The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

  It was the design that gobsmacked Wellington. He had never seen this sort of aesthetic before. It was so . . . minimal.

  “Miss Braun, I need these incendiaries placed at crucial points of the Archives wall.”

  Eliza looked back at the far wall, then went pale. “You’re going to submerge the Archives?”

  “And, if I have calculated this properly, Miggins Antiquities as well.”

  Wellington thought his heart was trying to leap into his throat. The Thames River was just on the other side of the brickwork, and powered the whole of the Ministry. Now he suspected it was not for that fact alone that this location had been chosen. The hard expression on the director’s face told Wellington this had always been part of the contingency.

  The archivist wanted to protest, wanted to say that this place was as precious as the British Library, but he held silent. This was the price of belonging to a clandestine organisation.

  Despite the presence of the director, Eliza moved to his side and took Wellington’s hand in hers. She said nothing, offered no comforting words, because there were none to give in this situation. He was about to become an archivist with no Archives. The thing that he had pinned his entire being on was being ripped away from him, and the sacred place he had built up from the ashes of incompetency destroyed.

  “If this is what must be done,” Wellington said, gathering his resignation around him as best he could.

  It was then the archivist noticed the strange new echo in the near-empty chamber.

  The sound made Wellington deeply sad. He was the last in a line of archivists that had kept the history, the mystery, and the finds incredibly secret and safe. The last person who would have heard this echo was the first archivist of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, Rowan Clayworth, as he was filling the shelves. Wellington despised the thought that he was the omega to Clayworth’s alpha.

  Eliza looked at him, her lips pressed together, undoubtedly fighting the urge to interrupt.

  “This place has been the repository for all number of strange, arcane objects from everywhere on the globe,” Sound said, running his eyes over the vast and near-empty space. The melancholy tone in his voice said this was a hard moment for him as well. “Unlike Research and Design which, I have no doubt Blackwell and Axelrod saw to, could be sterilised, we cannot leave anything to chance with the Archives. The Staff has been thorough—”

  “Fifty-four percent secured, Agent Books,” the automaton offered.

  “Thank you,” Sound said, his eyebrow crooking at the automaton. His expression softened on returning to Wellington and Eliza. “but any stray notes or wayward item could be catastrophic.”

  “What do I need to do, sir?” Eliza asked.

  “Find the two ideal points that would insure structural failure if explosives were applied.”

  She looked at the odd explosives. “That entire wall? With only two bombs?”

  “Trust me, my dear Eliza D. Braun,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes that unsettled Wellington a bit. “Two will be all that you need. This,” he said, referring to the keypad, “is a timer tied to the detonators. Minutes and seconds. Enter your desired time here. Once you press the green key, the timer will begin.”

  She picked up the hub to inspect it closer. The sphere hovering over them chirped as if an agitated robin trying to ward off Audubons from its nest. “Tamper proof?”

  Sound nodded. “If the timer stops prematurely, the detonators trigger.”

  “Impressive,” Eliza said with a nod and glanced at the wall. “I will probably have to pick two high points. Do we have a ladder?”

  “Of a fashion,” Sound chuckled.

  The automaton’s square-shaped base extended a small platform, and it offered her a hand. Eliza, giggling like a small child watching an illusionist, stepped onto the platform. With barely a sound, the automaton began to float into the air.

  Sound quickly passed to her the two bombs before she floated out of reach. “I recommend thirty minutes.”

  Eliza’s laughter echoed around them as she floated closer to the far wall. At least she would enjoy the destruction.

  “I am sorry,” the director stated. Wellington had never heard him speak so sincerely, save for at Red Lion and Whiterock. “Believe me, my boy, this was not an easy decision to come to.”

  “But necessary,” Wellington replied staunchly. Perhaps, if he said it enough, he would believe that. “It’s just . . .” He looked at the dock of the analytical engine—his first major triumph. While the brain and heart of the engine remained elsewhere, enough mechanical engineering existed here that, if salvaged, could give the Department an unfortunate advantage. “Forgive me for being so sentimental, sir.”

