Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences

by Pip Ballantine

  Wellington regarded his domain, the archives as they lay before him, silent and organised, all things just-as they should be. Except, of course, for the three files on his desk. The last file of the three, only a year old, stared at him. He needed to review it before he brought it to the attention of Doctor Sound, to be sure that what he had to share was relevant. He took a sip from his cup and opened the last folder from Agent Sylvia Rodgers.

  September 7, 1893: The Carpathian Mountains, Romania

  I faced Baron Negrubine at the edge of the cliff. The Priest stood behind me, holding up his cross like a shield. I had tried to dissuade the Priest from following me, but he insisted it would be folly to face the “monster” alone.

  The wind whipped the Baron’s long dark hair and his red cloak billowed around him like an angry cloud. “You are too late,” he said, his fingers curling under the chin of the beautiful young woman in front of him, “It’s already been done, She has married me, and her lands are mine!”

  I pulled my Remington-Elliot Derringer and declared, “No marriage entered under duress is lawful.” I hope he heard me over these damnable winds. Strands of red hair were tickling my cheeks as they flew around my face.

  The Baron’s blood red tongue slid over his teeth. “I am not of law,” he said, his voice strong despite the powerful wind. “I am of Hell itself!” He thrust the girl in front of him, his gloved hands tight on her small shoulders. “Would you take the shot, Agent Rodgers, and risk killing my beautiful wife?”

  The Priest stepped in front of me and raised a crucifix. “God will judge you!” he cried.

  The Baron shoved the young woman to the side and backed away, hissing. I tried to aim my Derringer, but the tall, broad-shouldered Priest stood in my way on the narrow precipice. I dared not try to move him, for fear of shoving him off.

  “Out of the way!” I ordered.

  “God!” cried the Priest, “and the sun!” In the distance, over the eastern mountains, the sun peaked on the horizon, a sliver of gold in the blanket of the velvety purple sky. Smoke curled from under the cloak of the Baron, and he screamed, his voice high, like an evil bird.

  I couldn’t see clearly as the smoke reached me, stinging my eyes, making them water. The blond Priest approached the Baron, holding his crucifix high, and the Baron toppled backwards off the great mountain cliff.

  I coughed, blinking away the stinging tears and crawled to the edge of the cliff to peer over the edge. Below, in the shadows, I saw nothing but smoke and mist.

  “The demon is dead,” said the Priest, putting his hands around my shoulders, pulling me away from the edge. “Now, let us tend to the living.”

  “He wasn’t a demon,” said the girl, looking up at us as if noticing us for the first time. “He was a man. And his name was Dragomir.”

  Wellington stood up. Two was a coincidence, three was a connection. These cases needed to be reopened, which could only be done by the highest authority. It was time to go see Doctor Sound. He took the elevator to the administrative offices, folders in hand.

  Books arrived just in time to see Agent Campbell, his face a deep scowl, emerge from the Director’s office.

  “Ah!” said Wellington, “Agent Campbell, Good afternoon—”

  Campbell grunted and brushed past him. “There’s no sense in that man,” he growled.

  Miss Shillingworth held open the door for the archivist and motioned him to enter. Doctor Sound stood, pushing his portly frame from his seat when Wellington entered, and they shook hands. “Agent Books, please have a seat.” His tweed suit was well-fitted to his frame. Wellington always admired good fit on a well-made suit.

  On the desk facing Wellington, there was a jumbled place setting, as if a mad waiter was preparing for service. The napkin was messily folded on the wrong side, and the soupspoon was placed on the inside of the other settings, nearly under the plate. He sat in front of the place setting, eyeing it curiously. “Agent Campbell appeared quite upset,” he remarked as he moved the soupspoon into the correct location and adjusted the water glass to the correct side of the wine goblet.

  Doctor Sound, nodded, learning forward. “Unfortunately, I had to pass on his involvement with a mission. He simply wasn’t qualified.”

