The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

  Yet it was cold comfort as the boy behind her began to scream once again.

  THREE

  In Which Our Amorous Duo Invade France

  The landing in Cornwall, while utterly dreadful, had been most fortuitous for agents Books and Braun. As the area’s infamous Prussia Cove was a favourite haven for smugglers, it did not take them long, with what funds they had between them, to secure passage to Normandy. The journey—hosted by whom Wellington and Eliza discovered were the infamous Carcaise Family—was neither comfortable nor arduous; but with what uncertainty awaited Eliza at the agreed-upon emergency rendezvous point, this crossing of the English Channel might as well have been a slow boat bound for China.

  This particular stretch of beach, where Eliza and Wellington now stood, led to their final destination: a Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences safe house Eliza knew intimately. It was her familiarity with its location and security that made it a perfect hiding place for Alice and the Seven in light of a worst-case scenario, although looking at it would give one pause. On its best days, this structure had probably stood when Elizabeth sat on the throne of England. It was small and inglorious enough to be far from the tourist trails—so perfect for her needs.

  Eliza scanned the area one more time, wishing they had helped themselves to a pair of functional binoculars in their flight from the Atlantic Angel.

  As they made their way more inland, Wellington let out a relieved sigh as he brushed sand off his sadly battered bowler hat. “I can’t wait to have a proper cup of tea at the manor house, and get the smell of that smugglers’ boat out of my nostrils.”

  She glanced in the direction he was looking ever so hopefully. Off to the left, less than a mile from the Ministry’s tumbledown château, was the manor house Wellington anticipated as their final stop: a decidedly modern building with decidedly more chances of modern comforts.

  A smile flickered over her lips, even in this bleak situation. “I hate to be the carrier of bad news, Wellington, but we are not going there.” She turned and pointed to the far more ancient ruin above them on the hill.

  “Oh,” was the only reply he gave, but she could guess what he was thinking. Much as they might make their living in the bowels of the Ministry Archives, Wellington preferred the conveniences of the day: analytical engines to make his tea, cars to fly him where he needed to go, and intricate listening devices. Eliza liked those sorts of things too, but she also enjoyed safety and security. This safe house was just that.

  “How can you be absolutely sure that they are there?”

  Even though Wellington had seen her maid in the full throes of battle, he would persist in thinking of her as a simple servant. “Alice is not only resourceful, she is loyal to a fault,” Eliza replied with a frown. “I have utmost confidence in her.”

  “Very well then,” Wellington said, glancing her way. “We should proceed with caution, though. We still don’t know what caused Alice and the Seven to flee London.”

  Neither of them said the name of Lord Sussex or even his shadowy alter ego, the Maestro; nor did either of them dare utter that of Sophia del Morte.

  Eliza nodded. “Still, it wouldn’t do to get killed at this point. Especially after that rather sickening Channel voyage.”

  “Quite.” The archivist placed his hands on his hips as he looked around them. “Low scrub down here, right up to the front door, forest to the rear of the château. Sharpshooters could easily be settled in either area.”

  The tone of his voice reminded Eliza that many things had changed since she’d first been banished to the Archives of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. Back then her impression of Wellington had been quite different. Now that “rather pompous stuffed shirt” was her partner and fellow field agent. Sometimes the inner workings of his mind—particularly the instincts of a coolheaded marksman—frightened her.

  However, spending this eventful year together, she had learned to trust him; and though she dare not say it, perhaps more than that . . .

  “Well,” Wellington said, making her jump just a fraction, “there’s nothing for it. We’re just going to have to go up there.”

  Eliza reached out and lightly stroked the line of his chin. It had only been a few months before that she would never have dared such an intimacy. “I wish we had a few more guns, agents, and even some of Blackwell’s madcap devices right now. It feels like we are hanging out here by ourselves—”

  “Because we are,” he interjected. Wellington’s hand found hers, and he squeezed it lightly. “Backup on this would be wonderful, but this is not so much a Ministry, as it is our, affair.”

  Eliza pressed her lips together. She had to find out if the children were there—and Lord help anyone who got in her way. Her ragged in-drawn breath must have given her away.

  “As you said, Eliza,” Wellington said softly, “Alice is quite capable of defending herself, and come to think of it so are the children.”

  “You’re right,” she replied, pressing a quick kiss on his mouth. “I am sure we will find them eating some of her scones, drinking ginger beer, and having a fine old time.”

  That was the image she kept firmly in her mind as she took the right-hand path up the slope towards the château. Wordlessly, Wellington crept his way through the low scrub. Luckily, she was dressed in her usual, slightly scandalous, trousers that suited her lifestyle more than skirts and bustles. It would have been hell through this sort of prickly terrain. Eliza kept herself low against the horizon, and stopped every now and then to listen for anyone nearby. It was impossible to be completely sure, but she remained confident the safe house had not been compromised—at least in the exterior. She worked her way around the crumbling building and abandoned gardens, towards the rear door, where Wellington was waiting, a Remmington-Elliot at his side.