  “I expect nothing less. You did more than rescue the Archives, Wellington, you changed it.” Sound stroked his moustache. “You, more than any other archivist we’ve ever known, made this place a functional, important part of the Ministry. All of the others really didn’t know quite what to do with all the wonders contained here, and”—he leaned forwards with a grin—“I never liked any of them quite as much as I like you, Wellington.”

  Wellington tilted his head. The director often said very odd things, but this one he would not let go by. Not at this particular juncture. How would Sound know exactly how the other archivists performed when he’d not been director that long?

  Just as the question was about to leave his lips, a dull thud came from above their heads. It was most definitely a sound only produced by explosives, and had come from where the foyer would be.

  It appeared the time for questions had passed.

  Wellington tucked the blotter containing the engine’s codes under his arm. “I’ll inform Miss Braun to set the timer for twenty minutes.”

  INTERLUDE

  In Which the Scales Fall from Sophia’s Eyes

  The sign above the lintel said “Miggins Antiquities: Finest Imports from the Empire” but the doors felt as if they were reinforced from the inside. Out of character for a simple warehouse on the banks of the Thames. What lay beyond this barrier, however, was not merely artefacts and trinkets from all over the globe, but more invaluable treasures: secrets.

  Sophia, standing next to the Maestro in the sanctuary of his battle armour, complete with Gatlings on his arms, surveyed the fortified doors. A subtle, brass sign proclaiming “Closed for Business . . . Until Further Notice” hung from between the handles.

  “We’re ready, sir,” one of his men, an angular consumptive look on his face and a smear of red hair on his head, spoke gently. The way this whelp kept his eyes averted from the Maestro said he was hugely uncomfortable, working for a face of metal and flesh. Perhaps it was because his pale skin seemed ready to blister every time he got too near the Maestro’s steam-powered breathing apparatus.

  Sophia could see the Maestro was completely unmoved by the soldier’s distress. The Grey Ghosts served a purpose. As she did. And once they failed in their purpose . . .

  “Proceed, Commander Benson,” he ordered.

  The assassin knew what would come next; subterfuge and cunning had failed him. Now he would employ brute force.

  “Stand by! Stand by!” the soldier called out.

  Sophia and the small regiment of the Maestro’s private army slipped protective covers over their ears, as recommended by the gunner. She glanced down either end of the street block, noticing the men and women in the matching tweed keeping the crowds at bay. This Department, Sophia noted, was apparently a gift from the Queen. They granted the Maestro the ability to do what he was about to do with no consequences.

  When the order came, Sophia held her breath. “Fire!”

  The heavy siege howitzer’s discharge sounded muffled through her protective earware, but that protection did nothing to save her from the unseen concussive force of the cannon’s blast. Such artillery was clumsy in
her opinion. No finesse or style whatsoever, but its nature seemed to suit the Maestro’s tenor. Much like the monster himself, the howitzer would not be denied. As the smoke lifted like a bride’s veil it revealed the doors splintered beyond repair and their metal reinforcement bent and warped. One door defied the Maestro’s will, but the right security door was gone.

  “Commander Benson, assist the gunmen in storing the howitzer and returning it to the compound,” said the Maestro, flicking the ear guards up on his helmet. “The rest of you, accompany me to the Ministry.”

  Sophia cast her protective gear aside and checked her own pistols. This, along with makes and models of certain rifles, was as much noise as she preferred when in the field. The Maestro’s Grey Ghosts, wearing portable Gatling packs Sophia had not seen since her time with the Phoenix Society, flanked them as they crossed the empty street to the Ministry, under the very gaze of the citizenry of London. It still left her unsettled and uncomfortable.

