“Drive,” Bruce called as he pulled the trigger.
Department agents scattered, but not before Bruce’s second shot claimed another agent. Bruce felt himself thrown forwards as Brandon opened the throttle and Wellington’s motorcar lurched backwards, ran through the gaping hole that had once been unclaimed baggage, and out into the night. Bruce fired off one more round before the car launched forwards, speeding past the disoriented Department and across the London Aeroport.
“Love the variations there, Bruce,” Brandon called back to him.
“Thanks, mate.” He looked at the Mark II in his hands. “Pretty proud of them too.”
A second rumble brought Bruce’s attention back to the receding aeroport. From between a pair of warehouses, another motorcar appeared. Just visible in the cab were at least three bodies.
“Either hold her steady,” Bruce shouted to Brandon with a wild grin, “or give her all she’s got. We’ve got unwelcome company on our back door.”
Bruce glanced down at the rifle’s generator and that second’s distraction cost him. He looked up at the moment something leapt from the pursuing cab and into him. The rifle flipped out of his grip while their motorcar swerved dangerously, nearly slamming into the other.
“Oye! Bruce!” he heard Brandon shout. “I think we’ve picked up a passenger.”
Through the twinkling lights that danced before his eyes, a face took form. A face framed by a head of bright blonde hair whipping in the night wind. She had a good grip on him and seemed thrilled to lay eyes on him.
“Hello, sweetie.”
Bruce blinked and hoped to manage an equally pleasant greeting. “Good to see y—”
His words were cut short by a quick jab to his mouth. Apparently, Beatrice Muldoon wanted to pick up where they had left off in Rockhampton months ago.
Considering she had tackled him and scored the first punch, Bruce was trying to gather his wits but just at the point of clarity, he felt a hammer rattle his skull. It was, in fact, Beatrice’s meaty fist keeping him down. Bruce never liked throwing blind punches. He always found those who did it against him looked foolish, so in turn he particularly did not care to look ridiculous himself.
However, in this circumstance, necessity willed out.
Bruce felt nothing but air as he brought his own hook around. When he countered with a backhand, there was also nothing. As his right hand made its return voyage through space, he brought his left fist forwards. He just needed to connect with something. Anything.
Then his left fist found a reinforced corset.
Beatrice Muldoon’s fight for balance gave Bruce enough time to get some fresh air and get a sense of footing in the front seat. When he finally got a focus on the Department operative, he could make out a rather intimidating knife that only Brandon could truly appreciate free of a sheath inside her tweed.
The car lurched suddenly sending Beatrice backwards, but also sending Bruce into her. The knife, still in her grasp, cut dangerously close to his face as he found himself plunging deep into the woman’s cleavage.
“Sorry!” he heard Brandon call out.
Why, mate, Bruce thought quickly, are you apologising?
He felt talons dig deep into his shoulder and spin him around. Those instincts he had worried had dulled to a point of uselessness brought his arms up in an X pattern, catching the blade bearing down on him, suspending it inches from his eye.
If he lived through this, he would have to make sure to thank Cassandra Shillingworth for a job well done.
“This could have been so much easier,” Beatrice chided as she struggled to bring the knife closer, its tip wavering closer at him, “if you had just said yes in Rockhampton.”
Then the motorcar came to a sudden stop, and Beatrice soared over the front of the car and slammed against the runway. Despite her initial impact against the concrete, she rolled and then propped herself up to one knee.
“Excellent braking system Books has got here,” Brandon said conversationally.
“Nice one, mate,” Bruce said to Brandon as he opened his door. “Now be a good chap, and point this car in the direction of headquarters.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m tending to Miss Muldoon, if you please,” he replied, stepping out of the car.
Beatrice was chucking, as she dabbed her bloody lip on her shirt cuff. “That’s going to cost you, darling,” she called.
“If I gave a toss, I would be concerned.” Bruce stood over her. She must still be winded from that impact. At least the corset kept her ribs intact. “Don’t read into this, love, but I really don’t want this to get messy.”
From behind him, he heard Wellington’s motorcar rumble back to life.
“Sweetie,” Beatrice said, looking up at him, “it can’t get any messier.”
“It always can, love.”
“Bruce!” Brandon barked from behind him. “I really cannot stress how imperative it is we get a move along.”
“Sorry, love,” and Bruce delivered his favoured “Thunder from Down Under” that snapped her head back and returned her to the runway, flat against her back. “Got to run, and I’m not going to leave you at my back.” He hoped she appreciated that he’d proven her wrong about not being able to learn from his mistakes.
Bruce had just secured the passenger’s door when a bright glare suddenly flooded across their escape. The armoured transport that had been waiting for them outside the warehouse was now bearing down the runway, heading straight for them.
“Anytime now, Brandon,” Bruce said, pulling what he hoped was a lap belt across himself.
Brandon looked across the dash, leaned over and flipped a few switches in front of Bruce. Two red lights flickered on. “Damn.”
“Brandon?” Bruce asked quietly, the lights of the vehicles growing brighter.
“What about . . .” He flipped another switch and another light appeared. This one was green, and released what looked like a control stick that landed by Bruce’s right hand.
