“Why am I detecting a hint of concern?” she asked.
Wellington gently tightened his hold on Eliza’s hand as he replied, “None at all. Just recalling my luncheon with Featherstone. I’m hoping contact between this Southerby chap and Jekyll was never physical. Would prefer to avoid those particular unpleasantries.”
Their transport rumbled forward once more, but much slower. They were now amidst the finest of the Empire. Soldiers on both sides of the car worked on what appeared to be machinations of war while other groups marched from point-to-point in drills, and smaller, more isolated units all practiced either marksmanship or hand-to-hand combat.
Not one Indian amongst them. All of the soldiers, male.
As it should be, a ghost whispered in his head.
Wellington shoved the wandering memory back as he took stock of the troops.
“Seems Southerby still holds onto some traditions,” Eliza commented, the pointed civility in her words most evident. Naturally she would notice the lack of women in the ranks.
Vania shrugged as she took a different folio from the pile and tucked it under her arm. “The British Indian army is not exactly known for being progressive.”
“Ladies,” Wellington implored as their car came to a halt, jostling them all slightly, “open minds, if you please. Lest I remind you that while the Ministry embraces change and technology, some of Her Majesty’s subjects are less than enthusiastic when it comes to progress.”
The glare of India’s noonday sun reminded him of Egypt, only without the heat considering the time of year. His eyes had finally adjusted to the light when he noticed the ladies were nowhere around him or the car. Wellington looked to his right, and then to his left.
“Ah, there you went. I was thinking,” Wellington said, coming up between them as he consulted his pocket watch, “as we are quickly coming up on eleven, the best way to approach Southerby would be to suggest a light repast. As he is a traditional sort of fellow, Vania, would you agree?”
He looked up from his watch. Neither woman regarded him. Both just stared upward at the motor pool just right of the garrison’s main headquarters.
“What?” he asked, before following their wide-eyed gazes.
What he saw caused him to start slightly. Lumbering across the open space usually reserved for transports or other varieties of vehicles was a marvel of modern technology, its large cannons coming round to bear on the entrance. “Good Lord,” he heard himself whisper over the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of its massive, metal feet.
The soldier suspended in the air over the three of them chuckled as if he were enjoying a day out in the park playing cricket with the lads rather than piloting a technological wonder. The engineering feat that surrounded the soldier reminded Wellington of those damnable Mechamen of Havelock’s, only this military monster was a hybrid between the smaller Mark I automatons and the larger Mark IIs. This war machine was a walking, lumbering contradiction in itself as the cannon and gigantic Gatling gun all seemed powered by the diminutive human at the core. From the central cage, the driver operated the entire creation via two gear shifts, his left hand operating basic forward-backwards motion while his right turned his enclosure left and right. When the soldier lifted his left arm upward, the titan’s left arm did just the same. The legs were of a similar design, but basic motion required more rotors, gears, and pistons as their clacking and whining struggled to keep time in mimicking its operator.
“It looks as if the military engineers have been burning the midnight oil in India,” Wellington managed.
“The Enforcer,” came a voice from behind them. “Quite a view from the pilot’s seat. Best one to have in a battle.”
They turned towards the voice, and Wellington saw Eliza straighten just a fraction. The young man before them carried a pith helmet in the crook of his right arm and the rank of lieutenant across his shoulders. What Wellington found so startling from this young, handsome man was how he carried such a high rank against the darker colour of his skin. Such things did not matter to him, as Wellington’s main concern from soldiers were their skills in the battlefield and their character in the barracks. He knew several men in Africa he would have gladly promoted to ranks equal to his own; but those above him put more value on breeding.
Much like his own father, come to think of it.
The soldier’s smile he found quite disarming. A good thing, too, as the closer he approached, the larger he appeared. He was of a solid frame, to be sure.
“As we are charged with the well-being of India, we are always first to get the latest inventions from the War Department,” he spoke with a rich baritone. Wellington wondered if this man indulged in music—preferably singing—as a hobby. If not, what a shame. “The Enforcer is just that. Innovation extraordinaire. Featherstone’s finest, I have no doubt.”
