the back of her hand against his chest. She hoped he hadn’t caught her flinching as she did so. Good Lord, that should not have hurt her as much as it did. “And with all the lifting and torqueing and refitting we have done today . . .”
“But the Gatling under the tumble seat . . .”
“Oh now, Welly . . .”
“No, just listen to me on this, and yes I know we have talked about this, but—”
Eliza stopped, turning to look at Wellington. He looked most perplexed.
“Welly?”
“This—” His mouth was open but no words came out. Then he cleared his throat and said, “This is how you feel when you talk to me, isn’t it?”
Eliza grinned smugly. “How’s it fit?”
“Not . . . not well.” He shrugged, nodding in resignation, then continued. “The Gatling gun is heavier, yes, but it has stopping power that you would need, dare I say want, when you wish to dissuade those wishing to engage in pursuit, yes?”
She leaned in to counter his argument, just as she had done in the past concerning the retrofit of the headlamp cannons; but there was a sound reasoning—dammit—in his argument. Why couldn’t her arguments have those too?
“I’m just considering where we would need the extra ‘kick’ as it were and I am thinking we would rather have it covering our escape.”
There had to be a way she could get in a final say on this . . .
Oh, damn it all, he was right. “Explosive bolts as before,” she insisted, resuming her walk to their stateroom. “If we have to take flight, we will not want that much weight.”
“Agreed.” He was quiet for a few footsteps, and then added, “I like this, Eliza.”
“Like what?”
“Sharing this. With you.” She turned to see him smiling, and her heart leapt. If there was a way for him to always look at her in this fashion, that would suit her just fine. “I thought I should—”
“Why are we standing out here, in the hallway?” she asked. “Shouldn’t we be in our room, telling one another this?”
“Naked?”
“Preferably.”
Wellington pushed past her, digging deep into his pockets for their room key. “You are quite right. Why are we having this conversation here?”
On reaching the door to their suite, Wellington hesitated, then looked over to her. “What is that?”
Eliza stretched out her arms as if to ask “Whatever do you mean?” but then heard the odd chirping sound coming from inside their suite. She went to reach inside the slit of her skirts to retrieve the ’81 from her thigh when she paused.
That was her signature distress signal from the Ministry ETS.
“Wellington, open the door now,” she insisted.
Once the door was open, it was Eliza’s turn to push aside Wellington. Now she could hear the signal loud and clear. Eliza felt her heart leap into her throat again—but not in a good way. Dashing to the pile of discarded clothes from their first night, she rummaged through them, the sound of the alarm growing louder as she did so.
“Eliza?” Wellington said, locking the door behind him. “Whatever are you on about? What is that infernal noise?”
Finally, from the bottom of her discarded skirts, she located the tiny golden locket that was the source of the wailing. When Eliza flicked the hidden switch, the sound stopped, but there was no corresponding relief, at least not for her. Clenching the little device in her hand, she turned to Wellington. She would have loved to leap back into bed with him then and there, but the message the little locket had delivered had cooled her ardour like an Arctic plunge.
Wellington’s face was now contorted with concern. “What is it?”
Eliza clambered to her feet, tossing the locket across to him. “It’s the Seven,” she said, feeling a sudden fear-fuelled alertness course through her. Only scant moments before, she had been exhausted and ready to settle in next to Wellington, perhaps for a hint of intimacy before drifting to sleep. Now, she only felt the thrumming of her heart, her mind racing with what she needed to do next. Something had to be done, even from where they were. “They’re in trouble. Real trouble.”
“I don’t mean to sound flippant,” Wellington began, his thumb tracing the edge of the tiny alarm, “but that is hardly out of charac—”
“No, Wellington,” Eliza said, going to the dresser and opening it to fetch clothes. She had no clue what kind of clothes she had, needed, or wanted for whatever she was about to do. She was finding her mind quite flustered, if not muddled, by the signal. “The last time we received an alert like this was during our case with Kate and the disappearing suffragists. It was what I used to call the children to my apartments.”
“Yes, I recall.”
“That was in London,” she said, rummaging through her clothes and fishing out denim jeans, a waistcoat, and a weapons harness. “We’re over the Atlantic. The alert I have for the children has a safety feature wherein if it is destroyed, the Ministry ETS powers and delivers a strong sonic alert to me. It lasts for only twelve hours, but I should be able to pick it up wherever in the world I am.” She shook her head. “Welly, only Al
ice knows of this safety feature.”