“Brandon!”
The Canadian reached across Bruce and grabbed the control stick. Headlamps flipped upwards, and then the darkness between them and the Department’s armoured transport was suddenly interrupted by wild flashes and streaks of fire erupting from the front of the motorcar. The vehicle bearing down on them began to swerve, but then burst into flame as bullets tore into it.
Brandon released the trigger, then flipped the switches on the dash which returned the headlamps to their proper place.
“Next time, Bruce,” Brandon spoke frankly, “read the accompanying field report. It can prove useful.”
The automobile launched into the creeping sunrise, Department agents scattering in their wake and lost in too much chaos to stop their escape. Brandon and Bruce were soon out in the streets of London, seen by no one other than the odd Blue Bottle or those who served an office during twilight hours. Even with their substantial lead, Bruce continued to watch for pursuit from hidden places now emerging in the early light of dawn; but the Department, it seemed, had counted on taking them at the warehouse. He didn’t allow himself to relax until they were outside of the grips of the city proper and in greener surroundings of simple country homes on the outskirts.
“I do hope Wellington remembered to top the boilers before leaving the Americas,” Brandon spoke as they followed the growing light of morning towards Yorkshire.
Bruce knew deep in his bones Books was the kind of bloke who saw to little details like that.
SIXTEEN
In Which a Colonial Pepperpot Keeps Her Enemies Closer
Stepping through the doorway, with Sophia draped over one shoulder, Eliza was entirely unprepared for what she would find. Wellington and Sound went through first, and she followed on their heels, wondering not for the first time how she had managed to end up hauling t
he sleeping Italian; it was a little too enlightened of her male companions she thought. Eliza dropped the faintly snoring Sophia into a chaise longue, and looked around.
The office was not lavish by any means. In fact, it looked as if the office had been once a classroom large enough for a variety of lessons and subjects. When she saw the papers on the desk bearing the Ministry crest, she knew their connection had been a success. They were back at Whiterock.
Sound had already pulled his pocket watch out and, having located a nearby grandfather clock, was adjusting it accordingly. It was hard to imagine that they had lost so much time, and she shuddered to think what might have happened to her compatriots while they were away. Outside the many windows, rain was falling steadily, a usual summer event in Yorkshire, so it made it hard to see the condition of the estate or to judge what season they had arrived at.
When she turned around, Sound was locking the doorway they had just stepped through. He then placed his chrono-model on a table, making himself—and the humour was not lost on her—right at home. She then noticed a desk that looked as if it had been occupied recently. Reports. Maps. Agendas for Research and Design and Mission Training. The gamble on the other side of the door had been a rousing success. They were not only back at Whiterock, but they had established a connection in Sound’s temporary office.
Checking her remaining stock of bullets, Eliza leaned up against the window searching the grounds for any sign of activity, be it Ministry agents on survival training or Department agents intending to catch them by surprise. She didn’t have much ammunition left after the firefight in the Archives, but hopefully it wouldn’t be needed. Peering through the crack between the doors, Eliza heard softly filtered music coming from down one of the darkened corridors. It seemed as if Whiterock was just waking up, but that hardly meant the estate was secure.
Eliza ground her teeth together in frustration. Just when she thought she could accept time travel as a feasible innovation, variables she could have never trained for surfaced. Between their departure and present time—whatever that was—Whiterock could have changed from haven to trap.
“Any idea what time it is?” she finally asked. “Or the date, for that matter.”
Sound flipped up the latches of the chrono-model’s case, and the silver case began to open on its own accord. With a satisfied glance over the clockwork device now unfolding across the table, he strode over to the desk and perused the papers there. “From the looks of things, business as usual. No unexpected turn of events.” His eyes flicked up to the end of the desk. “And a desk calendar. Oh, Cassandra, you are a dear.”
“Doctor Sound?” Eliza insisted.
“Oh, yes—the twenty-third of May, 1897,” he replied. “As close to that blackout I told you about as Event Control can manage.”
The floor felt as if it teetered underneath her. She suddenly had no idea where to look. Her world felt as if it were to spin out of control . . .
. . . but then a set of hands caught her as she felt her knees buckle from underneath her. Eliza was not one for fainting fits, but taking a breath was proving quite the challenge.
“Eliza?” Wellington said her name, and for a moment she didn’t answer. It had all been wonderful fiction inside Sound’s marvellous device, but he had actually done it. Somehow the sands of Mars had seemed more acceptable than this.
Looking into Wellington’s hazel eyes gave her a focus point, and then the ground underfoot steadied. She took a breath, and Whiterock suddenly took on a strange, vivid clarity.
“Time travel,” she managed with a nervous giggle. “We have just returned from time travelling, did you know that?”
The archivist patted her hand. “Welcome to where I was back in Sound’s Event Control. It is quite incredible when you think about it, yes?”
Eliza wanted to laugh as, after having just taken in a sunset on Mars, everything seemed up for grabs. At that particular moment, Sophia del Morte stirred on the chaise longue.
