Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences

by Pip Ballantine

  Anne-Marie knew she had maybe a collection of seconds before her new partner was just an extra-large splatter on the streets of Paris. Regardless of her time away from Old Blighty, she was a Ministry agent with a cool head, and she had no plans of dying on her first mission. She would find a way out of this mess.

  At least the grotesques were lurching along the lower gutter instead of the slippery iron plates of the peaked roof. With a deep breath, she turned as a restless sleeper might and allowed her body to partially fall from the creature’s arms, steeling herself to grab for random bits of architecture should it drop her completely.

  The grotesque froze and scrabbled to catch her with steel talons. She let her body weight slump into the cold slurry of the gutter. As the clockwork beast reached for her, Anne-Marie slipped a tin from her belt, flicked it open, and removed a glass ampule. Her gloves wouldn’t be enough to protect her, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Turning her face away, she smashed the glass pill against the gargoyle’s chest and whipped her hand away.

  For a moment, the creature stubbornly persisted in trying to hoist her over one shoulder, but then the deadly mixture of corrosive acids bloomed with a rusty red that resembled an arrow to the monster’s heart. Anne-Marie didn’t dare look at her own hand, knowing full well that the acid had eaten into her glove and would soon sink into her numb skin, hunting for bone. A hand was a small price to pay against two agents’ lives.

  When the grotesque shuddered and dropped her completely, she had only one good arm with which to catch herself as she rolled perilously close to the gutter’s edge. The creature was more rust than metal now as the acid spread. Its arms fell off, shedding bolts like fleas. The golden light in its eyes went out, and it toppled slowly over the edge of the cathedral. Anne-Marie didn’t bother to lurch up and watch it crash against the cobbles. She barely had time to mutter a prayer before the other grotesque latched on to the spire, hell-bent on climbing to the top and tossing Joe to his death with a machine’s heartless accuracy.

  Much as she hated to admit that the English brute was right—Anne-Marie had always been a bad shot, and her spectacles were of little help. She had one more ampule of acid, and she didn’t have a chance in heaven of hitting the bugger—she might even hit her partner—but watching the clockwork creature inch up the spire with Joe flopping over its wing, there were no other options.

  She lobbed the little glass pill.

  “Joe!” she managed. “Wake up, Joe! Wake up and hold on!”

  A tiny clink let her know the ampule had hit something; but even squinting, she couldn’t quite see if it had found its mark. She struggled up to her elbows and pulled herself closer toward the corner where Joe would fall, if he did fall, half-glad and half-furious that her extremities were still numb from the injection. It’s not like she could catch him, even with two good hands. The grotesque carrying Joe paused and shook its foot, and she finally saw the growing flower of rust spreading along the creature’s metal talon. Unfortunately, part of the insidious acid had also found home in the iron plating of the roof, and if she didn’t get Joe away quickly, both he and the dying grotesque would fall through the collapsing ceiling and splatter inside the church instead of outside on the street.

  The clockwork demon lurched sideways, dropping her mammoth partner, who slid down the roof with frightening speed. Anne-Marie balled her numb hands into fists and crawled through the gutter until she was directly below his sliding bulk. She braced herself for the impact, and the gutter shuddered beneath them. Metal shrieked on metal as the second monster slid down the slope, talons raising sparks. It landed on top of Joe with a heavy thump that drove the air from her lungs. Joe grunted and flexed as she struggled.

  “Feeling bitey? Such a naughty girl,” he said in the cultured British accent he’d used before departing for the cabaret.

  She gasped and swallowed. “That’s not me. There’s a dying clockwork gargoyle trying to eat through your jacket. Shove him off so we can go home.” Joe went completely still and pressed her more firmly into the gutter as he reached back to pry the monster off his back and toss it over the edge.

  “It’s not a gargoyle, it’s a grotesque,” he murmured sleepily. “Why am I numb?”

  “It’ll wear off shortly. I can already feel my hand burning. I need to get away from this water, and fast.”

