The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

Doctor Sound cleared his throat, returning attention to him. “We don’t really have the time for this witty repartee as somewhere out there the Department is still following their own orders. Now then, I assure you we will debrief once we have a secure location in which to do so.” He turned back to Wellington. “Agent Books, I believe you were to present us with an option?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. Giving a quick glance to Eliza, Wellington drew himself up, and started again. “I would like to propose—”

  “Forgive me, Agent Books,” interrupted Sound. He craned his neck to make eye contact with Miss Shillingworth. “Cassandra?”

  “Yes, Director?”

  “I honestly don’t care if it’s the bloody Duke of Edinburgh, if that door opens within the next two minutes, shoot.”

  Her face came aglow with excitement. “Gladly, sir.”

  Sound returned his attention to Wellington. “You now have approximately one minute and fifty-three seconds, Books. Make it count.”

  “Yes, sir.” The grating in his throat as he swallowed nearly knocked him back a step. He suddenly craved a drink. Perhaps the journey was catching up with him. “We need a location secure, remote, and unknown to the Crown. I know such a place.”

  Don’t you dare, boy, a voice from the past warned in his mind.

  It is no longer yours to rule over, Wellington seethed inwardly. You saw to that.

  “Go on,” the director urged.

  Wellington blinked, feeling Eliza nudge him gently. “Yes, this location I would prefer to reveal only to you, Director, before we can be assured of security within our own ranks.”

  “Are you suggesting,” came Agent King’s voice, “that perhaps we are not secure?”

  “I am suggesting”—he held a hand up towards Bruce, but didn’t turn to look at him—“all present company aside, that we cannot afford to grow comfortable. The Department tried to recruit Bruce. We have no clue what agents we rendezvous with from here on, or if any in this room, have been compromised.”

  “And when do you suggest we can begin trusting one another, Books?” Maulik’s mechanical voice asked. Even in its nature, Wellington could detect its hint of disdain.

  “That, I leave to the director’s discretion.” Wellington felt the need for a drink again. Something harder than cider. “Tomorrow night, I will provide you with the coordinates there, sir.”

  “And you’re certain of this location’s secrecy?” he asked.

  “Quite,” Wellington assured him. “But there is a condition attached.”

  “Is it too much to ask for things like this to be simple?” grumbled Bruce.

  Sound glanced over at the Australian and then his gaze flicked backed to Wellington. “And that condition is?”

  “A head start.” Wellington pulled Eliza a step closer to him and said, “I will need some time to prepare the location for your arrival. It will be myself; Agent Braun; her maid, Alice; and the Ministry Seven overseeing this.”

  “The Ministry who?” Brandon asked.

  “Eliza’s network of children,” Shillingworth said, pushing a strand of white-blonde hair from her eyes. “They’re in just as much danger as we all are.”

  Sound looked around the collected agents, all of whom were boring into Wellington and his superior. Wellington could feel the clutches of fatigue tightening around him, but he would not surrender to them just yet. He speculated that if he were feeling this tired from his own journey through Europe and back, his fellow agents coming from all points of the Empire also felt the same. They needed to just stay out of the Department’s clutches a little longer.

  “I know what I am asking of you, Director.” Wellington tightened his grip on Eliza’s hand as he cast his glance around the other agents. “I know what I am asking of you all, but I have to make certain the location is secure. It’s . . .” He took a deep breath. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen the property.”

  The silence seemed to press upon him, threatening to squeeze out the precious life remaining within his already-fragile shell.

  “You shall have the time. No more than eight hours, but you will have it.” Sound motioned for Miss Shillingworth, whispered something in her ear as he relieved her of the Mark IV, and sent her back into the great room of the Red Lion with a final nod. “We can hold up here for a little time, provided you are away immediately,” Sound began, but then he looked around him and gave a sigh. “As we all are here and still draw breath, we are safe for the time being. The publican here is an old friend to us. Has been for some time, and his loyalty is unfaltering. This is where the Ministry began, and only two people know that. Provided that secret remains as such . . .”

  His gaze turned to the solitary window of the room they all occupied. He seemed to be peering into the past. Whether it was long ago or only recent events, Wellington could not ascertain, but whatever Sound could see through the warped glass haunted him—that much was easy to tell.

  “Right then,” he said, his full attention now for the motley crew assembled around him. “We will have to make do with whatever rooms they have available here.”

  “We can assure you,” interjected Eliza, “at least two rooms will be open.”

  Sound looked at her askance, then recognition popped across his face. “Oh that, right, yes, quite. Well, let us see if we can procure a few more then . . .”

  As Sound moved off, the agents began to mingle once again, their eyes glancing over in their direction, accompanied by either dismissive shrugs or disgusted shakes of the head.

  “Or,” Wellington grumbled, “I can just let you all rot, while Eliza, Alice, and seven children find safe passage back to somewhere safe and secure.”

