The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

  Eliza merely shrugged and whispered, “They are probably thinking of the journey ahead. One of many reasons why they make such wonderful operatives for the Ministry: their survival instincts.”

  They continued along the platform, with occasional jets of heavy steam lingering around their ankles, the thick condensation parting to their steps. “They are in second class. I didn’t think it would do to make our entourage obvious,” she said cheerfully, tipping her hat back to examine the numbers on the carriages they passed. “Alice and the Seven are all comfortably ensconced separately from us. Elton and Samuel can have some quality time.”

  He didn’t quite know what to say to that, especially since she pressed her body up against his. It didn’t matter the situation, he was all too aware of her impressive attributes hidden beneath her disguise, and a yearning built in his own body to pull her loose of those bindings. That particular image burned suddenly very brightly in his mind, and he had to jerk away from her a fraction in embarrassment.

  “Oh, Wellington,” she said with a slight purr in her voice, “you have the very same idea as I do.” Before he could object, she wheeled him around and placed a kiss full on his lips.

  While the sensation of her fake moustache tickling his lips was at first a little distracting, her firm yet soft mouth on his soon overwhelmed his surprise. He clutched her closer, and suddenly realised that the men’s outfit suited her rather well, and that the very idea that her feminine curves were concealed beneath it was actually rather exciting.

  With some sadness he released her, and set her back on the platform. Wellington adjusted his suit a little, but couldn’t help looking at Eliza with a slight smile. He hoped her blood was pumping as hard as he knew his was.

  Her hat and facial hair were a little askew, and it took her a moment to adjust them. “Perhaps you have been to Berlin.” Eliza locked her fingers in his and pulled him to the door of the first-class car. “This one is ours, and I do believe our cabin is a sleeper by chance too.”

  “As long as it has a lock on the door,” he said, already tugging at his cravat.

  The hypersteam was quite full, and they had to push past their fellow travellers to find their accommodation, but find it they did. Luckily, it did indeed have both a bed and a sturdy lock. Eliza tugged the door open, and they fell into the rather close quarters. Wellington could only feel her warmth on him, and craved to touch her skin.

  “The Ministry is going down like a punctured airship.” Eliza yanked the rest of his cravat off him. “We’re being chased by the whole damn Department.” Her lips traced along the line of his neck, while his fingers had real trouble with the buttons of her jacket and vest. “And Lord knows how many of our fellow agents have been killed.”

  “All ample reasons,” Wellington said, circling her waist and staring into her eyes, “for us to make the most of the time we have.”

  The quarters were close, and the train was starting to pick up speed exiting the station. With one hand Wellington managed to yank down the blinds on the door, while cupping her body against his. The binding on her curves was going to present a challenge, but part of him thrilled to it.

  She smelled different in the Department tweed, but underneath, the faint whiff of her perfume reached him.

  “Wellington,” she said into his ear, “we are both entirely overdressed.”

  He pulled her hair loose, wrapping his fingers in its dark ruddy curls. “That moustache will have to go.” His voice did not sound like his own, but he rather enjoyed hearing it so primal.

  A loud bang at the door made both of them jump. Eliza leapt backwards, giving both of them room to draw the Remington-Elliots from their holsters, even with their clothes hanging slightly askew. With a nod in his direction, Eliza leaned towards the door.

  “Ja?” she asked. “Kann ich ihnen helfen?”

  “Miss Eliza?” whispered Alice in reply.

  Eliza opened the door to see Alice the nun staring back at her, a large leather-bound ledger clutched tight in her arms.

  “I made sure I was not followed,” she assured them both, “just as you taught me.”

  “Come in, quickly,” Eliza insisted, waving her in with the small pistol, “before you are seen.”

  Once the door shut, Alice gave a long sigh. “Once the children situated themselves, they were asleep within minutes. Poor things were tuckered right out.”

  “Alice,” Eliza warned. Wellington afforded a grin at how Eliza, even in this mad dash across Europe, insisted that her maid practice a polished approach to communication.

  “Sorry, miss. They were exhausted so I insisted they have a rest. There was little protest.” Alice then presented them both with the large book. “With all the excitement at the château, I did forget to bring this to your attention again. Christopher and the children had this with them, and while I hardly understand the letters as you and Mr. Books here would, I understood enough to know you both needed to see this.”

  Eliza opened the leather-bound journal and scanned the names. “What do you make of these notes?”

  He adjusted his spectacles as he read over her shoulder. “These notations look like formulas of some sort. A chemical breakdown.” Wellington pointed lower down the page. “And there, same formula. And there.”

  “Welly,” Eliza began, following the notes from where he pointed to the names associated with them. “That’s Arthur Pembrose, the Duke of Manchester. And that’s Margaret Bent, the governor of the Bank of England.”

  “Her husband is on this list as well, few rows up,” he said, narrowing his eyes on the chemical formulas. He looked up to Alice. “Did the Seven find this ledger at the house they had broken into?”