“So Alice triggered this distress call,” he said.
“Which means Alice has the children, and they are all on the run,” Eliza said, trying not to think of the Seven’s faces. The signal had been in Serena’s keeping. Sweet, little Serena. “She knows what to do, what we have planned, but if the tracker has been compromised . . .” She could not panic—not bloody now. “We don’t even know if this happened at my apartments, and Alice has been incapacitated.”
Wellington seemed to appear from nowhere, making her jump ever so slightly. He took her face into his hands, keeping his soft and soothing gaze locked with hers. “Then we have to get to them.” She went to ask him, but as if he were some kind of mind-reader, he shook his head. “The Ares lacks the range to get to London. There are, however, the aeroflyers.”
“You would leave your motorcar?” she asked. “But that’s your—”
“Sod the car, Eliza. These are the children we’re speaking of. Bit higher in priority,” he gently insisted. “We’ll figure out how to collect the Ares later, yes?”
She wanted very badly to kiss him there and then, but instead she said, “Grab the essentials. Whatever you will need for, say, a day. Two at most.” Eliza motioned with a nod of her head to the wardrobe. “Wear that herringbone coat. That should keep you warm, and bring your driving gloves.”
“Our destination?”
“Eventually? Normandy. I’ve left instructions for Alice to reach a safe house there. Large enough for her and the children.”
She grabbed up only the basics she would need for everyday wear. As for Wellington, his razor and cologne would suffice. Perhaps he could do without shaving cream until reaching a safe house. They should have something for him there. He might look a bit haggard after a few days, but considering his days in the bush, he would manage. The undercover nights of luxury they had enjoyed on board the Atlantic Angel were done. She and Wellington were about to make a mad dash for England, thousands of feet over the ocean and—hopefully—within range of Old Blighty’s shore.
“This is a plot borne of insanity, you realise that, yes?” he asked, but there was a grin on his face. He had even taken the liberty of packing her things alongside his into their smallest of suitcases. If needed, she could jam the suitcase under one of the seats so it would not hinder them much.
“Perhaps.” And she grabbed her own coat and gloves. “You will just have to trust me on this.”
“I’ve made it this far,” he said with a shrug. “I just hope we are not embarking on a fool’s errand.”
“If we are,” Eliza said, “then I will make it up to you with the finest dinner in Paris that you have ever known. Did you pack your corset?”
“Right next to yours.” Wellington motioned to the door. “After you, Madame Icarus.”
Shooting him a look of warning, Eliza led the way from their suite, out of their luxurious stateroom, off the first-class deck. Lower and lower they descended into the airship’s gondola, the thrumming of the Angel’s massive engines growing louder and louder in her ears. Occasionally, they would pause, waiting for the maintenance crew to pass by them. On reaching a massive iron door clearly marked “Authorised Personnel Only—No Passengers,” Eliza slipped into her coat and encouraged Wellington to don his own. They found themselves moments later in a strange mix of hot and biting-cold air as the final deck of the vessel stretched out before them. Eliza turned back to Wellington and made two Ls with her right and left hands and rotated them in a circle around each other. Hand signals from this point, she was saying to him. With a nod, and shoving his bowler hat lower onto his head, Wellington motioned for her to continue to lead.
The cold bit and stung at Eliza’s cheeks, and she secretly wished she had remembered a scarf of some kind, but the ruffs would have to do. The fact was, many creature comforts would have to be sacrificed from this point forwards. They pressed on through patches of thick darkness, through small pools of light coming from the tiny lamps intermittently placed in the bay. She held up a fist and stepped back between two towers of crates, waiting to see if any crew were passing. The clatter was coming from a Portoporter rumbling along the metal gangplank. Perhaps a request had been placed by someone in first class for a checked suitcase, or there was a crate that had slid out of place during their voyage. Whatever the case, Eliza chose to wait. If automated carts were tending to a command from either the bridge or the concierge, disrupting the Portoporter could easily broadcast their own presence.
Once the clickity-clickity-clack-clack-clack of the Portoporter faded to the thrumming of the airship’s engines, Eliza looked over her shoulder and motioned for Wellington to follow. Judging from the vibrations in the grating underfoot and the undulating of sound around them, they should be closer to their means of escape.
From the floor of the bay, Eliza could just make out the emerald glare of two caged lightbulbs. Once she opened the domed hatch, perhaps as soon as she unlocked it, someone on the bridge would be notified. They would have to be, if not now then once they detached. Regardless of when the Angel would receive word, they would have to move quickly.