  Only a few of the blank windows within the château’s stern face still had shutters. The main structure was still intact, but the place gave off an air of melancholy that suggested it was on its way to nothingness. Drawing Tutanekai out of his holster—seeing as this would be close quarters, this was the preferred pounamu this time—Eliza reached out with her free hand and rapped on the door. It was the very new and solid door she had requested installed. No use trying to protect those that needed protecting with only a rotten piece of wood to hold invaders off. She now realised it had been the right choice.

  She gave two knocks in close succession, a pause, two quick knocks again, another pause, and then one solitary knock. It was the knock of identification she used for her apartments back in London, but also a secret knock used only between Ministry operatives.

  The sound of the bolt being withdrawn might not necessarily be a good omen. Eliza glanced at Wellington and gave an abrupt nod. They raised their weapons.

  “Come in, miss!” The familiar voice from inside unlocked a little tension in Eliza’s stomach. Still, Wellington stepped back while Eliza pushed the door open with her foot.

  Alice was sitting in a rocking chair facing the door, a large barrelled shotgun aimed directly at it. The look on her face was as fierce as a mother lion, and for an instant Eliza feared for her life.

  Then the moment passed like a cloud blowing away from the sun. Only then did she notice the lanky form of Christopher standing in the corner by the door. It was he who had drawn the bolt, but his face was stern. A Bulldog was in his hand. Eliza had seen the oldest member of the Ministry Seven in many situations, but never like this. That realisation tempered her relief.

  “Miss Eliza!” Alice cried, leaping up and running towards her. The maid’s legs hissed and clanked as she came, and when she collided with her employer it was with a bone-shaking thump. Alice had worked very hard to overcome her workhouse beginnings, so this display was delightfully unusual.

  Eliza did not correct her, but instead hugged her tight.

  Wellington let out an uncomfortable noise when the mai
d embraced him tightly too. “It is good to see you, Alice,” he muttered.

  Sometimes that “stuffed shirt” aspect of the archivist still reared its head. It would be something she would need to remedy.

  “Christopher?” Eliza called to the young man by the door; but he did not come forwards, instead moving to peer cautiously out of a side window. He said nothing to either of the agents, and though Eliza admired his dedication to duty, it worried her.

  Alice let go of him, and seemed to regain her composure. She hitched up her skirts, displaying the brass and gears of her prosthetic legs. A compartment slid open where she stowed the weapon; and then the thigh hissed shut, keeping the trusted sidearm within her reach. Alice was the kind of maid that was proficient in a variety of fields, and very handy to have around when things got tricky.

  “The rest of the children, Alice . . .” Eliza started, but didn’t get any further.

  A door at the end of the hallway burst open and the remaining Ministry Seven tumbled out of one of the back rooms, squealing her name. Eliza was knocked back on her heels as all six of them hit her.

  As she reached out to touch each of them or pull them close, that was when she noticed. Seven. Not eight. One of the quirks of the Ministry Seven was it was not strictly true—a relic of a little trick they had pulled on her.

  After two head counts confirming the unpleasant truth, Eliza’s gaze shot back to Alice. “Where is Callum?”

  The maid looked as though she had been kicked. “Callum’s been taken.”

  “Arrested?” she asked hopefully. That, at least, could be easily remedied.

  “No,” Alice replied, her voice low and suddenly serious. “Callum was taken.”

  Eliza had been through death and disaster in many forms working with the Ministry, but she hadn’t felt as imperilled as she did in that moment. She had truly never imagined having children of her own, and had taken the Seven under her wing without thinking about it. Now, hearing Alice’s words hit her, she realised that her love for them ran deeper than she’d thought. For a moment all tactical and logistical considerations dropped away. Cold terror consumed her.

  Wellington was at her side, putting an arm around her shoulders, but she noticed his face was as bereft of blood as hers felt. “Tell us the whole story.”

  Alice gestured them into the kitchen, with the children, now quiet and grim, following behind them. Only Liam remained, watching the window in Christopher’s place, his face just as grim.

  In the kitchen the fire was lit and the smell of warm baking filled the air. In the manner of all Ministry safe houses, the chimney was a concealed one, with the smoke funnelled underground so as not to give away their location. Eliza took a seat next to the fire, and Serena wriggled her way onto her knee. Wellington sat opposite, the rest of the children clustering around him. The way Alice shifted from foot to foot showed her inner turmoil.

  Eliza held out her hand to her. “Alice, we need to hear what happened. I am sure you did your best . . .”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Christopher said from his place by the door. “It was mine. He got taken right in front of me.”

  Eliza knew that look in the young man’s eyes—she’d worn it herself, many times. She’d lost agents in the field before, and in every instance felt the responsibility of it. That it now lived in Christopher was almost unbearable.

  “What happened, Christopher?” Wellington asked, his voice low and calm.

  The boy looked down at his feet and spoke only to them. “It was a fancy doctor’s place. We went to check it out first, knew when he was out. It was easy to break into. It was just the five of us: me, Callum, Serena, Liam, and Colin.”

  “I got us in,” Serena piped up, sounding rather proud, but immediately was silenced when Christopher shot her a sharp look.

  “Go on,” Eliza urged.

  The eldest boy cleared his throat. “It all looked nice as pie. We were just collecting some goodies, and we found this weird room downstairs. Then this man appeared, he had all these needles an’ things . . . then . . . then we had to run.”

