The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

  Christopher glanced to either side of the door as Liam worked the lock. On hearing the telltale sound of the release giving way, he ducked into the building, turned in a complete circle, and then leaned outside to beckon the rest of the Ministry Seven into the apartments. He was not certain of exactly what this place was all on about, but he could not be distracted by potential marks. Today, he was helping Miss Eliza and Mr. Wellington. Today, he was saving the Empire.

  That was a hell of a score in itself.

  He shifted the long haversack across his back and met the rest of the Seven at the stairs. “We’re all set with the lay?”

  “Why are you worried about this, Christopher?” Eric hissed. “We’ve been doin’ what Miss Eliza and Mr. Books been wanting us to do. We did the practisin’ at the manor with the grown-ups.”

  “Yeah, Christopher,” Liam said, “what are you suddenly on about?”

  Christopher tightened his grip on the shoulder strap while his other hand brushed the holster of his sidearm. The lads were right. Now was not the time to catch the chills. He had to look at this as just another job.

  “We’re down a man,” the voice beside him spoke, his tone a little hollow, daring to wrap up everything eating at Christopher’s gut. Colin looked at each of them and added, “Or did you all forget about Callum?”

  The roar from outside—no one could tell if it was the Queen on a tear or the shock of the crowd at what was happening—seemed oddly out of place. In their gathering at the foot of this stairwell, no one really wanted to say anything, even though they knew it was a truth that Colin had just forced into the open. This was their first job without Callum.

  “He didn’t forget about Callum,” said Serena, the shared silence now broken. “And while it would be nice and all to have eight as what we know, we can’t, now can we?”

  Jeremy leaned over to his redheaded twin and whispered something in his ear. Jonathan nodded and said, “Jeremy and I are all set, Christopher. On your word, mate.”

  “So am I, Christopher,” Serena echoed.

  The oldest of the Ministry Seven looked at the twins and at Serena for a moment. He then took in a deep breath and gave a curt nod to Eric and Liam. “Colin’s spot-on. I don’t want to lose anyone on this job, ya follow? I’m just wantin’ ta make sure we are all ready for this.”

  “Right now ain’t th’ time to be looking over your shoulder,” Liam replied. “We’re already burning candles, ain’t we?”

  Christopher looked at everyone, then looked at the stairs leading up. “Then let’s do this job. No cock-up’s. We got Miss Eliza and Mr. Wellington counting on us.”

  With another quick heft of the haversack, Christopher led the rest of the Seven up flight after flight. On reaching the top of the building, Christopher opened the bag provided by those odd clankertons back at Whiterock, removing the gear within as he spoke. “Liam, Colin, find the closest window to St. Paul’s. Jonathan, Jeremy, check the rest of the floor. Don’t want no interruptions. Serena, you’re the crow.” At the bottom of the bag, he saw components for what he knew would be two rifles once he and Eric were done. “Eric, start building.”

  They all moved silent as air. Tenants here could enjoy a view of the Diamond Jubilee from such a great vantage point. Christopher remembered asking Miss Eliza about that possibility when planning this job, but Miss Eliza had made a good point: anyone this close to St. Paul’s would rather get close than prefer a bird’s-eye view. There would be a good possibility that the building around St. Paul’s would be vacant. There was a possibility of crossing paths with the Department punishers, just wanting to make sure there were no blokes attempting a Work Capitol. There were so many possibilities, and Christopher not only had to keep them all in mind but also had to set them aside. Hesitation, he knew from life in the street, was the fastest path to wearing the broad arrow. Now the Ministry had taught him hesitation kills.

  “All clear,” Jeremy said. Jonathan leaned over to his brother, whispered something in his ear, and Jeremy nodded. “All clear,” he said again.

  “Serena?” Christopher asked, locking the heavy coil of rope in place.

  “She’s a deadlurk,” the little girl responded.