Like everything that damned woman did, it attracted male attention. Wellington and Doctor Sound immediately went to where the assassin now propped herself up. With some satisfaction she saw Wellington draw a Remington-Elliot. Eliza heard the soft click of the safety, the high-pitched whine of its compressors priming, and it brought a smile to her lips.
Sophia looked around her, her gaze flickering over the details of the office. “How did I . . .” Eliza did take in some delight seeing the Italian at a complete loss. Sophia had no idea what she had slept through. “Where are we?”
“My home, signorina,” Wellington replied, his fingers splaying around the handle of his three-barrelled pistol.
Her eyes went to each corner of the room. Perhaps this was her habit—find any and all potential exits, look for any clear indicators as to geography and location.
When her eyes landed on Sound, kneeling in front of her, Sophia looked as if something came to her. Then her gaze darkened as she pointed at him. “You drugged me!” Considering her past, the accusation being delivered in such a tone was laughable.
“Forgive me, signorina,” the director said, opening his hands wide before her. “Precautions had to be taken.”
“We were trapped underwater,” she began, motioning around them. “How did we—”
“The Ministry has many contingency plans in place. Your presence in the midst of one, however, was not taken into account so we had to improvise.” Doctor Sound’s expression became somewhat sombre. An amazing ability that Sound must have mastered through years of time travelling, Eliza thought. He should have sought a career on the stage. “You suffered some rather unfortunate side effects, Miss del Morte, to the tranquiliser I administered. It is just after eight o’clock in the morning, on May twenty-third. 1897. You have lost nearly a year to slumber.”
“Mio Dio! May twenty-third?” Her eyes filled with tears, but any sobs were muffled by her hands. Blinking her eyes tightly, she covered her face for a moment and, on taking a deep breath, said, “You may be too late. The Maestro’s plan nears completion.”
“The Maestro’s plan?” asked Sound with such a chill in his voice it was hard to believe he even knew how to be jovial. “I suspected we would need to move against the Queen after discovering her secret, but you’re saying this Maestro persona has an agenda of his own?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” she answered.
“In a manner of speaking?” Eliza barked out a laugh. She knew Sophia del Morte to be as reliable as a poisonous snake, and Wellington’s discomfort in her presence only served as validation. Their history together had begun with her kidnapping him for the House of Usher, and progressed downhill from there. “Can we accept any words out of her mouth as anything other than a deception?”
“What is happening, it is not entirely the Maestro’s doing,” Sophia insisted, opening a small pouch at her side.
Eliza’s hand went for one of her pistols, but it was Wellington’s that pressed against the assassin’s head. In his eyes was none of his trademark affability. He was now the stone-cold killer his father had created here at Whiterock. “Very. Small. Moves.”
Sophia stared at Wellington, moving deliberately and evenly, as if she were a clockwork figure. Her hand dug into the belt pouch and came out as a closed fist. Keeping her eyes on Wellington, she slowly opened her palm to show two small vials, one pale emerald, the other blue.
“What, pray tell, would these be?” Doctor Sound asked on taking them from her hand and holding each up to the light.
“A doctor named Jekyll has been feeding them to not only the Duke of Sussex, but also to your queen. This is what keeps them under the man’s sway.”
“Jekyll?” Wellington asked. “Eliza, isn’t that the name in the ledger?”
“Check there, Books,” the director said, motioning to the grand desk across the room. Wellington pushed aside several stacks of papers and fi
les until finally finding the ledger. “As you can see, Miss Braun, I was planning to tend to this acquisition of yours upon my return.”
“Considering everything happening on that first night here, Director,” Eliza said, “I’m just thankful you hadn’t lost the bloody thing.”
Wellington opened the book to the two pages featuring notes on Peter Lawson, and schematics on the Maestro’s apparatus. Eliza caught Sophia flinching at the sight of Jekyll’s sketches.
“He must truly be a monster,” Eliza said to her, “to get a reaction like that from the likes of you.”
“At first I thought the Maestro was the one to be feared. I was mistaken.” Sophia slowly shook her head. “When I found Jekyll looming over that young boy, strapped to his table, I knew this particular madness was not for me. He had caught the child in his office.”
“Callum!” Eliza felt her skin run cold. “This Jekyll was the children’s mark. He was the doctor that took him!” Her eyes welled with angry, frustrated tears as she turned to Wellington.
“You know this child?” Sophia’s already pale skin grew paler. “I am sorry, signorina. I do not know exactly what Jekyll did to him, but I saw him administer the green liquid to this Callum of yours.”
Eliza sank down onto a chair opposite of everyone, any sort of earlier desire to deal out bodily harm to Sophia stolen in an instant. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She’d failed the Seven. She had promised to get Callum back, and because of Sound’s time machine, they had lost approximately a year. What could this foul Doctor Jekyll have done to Callum in that time? What would he be now?
Wellington advanced on Sophia, his whole body rigid with fury as he grabbed the assassin by the arm. “You stood by while this child was experimented on?”
She wrenched herself free. “I wouldn’t have stood a chance against the Maestro and his men—”
“Agent Books, have a care,” Sound ordered gently. “Stand down.”
The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel Page 32