Beatrice let out a long sigh and adjusted her hat, pressing back one of the jet hatpins that held it in place. “They told me this was going to be a waste of time, but I insisted. I thought I knew you better.” Her smile was crooked. Bruce recognised that particular smile as being the very same one just before she’d knocked him down with that vicious hook of hers.
His eyes flicked back over to the man behind her. He suddenly had to get up from his place at the bar. He glanced at the mirror again, and simultaneously four more patrons—one of them wearing the tweed in his pants, two showing it in their coats, and the last one in the kerchief tied around his neck—also got up from their tables. All at the same time.
Yeah, Bruce thought to himself, this kind of blunder is exactly why the Department is a right joke.
“So,” he said with a laugh, “what did they tell you to do if’n I said no?”
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed on him as her smile turned decidedly bitter. “I think we’re past the point where I tell you what’s going on. I think we’re at the really pointy end of the conversation.”
He caught the flash of metal at her wrist which revealed some kind of armguard, as he slid away from a strike she’d aimed at his hand. Bruce knew his dismount off the stool was not exactly smooth, but he found his feet quickly enough and brought his mug around. The glass was of a good, solid stock as it dislocated the jaw of the bloke trying to flank him. Didn’t that idiot realise there was this giant mirror behind the bar where they sat?
He took a few steps back, easing into a pugilistic stance. Beatrice’s blue eyes flashed, and she gestured behind her to those other four agents at the other end of the saloon. He could see their dingy reflections not closing in on him, but barring any exits. They all had clean sight lines, but Miss Bea—obviously the senior officer—right at this moment was buggering proper Department procedure. This wasn’t going to be a simple, elegant cleanup. She wanted to get into it with him.
Fair enough.
Beatrice slid off her stool and took up a similar stance. Bruce had forgotten that she was a good foot taller than him, and the delicate sleeves of her dress, stretched tight over impressive musculature, also reminded him of how physical she got in bed—and in mêlées such as this. The inhabitants of the pub, who had undoubtedly seen their fair share of fights, picked up their drinks and relocated to the edges of the room. When the piano player was on a break, this was the only entertainment to be had.
“Bea,” he warned, “I’m gonna give ya—”
The right hook, Bruce realised, he had been worrying about too much, as it was a left hook to the cheek that connected soundly, knocking him back into a table where a pair of miners were too settled into their drinks to notice what was coming. They looked at Bruce, then turned their eyes to Beatrice. Lady or not, she had spilt their beers and would pay. Or so these poor sods thought.
This was hardly an even match as she was a trained agent, and her return strike was much quicker. Still, everyone has the ability to land a lucky punch, and that was exactly what the shorter of the two men did. Bea toppled into three miners standing off to the side. One of them cushioned her fall, while the other two entered the fray.
Bruce, now back on his feet, braced himself against the bar as Beatrice started bearing down on him. Once she drew close enough, he brought the empty mug by his hand around. The glass shattered against the armguard just before her other fist came around, clocking him hard enough to make his head ring. He had taken more than his fair share of blows to the face, so the blood was totally expected, but the surge of numbness and the watering of his eyes caught him by surprise. Was he really that soft after only a month out of the game?
A hard click sobered him up in a moment, and his vision snapped into focus. Beatrice was pointing the girded arm at him. He had to move and move now.
Something dug into the wood planks where he had once lain, but he continued to roll until he was up on his feet. Bruce reached behind him and slipped out the forearm-length rod sheathed in his belt. With a quick flick of his wrist and the flip of a switch, the rod snapped with a sharp hiss to its full length. It sliced through the air and struck hard against that concealed armguard of Beatrice’s. He managed to get two more strikes before she wised up to what his plan had been. The backhand against his immense, square jaw knocked him back, but it did not knock away his smile. Knowing what damage his baton could do, Bruce knew whatever device she had under that blouse was rightly buggered.
“Goddammit!” she swore.
And there was his confirmation.
