“Oh,” followed by a dramatic moan, then, “I have a son, do I?”
Spire sighed. And so it begins …
Harold Spire ascended the wooden stairs, noting dusty railings, moldering carpet, and wood that groaned beneath his boots. The house’s front windows were sooty and there was no lamp or lantern to light his way; everything inside as gray as a London alley. Victor Spire could not keep a housekeeper. Spire didn’t know if his father’s trouble with staff was due to the widespread knowledge that there had been a death in the building—histrionic folk claiming to see the specter of Mrs. Spire—or to his father’s odd temperament. The lack of a housekeeper was probably for the best as Victor didn’t have enough funds to employ one anyway.
Two flights up, Spire stepped onto the landing. He heard other footsteps now and studied the half-open wooden pocket doors before him, whose intricate carvings bore the same level of dust as the balustrade. A sweeping flash of red within made Spire squint.
Victor Spire had bought the town house after the financial—though not critical—successes of his first novel and its popular stage adaptation. The home had Gothic tracery and detailing, arched windows with stained glass in deep reds and blues, and was the closest Victor could come to the castle he’d written about in his homage to Horace Walpole, his idol.
The Northernmost Castle had been filled with every titillating thing usually encountered in a Gothic yarn, but with an absurdly high body count. Spire had started reading it before his mother was killed. After, he blamed the novel for the heinous act and moved out of his father’s house as soon as he joined the police.
Police work, to Harold Spire, was the antithesis of his father’s fantasies. Victor Spire made up ridiculous ways of hurting people and getting on in the world. Harold Spire fought against troubled fools who made such fictions reality.
Spire slid open the doors and entered an empty space with lancet windows of deep-colored stained glass like those described in Edgar Allan Poe’s “Masque of the Red Death.” Shafts of color speared into the room but the result was more muddy mess than cathedral of light.
The threadbare carpet that Victor had paced holes in had once been a beautiful Persian rug in an intricate black and white floral pattern. There was little furniture in the room apart from a chair, a writing desk, and a tea tray, yet it was still too much, an over-the-top clash of color and pattern, of hard edges and blurred lines.
At the sound of the doors, Victor Spire had paused in mid-step, his back to his son. He wore a long red satin robe, something Asian-looking, his white hair wild. Unless he had shaved it since Harold’s previous visit, his aging father sported a lengthening white goatee. To his relief, Harold Spire had more of his mother’s features; a refined, genteel look, comely and stoic, as opposed to his father’s hard angles and drooping mouth. It seemed as if the years were turning the elder Spire’s face into the tragedy half of the paired masks that had come to symbolize the dramatic profession.
“Harry,” Victor Spire growled.
“Father,” Spire replied shortly. He hated being called Harry. “The place is looking worn,” he continued, standing beside a shaft of yellow light from a bit of jaundiced stained glass. “What happened to that nice box keeper from the Lyceum, one of those long-suffering friends who make up your theatrical circle. Didn’t she used to come around and straighten things up?”
“Left for Paris,” Victor said, waving a languid, wrinkled hand as he continued walking; his hair took on different colors as he passed in and out of the colored beams of light that penetrated the room. “Why do all the good souls of this earth go to France?”
Spire gritted his teeth and ignored his father’s inadvertent jab. Victor Spire likely didn’t remember that the woman Spire nearly proposed to had been a French spy. The man didn’t take the trouble to know or ask much about his son’s life.
“Haven’t the foggiest,” Spire said, trying to sound dismissive. “I’ve come to tell you I’m living in Westminster now, Rochester Street. I’ve a new appointment. I can’t say anything about it, the department is classified. So if you come looking for me at the Metropolitan, you won’t find me. If you need anything, send word to this address.” He placed a card on his father’s writing table, adding bitterly; “I can’t have you writing another play about a vanished son.”
His father made a nondescript sound. Spire wasn’t sure it was a response to what he’d said, but considering there was no calculating look in his father’s eyes, he felt confident that the man hadn’t had anything to do with the Omega appointment. Fate was instead playing a particularly cruel joke. If there was a God, surely this was evidence of His great love of irony.
“Father.” Spire sighed. “Would you stop pacing a moment?”
“No,” Victor said, sounding horrified. “Pacing keeps me sane.”
Spire chortled. “I think that’s relative.” He found his father’s unfailing habit of relentlessly pacing the floorboards, day in and day out, childish and self-indulgent.
His father whirled to face him, red robes jerking to a halt. “Smug. You know, that’s what you’ve become, smug. I hate smug.”
Harold stared at his father, wondering when he’d last felt genuine affection for the man. “Smug keeps me sane,” Spire replied after a tense moment. A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Victor’s pursed mouth.
“Congratulations on your appointment,” the older man said with sudden brightness. “Will you come see my new play? It opens next month.”
The consequences if he refused to attend would be as melodramatic and absurd, but far more long-lasting and public than suffering through the play itself. “Yes,” he replied simply.
His father beamed, for the first time, showing a flicker of true warmth. “Good then!” He rummaged among the papers strewn on his desk, selected a sheet, and thrust it at his son.
Spire kept his face neutral as he read it: a theater bill, printed in bright red:
* * *
AT THE LYCEUM FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY! A Seventh Wonder of the Dramatic World by Victor Spire, inimitable author of The Northernmost Castle! PRESENTING A STORY OF PASSION AND POISON! OF REVENGE, RUINATION, AND LARGE REPTILES:
* * *
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, schoolma
rmish, 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 secur
ity 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.
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