The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

  Wellington hastily disengaged the brake and guided the motorcar back on the road to the manor before a fight could break out across the seats. The wind kicked up, as if in response to their respective moods. Eliza’s dire frown threatened to be a rather unpleasant beginning to the re-establishment of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences.

  “Don’t mean to be rude . . .” Barry leaned forwards, his head popping in between them, and pointed to the manor. “But it looks a little . . . well . . . deserted?”

  “We could hardly do what we need to do if it wasn’t.” Eliza placed her finger on the young man’s forehead and pushed him back into the cart. “Do be a love, Barry, there’s a good lad.”

  From his vantage point Wellington couldn’t see all of Barry’s expression, but at least the eccentric man went silent. He probably had experience with Eliza Braun’s short temper before.

  “This is very nice, Mr. Books,” Liam spoke up suddenly. “A look at being to the manor born, eh wot?”

  They pulled up to the front of the house, and Wellington turned to face Liam. The boy wore a smug look of contempt but it faded once he locked eyes with the boy.

  “If you believe I lived a life of privilege, I did. On the surface. I assure you, Liam, what happened within these walls was not worth all the riches of the world.”

  Alice tightened her grip on Serena. He must have looked a tad frightening. That was fine. He wanted them to be frightened of Whiterock.

  “Wellington?” he heard Eliza say.

  He engaged the cart’s brake and took a deep breath. The Ministry was depending on him. He needed to take control of Whiterock, not the opposite.

  To break the icy silence, Wellington gestured out towards the estate. “It wasn’t always this oppressive. Mother rode horses here, and she made sure to take particular care of the tenants too. In the summer she held wonderful parties out on the back terrace, and at Christmas she’d host a beautiful dinner.” For a moment he was whisked back to those magical times, when his father had only been a distant cloud on the horizon, and his whole world was his warm and lovely mother. He smiled. “I’d sometimes sneak down from the nursery and peer through the bannisters at all the immaculately dressed people.”

  Eliza’s eyes sparkled as she leaned against him. “I can just imagine you doing that. Curious as always.”

  Wellington knew Eliza would have loved those parties. The thought brought a smile to his face, even as his eyes wandered over the long grey face of Whiterock Manor, with its church-like windows, and looming gargoyles on every corner. His grandfather had the building remodelled back when Queen Victoria was a girl. Gothic had been all the rage so it wasn’t really a surprise he’d chosen that style, though somehow Grandfather Henry had kept all of the gloominess, but yet managed to avoid the charm most others worked to instil in the architecture. It looked as if it had grown from the surrounding dour hills, like an iron frown.

  Eliza shifted in her seat, and he knew her imagination was struggling to see the house as a place of beauty. “You did tell me your father is dead, didn’t you?” she ventured.

  Wellington ground his teeth before he answered. “Yes, I made absolutely sure the evil bastard was cold in the grave myself. I only left Whiterock when he was walled in the mausoleum, and after I was able to scour the house for any . . . infernal devices of his design. Believe me—this is the safest place we could ask for in all of England.”

  Wellington caught Barry’s eyes huge with shock and curiosity, but before the conversation could turn completely morbid he went to one of the lion statues at the base of the steps. He pressed the brick he remembered slid back to offer him keys. The hiss from the front door’s pneumatic locks made the chill silence of Whiterock Manor all the more unsettling. However, he would not be intimidated by a house—no matter how grand or full of memories it might be. He had his love at his side, and he was no longer that terrified, lonely boy. Eliza wrapped her fingers around his as Wellington disengaged the final lock.

  “It might be rather grim”—she tilted her head up to look at the three-storey structure, long and low against the landscape—“but at least it isn’t a ruin.”

  Barry stood there twisting his fingers on each other, as if even in contemplation he needed to be moving. “Looks like a good solid roof. The rest doesn’t really matter I suppose.”

  Eliza slapped his shoulder with a lightning-fast movement of the back of her hand, which made him leap in place. “We need a few more things than that, Barry. It’s headquarters until we can return to how things were.”

