The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

  Wellington walked over to Eliza and Serena who apparently had no intention of releasing her grip on her. He held out his arm to her. “Shall we?”

  They joined their fellow agents, who were all at the windows scanning the skies. Then a dark spec appeared in the sky, falling fast from the high cloud cover. Then parachutes emerged from either end of the object. What was at one moment nothing more than a falling machine now became an object possessing a modest amount of control and intent. In a matter of seconds, the object now revealed itself as a gigantic cylinder, looking to land somewhere on Whiterock’s estate.

  Eliza felt Serena’s grip tighten on her hand. She looked down at the child, but Serena was not looking outside or at her; she was looking at Sophia, who was standing next to Wellington.

  “Not tempted to run for the hills?” Eliza found herself asking the assassin. “Hide out on the Continent perhaps?”

  Sophia gave her a withering look, but did not reply.

  Serena glanced between the three of them, and a slow smile spread on her face. “The director promises what could be an absolutely wonderful adventure! Let’s give that nasty doctor a bloody nose!”

  Eliza looked over at Wellington, locking eyes with him, and smiled slowly. “As they say, from the mouth of babes.”

  He grinned back at her, and for this moment that was quite enough for her.

  SEVENTEEN

  Wherein Mr. Books and Miss Braun Take in a Parade

  “Well, she certainly has a crowd.” Eliza lay flat on her front, binoculars to her eyes, on the top of the Carlington building looking towards St. Paul’s Cathedral, the wind blowing her hair back and forth. Wellington was a comforting presence to her right, scanning the crowd as she did. The woman on her left, however much she was doing the same thing as the Ministry agents, continued to unsettle her.

  Fortunately, or unfortunately, Sophia del Morte did serve a purpose, though. “Do you see him?” Eliza asked.

  “I find it highly unlikely Doctor Jekyll would be mingling amongst the crowd,” Sophia returned briskly, as if this whole thing was an annoyance to her.

  “A large crowd of nameless, faceless citizens, all gathered in one place; and in the chaos both now and what will come, how many people could suddenly go missing?” Wellington let out a huff. “Yes. Highly unlikely.”

  Eliza smiled at her lover’s gallant tendencies—it was quite endearing really.

  Their initial objective to tag the Queen of England with Blackwell’s tracking isotope, just in case they lost her in the pending madness, and then snatch her right in front of her adoring public had all seemed simple enough . . . back at Whiterock. They had planned for this event, put all their best minds and strategists to work, and their distraction was as good as it was going to get. Wellington had his bag of tools at his side, and she had hers.

  Now, even with the one person in their ranks who could identify the mad scientist while not in his monster form, the secondary objective—capturing or eliminating Doctor Jekyll—looked to be a lofty goal.

  Through the binoculars, Eliza could see the crowd below, and it was a vast one. Such a collection of people introduced variables. The chaos of a crowd remained the one variable difficult to predict. It was why the Ministry operated covertly and in the shadows. Even the best laid plans could easily go awry in this situation.

  Citizens of London poured out of every building and draped themselves off lampposts, ledges, and balconies. Then there were the soldiers, and it was not the thousands of soldiers all serving the Queen and showing up to pay honourable deference who looked to be the main problem. It was several divisions of men and women dressed in grey uniforms bearing a Union Jack on one shoulder, and on the other a strange insignia she did not recognise.

  “Sophia,” Eliza spoke softly, “those people in the grey uniforms. Are those the Maestro’s private army?”

  “The Grey Ghosts.” Sophia lowered her specs. “I take it you recognise those Gatling packs they wear?”

  “I remember Havelock’s men having those.” Eliza looked over at her with a scowl. “Your design, as well?”

  “He was a man of many faults, but Devereux Havelock respected my work.” Sophia returned her eyes to the binoculars. “Do have a care around the Grey Ghosts. I remember finding my schematics in Jekyll’s laboratory one day. Who knows what changes he has made.”

  “How many do you think are out there?” she asked.