  “No need to look so nervous, my dear,” the Maestro crooned to her. At one time, Sophia had found a strange, hypnotic quality in the mechanical voice. His attempts at charm were, she now knew, nothing more than part of Jekyll’s illusion. They were an insult. “We have ascertained that there is no one inside, just gadgets and paperwork. They hardly offer any danger to us.”

  Sophia chewed on her lip, her dark eyes flicking only briefly up to meet the ocular, a dull amber light gleaming at its centre today. He must have detected a subtle change in her expression as the ocular’s glow intensified. The Maestro no doubt believed himself knowledgeable of her most intimate thoughts. He knew nothing of the mask still carefully kept in place. Behind her own illusion of a love-struck puppy dog following the older, more brutal canine about was her true intention. Was she imagining that he was suddenly wary of her?

  “We enter the world of our adversaries,” she stated, “in broad daylight. With eyewitnesses. This is all very new to me.”

  The Maestro laughed. “Consider this privileges of influence. We have the Crown on our side.” He laid his armoured hand gently against her cheek. “I will protect you if you are concerned.”

  Sophia didn’t flinch, but her hands balled into tight fists. “Thank you, Maestro,” she said, so sweetly that he accepted it with a grin beneath his helmet and a nod. She knew he loved her subservience to him. She could only hope that she retained some control over the Maestro, enough to manipulate him one last time.

  “Make speed,” he called out to his men, sweeping out his thick brass encased arm “or make your own graves.”

  As eager as she knew the Maestro was to see the inside of the Miggins Antiquities, Sophia noted he watched his Grey Ghosts scamper inside first, hefting their Gatlings with the help of the hydraulics in their backpacks. Did the Maestro believe the Ministry agents would employ other defence measures beyond armoured blinds and doors? Sophia glanced up at him like a whipped dog, and he bowed at the waist, indicating what a gentleman he was, giving her leave to precede him.

  Her beautiful eyes narrowed, but with a grateful smile she followed the breach team, the Maestro himself following in her wake, as she could hear the hissing of pistons that supposedly granted him mobility.

  For a brief moment, standing in the foyer, the Maestro looked disappointed. His men made a circle around them both as he looked around their innocuous surroundings.

  “The lift,” he stated, moving to the gate. “We must go up. Sound’s office is there.”

  Sophia glanced around the Maestro at the small lock. “It appears you may need a key to call the car.”

  “And thanks to our newest recruit from America,” he said, holding up a small brass box no bigger than her fist, “we have one.”

  Sophia let out the faintest sigh, noting that even in captivity, Edison had the arrogance to inscribe the device with his name and logo. Typical of an American.

  The Maestro’s hand was only half an inch from the lift’s keyhole when it leapt from his hand to attach itself. He pressed the single button on its surface, and he withdrew his hand just before electric bolts danced between cube and lock.

  Weights disengaged, cables went taut, a motor spun up to life, and a car rose to their floor.

  “Going up, signorina?” he said to Sophia as the lift shuddered to a halt.

  “You two, accompany us,” Sophia ordered to the Grey Ghosts not weighed down by the Gatling packs. “The rest of you—fan out. Find out what is on this floor. Proceed with caution.”

  She shut the gate and turned to where a lift’s control panel would normally be. In its stead stood a chadburn. These English seem to revel in their eccentricities, she thought as she threw the switch forwards to set “Director’s Office” as their destination. As their lift rose slowly, she observed through the bars the Maestro’s army fanning on the other floors. Four men walked up to the second floor and disappeared into the darkness between floors.

  When their upwards ascent was completed, Sophia, the Maestro, and their soldiers were in a similar dark situation. Sophia felt rather than saw the Maestro walk over, open the gate, and continue into the hallway. A soft hissing tickled Sophia’s ears, and then gaslight illuminated the top floor.

  “Follow,” the Maestro commanded.

