The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

  “One good deed?!” Sophia protested.

  “So, Miss del Morte, our business is concluded,” Wellington said. “Best be on your way.”

  Sophia looked at them both. Wellington could just see Eliza in the corner of his eye. She seemed to understand what he was offering her.

  “May I—?” and Sophia motioned to his motorcar.

  “Don’t even finish that ridiculous notion,” Wellington interjected.

  “We’re giving you a head start,” Eliza stated, “because considering all that has happened, we owe you something.”

  “A day’s head start?” Sophia asked, tilting her chin up.

  “We don’t owe you that much,” Eliza stated. “Try two hours’ head start. You might be able to get pretty far in that time.”

  Once again, the assassin considered the pair of them and then nodded. “Two hours to choose my fate? I accept.” She walked to the gate of the Sussex manor and paused. “I must say, working with you was hardly a pleasure, but it was most worthwhile.” She kissed her fingertips in Wellington’s direction. “Arrivederci!”

  With that, she turned on her heel and proceeded down the city block. Her pace was hardly frantic or even hurried. If she had been dressed as a proper woman, she would have appeared to be enjoying the streets of London’s upper-class district.

  Wellington flipped the cover of his pocket watch open. “Two hours? You really do like her.”

  “We get the Queen to a physician and then we get on her trail.” Eliza looked up at him. She really did have the loveliest blue eyes he had ever known. “Thirty minutes tops.”

  “Pick up her trail? Just like that?”

  “Provided she doesn’t find the tracking device in that corset I gave her, yes, just like that.” Wellington looked at her. “On the rooftop.” She gave a tiny snort. “You really didn’t think I was checking that corset for her safety, did you?”

  They walked back to the car in silence. Victoria was quiet in the backseat, her face still twitching and ruddy, her youth slipping away as they looked on her.

  “You better remind me how fast this automobile can go,” Eliza said on clambering into the passenger seat, “otherwise all of this will be in vain.”

  He leapt in beside her. “Utter chaos on the street, massive automatons fallen all over London, and a rapidly aging queen in our backseat? Just another day at the office, Miss Braun.”

  And with that, he opened up the boiler and accelerated away to set things to rights with the Empire.

  TWENTY-ONE

  In Which Our Agents Hope to Vanquish Old Ghosts

  “Well, the cover-up is under way.” Eliza folded the newspaper and tucked it into the console of the Ares: Mark I. How she had managed to read it while bouncing along through the Yorkshire countryside was quite the mystery to Wellington.

  “What are they saying?”

  She shrugged. “The Jubilee was an elaborate hoax devised by radicals to put a fake queen on the throne.”

  “Well-financed radicals, considering the Mechamen,” he said with a grin.

  “They don’t speculate too deeply—that would destroy the mystery, sell less papers.”

  “Journalists do enjoy the fantastic.” Wellington sighed, not entirely sure how he felt about being part of this cover-up. “How did Sound explain the Queen’s appearance?”

  “Yes, that.” Eliza let out a chuckle. “Apparently the woman that had stood before her subjects, claiming her right to rule the British Empire, was nothing more than a young shop girl, snatched up for nefarious purposes purely based on her resemblance to the young Queen Victoria. As for the true queen—”

  “Let me guess,” Wellington interrupted. “The rightful and elderly monarch was rescued by the fine agents of her government.”

  “Looks like the director’s outrageous story took hold without a problem.”

  He shot his partner a look. “I don’t like it any more than you do, my love, but Doctor Sound is unfortunately right. The public would lose everything if they lost faith in the Queen. Besides, how many more years can she possibly have?”

  Eliza rolled her eyes, her gaze eventually falling on the pretty countryside passing by them. They were close now, and Wellington could feel his body tense in response. They passed through the charming village of Hebden Bridge, and headed out the other side, to the road that led to Whiterock. It should have been comforting to think that his estate was now serving the Queen. His grip tightened on the wheel. Instead it did not put his mind at ease.

  Gravel crunching under the tyres of the Ares pushed memories to the back of his mind. Perhaps what he had planned today would alleviate some of these fears. For good.