  “He was dead,” Serena said, her fists tight on her dress, “in the eyes.”

  “I swear,” Christopher said, a tremor in his voice as he continued, “the man was not natural, not one of God’s creations is what I mean. Bloody monster, he was.”

  They’d certainly seen their share of those. Particularly in the Americas. “And where did this monster come from?” Her eyes ran over the children, demanding utter honesty.

  “It was the door of hell, Miss Eliza,” Christopher answered.

  “Come off it,” Colin barked. “There was this cage. Odd looking, it was, and it was spitting lightning bolts in all directions. That’s why we couldn’t get to Callum.”

  Eliza and Wellington shared a solemn look. The Culpeppers might be dead, but their inventions lived on.

  “I told everyone to run, and we did,” Christopher said, his gaze staring in the fire as he recalled. “We last saw Callum in that monster’s hold. We ran to your home, Miss Eliza. No one else would believe us.”

  “That’s when I reckoned we had to come here,” Alice said, her eyes gleaming with almost tears. “Callum wouldn’t be able to stop from telling whoever has him about you, miss.”

  Eliza leaned across and squeezed Alice’s hand, just once. “You did the right thing—very much the right thing. The rest of the children are safe because of you. Well done.”

  Her maid suddenly let out a sharp cry and crossed the kitchen to a wall where rucksacks hung. She grabbed one and opened it on the centre table. “The children snatched this from that doctor’s place. It is something you must . . .”

  A rapid knocking made everyone in the kitchen jump.

  “Miss, there’s people outside, comin’ this way!” Liam shouted even as he kept banging.

  Eliza and Wellington darted to the window and carefully nudged aside one of the shutters.

  Five men were immediately obvious, making their way to the door of the château. Eliza’s right hand dropped to her pistol.

  Wellington stayed her hand. “Look at the tweed they are wearing . . .”

  Her eye was not used to taking in fashion details in such situations; but Eliza, on recognising the pattern, let out a long sigh. A sigh that turned into a soft groan.

  “Who else wears such a dreadful tweed with such cheap bowler hats?” Wellington slowly shook his head. “The boys from the Department.”

  “The Department.” She was so mad she could spit. “This is the last thing we need right now.”

  The Department of Imperial Inconveniences—formed in the last few years and fancying themselves as dreadfully important—were, in Eliza’s mind, best qualified in cleaning up after the Ministry. Hardly what she would deem “reliable” when it came to support or competency of any kind in the field. If they cocked up their cover, as these pillocks were prone to do, Eliza was going to have someone’s guts for garters.

  As she turned away from the window to go deal with them, her face flushed with annoyance, Wellington laid a hand on her arm.

  “You don’t have the best history with the Department,” he said softly. “Mind if I go out and share a quick word with them?”

  Eliza let out an angry grumble, but saw the sense of it. She’d never been an agent known for her diplomacy, especially inter-departmentally. “Fine,” she said, flicking her hand in the direction of the door. “But those fools owe us a drink when all this is sorted out!”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Wellington said with a shrug.

  She followed him to the door, grabbing a Remington-Elliot, and allowing it to spin on her finger before presenting it to Wellington handle first. “Take this.”

  “Tosh, Eliza,” he scoffed. “Perhaps Doctor Sound also picked up your distress signal. They are probably our extraction team.”

&nbs
p; She heard him reassure Liam of the same thing, probably trying to calm him down too, just before he stepped outside to disappear into the sunshine.

  This extraction had better lead to the fastest of debriefings. The sooner they returned to London, the sooner they could be on their way to finding Callum.

  “Miss Eliza,” she heard Liam—still by the door—ask, “are these fine gents taking us back to Old Blighty?”

  “Certainly, and once we’re done at the Department,” Eliza grumbled as she walked over to a counter, “we are going to get Callum.”

  She remembered that in one of these cabinets . . .

  “There you are,” she whispered on finding the bottle of scotch.

  While she poured herself several fingers’ worth of the spirit, her eyes strayed to a modest stack of newspapers on the counter top. Just as she had trained the maid for this situation, Alice purchased local newspapers, staying apprised of what was going on wherever she managed to stop for any given time. The agent let out a sigh, and thumbed back, following Alice and the children’s journey in reverse. The newspaper at the bottom, a rag she recognised from London, was devoted entirely to the rumoured plans for the Diamond Jubilee celebration next year. The Queen had just recovered from a bout of ill health, and everyone was worried the old dear was going to pop her clogs before hitting the actual event—though no one wanted to say it.

  As Eliza flicked through the pages, her eyes found a headline on the second page. It was a black-bordered column of a sensational nature, this one reading in bold letters:

  THE TERRORS OF TECHNOLOGY:

  Another Motorcar Accident Only Impresses the Dangers of Automated Travel Machines

  Usually her attention would wander onwards to the latest news from the outskirts of the Empire, but she had to know why this journalist would instil a fear of science into the paper’s readers. Maybe this was Welly’s influence. Something was nagging in the back of her head about the newspapers, but her eyes had already taken in a name that washed away any chance of figuring out what that was.