  She tried to hide the fact that she was panting and whimpering as the pain spread to her palm, but he was too close to ignore it. With care she hadn’t seen of him, he edged off her body and into the gutter, wiggling backward toward the corner where the handholds began.

  With her arms finally free, she rolled onto her back and pulled a different tin from a different pocket. She would only have one chance to stop the acid from spreading before she lost her hand entirely and could look forward to a mechanical one from the Ministry engineers. In a flash, she’d opened the tin and shoved it right up against her palm, hissing as the powder instantly neutralised the acid and halted the burning. The pain didn’t abate, but the worry did.

  “Better?”

  Anne-Marie spoke through gritted teeth. “A little, thanks to Our Lady of Chemistry. Now all that’s left is to climb down sixty-nine meters of rain-soaked stone at midnight half numb and wounded without dying.”

  Joe chuckled darkly, his voice back to Cockney.

  “Wrong. We still have to put an end to the murderer. Allemande.”

  “You mean capture her and deliver her to the Ministry.”

  He paused before answering. “Roight. Of course that’s what I meant.”

  The climb down had been a nightmare, but Joe’s urging kept her moving. The sun was just turning the sky a cheerful pink as they hobbled into the bakery. Her shop girls stared, their mouths in perfect Os, but Anne-Marie merely flapped her good hand and demanded a box of éclairs, which she gave to Joe before pointing upstairs. He took it in ruined but expensive gloves, and only as he preceded her up to her apartment did she notice the bloody rips in the back of his jacket where the grotesque’s talons had torn into muscle.

  They spoke little as they tended to each other’s wounds with the dusty medical kit she had never opened before. Her hand would always bear a shiny pink scar across the palm, but it would still function. His back required a few stitches, which she was able to manage. He grilled her on Madam Allemande: how to find her room, how many statues were there and whether they were all clockworks; and what she had said about tunnels, and catacombs, and Englishmen.

  “Are you sure?” Joe asked for the tenth time.

  Anne-Marie pulled the suture too tightly and snapped, “Of course I’m not sure, you oaf! I was drugged and nearly thrown from Notre Dame by a clockwork grotesque. We’ll go after her first thing tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s too late.”

  She snipped the thread and held up her raw, scarred hand, and he fumed silently but didn’t press the matter. Still, something about the way he kept staring at the clock and her door didn’t sit right. Just in case he had ideas about apprehending Allemande without her, Anne-Marie waited until his back was turned to twist open a sleeping pill and pour its contents into one of the éclairs. Within moments of devouring the pastry she presented on a doily, the giant oaf was snoring on her floor.

  Ever since being assigned to Paris twenty years ago, Anne-Marie had dutifully written up her report every month and sent it on to the Ministry office in London. And every month, the same pigeon had arrived with her cheque, thanking her for her service to the Queen.

  It took her some time to compose the report for her first real assignment, and she drank cup after cup of black coffee to the tune of Joe’s snores while she attempted to record every victory and flaw of their escapade. Finally satisfied that she’d provided the most accurate and honest account possible, she limped to the roof. Slipping her missive into a metal tube, she released the pigeon and watched it soar into the clouds toward London. Her heart was a scramble of feelings: had she done well, or had she very ne
arly failed? Would she remain active and work as Joe’s partner, or would she go back to being a boring baker, forever waiting for excitement to walk through her front door? Would they wait for word from this Doctor Sound or move on Allemande tomorrow? If Joe truly wanted to take down the mad cabaret owner, would Anne-Marie be strong enough to stop him and ensure that he followed protocol?

  As she closed the wire door, she noticed an unfamiliar squab pecking at crumbs among her brood; one of the shop girls must’ve found it and forgotten to tell her. She pulled it out and unrolled the message.

