The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

  He tipped his head into her direction and slowly—moving as languidly as his body allowed—reached into his coat pocket. After a few seconds, he produced a calling card.

  Sophia motioned to the ground in front of him. “If you don’t mind, and then five paces back.”

  The grin on his face did disarm her slightly. He seemed to understand her without fault. The contact stuck a corner of the card into the muddy ground, making the introduction stand upright. Easier for her to pick up. With his hands raised slightly, he took five generous paces back and waited.

  Sophia still kept her eyes on the charming man as she stepped forwards to the card. Brushing it with her fingertips while keeping the contact well in sight, she stepped back to her original place and glanced down at the card.

  Doctor Henry Howard Holmes

  “A doctor, are you?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” he said, his voice suddenly clear as he stood next to her, reading over her shoulder, “yes.”

  The blade was out and resting against his neck. He could have touched her, placed a gentle touch on her shoulder, stroked the back of her hand with a finger, but she had not heard a hint of his approach.

  She was beginning to develop a strong distaste for doctors.

  “Back away. Hands out, palms away from me,” she said, trying to keep her voice flat and unimpressed.

  He smiled again and Sophia felt her breath catch in her throat. This Holmes would be quite dashing, were he not so unsettling. How had he been able to sneak up on her, completely undetected?

  Another ripple of fear tore through her veins and she watched him back away, his smile brighter and brighter with each step. He knew she could have killed him, but what point would that have driven? She would still be in a desperate state. Holmes now knew she was armed. She had also shown him in one simple gesture exactly how fast she was.

  This wasn’t intimidation. This was assessment.

  “You are quite bold”—Sophia chastised him as best she could—“sneaking up on me like that.”

  “Terrible habit,” he chuckled. “I suppose women such as yourself are my Achilles’ heel. Perhaps, once our business concludes, I can win your trust properly. Instead of having notes delivered in secret across a dinner table, I can simply ask you for your company from across it.”

  She glanced at the announcement card again. The name suddenly triggered a memory. “Just a moment,” she said. “Henry Howard? H. H. Holmes?”

  He tipped his hat to her, a slight blush rising in his cheeks. “Guilty as charged.”

  “Interesting choice of words,” she scoffed. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a Philadelphia prison, awaiting the hangman’s noose?”

  “The House of Usher was impressed by my body of work, recruited me last year.”

  “So the gentleman in Philadelphia?”

  “An astounding body double.” He waved his hand dismissively. “And with the right contradictory evidence and quick recant, he will soon return to our ranks. Have no fear.”

  Sophia bent her hand back and the stiletto returned to its hiding place. “The House is in accordance then with my request?”

  “Why wouldn’t we be, signorina? You have given us sterling service in previous assignments. We would eagerly welcome you back to the fold.”

  “Even in light of previous events at my hotel?”

  Holmes slipped his hands in his pockets, bowing his head slightly. His eyes fixed on a point just by Sophia’s feet as he shook his head slowly. “Yes, most unfortunate business, that. There were some in the brotherhood that took umbrage with what you did, signorina. Most unfortunate, indeed.” His eyebrows rose as he continued talking. “I did explain to those in opposition that we invited your wrath. My opinion was rebuked. Openly, in a rather brusque tone.”

  His brow then sank into a deep furrow. It was as if he was conversing with the ground. Holmes was lost in a memory, and she was invisible to him.

  “Rather brusque,” he muttered, his features darkening. His head then snapped up, his eyes bright, even in the darkness around them, and he was back to a more congenial carriage. “But we came to an understanding. Our needs outweighed the desire for retribution against our brotherhood. We need you back in our midst, my dear, and I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive us.”

  This was hardly the discussion Sophia first imagined. “I? Forgive you?”

  “We were trying to tame you as if you were some dog failing to heel, and that was a terrible misjudgement on the part of the House. You most certainly do not slap a cobra against its hood and then expect it to answer your every bidding and whim. We should have shown more diplomacy in the handling of the Books affair, and for that we are truly sorry.”

  Sophia had planned to present a case for her return to employment with the House. She had been ready to make her argument compelling, an argument that could not simply be shrugged off. There were numerous deaths of Usher agents on her hands, and she would have to stand accountable for that.

  But absolution from the House? Sophia’s strategy was crumbling before her much like a child’s sandcastle against a tide creeping closer and closer to shore.

  “So far,” Sophia ventured, “you seem to be showing a generosity that is not customary of the House of Usher. How do you benefit from this arrangement?”

  “Our benefit?” Holmes gave a dry laugh as he softly clapped his hands together. “Your talents under retainer, of course. I would think that was obvious.”

  Yes, of course. “Excellent. Then shall we meet again—”

  “Ah, yes, signorina,” Holmes interrupted, “while I know your current employer may have an agenda under way, our own is rather sensitive at present. We have several projects currently under way, and I already feel myself spread thin. I believe we will need to move quickly.” He produced from his waistcoat a fine silver pocket watch. He gave a tiny nod, closed the fob’s cover, and stated, “Quickly meaning tonight.”