  On the top floor, Miggins Antiquities suddenly turned into any office premises a man would have been proud to call his. Crossing the threshold from the waiting room, the office of Doctor Sound was a seamless union of wood panelling, soft carpeted floors, and grand windows that would have provided a breathtaking view of London and the Thames had it not been for the iron shields covering them. With the exception of a clock on the mantelpiece, still keeping time with its soft tick-tock-tick-tock, the office was deathly still

  “You,” Sophia snapped at a soldier, “check the desk.”

  Her senses were all on alert. The building was dead and far too empty. The Ministry had disappeared from sight quickly, and it seemed impossible that they would have been able to secure this building like this in such a tiny window of time. Would they have abandoned their headquarters and everything within it, believing no one would try and breach the facility? It did not seem likely.

  It would have been an amazing display of arrogance, but she knew these people. In particular, the archivist. She believed the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences far more clever than this.

  “Nothing’s here, miss,” the soldier reported, an empty drawer in his hand. “Empty.”

  Tick . . . tock . . . tick . . . tock . . .

  “It was here.” The voice rose in anger from behind her. “It was here.”

  Sophia turned to look at the grotesque theatre of man and machine, his ocular casting a haunting golden glow across a large, polished table. Breaching the Ministry should have been his final triumph over the Ministry and its director, but even with its mechanised masking Sophia could hear something in his words: frustration.

  “It was here. You showed it to me,” he whispered. “Such a work of beauty, and it’s gone.”

  That mad doctor is arrogant as well, Sophia seethed. The lines are blurring again.

  She watched as the Maestro reached for his right hand with his left, and methodically stripped off the armour. With one hand now free of metal, naked fingers flexing in the cool air, the Maestro placed his palm flat against the table’s surface.

  Tick . . . tock . . . tick . . . tock . . .

  The Maestro’s jaw fixed tight, his mouth bending deeper and deeper into a scowl. His hand pressed deeper and deeper into the smooth table surface, and now the scowl bore teeth. A tremble worked across his body, as he methodically encased his right arm back in metal once again. The tremble became a tremor, and suddenly the Maestro exploded into a wild frenzy.

  He swung his mechanical arms in wide arcs, splintering the fine mahogany wood of the table. His fury turned on the mantle, and its clock stood no chance against his gauntlets. Sophia and the
soldiers scuttled out of the Maestro’s way as he stomped over to the director’s desk. He threw both arms over his shoulders before smashing them down onto its wide expanse. The desk withstood the first strike, but not the second and third. It appeared as if the Maestro wanted to destroy everything that had ever been touched by the Ministry’s director.

  Then the fit of rage was done, the Maestro left gasping inside his metal costume. Sophia crossed over to the remains of the ruined mantelpiece and pushed through the cog, gears, and shattered pieces of the once-faithful clock with her boot.

  “I think you broke it,” Sophia said softly.

  Something was spinning up in the Maestro’s armour. Sophia returned to her feet as the Gatling guns installed in both of the Maestro’s arms locked into place.

  “Sound is here,” the Maestro seethed. “We must rip open the Archives and devour all its secrets immediately.”

  This time, the Maestro took the lead, and it was Sophia and his men who followed in his wake.

  The assassin kept silent as she gripped the chadburn and yanked on its handle, setting “The Archives” as their next stop. The lift rattled downwards and seemed to descend with a swiftness that was notably absent on their rise to the director’s office. They caught a glimpse of the foyer. Empty. Sophia wondered if the other ghosts had found something, or if they had returned outside for new orders from Commander Benson.

  Her thoughts scattered when they reached the bottom with a hard lurch. The Maestro tore the iron gate open with such force it let out a scream of tortured metal. They followed him wordlessly into what appeared to be some metal alcove between the lift shaft and a large iron hatch that would have looked more appropriate on a warship than underneath an antiques warehouse.

  Without comment the Maestro worked the door lock with the giddiness of a child at Christmas preparing to unwrap their presents. His apparatus mimicked his own hiss of delight as he did so.