  Dear Miss Bouvier,

  Status: Activated

  Your mission: Theodore Gilly, a member of the House of Usher and an enemy of the Ministry, is en route to Notre Dame de Paris to investigate and revenge the death of his brother, Ned Gilly. He will be traveling under an alias, but his size and gorilla-like visage are difficult to hide; an image is included. Gilly is adept at accents, disguises, interpersonal manipulation, hand-to-hand combat, and weaponry. Intercept him at the Gare du Nord; full bodily harm is allowable. In this case, always shoot first; he’ll kill you if he thinks you’re a threat. As we are unable to get a second agent into Paris in time, we are promoting you to an active status, and sending in our closest agent, currently stationed in Callais. Agent Joseph Tipping is half a day behind Gilly and will assist your investigation upon arrival. Agent Tipping is also delivering a replacement tracking ring. Please send this bird back with a message to confirm status and compliance.

  Welcome to active duty! Your mother would be proud. Be careful.

  Doctor Sound

  The Mystery

  of the Thrice Dead Man

  In Which Agent Books Takes a Paid Holiday

  J.R. Blackwell

  One Thousand Twelve Feet above the Atlantic Ocean

  September 8, 1894

  Wellington clung by his fingertips to a freezing metal pipe on the outside of the giant airship Hammarström as it zipped through the sky. He chanced a look down, to see the clouds floating below him, and below that, the wide expanse of the rolling ocean. From the balcony above him, where he had been so unceremoniously tossed, beyond the rush of air outside the ship, he heard the crackle of electricity and a loud shriek.

  “Not a real mission,” he muttered, clinging to the cold pipe. “Practically a paid holiday,” he growled, and looked up towards the ship full of pirates that waited for him if he could find his way inside.

  The Ministry Archives

  London, England

  September 3, 1894

  Agent Wellington Books, Archivist to the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences and the greatest solider that no one had ever heard of, wound the knob on his pocket watch, smoothed his lapel, dusted a speck off his shoulder and opened the first of the three folders in front of him.

  Wellington was adding an extra layer of depth to the archives, noting files not simply by agent and region, but also by city, and notable individuals who had been involved in the various missions.

  This new practice could allow for greater ease of research in existing cases. His detailed data extraction had led him to three cases that each bore similar names. It was when he was entering the name into his analytical engine that he realised that there were multiple entries, the only problem being that each noted the name as “deceased.” This morning he pulled the three files to review them for the circumstances of these deaths. It could be coincidence. Or it could be an indication of sinister deeds.

  In the folder was a field report from an agent active in the West Indies, where a wizard had been reported to be holding captives and making them work in the mines. As Wellington read, he could see the scene play out before him. Though case files were dry reading to some, for the Archivist, they were little operas, and they breathed their stories into his brain as he read.

  September 5, 1891

  The Great Mines, Matabeleland

  I am Agent Mary Land, and I do not believe in magic. I believe in justice. It was justice that brought me to the remote Matabeleland mines, justice that lead me to uncover Dragomir Negrubine’s slave trade, and justice that lead me to the entrance of the open mine during the deluge.

  Negrubine, the wizard of the great mines, had already kidnapped many sons and daughters in the small village when I arrived. They said that Dragomir Negrubine used the young men and women as slaves for the mines, keeping them captive with terrible magic, the manipulation of lighting and fire.

  I might not have made it to the mines if the albino giant hadn’t been my guide. He instructed me to call him by his Christian name, Joseph. He told a story of a lost sister who had been kidnapped, and later, found dead, grit and blood under her nails. He had sworn vengeance against the wizard, and it was only he, among all the villagers, who dared to go with me to oppose him.

  The rains were coming down in dreadful floods, an inch of water at our feet, pushing us back, our feet sticking in deep mud as they trudged onward. My weapon was useless in this flood, but there were slaves at the mines, locked by Negrubin’s strange weaponry and the fear of his magic. The women of the village had presented me with a sword before I left and told me to avenge their stolen daughters. I had no intention to kill the wizard. I believed in justice and would see him delivered to the law.

  Dragomir Negrubin was waiting for us by the open maw of the mine, his face lit from below by the fire at his feet that burned a blue flame despite the downpour. He had long black hair that was tied back from his face, and he wore a long, purple robe. His blue eyes had dark circles under them, as if he had been robbed of sleep by his evil deeds. He sneered at me as I unsheathed the sword.

  “Dragomir Negrubine!” I cried. “You are under arrest for trade in slaves, theft, and illegal occupation.” I could feel the water matting hair to my face.