  “Watch for peelers.” He checked what that bloke Axelrod told him was a “high pressure something-or-other” that would make sure the grappling hooks would make the distance between buildings. “It only takes one to notice us, and then Miss Eliza and Mr. Books are in lavender on account of us.”

  “Right,” she said, scampering away to the edge of the open stairwell.

  The rifle appeared ready. Something behind him snapped hard and sharp, its echo lingering all around him. “How are we looking, Eric?”

  “Second rifle, all set,” the younger lad confirmed. “And that was the last of the pulleys.”

  Christopher looked down the sight of what Eric had constructed. Everything felt right in the rifle’s build. He looked at the indicators along the top of the stock. All was in the green.

  “It’s this window,” Liam said, pointing to a window sporting a grand arch atop it, the length nearly reaching from floor to ceiling.

  “Good work,” Christopher replied, handing Eric the rifle. There remained only one more gun. This one resembled Miss Alice’s Samson-Enfield Mark III, only the shells he loaded into it were not like any shells he had ever seen. “You and Colin, get to work on that anchor those clankertons built for us. Eric, it’s time.” He opened the window looming over him to feel cool air caress his face. In the streets below, the posh and the hoity-toity mixed with simple blokes like himself, all of them scurrying around like ants escaping a destroyed nest, their mingle borne from madness and chaos of a queen right off her rocker.

  As Christopher shouldered the weapon, Eric asked him, “How many o’ them fancy shells they give you?”

  “Five.” Christopher looked over at the banners far below flapping in the wind. Just as the agents taught him at Mr. Books’ fine manor, he adjusted his shot. “I don’t want to use ’em all. It’s gonna make quite the noise.”

  “Go on then.”

  Christopher took in a deep breath, pulled the trigger, the dull, heavy thwump! from the shotgun still pounding in his head when he pulled the trigger a second time. He watched as something dark and thick slapped hard into the panes of glass across from them.

  The gun cracked open, sending the spent shell casings bouncing across the floor. “Two minutes and it’s Guy Fawkes Night,” he called out as Liam handed him the longer rifle. “Jonathan, Jeremy, you’re up.” Christopher felt one of the twins wrap around his right leg. Next to him, he knew the same thing was happening with Eric. After shifting back and forth in his stance, feeling extra security from the twin anchoring him to the floor, he shouldered the rifle and lined up the sight with his target across the distance. “One shot, Eric. That’s all we got.”

  “I’ve been practicing. Had a good teacher.” Eric gave a gruff laugh and added, “Who would have guessed that toff Books was a crack shot?”

  “You got the window?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  The windows across at St. Paul’s exploded, the ironwork and glass shattered and now falling to the streets and panicked citizens below.

  “On three,” Christopher said, slipping his finger around the trigger.

  He knew he had said “Three” but he just barely heard himself over the discharge of both rifles. He tightened his grasp on the stock of the rifle as the coil continued to unwind. Underneath him, the twin tightened his own hold on Christopher’s leg. The grappling hook sailed through the decimated window, and then he felt a tiny jolt in the rifle as the rope slackened ever so slightly.

  “Eric?”

  “I hit something,” he replied, though Christopher caught a hint of fear in his mate’s voice.

  They both gave a start when a small explosion sounded from behind the
m. Colin and Liam were now testing the odd apparatus that was built for the rifles once everything was secured. The two boys shoved and tugged at the metallic tree, but its struts were now bolted to the floor.

  Still no peelers, and the bedlam in the streets was only getting worse. Right now, Christopher was about to piss himself. “Eric, give it a tug.”

  Both ropes tightened and then snapped on their second yank. Their lines were solid.

  “Lucky sons-a-bitches, ain’t we?” Eric nodded as he secured his rifle within the branches of the anchor. He flipped a switch located next to where the rope originated from. A small winch continued to pull at the rope until the line was good and taut.

  “I’ll believe that when we’re back at Whiterock, enjoying a pint with Campbell and Hill,” Christopher grumbled as he locked his own rifle into the anchor and tightened his own line. “Serena, anyone in the stairwell?”