  “Oh, come off it, Welly,” Eliza said, playfully rapping him on his arm. He furrowed his brow as he rubbed the spot she’d just struck. She did not have a clue as to how strong she was. “You’re brand spanking new—officially—in the field. There’s an amount of trust that needs to be—”

  “Eliza, I have been working in the Ministry for close on seven years now. I rebuilt that archive from the madman’s folly it had been left in. Each of these agents, at least once in their careers, save for the far-flung remote corners of the world, have exchanged correspondences with me. I’m not some poor recruit straight out of basic training armed with a rifle and my solemn vow to Her Majesty.”

  Eliza looked over the agents again, and her mouth twisted into a scowl. “Well, sod ’em if they don’t like it, you’re the one saving their collected arses, now aren’t you?”

  He tugged on his lapels and nodded. “That, I most certainly am.”

  Bursting from the crowd, came the lanky agent Eliza had recognized from New Zealand. Ferguson. “Eliza Doo, good, wanted to catch you and Books here before your leaving.” He spun on his heel to Books and said, “And if nobody has ever said it or says it tonight, thank you for your sterling work in the Archives. Bang up job you did there, and I have no doubt you will excel in the field.”

  Wellington noted the break in conversation. He must have been waiting for a response. “Thank you. Much appreciated.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Barry said, waving his hand quickly as he turned to Eliza. “I was wondering if you, Eliza Doo, needed my assistance?”

  She tipped her head to one side. “With?”

  “Preparations,” he said, clapping his hands together, rubbing them together with glee. “Ol’ Lachlan can probably do with a tick or two without me at his side, so I thought you’d fancy the company.”

  “I would, normally, Barry, but”—she motioned over to Wellington—“this is Welly’s dance. I am simply following his lead.”

  “Oh right, right, right,” Barry replied, nodding. “Mind if I tag along then, mate?”

  “We need to move fast,” Wellington said, glancing over the lanky man. “And we will be travelling with children. I don’t know
if you—”

  “I love children, and children”—he pointed to himself—“they love me!”

  “He is rather gifted with mechanical devices,” Eliza offered.

  It was still a grand estate. An extra hand would be needed.

  “Very well then,” Wellington said, shrugging, “grab what you need. We leave in ten minutes.”

  “Brilliant!” he shouted, catching a few glances from the other agents. “I’ll just let Lachlan know where I’ve gone off to then, shall I?”

  And then he disappeared into the room once more.

  “Looks like you have a fan there, Welly.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Yes, charming. In that odd sort of way.”

  “That odd sort of way, mate?” she asked, her words rising ever so slightly in tenor.

  “Well, you know what I refer to.” Wellington felt the grin on his face. It had been some time since he afforded himself such a luxury. “It’s a behaviour indicative to colonialists.”

  “I will smack you here in front of all these agents, I swear.”

  “I would be disappointed if you didn’t, Eliza,” he chuckled back.

  “Shall we proceed then?”

  “Let’s,” he said, motioning to the door.

  They had only gone a few steps before Eliza stopped and asked, “So this secret location of yours—when were you going to let me in on it?”

  That was to be expected. “Yes, about that . . .”

  “I thought we had sorted out that whole ‘partnership trust’ matter while we were in the United States.”

  That was to be expected, as well. “Old habits. I did not want to lay any foundations for irrational fears, nor did I want to instil any false hope. It was a final option, for many reasons. However, considering the circumstances, I’m finding that keeping this secret to heart was more of a benefit than a burden.”

  “So where are we headed tonight?”

  Wellington grew acutely aware of the temperature in the room. While he knew it was warm, mostly in part to the fire in the small hearth and the collection of agents around him, the archivist shivered. This was a chill that, no matter how hard he would try with either fire, drink, or the company of this beautiful woman looking up at him, he would never be able to remedy.

  “Home.” The word itself sounded hollow, empty. No comfort whatsoever. “I am taking you home, Eliza Doolittle Braun.”

  INTERLUDE

  Wherein the Honour Amongst Thieves Is Sorely Lacking

  It was a London particular, and that was a particularly good thing for Sophia del Morte.

  The Maestro, after battling with himself in the duke’s library, had retreated from sight, withdrawing deep into his own personal Bedlam. According to the mad doctor, the Maestro needed to consider his next move in this dangerous game for the Empire. Sophia was no longer concerned. This marked the end of her tether. The end of playing with the madness. The end of pretending the doctor’s experiments on the child did not disgust her.

  It was time to leave. Long past time, her mother would have said.

  After the Maestro had disappeared into his own solitude, Sophia told Jekyll she would be taking dinner in town. He did not appear to approve of this, to which she responded with a choice insult in her native tongue and left him to his own maniacal devices. Yes, the insubordination would call down the Maestro’s wrath, but she no longer cared. The Maestro, in her eyes, was no more substantial than a morning’s mist. Tonight, Sophia del Morte took back her control.

  Tonight, she would secure her way out.

  During dinner, when the rather handsome waiter presented her with a drink, compliments of the establishment, she saw through the base of her wineglass, typewritten on a paper cocktail napkin, her way out:

  BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE

  30 MINUTES

  Dabbing her mouth with the message, Sophia stuffed the napkin in her handbag, left sufficient payment at her table, and excused herself from the premises, her eyes flitting to either side of the establishment to see if anyone else appeared to be finishing up their meal with her.