  Wellington folded the napkin and laid it, carefully, next to the plate. “Interesting. I always thought him a most capable field agent, although his field reports could do with more…” He paused, cleared his throat. In for a penny… “…relevant details.”

  Doctor Sound folded his hands together on his desk. “No doubt of that whatsoever. I have utter faith in his abilities. It’s just that he lacks a very specific skill for a very particular mission.”

  Books pushed the end of the salad fork with his finger so that it was perfectly in-line with all the other utensils on the table. “It must be a very specific mission then,” he said.

  Doctor Sound stood. “Agent Books, why did you ask for this meeting today? Is this about the new data filing system?”

  “No. Actually, it’s about these case files.” He placed the three files on the desk. “We’ve been killing one man for three years.” Doctor Sound paged through the files as Wellington continued. “Similar names but the same description.”

  Doctor Sound looked at Wellington, startled. Then his face quickly changed into a grin. “Interesting,” he returned, “but hardly a pressing matter. Likely just a common false name used in the underground.”

  “Respectfully, sir,” started Wellington, “I don’t think so. The descriptions are the same. It cannot be a coincidence. If my calculations are correct, he attempts some nefarious scheme every year at about this time, and even now he may be preparing—”

  Doctor Sound waved his hand, cutting him off. “Let it go, Books. We have something else to discuss.” He waved his hand over the now, perfectly arrayed, place setting. “You’ve always been very reliable,” he said, “Which is why I think we aught to send you on a little trip. After all, you did pass the test.”

  Wellington raised an eyebrow. What test would require proper setting of the table? “What will be required?”

  “You will go on a trip where you will be required to travel with another agent, by airship, review a certain situation, and report back to me.”

  A chill swept through him. “With all due respect, sir, I’m not a field agent.”

  “Correct,” said Doctor Sound, “you are not a field agent, and you are not going out in the field.”

  “Just to clarify,” said Wellington, hoping Doctor Sound could not hear his heart pounding against his rib cage, “I am simply going out on an airship, to carry out specific duties and reporting back. Which is, somehow, not field work.”

  “Exactly. If you were a field agent, we’d have to pay you more.”

  “Sir—”

  But his words failed him as the building shook and a rumble wormed its way through the floor. “Ah!” said Doctor Sound. “That must be Agent Blackwell, perfecting her new device for this trip.”

  Wellington leapt from his chair. “Doctor Blackwell! Sir, you can’t be serious.”

  “Of course! She will need a valet on the airship.”

  “I—” This was most certainly not why he had left the Archives. “—beg your pardon.”

  “A giant airship christened the Hammarström, one of the biggest of its kind, is currently a hundred miles from Britannia’s shores. Destination: The Americas. It stopped in Southampton to receive a group of upper class ladies gathering there to discuss the suffragette movement. Agent Blackwell will go to mingle with them and check the delicate instruments of the engine to make sure it is properly functioning. If the engine were to break and the airship fail, it would be the ruin of the upper class. These ladies are from the richest and most respected families of London. This is a mission that is just to double check that everything is working as it should, without alarming the ladies.”

  “Then why do you need me?”

  “I need someone respectable, someone who
can uphold decorum, someone unlikely to cause any explosions.” Doctor Sound motioned to the perfectly arrayed place-setting. “And you, Agent Books, meet all the qualifications to be Doctor Blackwell’s butler.” Doctor Sound walked around his desk and put a hand on Wellington’s shoulder. “Don’t panic about this, my good man. This is a trip to a fancy airship filled with harmless, upper class ladies who are far more likely to hurt themselves than anyone else. It’s basically a holiday. Now get down to R&D, find Agent Blackwell and be on your way.”

  R&D, or Research and Design, or, as Wellington sometimes liked to think, the Madhouse filled with Exploding Bats, had black smoke pouring out of it. Researchers were scuttling out the door into the hallway, coughing.

  “It’s all right!” came a muffled voice from inside the smoke-filled room. “It was just a little explosion.”