Wellington extended his hand. “Wellington Books, Minis—”
“Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, yes, I know. Your office sent notice you were en route. Agents Eliza D. Braun and Vania Pujari, yes?”
“You have us at a disadvantage, Lieutenant,” Vania said, her smile reflecting his.
“I’m a soldier,” he said, placing a hand on his chest and giving a slight bow. “I prefer keeping the advantage.”
Eliza gave him a wry smile. “I would think just walking in a room would do that.”
The soldier cleared his throat in some kind of embarrassment. “So I’ve been told.” He extended his hand to Eliza. “Welcome to Fort St Paul. I’m Lieutenant Jahmal O’Neil, secretary to General Southerby.”
The same question flashed through Wellington’s mind, but it was Vania who blurted it aloud. “Jahmal O’Neil?”
“Yes, Irish father and officer in Her Majesty’s corps, swept off his feet by a jewel of India. I inherited my mother’s looks, I assure you,” he said with a wink.
“What did you inherit from your father?” Eliza asked.
He looked at Eliza with those dark eyes and grinned. Now it was the New Zealander’s turn to blush. “I can drink any man here under the table.” They all shared a chuckle at that. O’Neil replaced his helmet and motioned for them to follow him back to the barracks. “The general is currently reviewing the troops, so I’ve been asked to serve as your liaison here.”
“Excellent,” Wellington said, following them all into the modest office.
Fort St Paul did not appear out-of-the-ordinary for an Indian outpost, this building in particular doubling as offices for administrative duties and living quarters for the troops, as well. It was as Wellington would expect, until he noted the amount of experimentals this outpost of the empire had in stock. Wellington observed a corporal cleaning a rack of weapons on one side of the room. A few Crackshots, the Mark IVs of the Lee-Metford-Teslas, a few experimentals he did not recognize, and Webley-Maxim Mark IIIs, all in immaculate condition. Such an arsenal would have been a delight in Africa.
“Are you preparing for war against your countrymen?” Vania asked, her eyes also fixed on the weapons cabinet.
“Preparing,” O’Neil assured her, setting his pith helmet on a vacant desk. “Not fighting. We need to be ready as Bombay is a high-value target. We keep order within the city quite well, but if a threat were to come from the outside, we are the first line of defence,” he said. He went to add something when his attention fell squarely on the soldier tending to the weapons. The corporal was staring at Vania in a most unfriendly way. “Harris, is there a problem?”
“Didn’t care for her tone, is all, sir,” the corporal said, his eyes narrowing.
“I don’t particularly care for yours at present,” O’Neil warned. “We’re all a hodgepodge here of Indian and English, but we are all Her Majesty’s subjects. Now, back to your work.” The corporal remained still, his eyes fixed on Vania. “Would you prefer my discipline, Harris, or the general’s?”
That seemed to snap Harris back. “Yessir. Sorry, sir.” The corporal then went back to tending the weapons cabinet, only
this time taking up a magnifying glass and looking at the arsenal with focused attention.
“What was that all about?” Eliza asked, while trying to be inconspicuous about peering at the weapons.
O’Neil shook his head. “We have all been on high alert for the last few months. I am assuming that is why you are here.”
Wellington blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Ghost Rebellion, or at least that is what the men have been calling it. Gossiping like fishmongers, they all are, over spirits returning for revenge, refusing to rest until India is free.” O’Neil chortled dryly as he shook his head. “Doesn’t matter if you are white or not, Christian or Hindu, everyone here is waiting for something to happen.” He paused as his eyes went to each of them. “You all have no idea what I am on about, do you?”
Wellington began to feel rather awkward. It seemed they were talking at cross purposes. “I’m afraid…”
“Isn’t this what you do: chase ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night?” O’Neil asked, wriggling his fingers in front of his face.
“What we do,” Eliza seethed, “is a bit more complicated than that.”