  Her countryman looked completely unperturbed. He opened his mouth to reply, but Wellington, fearing more delay than they could afford, spoke up. “I retained an old army friend, Ralph Turenne, to act as caretaker, make sure water, sheep, or indeed people don’t get in. I think it will suit our needs admirably.”

  “Will we expect his company sometime?” Eliza asked. “You said this house was secure.”

  “It is. I’ve been working through a solicitor. The solicitor in turn works through an anonymous member of the estate”—Wellington motioned to himself—“and the estate, upon my father’s death was transferred to another. My mother, actually, under her maiden name.” He chuckled. “Thank you, Parliament, for the Married Women’s Property Act of 1882. Between that and a few skills I learned while in the Ministry, Lillian Morton was as Lazarus; and Whiterock remained standing, but in secret.”

  The final lock disengaged with a sharp hiss. He stepped back and took it all in. The stone gargoyles on the roof, the marble snarling lions on either side of the steps and grand doors, and the rows of windows, all vacant. He could not believe he was here again. The last place . . .

  “So,” Barry chimed in softly, “are we going to stand out here all day?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Wellington replied with a grunt as he shouldered the large oak door open, “welcome to Whiterock.”

  As Wellington walked into the foyer, the archivist was flooded with a thousand images, most of them unhappy, but a few like the sound of his mother’s laughter, gave him the strength to do what was needed. The smell of camphor and dust sifting around him, he walked deeper into his ancestral manor with what he hoped was at least an outwards show of bravado. His only concession was never releasing Eliza’s hand as they walked together into the main hallway. The marble floors echoed their footsteps, and then for a brief moment all was silent.

  Until Barry Ferguson was able to get his bearings, that was. He spun around in the hallway, arms spread, head tilted upwards, and gazed at all the ancient stonework. Though there was not a gear in sight, he seemed to be experiencing some kind of epiphany.

  “Nothing this old in New Zealand, is there Eliza Doo?” His voice bounced through the main hall, and probably woke a few pigeons in the distant bedrooms.

  Her grumble managed to bring a smile to Wellington’s face.

  The furniture was all covered by white sheets, and the light filtered through the dirty windows in strange patterns. The only thing that was clean was his mother’s portrait hanging right above the first landing on the stairs. It was apparent that Ralph had faithfully obeyed Wellington’s wishes in this regard too.

  “She’s so beautiful,” Eliza said, forgetting Barry for a moment, and stepping towards the painting. “I remember the one in your house, Wellington, but this one is even more spectacular.”

  He came up next to her. It showed his mother at the age of perhaps eighteen, just before she’d been married. “She was Lillian Morton then, youngest daughter of an aristocratic family with a lot of famous ancestors, but very little money. My father saw her at a garden party and apparently had to have her.”

  “So she didn’t marry for love?”

  “It was a match made in a Gentleman’s Club. My father wanted the prestige of her family. His money saved hers. I don’t suppose she had a choice.”

  “At least she
felt she didn’t.” Eliza let out a soft sigh. “But she had you.” She kissed his cheek and wandered away to examine the rest of the rooms.

  Barry trailed after her, which was exceptionally foolhardy of him, but Wellington was not going to get between the two of them.

  “Alice,” Wellington said, turning back to the maid and children. “There are rooms upstairs . . . plenty of rooms. Pick out one that suits you.”

  “Very good, Mr. Books,” Alice said in a tone he had forgotten. She was speaking to him as if he were lord of the manor which, regrettably, he was. “And what about servant’s quarters?”

  “Alice,” he said, taking the maid’s hands gently into his own, “after this little adventure across continents, I would not dare insult you in such a fashion.” He motioned with his head up the staircase. “Find a room for the children, then find a room for yourself.”

  The maid went to protest, but Wellington shook his head and continued deeper into the mansion, the eerie silence interrupted briefly by the thunder of the Seven’s footsteps up to the second floor.