  “Yes, Mr. Books. Christopher said the house belonged to a man in the medical profession.”

  Saving her place in the book with one hand, Eliza flipped back to the first page. Her eyes scanned the page, coming to stop on the name in a corner of the first page. “H. Jekyll.”

  “Seems that ‘Doctor H. Jekyll’ enjoys a very exclusive clientele,” he said as Eliza turned the page.

  “Wellington!” Eliza hissed.

  The book was across her lap, open flat to reveal both pages. Across the top of the left page in a brilliant flourish script read a single name:

  Peter Lawson, the Duke of Sussex

  Opposite it was written another name:

  The Maestro

  For the Duke’s page, there were chemical notations far more complicated than the previous pages. Wellington’s own understanding of the chemical and medical sciences were limited, but he could tell there were many variations from the original formula at the top of the page. Lower down, the same formula appeared, only with other elements bonded to it, a few adjustments to hydrochlorides and sulphates here and there.

  The notes on the opposite page—the Maestro’s page—Wellington understood perfectly.

  “These must be the schematics for that odd chair the Duke of Sussex was sitting in when we saw him in California,” Eliza said as her hand ran down the page’s length.

  “Yes, but these designs make no sense.” His fingertips followed a section of the piping from the large tanks in the back of the chair. “If this were a life support system, as it has been designed to appear, then these tubes would connect with the chair’s occupant. Look here.” He traced one pipe to a metallic gauntlet. “This vents pressurised blasts to the glove.”

  “What would that do?”

  Wellington chuckled. “It would flex the fingers.”

  “That’s it?”

  He shrugged. “That’s it.”

  Eliza seemed to catch on to the patterns quickly. “There’s a connection between this tube and the Gatling. We all know what that does. Another that goes to the ocular.”

  “I would gather that controls brightness and intensity. Maybe colour, if so desired.”
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br />   Her finger tapped on a small box that was connected near the bottom of the chair’s array. There were callout notes, showing what appeared to be power output computations and temperature limits. “This looks like a control point.”

  “And according to the doctor’s notes, this is controlled wirelessly.”

  “This isn’t a life support system,” she said, furrowing her brow. “This is a gigantic puppet.”

  “Who doesn’t love a touch of grand guignol?”

  “So Sussex is completely off his nut, as he thinks he’s this Maestro character,” Eliza said, her eyes going from page to page, “but the getup is being controlled by this doctor? Why?”

  “Doctor Jekyll is not trying to cure him.” Wellington turned the page. “He’s manipulating him.”

  “Mr. Books.” And both their heads snapped up from the book. Wellington was actually startled at hearing Alice’s voice. “I’m scared. I’ve never been more scared in my entire life.”

  “We all have good cause to be, Alice,” Eliza said.

  “No, miss, you will understand my mind”—Alice motioned to the book—“once you turn the page.”

  Wellington returned his attention to the open book in Eliza’s lap as Eliza followed Alice’s suggestion, and the name across the top of the page threatened to steal his last breath:

  Alexandrina Victoria, Queen of the British Empire

  They stared at the name of their ruling monarch for a long time. Wellington didn’t need to consult the notes. If the Duke of Sussex and the Maestro were an indication of the doctor’s work, it was up to his extremely vivid imagination to envision what Jekyll had in store for the Queen.

  “We need to get this to the director immediately,” Eliza said, finally closing the book and placing a single hand on it.

  “Posthaste I would say.” Wellington went to the door, peered down either side of the corridor, and then turned back to Alice. “Return to the children, and follow the plan we discussed.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said with a light curtsey. Wellington checked outside the door once again, and gave a nod to Alice. With a quick look at her reflection in the window, she slipped out and headed back to second class.

  Eliza’s eyes drifted to the window; though because darkness was falling quickly, the only view was an occasional light racing past. The moment’s passion seeming to have been left behind in Paris, the subtle rattle of the hypersteam lulled Eliza into a moment’s relaxation, perhaps the first time since their madcap flight from the Americas. The rocking started working its hypnotic effect on Wellington as well. As a soldier he knew very well the value of catching sleep whenever possible, but part of him didn’t want to close his eyes, even when Eliza drifted off.

  He still wanted her desperately, moustache and all; but these revelations were the final straw. It was enough to surrender to the fatigue.

  He watched her in the soft light of their cabin, and felt torn between keeping a dutiful watch over his partner in the field, or following suit and getting some well-earned sleep as well.

  His eyes shifted to the door. Their compartment was locked—for whatever worth that held.

  His eyes jumped to the book still in Eliza’s loose grasp. The Duke of Sussex under the control of this Doctor Jekyll terrified him enough, but this madman had access to the Queen; and they had been performing experiments on Her Majesty. They had irrefutable proof.

  They also had the Department of Imperial Inconveniences on their trail, but hopefully masquerading as their compatriots in tweed would be enough to buy them some time.

  By God, he was tired. Just a few minutes’ sleep, perhaps.