Bruce had just taken one step towards an exit when a fist—not Beatrice’s—knocked him back. He shook his head to try and find the Department agents within the fray. Apparently blokes and sheilas were all joining in now, not for the honour of a lady nor to defend a man when he was clearly bushwhacked. No, people were now joining the brawl for the hell of it.
However, this kind of chaos could make the Department’s job far easier. Bruce decided to adhere to one method: swing at anything that moved.
This tactic proved to be a good one for him as on several occasions he caught a glimpse of tweed. Whether it was the Department’s tweed or just some poor sod with terrible fashion sense, it was hard to say. Bruce was still standing, and so far no one had—
The cupped hand did not slap, strike, or even bop his most sensitive and sacred of muscles. No, the cupped hand grabbed, crushed, and—yes—twisted his balls. Twisted just enough to keep his attention.
“Bring him in for reorientation, they said,” Beatrice shouted over the brawl. She was leading him back to the bar as she continued, her breath pushing back strands of hair that were now tousled and wild. “Resolve this matter quickly and efficiently, they said.” Bruce gave a little groan—a touch of pleasure in that, he hated to admit—when she squeezed just a fraction more. “No, sweetie. I’m going to enjoy this! For as long—as—possible!”
With that proclamation, Beatrice picked him off his feet and threw him onto the bar, the wind rushing out of him as he pounded, chest first, into its sturdy wood. Whoever had called her sex the gentler one, had never met a bruiser like Miss Beatrice Octavia Muldoon.
Bruce had hold of the bar. The publican had retreated to a place of safety, but unfortunately a collection of empty bottles, glass mugs in various states of quantity, shot glasses, and a few coffee mugs had not. He could feel Beatrice switch her hold from his balls to the waistband of his trousers, and then forward momentum. He continued down along the far-too-long length of this bar, his sharp connection against broken bottles and heavy glass tumblers reminding him why bar brawls were a losing deal, but wildly entertaining to bystanders. He would much rather have been the one doing the sweeping instead of Beatrice. Even the empty glasses hurt, but not as much as knowing his sweep along the bar was also resulting in wasted spirits. It was enough to make a man cry. A whack to the bollocks and then this!
Suddenly, he felt open air. End of the line. Once clear of the bar, Beatrice flung him off with a little cry of victory. He landed against the wall in a heap, giving him a second to look on Bea. Even looking like a well-dressed but completely mad woman, she was still a thing of beauty. In a brawler sort of fashion.
“What are you smiling at, Campbell?” Beatrice roared.
He guffawed as he stood, brushed himself off, and shrugged. “Just remembering what a goer you always were.”
She charged at him, but this time Bruce brush-blocked the incoming hook, sweeping the arm under his and locking it against his side. He then grabbed the other arm and pinned it behind her as he twisted, bending her back into a dip. Her mouth tasted salty. Either her lip was cut or a tooth was loose, but she was still a lovely woman to taste. She kissed like she fought. To win. And that was what her tongue was now doing—tasting every part of his mouth and savouring him as he did her. For a Pom, she kissed better than some frontier girls he had known.
Their lips parted with a gasp, and Beatrice was trying very hard to keep focus. That kiss had obviously caught her off guard.
So did Bruce’s forehead which connected hard with hers, knocking her back into a small knot of men who were still enjoying report with one another’s fists.
With Beatrice occupied, Bruce kicked two bottles, one for each hand, up from the floor. One he used as he would have used his baton, had he not lost it in the fight. The other he lobbed to his left at a Department boy daring to raise a pistol. It had been a long time since Bruce had fielded for the Queensland cricket team, but he had apparently lost none of his skill, for the bottle hit the agent, even shattered on impact.
That one must have been green as the manor’s lawn. The Department’s rule was no mess, no fuss. Guns rarely played into their schemes.