  Wellington steeled himself before turning the corner into the room, covering his mouth with his handkerchief. Inside he saw the familiar figure of fellow Ministry agent and scientist, Doctor Josephina Raven Blackwell. She was holding a small silver raygun with a shattered chamber. She was also wearing a mask over her mouth with a giant black tube, and blue goggles that were lit from the inside. Emerging from the acrid plume of destruction, with her dark brown hair, pale skin, and a curvature she covered like an old matron, she appeared as one of Death’s own harbinger. With the bird skull entwined in her hair as part of an elaborate decoration, her apocalyptic demeanour was only reinforced.

  “What happened here?” he asked, pulling a lever on the wall that activated the internal fans.

  Agent Blackwell darted towards him, and pulled off her goggles. A ring of soot marked her face, highlighting her pale skin and ice-blue eyes. “Oh, Agent Books! This is most exciting. I’ve made a new weapon for our trip.” She held out a silver gun. It was a small thing, a barrel like a pen attached to a tiny, blue snowglobe and a silver handle. “I call it The Nipper!”

  “Does all this smoke have something to do with the new weapon?” Wellington asked. The fans whirred, and the smoke began to clear from the room.

  Josephina pulled off her mask, revealing her wide, smiling face. “Yes!” she said, delighted. “I was testing a bit of material to see what happened when I over-heated the light cache coils, and it turns out that they will explode.”

  “Clearly,” he replied.

  “Oh, not like this,” said Agent Blackwell. “This was just a small sample, the actual explosion would be much larger.”

  Wellington rubbed his forehead. “Why would you want a gun to explode?” he asked. “Isn’t that the opposite of what you’d want in the field?”

  The scientist tilted her head. “I don’t understand the question.”

  Wellington sighed, feeling the gentle foreshadowing of a splitting headache. This was going to be a long trip.

  He adjusted his tie in his mirror so that it was perfectly centred. He checked his coat for any stray lint. Once more, he passed the comb through his hair. While his father would be in a right panic seeing him in such a position, Wellington found the work of a butler to be most satisfying. It was all so precise. It also helped that Agent Blackwell required very little of him. So far, he had carried a few bags, set the table, and ironed some things just to keep up appearances; but mostly, Wellington was able to catch up on his reading, even sketch out an idea for an ambitious automotive creation.

  Agent Blackwell even refrained from impinging on his person during the trip, which was a delightful change of pace.

  The small airship he was on with Agent Blackwell was about to reach the Hammarström, which was so large that this smaller airship could actually dock there to drop them off. Looking from the docking port, the ship was like an estate in the sky, brandishing grand balconies, great windows and gilding, as if it was a palace set among the clouds.

  Wellington held the bags as they docked. The formal attire of the butler reminded him of his infantry uniform, everything just so and in its place. The circular door opened between the two ships, and Wellington followed Agent Blackwell onto the large docking bay of the Hammarström. They were to be greeted by the organiser of the conference, Lady White of the Taylor-Whites.

  A tall, severe woman was waiting for them, her arms crossed in front of her. She was a giant of a woman, her weathered face hardly softened by her long, stringy hair wrapped in a tight bun. She wore a high-necked walking dress, gripping a large book in one massive arm.

  “Baroness,” she said, her face a tight frown.

  Wellington felt a stone in his throat. Why did she have to choose such a high rank? It would clearly cause suspicion. Why not a simpler, lower rank, or just claim wealth? That was easy enough to fake.

  “I am pleased to be here,” Agent Blackwell replied coolly, holding out her hand in greeting. “I presume you are Lady White?”

  The woman did not extend her hand. “You presume wrong,” she said. “I am Ms Crux. I am here to make sure that everything operates as it should. You say you are Baroness Blackwell. A high claim.”

  Wellington slowly took in a breath, his face struggling to betray no emotion. It might be that their mission ended here, before it truly began.

  “I am Baroness Josephina Raven Blackwell,” she stated, her back straightening.