  He laughed, his head tilting backwards, manic with joy. “Oh, and you think that you’ll take me in, little Mary, quite contrary?”

  How did he know my name? I pointed the sword at his chest. “You don’t call me by that name,” I proclaimed. “I am an Agent of the Empire, and you are to face justice.”

  The wizard opened his arms. “Then run me though, and we’ll see this drama ended. Because you’ll never take me alive!”

  I shook my head “There’s been enough death, I am taking you to the law where you will answer for your crimes.”

  Joseph held up a jagged knife. “No, he dies today!” he cried. I ran to stop him but the giant was too fast, and he ran the wizard through, the blood spurting from the wizard’s chest and on to their hands, washing away in the rains of the monsoon.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “But I couldn’t allow—not after what he did,” the giant said.

  I looked back towards the village, where tiny lights flickered in the darkness.

  Wellington closed the file. Joseph had escaped justice, fleeing into the night. Agent Land, alone in unknown territory with a group slaves to free from dangerous conditions had to choose between going after him, and freeing captives. She, rightly, chose to free the victims, but when she resumed her search, Dragomir Negrubine was gone. His body was never recovered. Since the “wizard” engaged in the terrible slave trade was dead, the case had been closed and the file rightly put in the archives.

  But then, there was another case file, one year later, from Agent Gerrold Collins of Scotland.

  September 10, 1892: Scotland: On the moor of Obin

  The children of the town of Obin had disappeared in the night, their bodies found, mangled on the moor. Some said an animal dragged them out of their beds. Others said that it was a cursed creature, half animal, half man, possessed of a demon.

  I am a man of reason, of logic, and that the face of such a horror could only be that of a man. “I will prove you this,” I had said as the men of the town and I trudged across the moor, “that despite what you think you’ve seen, there are no such creatures as werewolves.”

  A terrible howl rose from the mist and the five men who accompanied me trembled. “D
ragomir is real,” said the old man who had guided me to the moor. “Believe or not, he runs with a pack of wolves, and they devour those unwise enough to meddle with him.”

  “He may be a killer,” I said, turning towards the echoing howl, “but he is only a man.”

  Then there was a flash of lighting, and outlined against the hill was a shape, a hideous shape whose top half was wolf, and bottom like a man. He was running in a strange loping gait. In front of him a child ran, screaming a high-pitched wail. Someone pressed a rifle into my hand. “Silver bullets,” were the words whispered, but all I knew in that moment was that a murderer was after a child, and I raised the rifle and took the shot.

  The bang echoed in the moor, and the creature fell. The young doctor, who was with me, a fresh-faced blond young man who was as mild as he was tall, ran towards the fallen creature. I arrived at the scene as the doctor was opening his bag, bringing out bandaging. Laying before us was a half-naked man, a blood-filled hole in his chest. Blood pooled under his tall, lean, body. His long dark hair spread around his head.

  The man looked up, his ice-blue eyes focusing on me. “You. . .freed me,” he croaked, and then exhaled. The doctor leaned over, and pressed fingers to his neck “Dragomir is dead,” he declared.

  Wellington looked up from the file. “Dragomir,” he said, tasting the name. That the name had appeared twice could be coincidence, but it was this third file that tied events together. Perhaps this was all too invigorating. It was time for mid-morning tea.

  He had programmed the Analytical Machine precisely to make him the perfect cup for each time of day. For morning, a fine English breakfast, brewed loose-leaf in a special ceramic teapot that was exclusively for black teas. This would not be dulled with milk or sugar, but experienced head-on, the faint scents of honey, clove and lemon, to awake the senses for the day ahead. His tea would be brewed to specifications, to exactly the temperature of one hundred degrees centigrade, and only too steep for exactly four minutes. Later, there may be an Earl Grey in the afternoon, a definitive mix of his own devising, or, should he be feeling particularly adventurous, a darjeeling, the astringency of which left a calm awareness over the soul. The Analytical Machine, a steady sweet hum in the background of the archives, sung a little melody, and the tea was ready.