Returning to the heart of this drunken storm, an empty bottle his only weapon against trained Department agents and pub patrons, Bruce ducked and weaved through scuffles until he found a clear path to the saloon’s window, which he propelled himself through, rolling then running through the clearing he had made for himself outside. Eureka, being the horse that he was and knowing his master all too well, had already turned himself around. Bruce had just leapt up into the saddle when he heard a scream, a passionate if not primal scream that he knew belonged to Beatrice. He snapped the reins and thundered down the main street, his head down and low. It wasn’t Department policy to make for public executions but he would not leave anything to chance. Ride fast, ride hard.
The dusty remains of Rockhampton soon behind him Bruce Campbell was now wrestling with what he had never dreamed of doing again. There were a few connections he could contact but the next few days he wouldn’t call luxurious. He had to get out of Australia, do a quick drop by in South America, and then get back to Pommyland.
It was time to come to the Ministry’s rescue.
FOUR
In Which Wellington Books Is Asked to Descend into Maelstrom’s Flames
Wellington stepped out of the cottage and tried not to cast his eyes longingly at the manor house looming in the distance. It still looked just as warm and inviting as it had moments ago. His eyes looked around their safe house, noting barrels of fuel for the internal heating system close by the rear entrance, perhaps the only convenience this shack offered. If the approaching Department operatives were the extraction team, then thankfully they would not need to “make do” as they had been doing since their escape from the Atlantic Angel.
Over the sound of the pounding surf, he could just hear his own feet sliding through the thick, emerald-green grass underfoot. Perhaps while waiting for travel details to be sorted and—with the inclusion of the Ministry Seven—clearance granted, Eliza might enjoy the moment’s rest, even enjoy this lovely vista with him.
Behind the Department agents, the English Channel stretched wide and open. They must have a transport of some kind over the rise, ready to take them back home. As details in the man’s suit became more prevalent, Wellington made certain that his hands were visible to the approaching Department operatives. These were allies, that much was certain; but, there was no reason why both he and Eliza shouldn’t be careful. Field meetings like this one were always tense.
“A lovely day,” Wellington announced, as protocol dictated. “Bit windy for my taste.”
“Perhaps,” the man in the signature tweed of the Department of Imperial Inconveniences replied, “but excellent weather if you want to fly a kite.”
Wellington halted and slowly lowered his hands. With confirmation made, he looked behind the contact to see five others, all wearing the signature Department fashion, following a healthy distance behind him. They were positioned at least two hundred paces apart, as if covering as much ground as five people could. Wellington forced his smile wider as he saw the two women and three men come to a halt while their leader continued to approach. It’s the tweed, Wellington assured himself as the man tipped a black bowler in his direction. I’ve always been unsettled by the Department’s choice of tweed pattern.
“The Ministry was expecting you in London, and when you all were nowhere to be found and the Angel was missing one of their aeroflyers, we were called in. We’ve been visiting every safe house in the network. Good thing we lot enjoy travel,” the agent said, a jovial lilt in his voice. “How are you holding up, old man?”
Wellington felt his smile tighten. He particularly didn’t care for the “old man” moniker, but chose to continue the pleasantries. “Considering the scenery and the conditions we find ourselves in, none the worse for wear.”
He nodded in approval. “Excellent choice, Normandy. Lovely time to come. Name’s Cavenaugh. Samuel Cavenaugh.”
“Wellington Books, Chief Archivist.”
The main raised an eyebrow at that. “Really?” He took a step back from Wellington as he said over his shoulder, “It’s the archivist.”
The Department agents now slowly crept back, widening their spread across the open field. Wellington kept his focus on Cavenaugh, the earlier tingle in the back of his brain kicking harder now.
“What happened up there, old man?” he asked.
“An emergency of a personal nature,” Wellington replied. “We will need to get back to London quickly.”
“How many in your party?”
“Enough that we are going to need more than a small boat to get us back to Her Majesty’s shores.”
“Blimey!” Cavenaugh laughed. Wellington did not feel inspired to join in. “Travelling with a small entourage, are you?”