  “Remind me what we are doing here,” Eliza said as they bounced along the driveway back to Whiterock. “Oh yes, that’s right, you haven’t told me why we have to be here. We could be back helping the rest of our fellow agents mop up the mess in London, or”—she slid her hand onto his thigh—“something even more fun.”

  “Or you could be reading, once again, that æthermissive you received after we sent word to intelligence agencies around the world their visiting delegations were all safe and sound. Rather fortuitous the Queen granted the Department so many technological wonders.”

  “Wonder if she will show similar appreciation to the Ministry?”

  “Time will tell.” He glanced over at her as his family estate appeared over the rise, far preferring the view of her than it. “So what was in that æthermissive?”

  Eliza just smiled. “Good news.”

  He could see the strain around her eyes, the stress their journey over the Atlantic and across Europe had caused her. The children were safe. The Empire was safe for the time being. That responsibility had been lifted from her shoulders, and now she could enjoy a moment’s peace. No one else would have been able to see it through, and that realisation made him rather happy. For Eliza, the Ministry meant as much as the Archives did to him, and she wanted to celebrate their success.

  Raising her naked hand to his lips, he kissed it. “Trust me, darling, I want nothing more than to take advantage of some alone time with you as soon as I can, but there is something I need to do at Whiterock first.” He gave her a rakish wink. “We may even find an empty room in the East Wing.”

  Her blue eyes traced his face, but she did not pry. As the Gothic face of the estate loomed before them, though, she asked suddenly, “Do you plan to move back here, Welly?”

  The very idea made his throat dry up. He shook his head. “No, I couldn’t abide that. If the Ministry needs a base of operations until Miggins is rebuilt, I think the manor serves Doctor Sound most admirably.”

  “The Old Man has no idea how good he’s got it at Whiterock,” she offered.

  “When Miggins is restored, perhaps it could serve as headquarters for Research and Design.”

  She patted his leg and smiled at him. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. I imagine that would annoy your father no end, if he could see it.”

  They pulled up before the main stairs. “I hope he can.”

  Eliza looked up at the grand estate’s empty windows. “I don’t care for it, truth be told. It was all right when the rest of the agents and the Seven were here.” She jumped from the motorcar and went around to open Wellington’s door, bending down and giving him a low bow as if she were a footman.

  He stepped down and pulled her close for just an instant. “So, no lady of the manor for you?”

  Her long, loud laugh told him all he needed to know. Miss Eliza D. Braun harboured no aspirations to be mistress of Whiterock.

  Taking her by the hand, he led her back into the gloomy halls, the house’s corridors, parlours, and floors eerily quiet as all hands, save for the two of them, were restoring London’s East End. Wellington looked neither left nor right as he led her into the kitchen. She let out a slight “O
h” as he snatched up a small hatchet from the woodpile by the stove, but she didn’t ask any questions. Adventure was one thing Eliza never denied, and he did love that about her.

  Together they went up the main stairs to the bedroom that had once been his father’s. Eliza kept pace with him, a slight smile on her face. Most women would have demanded answers about being led into a bedchamber with an axe. Wellington was not sure if that was just another endearing trait of hers, or something that should concern him greatly.

  Wellington passed through the bedroom to the personal library. Letting go of Eliza’s hand he yanked open the cupboard where they had shoved his father’s chair. He glanced back at her, standing in the sun, her hands folded before her, watching with an arched eyebrow.

  The chair sat before him, and suddenly Wellington found himself empowered by the sight of it. He wanted to clear the decks, make things anew, and that meant he had to get rid of his nightmares. He slipped out of his jacket and waistcoat, and passed both to Eliza.

  “Tallyho, mate,” Eliza said, draping his clothes across her arms and stepping back to give him more than enough room.

  The first swing felt like freedom. The axe crashed into the chair, making Whiterock echo with each strike. Splinters bounced off his arms, cheeks, and even the lenses of his glasses as his hatchet made quick work of the chair’s arms. Wellington gripped the axe handle tighter as he unleashed decades of emotions on the chair. Each blow was for his mother, and for him.

  Wellington didn’t stop until all that remained of Arthur Books’ life-preserving chair were shards of wood, torn scraps of metal, and tangles of wire scattered across the floor.