“We are conducting an investigation of Lord Hieronymus Featherstone,” Vania said, tapping on a dossier in her hands. “Just a few questions for the general.”
“You’re investigating the Royal Engineer for Her Majesty’s military?” O’Neil asked. He then looked to Eliza. “When you say ‘complicated’ you weren’t exaggerating, were you?”
The door to the office burst open, making all four of them jump. Even backlit by the brilliance of the noonday sun, Wellington could follow the dark, deep lines etched in the man’s pale skin, incredible mutton chops joining at an impressive moustache that almost glowed on account of the sunshine. It was an amazing feat in how he could keep his facial hair and his uniform so flawless. Commendations polished to a dazzling brightness decorated the man’s chest, reminding those around him how sterling his service had been to Her Majesty. His numerous decorations coupled with the rank he wore also reminded anyone within hearing his voice that his opinions were to be regarded as law.
And considering the man’s present volume, “anyone within hearing his voice” meant anyone within the walls of Fort St Paul and possibly all of Bombay.
“—and as I am told it is the future of warfare, it would be a grand assurance if we could find someone besides my secretary who could drive the bloody thing,” the general roared, waving a swagger stick as if it were going to find someone’s head.
“Attention!” O’Neil called out, snapping to attention.
Even Wellington leapt to attention. He glanced down at Eliza, who looked at him with elevated eyebrows. Old habits, he mouthed to her.
“As you were, lads,” the general said with an almighty roar, before removing his own pith helmet and shoving it into the small servant-boy at his side, “The future apparently needs a man to operate it!”
“I am sure a woman could lend a hand, if called upon,” Eliza stated, striking a posture just as assured as the Lieutenant General’s.
Wellington closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I could think of better ways of introducing ourselves...
“Not if I have a mind about it,” Southerby barked at her, his tirade losing no cadence whatsoever. “Regardless of what nonsense those suffragette harridans blather on about, the battlefield is no place for a proper lady of the empire.”
Wellington dared to reach out and pat Eliza’s hand. The look she shot him could have melted metal.
Then the tirade ended, and the general’s grey eyes examined the only three in his office that were not in proper uniform. Wellington could feel his heartbeat pick up a pace. If there was something the military hated, it was government agencies offering their assistance—or what those in the military referred to as interference.
“Our guests from Bombay?” Southerby asked.
“Yessir,” O’Neil announced. “Agents Books, Braun, and Pujari.”
Southerby studied the three of them for a moment, then his head snapped in the direction of the open office. “Unless I have sprouted a second head, I believe you have seen me here and there in this fort before! Return to your duties and stop goggling!”
There was a rustle of movement, a quick shuffling of paper, and not a word uttered as the soldiers all returned to their duties.
“Lieutenant General Archibald Southerby,” he said after a moment’s silence, crossing over to O’Neil’s desk. His cold gaze locked on Eliza. “Is it a safe assumption whatever agency you represent, the women there are as outspoken as you?”
“No, General,” Eliza returned, doing absolutely nothing to mask her defiance, “I am more than outspoken for ladies everywhere. It’s a gift.”
Wellington snapped a salute out of respect, and also to grab the general’s attention away from her. “Agent Wellington Thornhill Books, Lieutenant General.” He then motioned to Eliza and Vania. “We represent the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences.”
“Wellington Books?” Southerby’s eyes raked over him from head-to-toe. “Captain Wellington Books, is it not?”
Warmth rose in his cheeks. He cleared his throat before answering, “Retired, sir.”
“I see.” The general huffed through his moustache as he took a seat. “Couldn’t quite cut the mustard, eh Books?”
“Begging your pardon, Lieutenant General,” Eliza spoke, the edge in her words as sharp as a bayonet prepared for a push, “but Agent Books here is more than capable of holding his own anywhere in the Empire, I assure you.”