  “Five thousand,” Sophia replied, as if she were merely conveying the number of apples in a barrel.

  “Lovely,” Wellington grumbled. “Add one more to the many variables . . .”

  Eliza cast a glance over to the collection of haversacks they had borne with them to this isolated rooftop. Even with the supplies her fellow operatives carried, and the preparations Axelrod, Blackwell, and the Seven had carried out the night before, there was no way the Ministry would be able to stop the Maestro’s army, especially armed with mini-Gatlings on each forearm. Add one more to the many variables, as Wellington observed.

  What they would have to their advantage: the chaos Wellington mentioned earlier. Once their madcap plan was under way, it would be bedlam in the streets. They would move swiftly and unseen within the madness.

  The steps leading up the cathedral were swathed in deep purple, and lining the carpet were gigantic bells, painted to resemble brilliant daylilies of orange, red, and yellow. The bells pointed outwards, their “stalks” leading back to a huge metallic podium positioned at the centre of a raised dais. With flowers, flags, and draperies of every colour hanging from balconies and windows, today promised to be a gala of highest pageantry and spectacle.

  “I see a lot of familiar tweed,” Wellington muttered in an undertone. “The Department’s down among the crowd, and they seem to have a lot of bags with them.”

  “It’s bound to get very ugly, very quickly.” Eliza pointed to the device on the stairs, and rubbed her eyes. She feared a headache of epic proportions was on its way. “What do you make of those bells?”

  Wellington leaned in closer to her. “Some sort of aural amplification system, probably working with that podium. I would hazard our queen is about to make a grand speech that she doesn’t want anyone to miss.” He gestured back along the street. “If you look, there are smaller ones down all the roads.”

  Eliza would have made some quip about the vanity of monarchs, but from street level, music, specially created by Elgar for the occasion, blared into the morning, drowned out by a groundswell of approval from the Queen’s subjects. Eliza could see Sophia turn her attention farther up the street, in the direction of cheers and ovations that were considerably louder than the music.

  “Movement,” Sophia uttered. “The Queen is en route.”

  “We have more than a few minutes yet,” Wellington said as horses and carriages suddenly appeared from around the corner below them, the crowd waving their flags furiously, sending warm wishes and welcome. “These are the dignitaries. Her Majesty will be the last carriage.”

  It would have been far easier to take Victoria from the procession further away, say when she was touring the streets, but Eliza understood the reasoning: they had to wait until the Queen was in public and made her intentions clear. Otherwise, the Ministry would appear as nothing more than a treasonous splinter of radicals bent on overthrowing the throne. As Tower Hill had not seen anyone’s head cut off for a good few years, Eliza preferred not to start up any old traditions.

  Leaning across, she planted a quick kiss on Wellington’s cheek. In turn he grabbed her hand and squeezed it. None of them wanted to say the words, but she understood completely. If she had to die in an attempt to save the Empire, then there was no one else she wanted to do it with.

  She would just have to pretend Sophia wasn’t there if it came to that.

  The streams of guards on prancing horses and rattling carriages just seemed
to whip the crowd into a greater frenzy, and for a moment it was hard to hear or see anything in the flapping of flags and the cheers of the masses.

  “I think we’re getting closer to Victoria’s arrival,” Wellington called over the roar of the crowd. “I’m beginning to see family.”

  And then she appeared.

  Voices as if descended from heaven sang out “Te Deum” from the steps of St. Paul’s as the Warders of the Tower of London snapped to attention. Eliza felt her heart begin to race harder, sucking in a deep breath when she caught a glance through the coach window of the unmistakable profile of Queen Victoria, backlit underneath her mourning veil. The closed carriage that bore her was a spectacle worthy of a grand monarch, all gilded and painted, shining bright under the breathtaking summer’s day. Quite different from the previous sombre appearances she’d made, which had been all black against black, a mourning with no end in sight. Through Eliza’s binoculars, she could see Victoria’s subjects craning their necks, swaying from side to side to catch a glimpse of their queen, who had not been seen in public for many, many years. A hand from inside the carriage rose, drawing a mad elation from the crowd.