  “You mean, leave now. With you. Just like that?”

  “Yes, you must make your decision now.” He held out his hand to her.

  Sophia felt the acknowledgement on her lips, wanted to reach out and take his hand; but there was something about actually making tactile contact with Holmes that kept her stock-still.

  Run, a tiny voice in her head implored. Run now.

  But it was merely the two of them. Only them. Meeting in secret.

  She could not stop herself. “That is unacceptable.”

  “Really?” It could have been an illusion—a simple trick of the mind—but the shadows seemed to creep around his face as he retracted his hand, Holmes’ expression appearing more sallow. “This, coming from the woman who sought help from us?”

  “I did.”

  “And you thought it would all be on your terms?” Holmes drew in a deep breath, his eyes now boring deep into Sophia. “Excuse my candour, signorina, but you are hardly in a position to bargain the terms of this arrangement. You leave with me, now, or we part company.”

  Yes, Sophia did have to leave. Just not with him.

  “You are underestimating this man I am currently entrenched with.”

  “The Maestro, you mean?”

  “Not the puppet, Doctor Holmes, but the puppeteer. He is a physician such as yourself.”

  The shadows receded, but not by much. “Go on.”

  “It is the physician who is manipulating both the Maestro and the Queen of England. It is quite stunning to witness”—she tugged at the lapels of her jacket, feeling a sudden chill as she conjured a memory—“and rather unsettling.”

  “I see.”

  “I am under the scrutiny of not one but several influences, and I would prefer not to find myself under the good doctor’s care.”

  Holmes nodded. “Does this sinister doctor have a name?”

  “Jekyll. Doctor
Henry Jekyll.”

  “Jekyll,” he repeated in a soft whisper. His curious demeanour melted away and his tone turned quite brusque. “I believe I may have heard of his work in Paris.” He tilted his head. “So you are suggesting I should wait here until you are ready to take flight?”

  The sarcasm was not lost on Sophia. She could feel the brace under her jacket sleeve, knew a knife could be in her grasp in a moment. Something stayed her hand, and this annoyance was working under her skin.

  Run, the tiny voice spoke again. Just run.

  His hand extended once again. “Time to choose.”

  There was something ominous about the darkness around them suddenly. She knew they were still alone. She heard nothing out of the ordinary, could see no real threat lurking in the shadows. There were no tells of any sort. It was only the two of them, and that terrified her. From what he had revealed to her, he knew her abilities, was more than aware of her reputation, and yet he was meeting with her without attendants of any sort. The man held no fear of her, and yet was making small talk over her boundless talents, those same talents that were warning her to run. Run as she did in the streets of San Francisco. Run as she did when the Havelock estate collapsed around her. Run as if her life depended on it.

  “No.” And her reply seemed to hang in the air between them because, yes, her life—she suddenly realised—did depend on it. “I think not.”

  The gentleman nodded sombrely. “I seem to have misjudged you, signorina. How disappointing.”

  Sophia’s senses had never felt more heightened. It was still the two of them and only them. Why did this bother her so? “I have no doubt. It is disappointing for me as well. I now have nowhere to go, but back to the Maestro.”

  “Oh, there are always options, although they may not be so delightful for you, signorina,” he said, his mouth bending into a thin smile.

  It was time to leave.

  He wasn’t moving.

  Sophia took a step backwards. Then another. Then another.

  “Dear Lord, woman, what are you doing?” Holmes chortled.

  She paused, looking him over while taking stock of the distance between them. “I am taking my leave of you.”

  “While impersonating a crab, it would appear.” He clicked his tongue. “Dear lady, you may go. I speak for the House of Usher this evening, and if you have turned down shelter with us, then that is your decision to make. We will honour it without fault or fail.”

  “And what of you?” she felt compelled to ask him. “Will you honour my decision?”

  “I suppose I am still of two minds about that.”

  They certainly could not stand there all night, and she certainly would not get very far walking backwards.

  But he refused to move.

  Another step back, one more . . .

  Sophia spun on the balls of her feet and ran. She knew he was fast and silent. She would most certainly not hear him if he did make for her. There was no other option beyond this mad dash for the stairs. They were just in front of her, but they seemed as if they were being pulled away from her the harder she ran. When she suddenly felt stone underfoot, she thrust her other arm outward, catching the small pistol in her hand. She raised the gun up and threw her back against the wall, sucking in the foul air as she drew her aim.

  Holmes was still standing by the bridge. He had not moved. There was very little light on him, but she knew—some primal urge in her had never been more certain before now—that he was elated, if not utterly euphoric. Holmes was dining on her terror as if it were a lavish seven-course dinner.

  He tipped his hat to her as her gun fell to her side, her own whimpering now turning into sobs. She continued to cry as he turned and disappeared under the bridge, the shadows there welcoming him back, welcoming him home. He had returned from whence he had come, and now she could not keep him within her sight. Sophia could no longer see Holmes, but that did not mean she could not feel him. Her instincts knew he was watching her from the shadows.

  “Oh, there are always options . . .” he had said to her.