“No need to fret. In light of this emergency, we all had to be light on our feet.” Wellington motioned to Cavenaugh. “Much like you all, I’m sure, when you received the call about us?”
“Light on our feet?” he chuckled. “That we were, old man. That we were.”
He really wished Cavenaugh would stop calling him that.
“So you were about to tell me,” the Department agent continued, pulling out a pad, flipping it open as he touched the tip of his pen to his tongue, “how many are coming back with us?”
His mind was ready with the answer, a full account of who was awaiting for safe and secure passage from Normandy. That answer never was given voice. He suddenly felt very vulnerable. “Well, there is just myself, Agent Braun . . . and her maid. We were returning from the Americas when we received an alarm from her.”
“Just you, the colonial, and the maid,” he muttered. “No one else?”
Wellington knotted his brow. “Should there be?”
Seconds ticked away between them in the quiet, save for the odd call of seagulls and the waves breaking on shore.
“All seems to be in order then,” he said, returning the pad into his pocket. “Time to come in from the cold then, Books?”
Cavenaugh held out his hand. Wellington knew he should take it, but the tingle in the back of his skull was now something akin to a migraine.
Oh, this is silly, he thought to himself. “Thank you, sir,” Wellington finally replied as he willed his hand to reach up.
The bullet split Cavenaugh’s forehead in a blink, sending tiny rivulets of blood in every direction from the point of impact. Wellington turned to see Eliza holding the Webley-Maxim Mark II in one hand while cradling in her other arm a Samson-Enfield Mark III. She fired off a second shot, and Wellington saw one of the remaining five Department agents fall. The other four were scattering, producing what he could only assume were sidearms.
“Eliza, what in the bloody hell—?”
“Stuff it, Books,” Eliza said, tossing him the Mark III. “If it moves”—she jammed into his coat pocket what he knew were spare shells—“make it stop.”
Wellington hefted the weight of the Mark III, Alice’s unmistakably, as Eliza fired off another round, downing another Department agent. He looked back at the house, then looked at the rolling valley over
looking their position.
On this side of caution, he thought as he shouldered the weapon and fired both barrels on the fuel by the cottage.
The explosion wrapped itself around that corner of the château, creating a wall of thick, heavy smoke that cast a dark shadow in the direction of the valley. If he had the best of conditions, the smoke would have drifted straight across to hide the field from sight. A wall of smoke heading into the valley, however, could make even the most seasoned of snipers uncomfortable.
“We have three making a run for it,” Eliza called over to him. She then dropped to one knee and fired. “As I said, we have two making a run for it.”
“Just to remind you,” he said, taking a defensive position at her side, “gunning down the field auxiliary does not reflect well on agent evaluations, you know this, yes?”
“Duly noted, Agent Books.” She looked back in the direction of the accompanying brush and trees further inland. She adjusted the settings on her pistol’s scope and added, “We can’t let any of them leave these shores. Are you with me, Books?”
Wellington cracked open the Mark III and replaced the spent shells with fresh ones. “Without fail, Miss Braun.”
He had just snapped shut his sidearm when Eliza yanked him down. Something cut the air above him, followed only scant seconds later by the crack of a gunshot. Eliza looked at him and signalled silently, Two, ahead, bearing to the left. Wellington nodded, fixed his grip on the Mark III, and joined Eliza in a slow belly crawl through the grass. Only a few feet later, Eliza tapped Wellington on the shoulder and motioned for him to break off and flank their intended target.
He kept himself as low as possible, suddenly becoming aware of just how out of practice he had become in stealth tactics. He paused, and shifted himself onto his back. A new tactic was needed.
His shoulder slipped back and forth in his jacket; and once that arm was free, Wellington shimmied the rest of himself out of the garment. Quietly, carefully, Wellington cracked open the Mark III, draped the dark coat over the exposed barrels, and then rose the coat upwards. He paused, then lifted the coat up a hint more.
The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel Page 9