  Wellington reached inside his jacket and checked the Remington-Elliot. Compressors were all in the green. Three bullets, at the ready. He concealed it under the blanket at his side, pointing at the door. The rest of the cover he draped over his lap. Wellington let his eyes drift shut, knowing that his training—both military and his father’s—would snap him awake if that lock so much as rattled. He would protect this compartment and its valuable contents with his last breath.

  He could only hope it would not come to that.

  SEVEN

  Wherein Our Daring Agents Travel Old Paths

  When Wellington and Eliza stepped down off the hypersteam at the Cologne station, their disguises were still intact. Much as she would have relished a hypersteam tryst, they had instead taken some absolutely necessary rest. They had the children, and Wellington was with Eliza, so somehow everything would be sorted out.

  The children and Alice however disembarked further down the length of the platform. The Seven were looking around them with wide eyes; and while the gawking suited the younger children, it did little to perpetuate Christopher’s current guise as a young priest. Once again the former urchins of London streets were in a new country. The Cologne railway station was quite similar to many of the ones in London, but everyone bustling around them was speaking German. It was hardly surprising they were so shocked; they had only just recovered from French after all.

  Alice only briefly met Eliza’s gaze, before hustling the children towards the street. They would take a carriage to the agreed-upon hotel, which by sheer coincidence would be just across from where Eliza would meet her contact. Or so she hoped.

  Eliza slipped her hand into the crook of Wellington’s arm. He didn’t flinch, and the two “gentlemen” made their way to the exit.

  “Do you know Cologne?” Wellington asked Eliza, in a conversational tone.

  Memories flashed, some of them entirely too improper to share with her new lover. “A little. I was for a time working in conjunction with the Reichsamt für besondere Aufgaben or Section P as they tend to get called.”

  “The Ministry equivalent in Germany?” Wellington said, as they rounded a corner and hailed a cab. “I didn’t think that we had much interaction with them.”

  “You’d be surprised what doesn’t end up down in the Archives.” She fixed him with a wicked grin. “Some things Director Sound likes to keep off the books . . . even if they are yours.” She could tell that the mere idea of his Archives being incomplete was a terrifying one, just by the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth. “Section P is even more secretive than we are. While we were holding a joint investigation, they kept Harry and me at a distance. It’s not like I’ve been inside their headquarters or anything.”

  A cab pulled up in short order, and once safely ensconced in it, she placed another kiss on him. It was undoubtedly an inappropriate gesture in the field, but she didn’t know when the opportunity would strike again.

  For once, Wellington Thornhill Books did not complain about protocol. He kissed her back, cupping her face in his hands, until they were quite breathless. When he pulled back, he was smiling. “Perhaps I am getting a little too used to that moustache.”

  Eliza smoothed it against her face, then twirled its tips in a playful manner. “I’ll make sure not to throw it away.”

  As Cologne rattled past them, though, pulling them back once more into the fray, her mind turned away from sensual pursuits to the real problem at hand. The Department would risk international incidents if deciding to operate in Germany without permission from Section P. Their pursuit across the Channel to France was a clear indication of exactly how driven the Department was at present.

  However, Eliza knew for certain one of Section P would not be amused by the Department’s appearance within the Prussian Empire. He had been burned by them, and given the time of day, she knew exactly where he would be contemplating that very fact.

  How was it best to brief Wellington on all the details first though? It was the manner of this agent’s downfall that still hung around her neck.

  She stared out the window for a moment, before broaching the subject. “So, Wellington, I hope I can count on you to be professional . . .”

  Eliza heard the archivi
st shift slightly in his seat, but she still didn’t look at him. “I would hope my professionalism is still intact despite our new”—he cleared his throat, before lowering his voice a fraction—“affections.”

  “Good then, because I need you to let me handle this. Stay out of this conversation, absolutely silent.” She leaned up and rapped on the roof. “Halten Sie bitte hier.”

  The carriage lumbered to a stop well before their destination. Paying the fare and disembarking, Eliza pulled Wellington into a nearby alley. He watched curiously as she shed her overly masculine image, stripping her lip of the moustache and shaking free her dark red hair from its high bun. She even went so far as to take off her ascot, and unbutton her shirt just a little.

  “How do I look?” Eliza asked him, replacing her bowler back on her head.

  Wellington’s eyes gleamed, and she suddenly learned something more about the archivist: women in men’s suits were rather attractive to him. Her wearing of men’s trousers was one thing, but it was plain the tailored attire had quite an effect on him.

  How delightful, she thought, filing it away for later use.

  He went to kiss her again, but Eliza slipped free of his grasp. She had unleashed a tiger for sure.

  “Now, Welly,” she said, putting her fingers against his lips, “I didn’t pull you in here to take advantage.”

  He looked a little crestfallen, but he jerked the edges of his jacket straight. “I’m sorry, Eliza, not quite befitting of a gentleman, I know.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Oh, I think we both know you’re not a gentleman all the way through.”