  “Any sign of Jekyll?” Eliza asked, tightening her hand on the edge of the building.

  “None,” Sophia replied in a cool tone.

  He was down there. Eliza felt it. God would not miss the grand unveiling of his creation for an experiment in the lab.

  The carriage pulled to a stop, its horses stamping and chafing at their bits. As the door swung open a hush descended on the crowd, even as they waved their banners back and forth like clockwork automatons. After the carriage jostled sharply back and forth, two figures emerged into the sunlight, both swathed in black, making them pop against the brilliance of the day. They were also bedecked in the mourning fashion of Victoria’s youth, so heavily petticoated and bulky that it was impossible to tell age or sex. They ascended St. Paul’s stairs at a quick, healthy pace, taking a place before the double pillars, the podium just within reach, and framed by the magnificence of the cathedral.

  Eliza kept her voice low even though their rooftop was not exactly covered with people. “The Queen, last I heard, was not the most spry of the monarchy. Climbing those steps would have been impossible.”

  “Still doubting?” Sophia asked, crooking an eyebrow.

  With nothing more than a silent look exchanged, Eliza crawled over to the centre of the rooftop and unfurled her satchel. Along with her rifle, there were several pistols, rounds of ammunition, a few select Experimentals that she knew might actually work, an assortment of quaint incendiary devices, and a small blanket.

  As she began assembling the Mark IV on loan from Shillingworth, Eliza noticed Wellington’s eyebrows rose.

  “Is that all for you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, feeling her defences rise. “You have your devices from Captain Carter, so this is all mine.”

  “And I see,” Wellington said, tapping his fingers on the plures ornamentum, “you managed to get your favourite toy back from R&D.”

  “With a few new surprises, I’m told,” Eliza returned cheerily. “Never hurts to be prepared.”

  “The more time we share,” Sophia cooed, “the more I like you, Signorina Braun.”

  “If this goes pear-shaped,” Eliza scoffed, locking the barrel in place, “perhaps the del Morte clan would consider adopting me?”

  Eliza returned back to the overlook point, loaded the modified projectile—a dart carrying Blackwell’s creation of both tranquiliser and radioisotope—and covered the rifle with the blanket. With a final look at the sun, just to assure herself no brass fixture or lens would catch the light, she opened the scope.

  Now, for the waiting game. The Queen had to implicate herself.

  The front-most figure leaned forwards towards the device and began to speak. “Welcome, people of the Empire.” The voice was soft, even with the help of the loudspeaker, and contained a tremulous shake to it.

  Eliza hated waiting.

  Down on the street, the soldiers’ attention was straight ahead, even as the crowd swayed backwards and forwards like a restless animal.

  Eliza disengaged the Mark IV’s safety. Alongside the electric generator, the rifle’s compressor hissed to life.

  “On the occasion of Our Diamond Jubilee, We thank you for coming to celebrate the grandness of Our dominion.” Victoria sounded so breathy that Eliza was surprised she had managed to make it up the stairs at all. It had to be oppressively hot under all that mourning lace too. “When We were nothing more than a young girl, We dreamed of becoming Queen and bringing this nation and all its outposts to glory. So much responsibility to shoulder, so much to undertake, but We bore the Empire with love, and with duty, and with honour, for We love its subjects as if it were Our own children . . .”

  As the Queen rambled on, Eliza could feel herself becoming angry. This frail woman hardly acted like the threat that they had been told she was. Maybe the plan they were about to put into action to rescue her from a manipulative scientist was all a game. She looked over her shoulder to Sophia. Even with seeing the ledger, knowing of the Maestro’s madness, could this plan be nothing more than an elaborate ruse to bring both Ministry and Department agents to an untimely end? Maybe the Queen’s quick step up the stairs was due to nothing more than an extra strong pot of tea this morning?