  He cursed to himself. She wasn’t even impersonating an actual Baroness. She was using her real name?

  Ms Crux opened the book in her hand. “If you truly are who you say you are, then I don’t suppose you will mind us looking you up.”

  Wellington caught the name on the cover: Burkes Peerage. His eyes examined the room for any exits.

  She flipped open the pages. “Blackwell, Blackwell,” she mused to herself. Then her eyes widened. “Daughter of?”

  “Raven Katherine and Christoff Corax Emilian Blackwell.”

  “Town of birth?”

  “Zakopane,” Josephina replied.

  Ms Crux’s eyes widened, “Then you are she,” she said, and curtsied deeply. “My apologies, Baroness.”

  Doctor Blackwell smiled magnanimously. “I understand having security,” she said. “I commend you on doing your job.” She looked back to Wellington. “Come along,” she said.

  Arriving in their suite, his curiosity overtook him. “How did you manage to exchange the Burke’s Peerage books? Did you do it before the journey or did you somehow—”

  “I didn’t switch them, Books.”

  He gasped. That Doctor Sound would tamper with a book as important as Burke’s just to add in a few agents was beyond the pale. Tampering with some records, yes, but with Peerage? “That is beyond—” Wellington stammered. “That Doctor Sound thinks he has the right to tamper with Burke’s Peerage. Ministry or not that is just—”

  “He didn’t tamper with anything,” she said, her cheeks blushing just a hint. “I’m in it.” Josephina smiled sweetly. “But please don’t spread it around the office. Being around a Baroness does seem to make people uncomfortable.”

  Wellington swallowed. “You? A Baroness?”

  “Why yes,” she said.

  “And you work at the Ministry?”

  “The Empire needs me,” she stated quite matter-of-factually, “and I am very patriotic.”

  This was all too much. Wellington had to go sit down. And have a brandy. Or three.

  Serving as a silent valet, Wellington accompanied Doctor Blackwell to her meeting with the charming Lady White of the Taylor-Whites, a tall, woman who greeted Doctor Blackwell like an old friend. Lady White, in turn, escorted her to a series of talks, including a tea-service, panel discussion and group meetings where ladies discussed the current state of women in the Empire, the world, and current politics.

  Doctor Blackwell gave a rather graphic presentation on “Independence though Self Maintenance.” Wellington had to excuse himself from the room in order to maintain his dignity. He was well aware Josephina made devices for the relief of hysteria in women. He knew all too well as during one rather upsetting night, she had made a mould
of his forearm for one of her devices, a fact that he tried, repeatedly, to forget. The very idea that women all over the Empire were doing, God knows what, with his arm, was a horrifying thought.

  Well, most of the time.

  Still, on this grand airship, the sea beneath them, the sky around them, it was invigorating. The women bustled and talked, the smell of excellent tea around all of them. Wellington adored the archives, but this wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought it would be. Sometimes, he forgot how the world of the living could be so stimulating.

  At exactly five o’clock, Doctor Blackwell retired to her rooms to dress for dinner. This was the time that they would set their mission to action. They decided that she would arrive fashionably late, after checking the engines to make sure they were clear of fault. Many of the servants would be busy with dinner preparations, so it would be an excellent time to sneak into the engine area, check for faults, and then return to dinner.

  After that, it would be only two more days of panel discussions and dissertations. Fortunately, Wellington had brought reading, and with any luck, Doctor Blackwell wouldn’t set off any explosions.

  Doctor Blackwell flung open the door to his rooms and caught him with his tie undone.

  “Agen—” but then he caught himself. “Baroness, while I am but a humble butler, please do knock!”

  “It’s an emergency,” she said. Josephina was wearing a deep, crimson dress with a plunging neckline, her hair piled on her head. “I simply cannot get myself into this dress, and we only have a short window that the engine room will be unguarded.” She turned around to reveal that the back of her dress was open, a jet-black brocade corset under the dress.