  “Welly . . .” Eliza’s voice broke through his fugue.

  He found himself slightly winded, a bead of sweat running down his forehead; but through the oncoming fatigue, he could feel the smile on his face. “If you are not too alarmed by my behaviour, Eliza, I think I can find—”

  “No,” she managed, tossing Wellington’s jacket and coat to the floor.

  Wellington followed her stare and felt his stomach tighten. She had not been admonishing him for his behaviour. It was the far wall of the master bedroom which had, at some time during his destruction of the chair, slid away. He had thought he knew all the secret passages and rooms in Whiterock, but the chamber before him apparently reduced that confidence to a bold assumption. His father, it seemed, had one last secret to share.

  He glanced down at the remains of the chair. “Something must have triggered . . . ”

  Eliza’s gaze locked with his, and for a moment Wellington considered grabbing her, locking up Whiterock once more, and telling Doctor Sound the Ministry was no longer welcome in his boyhood home. He didn’t need or want any more surprises, nor did he wish to hear the voice of his father in his head anymore.

  Yet, he was above all an archivist. He could no more walk away from secrets than Eliza could abandon explosives. He held out his hand. Eliza took it, and with a long, deep breath, Wellington led the way inside the final secret of Arthur Books.

  Illuminated by light connected to the house’s main lighting, the hidden chamber was not large, but roughly the size of a classroom or workshop. Pinned across the farthest wall were a number of charts and calendars. At the centre of the notes and pages was a horizontal line that ran the length of the wall. A timeline. For a moment, Wellington found it hard to focus on the various points along it, until his analytical talents took hold.

  His fingers traced back to the beginning. Impulse made him read aloud, regardless of the grating texture evident in his voice. “Eighteen sixty-four, subject born. Weight seven pounds three ounces. Apparently healthy.” He followed his fingertips only a few inches before he read again. “Fourteen months, subject takes first steps.” All the milestones that parents celebrated were here. First word. (Kitty.) First sentence. (“I love you, Mummy.”) First book read. (A Study of Astronomical Theories.) However, these cherished memories had with them accompanying notes with Wellington referred to as “subject” instead of his name.

  Then came an event that turned his blood cold.

  “Eighten seventy-four, subject’s maternal bond must be severed in order to progress development to full potential.”

  Wellington felt his throat tighten, and he had to steady himself against the table central to the room. He had always suspected, but never been able to prove, his father’s involvement in his mother’s death. Now here it was, right in front of him.

  All part of a grand experiment.

  He forced himself to continue reading. Various missions from his days in the military. The notes reflecting his acts of bravery, his accomplishments, and his distinctions. Honours that he believed won of his decisions, his actions. According to his father, these achievements were planned, if not expected. The timeline, however, ended abruptly. Wellington’s gaze narrowed on the date of when his father’s subject went awry.

  “Eighteen eighty-eight,” he read, his voice trembling through ragged breaths, “subject has taken an unexpected initiative. Project faces imminent failure if not corrected.” Wellington swallowed, speaking to Eliza over his shoulder. “Eighty-eight. That was the year I joined the Ministry.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Eliza?” Please, Eliza, don’t leave me here. Alone.

  He turned away from the timeline to find her lost in the pages of a ledger. In the dim light of the room, she was reading more detailed notes connected with the timeline across the wall.

  It appeared some of his bad habits were influencing Eliza. “Subject’s regimens with serums are complete,” she read aloud. “Small doses may need to be given at annual intervals as required.” She covered her mouth as her eyes darted from one page to another. Then she flipped the pages forwards in a flurry, then back towards the beginning.

  Wellington looked around him, at moments of his life, fully embracing Arthur Books’ final nightmare, his last poison. The discovery of the House of Usher ring he’d believed to be the worst thing he could learn about his father, but once again, he had underestimated the monster that had raised him.

  No. Not raised. Engineered.

  “Wellington,” Eliza said, pressing her fingertips against one of the pages of the book in her hand, “this handwriting isn’t your father’s—but I recognise whose it is.” She pinned him with her bright blue eyes, her lips trembling slightly as if she didn’t want to say the words that would identify them. “It’s Jekyll’s. This handwriting belongs to Henry Jekyll.”

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