Southerby now looked over Eliza with full consideration. “No, not Australia, couldn’t be. Not nasally enough to be Australian. New Zealand then. I should have gathered as much from your impertinence.” The commanding officer shook his head before returning his ire to Wellington. “I had my fair share of assignments in the Dark Continent, Books. Was very aware of your exploits over there. Perhaps you were not the man you led people to believe.”
The gentlest of touches against Eliza’s wrist just managed to keep her rooted where she stood. “Perhaps I just had my fill of following orders that appeared nothing less than brilliant in a war room, but lost a step or two on the field.” The old man’s cheeks grew ruddy in stark contrast to his white mutton chops. “A career in Her Majesty’s Army takes a certain passion.”
“That it does, Books,” Southerby said, his words even and controlled.
“Agent Books,” he corrected. “Still in the service of Her Majesty, but now my uniform comes from Saville Row.” He glanced back at Eliza, and her smile only reinforced his confidence. “We need a moment of your time, concerning Lord Hieronymus Featherstone.”
The general motioned with his swagger stick in the direction of Vania, but kept his eyes on Wellington. “Was bringing the brownie really necessary?”
Eliza’s victorious grin melted away.
Vania cleared her throat gently as her grip on the folio tightened. “The particulars of our investi—”
“Agent Books,” Southerby interrupted, “whatever transgressions this wog has convinced you Lord Featherstone is to be held accountable for, I assure you her understanding of any particulars is far from what currently plagues us here in India.”
“Then if you please...” Wellington’s gaze met Eliza’s. It seemed that they were sharing a tether now as a couple. Wellington admitted to himself he was about done with this arrogant toff. “Enlighten us.”
Wringing his hands against the stick in his grasp, Southerby’s face twisted in disgust. “Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, indeed. A pain in the backsides is what you are.” He got back to his feet, O’Neil shadowing him. Wellington, Eliza, and Vania remained where they stood. “As my guests,” Southerby began with false civility, “I would like to show you something.”
The invitation, hollow as it was, served as motivation enough for the agents to join the general. Once more they found themselves looking across the tra
ining yard. “India is more than just a part of Her Majesty’s Empire,” Southerby spoke over his shoulder. “It is the centre jewel in the Queen’s crown. Bombay is my responsibility, and I will not falter in my duty.”
“Yet you have a problem. Lord Featherstone,” Wellington stated. “If you would spare but a momen—”
“Do not presume to know that gentleman as I do,” Southerby said with a low growl, waving them off with a free hand as if they were simple flies bothering him at a picnic. “I will entertain your visit, but whatever accusations you hurl against our Royal Engineer I will take with a grain of salt considering all that he has done for us here.”
Vania fished out from the dossier in her hands a photograph of Henry Jekyll and held it out towards him. “General, we need to know if you have seen this man in the company of Lord Featherstone?”
Southerby’s eyes continued to inspect the Enforcer now standing motionless in the motor pool, its maintenance crew conducting a visual inspection.
“General,” Wellington began, amazed he could still speak what with the tension tugging inside his neck and jaw. He knew he was merely a breath away from losing his composure. “Agent Pujari asked you a question.”
The old man’s eyes dressed down Wellington as if he were in his regiment. “Whose side are you on, Books?”
“The Queen’s,” he replied evenly. “And the Empire’s.”
Southerby glanced at Vania as if for the first time, and then fixed Books with a stare. “Then act as such.”
He was the same height as the decorated officer, but his posture had stiffened on the challenge. This old relic of the Empire’s heyday was hardly worth the attention, but dashitall if Southerby were not working under his skin presently.
Then Wellington suddenly remembered the goggles still around his hatband. Perhaps Southerby could still answer the question presented.
“Your Ministry believes Lord Featherstone to be a threat, even after providing Her Majesty’s finest with weapons of the latest engineering advancements?” Southerby asked, his chin elevating slightly.
The mannerism gave Wellington the impression he thought himself on a stage towering over them all, which was fine. The more self-involved the accomplished soldier remained, the more time Wellington would have to slip the isotope detectors down and see if any signs of Jekyll were present.
The Ghost Rebellion Page 7