  Taking in another deep breath, Sophia pulled herself back to her feet, seized control of her faculties, and then took stock of the dark world around her. Still alone, still lost in the darkness of London.

  ELEVEN

  Wherein It Is Proven One Can Go Home Again

  His fingers traced over the stone slab bearing the weathered letters carved into it. He would have replaced the nameplate had he cared. Now it would appear conspicuous. This close to the marker, the name was still legible.

  Whiterock.

  Welcome home, my son, the ghost whispered. It was only a matter of time.

  This was no small thing for Wellington Thornhill Books to be heading back to his childhood home, just outside of Hebden Bridge, Yorkshire. Once he was back in the driver’s seat, the motorised cart carrying himself, Eliza, Alice, and the children continued to chug up the abandoned tree-lined avenue, and though it was a warm May morning, a shiver danced up his spine. The oaks that lined the avenue were old friends, perhaps the only ones he had ever had in this place. He’d spent as much time as he could climbing their boughs, hiding from his father’s valets and clockwork footmen. More than a few of the green sentinels probably still bore marks where he had cut his name, while reading his mother’s novels in among their branches.

  “Charming,” Eliza murmured at his side. She tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, perhaps feeling the stress vibrating in his body.

  Glancing over his shoulder to check on the younger passengers, Wellington was slightly startled at the sight of Ministry Agent Barry Ferguson, thankfully busy fiddling with some little gadget on his lap he had apparently constructed from a pair of garden shears, a broken tap handle, and a lady’s compact. Wellington had completely forgotten extending the invitation to Eliza’s childhood friend. He could only hope he remained inconspicuous.

  “It was, once”—Wellington swallowed a tightness in his throat—“when my mother was alive.” He shot her a look. “You two would have got along rather too well I think.”

  She pressed her lips together, though the corners of her mouth twitched slightly. She was pleased he was sharing this with her. It felt good to let her into his own little world of pain. A problem shared is a problem halved, his mother had often said, and once again she proved to be wise.

  He smiled. It was so rare when he recalled his mother’s voice. He wished it were her voice that haunted him.

  “So how old were you when she died?” Eliza asked.

  Wellington shrugged as he replied softly, “I was ten when my father had my mother killed.”

  He said it simply, but Eliza’s hand dropped over his and squeezed. Coincidentally they had just crested the rise that concealed the estate from the prying eyes of the public; they had a fine view down at the big house itself. It was a Gothic monstrosity, thoroughly suiting his father’s nature and only lightened by his mother’s presence.

  “Pull over, Wellington,” Eliza insisted. When he reluctantly did, he motioned for everyone to stay where they were as he engaged the hand brake and dismounted from the driver’s seat. Alice pulled Serena and Colin closer together while the rest of the Seven whispered to one other. As for Barry, he was muttering to himself now, something about ratios, and still utterly consumed by the project taking shape before him, so Wellington was sure there was a God above to be thankful to.

  Eliza turned Wellington’s gaze to hers by pressing her fingers gently against his cheek. “You don’t mean that do you?”

  “My mother was an excellent horsewoman,” he said evenly. “I do not think it is coincidence that she died immediately after having a raging argument with my father about my education. She wanted me to go to boarding school to be away from him, while he wanted me near so he could train me.” It felt strange to say it out loud, but also very cathartic.


  She let out a breath in a long steady stream. “Oh my, makes my tense family Christmas dinners seem rather trivial. Aunt Barbara’s hatred for my mum has never run to homicide.” Eliza immediately clapped her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Wellington. That sounded awful . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  He looked her in the eye, and couldn’t help smiling. He hated being here, but somehow being here with her made it bearable. That, and knowing his using Whiterock for Ministry business would have incensed his father.

  Leaning across, he cupped her face and kissed her soundly. When he let her go she was gasping rather satisfactorily. “You, Miss Eliza D. Braun, are the breath of fresh air this place needs. Since my mother’s death, this place has been . . . hollow.”

  She grinned back at him. “I’ve been called many things, Welly, but I think that is quite the nicest of them all. Said in the nicest possible way.”

  “Got it!” Barry utterly broke the moment as he bounced almost out of the cart, clutching the fist-sized device and a tiny screwdriver. His attention now torn away from it, he stuck his head between them and stared down at the manor. “That’s quite a house, Eliza Doo! Come up a bit in the world. Noice!”

  Eliza’s face went from beatific to stormy in a small instant. “Sit down, Barry, that’s Wellington’s estate not mine, as I told you three times already.” Her finger was suddenly waved in Barry’s face. “And what did I tell you about calling me by that nasty nickname?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Wellington said, a wry grin crossing his lips. “I find it rather endearing.”

  “Don’t encourage him, Welly,” she warned.

  “Would never dream of it, Eliza Doo,” he returned.

  Her fellow New Zealander went to say something but snapped shut his mouth, while Eliza turned to Wellington and growled out, “Let’s go!”

  While Barry’s nature was overtly playful, the two nursed some sort of tension that Wellington could not quite ascertain. He was completely sure, though, it was not romantic. From the look on Eliza’s face it might well break into something that involved bloodletting.