  What had finally brought her to this point? Possibly the look in the boy’s terrified eyes? Perhaps when she witnessed the macabre display of the Duke of Sussex conversing with himself? He quivered and shook before an empty armoured suit, given the illusion of life from a quaint control in the doctor’s pocket. Perhaps it was the private army of radicals and disillusioned soldiers Jekyll was building, individuals believing themselves an instrument for building a better world when they were no better than the Maestro?

  Or could it have been the doctor? She had caught several moments where he was watching her intently. Men desired her—that was no shock. She knew it, and exploited it. What was in the medico matto’s eyes was not wanton lust. He was studying her.

  It could have been any or all of these things, or simply accepting what she had been denying since San Francisco—the Maestro was a lie. An elaborate ruse. What terrified her more than the feeling of being deceived was the madman who possessed the control over the duke, and the Queen of England.

  Yes, she had to break free. The ally she sent her message to was more than familiar with her services and skills, and could easily provide her shelter and secrecy from the Maestro. Accepting that, she knew not to grow over-confident in any allegiance struck. This “safe harbour” from the oncoming tempest was nothing less than a nest of vipers, and she would not simply trade one servitude for another.

  The fact remained: this ally was her only option.

  As she walked quickly through the fog-soaked streets of the city of London, she wrapped a scarf around her face in an attempt to keep the smell out. The odour of sulphur was overwhelming and apparently keen on choking her with its presence. It seemed apropos given the situation. The stench did clear her mind. She could not afford wandering thoughts to distract her, not with this meeting, on the possibility things went awry tonight. When people appeared suddenly out of the clouds of fog, all of them looked like potential killers from the Maestro, but all turned out to be merely citizens of London trying to escape to their homes. They would never know how close they came to being stabbed and gutted by an assassin walking a razor’s edge.

  Finally, she reached the embankment, and without a pause Sophia slipped over the edge, and dropped down onto the riverside sand. They must have selected this place and this current time on account of low tide. Looking to either side of her, she speculated if the deadly waters of the Thames at high tide posed a lesser risk than this meeting.

  A scuttling of feet caused her to freeze where she stood. The handle of a knife concealed under her jacket still felt warm in her grasp. Something she detested about London—its propensity for sudden fog. It was hell on casing an environment. She watched miniature creatures scurry through pearlescent wisps. “Mudlarks” they called these children, scraping something resembling a living from what the Thames would leave in its tidal wake.

  Blackfriars Bridge loomed before her out of the fog, its gilding gleaming only slightly. Sophia stood there and took in a long, deep breath, tasting the bitterness of the Thames in her mouth. Her fears, she ascertained as minute waves lapped against the viaduct’s foundation, were unfounded, merely omnipresent to test her nerves. She was once a woman to be feared, not the one cowering as would a hound beaten to heel. Once far and away from the Maestro, Sophia would discover that woman again. Once her commitments were met—for this arrangement would undoubtedly carry a cost—Sophia would return home. Perhaps time in her beloved Italy, in familiar villas, would be exactly what she needed.

  Another emerged from the pitch black underneath Blackfriars. His face was concealed by the shadow of his bowler’s brim, but there were just enough touches of silver—a lapel pin, the head of his walking stick, and the cravat just visible between the lapels of his long, black coat—that Sophia recognised straightaway as her sav
iour’s signature fashion. Straightening to her full height, she widened her stride and devoured the distance between them.

  “Buonasera, signorina,” he said. His voice was velvet against such hard, terrible surroundings, but even her language could not quell the hint of his American accent.

  Upon emerging into the dim light from lamps of the streets overhead, Sophia felt the air around her chill ever so slightly. It reminded her of the hollow dread on seeing the Maestro in his dishevelled, manic state, his mind warring between the real, the engineered, and the perceived. She still did not care for that memory. It made her feel vulnerable.

  She received the same feeling from this man.

  Unlike the Maestro, though, her contact appeared quite normal in every outward respect. He was well groomed, sporting fine carriage and confidence. Boundless confidence in his demeanour, a quality that usually Sophia found appealing in certain respects.

  Not in this one. Something in this stranger’s eyes urged her to flee.

  “It has been too long,” he said in a pleasant tone.

  Her brow creased. “Have we met before, signor?”

  “No, I’m speaking figuratively on behalf of the House of Usher. It has been nearly a year since we last heard word from you, and we did accomplish so much together.”

  That much was true. How many smaller governments had she thrown into turmoil with her talents. She had a nearly perfect record of service with the House. Nearly perfect. “A shame our relationship had gone as stale as it did.”

  He motioned behind him to the stone bridge and chuckled. “Should I state the obvious pun?”

  Her mouth twisted. “Please do not.”

  He held his arms out in a wide “Very well, if you insist” gesture. He then seemed to catch himself as he opened his lapel. His hand suddenly stopped in mid-air as he said, “Oh my stars, but how foolish of me to be making such quick movements when our trust has been compromised.”

  “Most considerate of you, signor,” Sophia said, her eyes still trained on him. “It would have been a shame to dispatch you so soon after our initial greeting.”