  Once again Wellington was reminded how his love had impeccable instincts. She might have never gone to Oxford or Cambridge, but she was smarter than any man he’d ever met there. By letting him have a moment to himself she was allowing him to gather his thoughts, deal with ghosts, and move on to the task at hand.

  As Wellington watched Eliza he thought for a moment what a totally impossible lady of the manor she would make. Although she was gingerly removing dust sheets, and admiring the architecture of the place, he knew within weeks she’d be quite mad with boredom here. His mother at least had found ways to pass the time. Eliza, left to the same devices, would undoubtedly blow something up at a dinner party.

  Or, at the rate he appeared to be working under her skin, Barry Ferguson. “Good Lord, Books, why on earth would you leave this lifestyle for a career in the Ministry?” he blurted out.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” she finally yelled, spinning around. “We are supposed to be securing and preparing this place as our new headquarters. You’re supposed to be an agent, Barry. Start acting like one!”

  Hurt filled the young man’s eyes, and Wellington saw Eliza wince immediately. Apparently Barry could go from completely oblivious to intensely vulnerable in an instant. “Sorry, Eliza Doo, I just want to help is all . . .”

  Wellington could see Eliza’s jaw work, and then her shoulders slumped. “The name, Barry . . . just work on not calling me that . . . please!”

  “Perhaps you could go up and check the attics, old chap?” Wellington stepped between them. “I had some idea of setting up a watch station from there. It’s a good place to spot any unwanted arrivals.”

  Barry’s face brightened as quickly as it had fallen. “Cracking good idea there, Books!”

  When Wellington showed him the back stairs, he scampered off up them with apparently not a thought more of his hurt feelings.

  “Thank you,” Eliza gasped out, closing her eyes for a long second. “I do love that Ferguson boy, but he also happens to work on my last nerve.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him.” And this time, Wellington gave her a slight nudge. “Eliza Doo. It really is charming.”

  Shaking her head in playful frustration, Eliza set about once more examining what was beneath the dust sheets, and Wellington, tucking his hands behind his back, mentally ran over the penultimate time he had been here, to rub his father’s nose in the fact he’d taken up a Ministry job. A lowly Ministry job. Wellington had no plans to return to Whiterock as its master. His father’s money would keep things ticking over, and eventually the estate might be for his children, should he ever have any. Otherwise it would eventually belong to the people who farmed it.

  “Now that’s brilliant!” came an all-too-familiar voice from the kitchens.

  “Bugger me,” muttered Wellington as he grabbed Eliza’s hand and tugged her over to the kitchen. “They cracked it!”

  The two of them sprinted in the direction of three very excited voices. Once in the kitchen, Wellington pulled apart the dumbwaiter doors with a clatter, revealing what they had once kept secret.

  “Oh, Wellington,” she cooed from behind him, “how on earth do you always know the ways to my heart?”

  With Colin and twins Jonathan and Jeremy frozen in the midst of their own celebrations, the hidden armoury truly was worthy of Eliza’s approval. Rifles, pistols, and even a few experimental weapons, a small ballista, and lots and lots of ammunition, all of which had not seen any kind of attention since his father’s death. “I could not crack the combination. Well done, boys.”

  Jeremy whispered something to Jonathan (or perhaps, it was the other way around?) and Jonathan replied with, “Colin’s rather good with puzzles, Mr. Books.”

  Eliza tapped at the small light fixture, and the gas flame brightened ever so slightly. She ran her fingers over the collection as Wellington motioned to the dumbwaiter. “You see, making use of the lift which goes up to all the floors, you will never be without access to what you need.”

  She nodded as she spoke over her shoulder. “Every house should have one.”

  “But, Mr. Books,” Colin began, “these guns have not been cleaned in a right while.”

  “Very observant, young Colin,” Wellington said. “Perhaps you three under the watchful eye of Miss Braun here could inspect these weapons, return them to good service?”