  “Not a soul,” she replied, now rolling up the shotgun and its remaining shells into the haversack. Even without the other equipment, the bag looked ridiculously long across the little girl’s back.

  “All right then,” he said, checking the gun Miss Braun had called an “Experimental,” before picking up a pulley. “Time to fly.”

  He looked over to the second line to see Eric, Colin, and the twins hook themselves onto the cable overhead. Over his shoulder, he saw Liam lift the diminutive Serena up to the line just before he hefted himself into place behind her.

  “Eric, remember to—”

  “Lift at the knees, lead with the feet,” he said impatiently. “I know what to do.”

  Christopher took one last look at Eric before giving his pulley a quick tug. The rope was still solid. According to the clankerton, all he had to do now was let gravity do its work.

  It was the drop five storeys down that made his last bit of advice something hard to swallow.

  “Go!” he called out, pushing off from the stone windowsill.

  He was fighting an urge to kick or to swing his legs. That would only add stress to the line and hamper his ability to hang onto the pulley. Just let gravity do its work, he told himself as he continued to slide faster down the line above him. Just let gravity do it—don’t look down, you git!—just let gravity . . .

  Then another thought screamed in his head: Open your eyes!

  Christopher’s eyes popped open, and St. Paul’s was just within striking distance.

  His knees instantly came up to his stomach and he stretched his legs forwards, his boot soles ready to make quick work of what remained of the window. He heard a shattering of glass and a tearing of metal, and then he was inside a grand library of some description. He let go and dropped only a few feet to the floor, a second level that overlooked tables where bookish types probably met and talked a lot about what they had just read. This was a place he thought Mr. Books would appreciate. Christopher turned and caught Serena in his arms. Seconds later, he helped Liam down from the cable.

  The cry from behind them instantly quashed any sort of elation he was feeling.

  “What happened?” Christopher asked, kneeling where the twins and Colin were gathered.

  “Eric got the lifting of the knees part right,” Colin said, motioning to the boy’s leg, “but he waited too long to lift up his feet.”

  “Bloody hell,” Eric cursed through clenched teeth, “that hurts!”

  His thigh now sported two deep gashes, sliced by either the iron windowpane or the window glass itself; Christopher couldn’t be sure. Fortunately, nothing was sticking out of Eric, so there was some comfort in that. From the looks of the cuts, though, walking on that leg was going to take nothing short of a miracle.

  “Right, I want the twins to stay here with you, Eric,” Christopher began, handing him the odd gun. His only defence.

  “Are you daft?” Eric scoffed. “Just go on. I’ll deal with the peelers on me own.”

  “We got a queen downstairs wot’s partnered up with a mad scientist,” the Seven’s leader barked back, “and you think peelers are your worries?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Christopher! Make sure Miss Eliza and Mr. Books are square!”

  “I am, but I won’t be losing you whilst doin’ what we set out to do!” Christopher turned to Jeremy and Jonathan. “You watch that leg, and listen for trouble. I don’t care if you hear something what sounds like a mouse in the walls, first sign of something not right, you blow a hole in these walls and scamper. With Eric. You follow?”

  Both boys nodded as Christopher pulled off his coat and shoved it into their hands.

  “Stop that bleeding and find something that could work as a crutch.” Christopher then faced the remaining three. “Work just got a bit more difficult for us, but nothin’ we can’t handle, right? We gots to give Miss Eliza and Mr. Books a way out of here.”

  The two boys nodded.

  “Just stay close, and we’ll make it through,” Christopher assured them. “Good then?”

  “Stick close,” Liam repeated.

  “We’ll make it through,” Colin said.

  Serena nodded in silence.

  Christopher looked around their balcony and found a break in it. Motioning to the ornate ladder of dark wood and brass fixtures, the four of them slipped silently down to the main floor, their footsteps hardly making a sound save for the odd creak or groan from the ladder itself.

  All they needed to do now was get to ground level. Their escape would also ensure the escape of Miss Eliza and Mr. Wellington.

