Read Ministry Protocol: Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Page 22

  New London Calling

  By Peter Woodworth

  New London, CT

  United States of America

  1894

  Bernard stepped off the train and was immediately unimpressed.

  Truth be told, he had been in a state of slowly escalating distemper for the entire voyage to the United States. It had been an unusually rough crossing, or so a fellow at his table had told him during one of the rare instances when Bernard had been able to stagger from his cabin for more than an hour at a time. Even the thought of boarding a vessel for the return voyage made him feel a bit queasy, not to mention increased his irritation at the backwards country that demanded his presence.

  Bernard fancied himself a cosmopolitan sort, fond of travel and comfortable with all manner of strange customs and exotic locales, though he had never travelled further from London than his uncle’s cottage on the Isle of Wight. He did like to think this was just a matter of scheduling, that surely someday the world would catch on to his interest in traveling it, and in the meantime made up for this trifling fact by being as well-read as possible. When Doctor Sound inquired about his eligibility for international assignments, Bernard had positively jumped at the chance, imagining himself carrying out the Ministry’s vital work in Parisian salons or the canals of Venice, possibly even an exotic setting the likes of Bombay.

  He had most decidedly not foreseen being sent across the heaving ocean to wind up in this backwater territory.

  This town of New London, Bernard decided as he looked around the platform, was the cruellest joke so far. Naming this muddy hamlet after the centre of the British Empire seemed a mean-spirited joke gone horribly awry. What about this tiny seaside collection of colonial architecture in any way evoked the majesty of its namesake? It was like naming a harmless terrier “Attila the Hun”—endearing in theory but thoroughly ridiculous in application. A bit of wind whipped across the platform and Bernard closed his coat almost as tightly as his heart, wondering once more what he could possibly have done to deserve this assignment.

  Regardless of the assignment, he refused to compromise in his demeanour or fashion. His suit was charcoal grey with the very faintest suggestion of light blue pinstripes, his bow tie a glossy black, his watch chain the very brightest polished silver. His tailor had assured him it was the very essence of modern style, and Bernard liked to think that he kept abreast of the latest fashions. It never hurt to put one’s best foot forward when making an impression, after all, especially in a place where sophistication often seemed so utterly lacking.

  “Mr Entwhistle! Mr Entwhistle! Is that you?” Bernard started as he saw the young man approaching, an expression of nigh-manic good cheer on his face as he gesticulated frantically to get the older man’s attention. He was short and lean, dressed in a dark suit and matching coachman’s cap, rather inexplicably paired with a bright blue scarf tied around his neck in a jaunty fashion. Between his stature and his evidently boundless energy, he might easily have been mistaken for a boy if not for his thick red moustache, which Bernard reflected had likely been grown at least in part for that reason. The young man stuck out his hand in an aggressively familiar fashion common to many Americans, at least in Bernard’s experience. “So glad you could make it!”

  “Yes, well, a pleasure,” Bernard managed, taking the offered hand and nearly losing his arm at the shoulder as the young man shook it. “And you are…?”

  “Oh! So sorry! Where are my manners?” The young man doffed his cap. “Arthur Kraft. Archivist, New London field office.”

  “Charmed,” Bernard said, anything but. Since arriving in New York he had become increasingly accustomed with Americans and their awkward etiquette. It worsened steadily the further he travelled away from the city. “Bernard Entwhistle. I’ve come from the home office regarding—” He glanced around the platform a touch theatrically, especially considering it seemed he was the only passenger to disembark at this stop, but he was determined to salvage some sense of adventure from this farce if he could. “—the business you wrote about. Is there perhaps somewhere private to which we could retire?”

  “Of course,” Arthur said brightly, replacing his cap and gesturing toward Bernard’s trunk. “May I?” A bit taken aback, Bernard simply nodded, and Arthur took the trunk up with an easy strength that belied his small stature. “It’s only a few blocks to the field office, so I hope you don’t mind if we simply walk?” Arthur gave a little laugh. “A little more time to take in the town, am I right?”

  “What a lovely idea,” Bernard said as a carriage splashed past, wheels clattering on the uneven stones, narrowly avoiding showering him with dirty water in the process. He saw Arthur looking back at him a bit quizzically and fixed a smile on his face. It would not do to have an actual Ministry representative be ungracious to what passed for its local operatives, even in this colonial backwater. He smoothed the front of his coat, tugged once at his collar and extended a hand in the direction that Arthur was indicating. “Lead on! There is much to do, after all.”