  “Then when We married We hoped Our dear Albert would help Us make that sweet dream a reality.” As if someone had thrown a switch, her voice hardened even as she swayed on her feet. “But he was brutally taken from Us.” Victoria composed herself, and with the help of her veiled supporter stood up again. When she did, her voice now suggested she was on the verge of tears, though it was impossible to tell under the veil. “We prayed to God on Our knees to give Us the strength to go on, and do Albert’s work, but unfortunately the government of the nation had already turned its back on Us.”

  A wave of astonished whispers, peppered with discontent, wormed its way throughout the collected crowd. That was, assuredly, the first hint that suggested Sophia had not led them astray.

  “Any sighting of Jekyll?” Eliza asked, daring to sweep the collected dignitaries through the rifle’s scope.

  “No,” Sophia said, and her voice now contained a hint of fear.

  Dammit, Jekyll, Eliza seethed inwardly. Show yourself.

  Eliza felt Wellington shift at her side. “Movement. Out on the Thames.”

  “Yes, Welly, they’re called boats,” she hissed in reply. “People celebrating Vic’s Jubilee and all that.”

  “Last time I checked, boats don’t walk,” Wellington snapped.

  Eliza looked away from the scope and felt a chill creep under her skin. Five Mechamen were emerging from the Thames; river water poured from their sides, raining down on the crowds gathered along the banks. She sometimes saw them in her nightmares, but there they were: Doctor Havelock’s unholy creations.

  Yet there was something very different about these Mechamen.

  “My God, Wellington!” She grabbed his binoculars and focused on the Mechamen’s chests. “They’re painted with the Stars and Stripes. What the hell is that about?”

  “As you said, to galvanise a country you need a calamity.” Wellington now crawled over to the collection of haversacks as the screaming from further away began to reach them as if it were the Thames slowly coming in for high tide. “You also need a villain, don’t you think?”

  “The Maestro did not share this with me,” Sophia stated, tilting her head as her jaw tightened. “This will be seen as an act of war.”

  “Your powers of perception are boundless to be sure, Sophia. Now find Jekyll!” Eliza barked, returning her attention to the rifle. “Wellington, time for that surprise of Captain Carter’s.”

  “Already ahead of you,” he replied from behind her.

  In the sc
ope, it appeared that Victoria was still droning on about her time on the throne, despite the mechanical wheezing of the approaching doom. As it had been with the earlier discontent the Queen voiced about Parliament, a new emotion was now infesting the masses: fear. The more she rattled on, the more nervous the crowd got.

  Still the Queen continued, “Our Empire is a glorious Empire, not without its losses, not without its failures, but with this Diamond Jubilee, the Empire shows the world its majesty, its fortitude, and its resolution—”

  Her words were cut off by powerful explosions from the Thames. Eliza shot a glance over her shoulder. The “American” Mechamen were in sight, a trio marching past the ruins of what had been Southwalk Bridge. Their massive legs reached up and dug into the dry land of London’s East End, their massive arm cannons spinning up as they continued inland. Surprisingly, initially there was no wild panic, no mad scramble for shelter. The people of the East End merely stood under the shadow of the steel giants, stunned into a deathly silence.

  That silence vanished under the firestorm that tore across the East End. Bullets blasted through a modest row house until its middle sagged and then surrendered to the swift, terrifying damage dealt to it. Even from where the Queen held court at St. Paul’s, people could be seen falling from windows, plummeting to their deaths while smoke and debris expelled into the clear morning’s sky, a grotesque scar marring the wonder and majesty of the celebration.

  Eliza brought the crosshairs of the scope back upon the Queen. Nothing to implicate the throne in any wrongdoing, save for a backhand against Parliament. Still at the podium, her black fashion made her a more-than-easy target, but no provocation had been given. In fact, she appeared to be cowering in the moment . . .

  That moment turned quickly however, as she placed her hand on an attendant’s arm, and he grabbed her shoulder. Her body went rigid, her back arching as if it were an archer’s bow, and then she turned to the direction of the Mechamen. Something about her posture and stride made her appear taller than her usual, diminutive size.