  “Hello, Christopher,” spoke a voice from behind them.

  Christopher spun on his heels, then felt his blood chill as it would when he was in need of a gin. “Callum?”

  He looked good, and that was what terrified Christopher deep to his soul. Callum was cleaned up, dressed smart in what looked like a suit from Savile Row, his hair neatly combed and styled with a clean part to one side, his shoes polished. It was as if he had come to the Rothchild, but this wasn’t a flimflam of any sort. At least, not in the way Callum was carrying himself. In fact, the longer Callum looked at Christopher, the more Christopher’s instincts urged him to run.

  “So,” the young boy said, walking towards the four of them, “you all look as if you are doing well.”

  “We should say the same, ain’t that right?” Christopher returned. He felt something tug at his sleeve and he dared to look at what was causing it. Serena was pale, and looked as if on the verge of screaming. Colin and Liam were not faring any better. “We thought you were done in, we did.”

  “Did you now?” Callum nodded. “Is that why you told everyone to run?”

  His throat was tingling. Christopher was in desperate need of a drink. “I had to do that, Callum. Was always a rule when on a job, right? We’d come back for ya, if we could.”

  “But you didn’t,” he stated. “You watched as that thing cornered me. You ran, you told the others to run”—Callum paused, his eyes sparkling with some sort of light Christopher could only describe as Greek fire—“and you never came for me.”

  “Lots been happening, Callum.” Christopher now felt himself backing up, countering each step of Callum’s. His mate looked like he had been well looked after, but there was something unnatural about him now. “We couldn’t come for ya, not that we didn’t want ta.”

  The boy shrugged, motioning to the other three of his comrades. “Busy, were we?”

  “Mate, the stories we could tell you . . .”

  Christopher’s voice died away as Callum came to a halt. “Tell me your stories then.”

  The boy disappeared in a blur, then Christopher felt the floor disappear from underfoot. He couldn’t breathe, and there was an uncomfortably tight cinching at his waist. Was Serena finally letting loose that scream she was bottling up? Where were Colin and Liam? Nothing was making any sense, save for the pain at his throat and at his stomach.
/>
  Then Callum came into focus underneath him, his smile impossibly wide, threatening to touch his ears; his eyes two pools of flickering red light staring blankly at him. Christopher couldn’t take in a breath as Callum’s hand was around his throat, and his other hand had hold of his pants.

  “Tell me all your stories, Chrissy. We have time,” Callum growled. “No one is coming for you.”

  Christopher’s hands scrambled for anything to use as a weapon. He felt something thick, and when he tried to lift it with one hand, he found he couldn’t. His other hand swung over him to grab the rest of the massive book he had found, and with a little grunt he brought it around like a giant club.

  He hit . . . something.

  The book came around again, and again Christopher felt purchase. He looked up, but the Callum-monster stood there with his impossible smile.

  Callum inclined his head to one side, waggled his finger as if to say silently “Now, now, Christopher . . .” and then he kicked, sending Christopher through the air and over another table of books.

  When he took a breath, Christopher was certain by the stinging in his chest that something was either bruised or cracked. It wasn’t like Callum to hold back . . .

  . . . unless Callum wanted to.

  The table Callum walked up to was easily four times his size and it looked sturdy, but he lifted it as if it were a lady’s purse. He held its polished surface over his head for a moment before bringing it down on Christopher, apparently determined to squash him with one blow. The older boy rolled to one side, the pain in his chest exploding. The agony only drove him to move faster, and he was thankful for that sudden rush as the grand table snapped in two.

  “Doctor Jekyll was right,” Callum tittered, tossing his half of the makeshift weapon aside. “This is fun.”

  “Oye, Callum!” barked a voice from above them.

  The flash consumed the library for a moment, and through grey spots Christopher saw Callum stumble back several steps. He managed a weak smile of relief but it soon disappeared as his former compatriot caught his breath and stood to his full height.