  “Can we?” the boy asked, Jonathan and Jeremy mirroring their friend’s expression.

  “Perhaps,” Eliza murmured. “We will see how we fare after lunch, very good?”

  “Yes, Mum,” they replied.

  “Now, go on,” she said, shooing them in the direction of the dumbwaiter. “I would like for you all to let Alice know we will need supplies for lunch.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Ferguson could go into town to help you all with supplies?” Wellington asked.

  Jonathan whispered something to Jeremy. The twin thought for a moment, then whispered something back to Jonathan. With a quick nod to Jeremy, Jonathan asked, “Can Mr. Ferguson take us to the hardwa—”

  “Absolutely! Not!” Eliza said, fixing the twins with a dagger-laden look. “Remember, we are supposed to be travelling incognito.”

  “Go on and find out what Alice needs,” Wellington chuckled. He looked over to Eliza and winked. “I’ll fetch Barry, Eliza Doo.”

  “You do that, Welly,” she returned, her dagger eyes appearing a hint sharper.

  An hour from the discovery of the hidden armoury, Wellington and Eliza were waving to Barry, Alice, and the children as they headed into town.

  “Remember, Barry!” Eliza called out as the wagon rumbled down the causeway.

  “Mum’s the golden word!” he called back, then mimed sealing his lips shut.

  “I understand the need to keep Barry out of a hardware store,” began Wellington, “but the twins?”

  “Future clankertons, they are,” she said. Eliza then turned to Wellington. “So, where are we tonight?”

  The idea unsettled him for some reason. “The master bedroom.”

  “Very good,” she said. “Shall we?”

  The double doors that opened to where Wellington always considered to be forbidden swung open. Eliza immediately went to the grand windows overlooking the impressive grounds of Whiterock and opened them up. It took only a few seconds for the staleness of the room to lift.

  “Wellington,” Eliza said, coming over to him. “This is your house now. Make it your own. Fill it with your memories.”

  “Easier said than done, Eliza,” Wellington said, looking uneasily to every corner of the room.

  “Opening Whiterock to the Ministry?” she asked as she walked around the bed. “I believe that is quite the start.”

  A betrayal is more like it, seethed Wellington’s father in his mind.

  “Per
haps,” he said, walking over to the window. Could he truly reclaim Whiterock? Finally silence the ghost that haunted him?

  “What on earth is this?” Eliza asked.

  She was somewhere out of sight, so it took a moment for Wellington to find her in an antechamber that would have served as a changing room. Later in Arthur Books’ life—or what he believed was as such—it had been converted into a private library. She was standing in a block of sun holding the corner of a sheet in one hand. With a quick jerk of her arm and the flutter of fabric, curtains of dust filled the air but failed to mask what Wellington had already guessed lay beneath it. Seeing it so abruptly revealed, though, made his stomach lurch.

  “Father’s chair,” he said, though it felt as though the words were being extruded from him.

  “This is quite amazing,” she said before dropping the sheet.

  Eliza bent down and examined it, running her fingers over the bellows that had once forced air into Arthur Books’ lungs, and working dials where his voice had once issued forth.

  “Was it some kind of accident,” she asked, “that put him into this thing?”

  “No,” Wellington replied, still not able to bring himself to go any closer to it. “Excess. Too much drink, too much smoking, too much of . . .” He walked over to the window and opened it. He needed fresh air. “. . . everything.”

  “Well, he certainly knew his armaments.” Eliza gestured to two small holes in the front of the armrests of the chair, and then to a small, dull-red button on the top surface, right where his father’s fingers would have rested. “This looks like some kind of propellant device.” She pulled out a Swiss Army knife, selected the horse pick and before he could stop her, poked the side of the chair.

  Wellington reminded himself the chair’s generator had been dead since his father’s passing. It was no more dangerous than the man who once sat in it. He’d identified the body. He’d seen the mausoleum sealed. Arthur Books was dead and could no longer hurt him or the people he loved. He felt his shoulders slump.