Eliza looked over at Wellington, who was casting glances to either side of them. He did not appear nervous or even slightly uncertain. It was more a matter of heightened alert, and of being resigned to Eliza’s word.
She had to admit to herself—she preferred it like this.
She tapped two fingers against the back of her wrist. Time’s an issue. She then pointed towards her own eyes. Eyes open. Wellington nodded in reply. Eliza reached out to him, placing a gloved hand on his cheek. Thank you. Not necessarily one of the approved silent signals used in the field, but Wellington understood.
Eliza spun the wheel faster and faster until underneath her feet she felt the sharp snap of the lock disengaging. Immediately, the lights on either side of them switched from green to red, and just over the howl of air, alarms blared in an undulating pattern.
Far underneath the access ladder rolled the Atlantic Ocean and thin wisps of clouds, both slipping into a fast-approaching night. Attached to the bottom of the small access ladder was the aeroflyer, shuddering ever so gently as their airship continued forwards.
Eliza looked back at Wellington and made two fists. Hang on tight.
She stepped onto the first rung, and then slowly began her descent towards the small flying machine. Once free of the Angel’s hull, freezing air pushed Eliza into the ladder, far harder than she had anticipated. Her foot slipped, but she tightened her grip on the rungs and struggled to keep her balance. Eliza looked up at Wellington, who was threatening to scramble after her, but she kept him still with a single look. Her dangling foot found purchase once more, and she continued downwards until finally finding the cabin of the aeroflyer. Still gripping onto the access ladder with one hand, she reached out for the rung suspended over the pilot’s seat, grabbed hold of it, and guided herself into place.
Wellington was slowly making his own way down the ladder, one hand sliding down the outer rung of the ladder while the other defiantly carried their small suitcase of clothes and necessities. Always the gentleman, Eliza thought as he made his way to the gunner’s seat. To the very last.
Underneath her chair she found a pair of goggles and an aviator’s cap. Aviatrix for this flight, she thought to herself. There was also a leather mask connected to an unseen section of their flyer. Perhaps this was a high-altitude breathing apparatus, or a communication device, or a combination of the two. Dangling from the mask, she noticed a small coil of cable that offered a connection. Checking the cap, a suitable outlet was apparent.
“Wellington,” she spoke into the mask once she’d joined the two, “can you hear me?”
She glanced over her shoulder and could see Wellington adjusting the mask. Once he had made the link between mask and aviator’s hat, his voice crackled in her ears. “You said the aero
flyers were the Avro five-tens. I do believe this is a five-ten A, an ingenious design that Westinghouse had a hand in developing. An electric engine that, once the charge depletes, immediately switches to a steam engine, but the steam engine actually recharges—”
“You can study it later,” Eliza replied tartly, looking overhead at the release catch. She turned each valve one at a time, watching as bright white steam expelled then disappeared into the light of dusk. “Are you ready?”
“Just one moment,” he said. Then came a loud pop, followed by another from behind her. Eliza looked over her shoulder to see Wellington hefting the Maxim off its housing to toss it overboard, out into the shadows of the coming night. “That should make us considerably lighter, granting us a little more range.”
Discarding weapons would usually send Eliza into a right fit but not this time. “We should be able to make it to land, at the very least.”
“So that’s the plan?” Wellington said with a grunt. Another glance over her shoulder revealed Wellington was removing as much of the machine gun’s mountings as was permitted. “Fly into London and—”
“Correction, Welly, we’re aiming for shore. We don’t have the range to make it to London, but to shore . . .” She checked the instruments, not that she fully understood what she was looking at, and lied. “Without a doubt.”
She felt the small craft shudder, and caught a glimpse of some unidentified metallic apparatus tumbling into the darkness underneath them.
“Right then,” Wellington said as he settled into his chair. He secured the belt across his lap and gave Eliza a sharp nod. “I am all set.”
Fumbling underneath the control panel, she discovered a crank, similar to ones found in other motorcars, and after giving it a few hard, fast revolutions, the centre prop spun to life. A moment later the right and left props followed suit. She opened the throttle, just as she had been taught those years ago, and all three propellers disappeared in a blur of revolutions.
“Batteries are full,” Wellington reported. “Boilers are as well. Ready for launch.” She felt his head rub ever so gently against the back of hers. “Now, if you please. There is a delegation from the Atlantic Angel at the hatch wondering who the hell is about to nick off with one of their aeroflyers!”
The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel Page 4