The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (16 page)

“I think we’re about to find out,” he said, opening the door. “Rutger’s returned.” He turned to the Section P agent, apparently short of breath.

“We seem to have a problem . . .” he panted.

“Has Liam stolen another wallet?” Wellington asked.

Rutger never answered as he slumped, then pitched forwards. When Wellington caught him, the long knife sticking out of his back revealed itself.

“Now let’s jus’ take things nice and slow,” came a voice from above him.

Wellington looked up to see two men pointing Remmington-Elliots at him. Compressors were all in the green. One man
appeared as someone’s bad attempt to squeeze a gorilla into a suit while the second looked as if he could be knocked aside with a thought.

“I know you, Miss Eliza D. Braun,” the larger agent remarked. “It’s been—what?”

“Four years.”

Wellington looked over his shoulder at Eliza, as he had never before heard such venom in her voice. Her eyes had never seemed more cold and hard as they did in that moment.

“Yeah. Nasty business, that.” He gave a shrug. “Then again, this is our speciality, ain’t it? Nasty business.”

“You dolt!” snapped Wellington. “You just killed a German national! What in God’s name—”

“Listen up, mate,” the hulk said, pointing his pistol into Wellington’s face. “I got orders to bring you in and sod the rest, but I can jus’ as easily tell the toffs upstairs that you put up a right fight.”

“Easy there, Malcolm,” the smaller Department agent warned. “We got orders.”

“I don’ like the way this prick’s talking to me, Georgie.”

“You’ll like what I have to say even less,” Eliza suddenly piped up.

“Go on, bitch.” And now Malcolm’s gun was on Eliza. Wellington felt a heat rise under his skin. “Give me a reason to defend myself. Please.”

“Let’s all just keep our wits about us, yes?” Georgie asked. “We’ll just get ourselves all cosy for a train trip to Berlin, see a bit of the countryside, yes?”

That was when Wellington realised the train was still not moving.

“Now why don’t you just get up slowly?” Georgie motioned for Wellington to stand. “No need to do anything heroic.”

The train suddenly lurched forwards, sending Georgie into Malcolm, and Eliza into Wellington. Unlike the tweed-wearing gorilla, Wellington managed to prevent himself from toppling over. His foot braced against the passenger seat, keeping him upright as he caught Eliza. As the Department agents fell over each other, Eliza grabbed Malcolm’s thick wrist, the one connected to the hand holding the gun, and drove her forearm up into his elbow. The man’s arm bent in a
most unnatural way with a sickening crunch. A heartbeat later, the man’s yell filled both compartment and corridor. Georgie was scrambling to get back on his feet, his pistol drawing a bead on Eliza. Wellington pushed off the bench, launching himself as he did when making a try on the rugby pitch. He collided into the diminutive Department agent, knocking him out of their compartment and into the corridor. Wellington forced Georgie’s wrist into the corridor’s windowsill, then a second time; on the third time, something fell in between them. Attempting to cover the dropped pistol with his body while keeping hold of the agent seemed simple enough in his mind. In the waking world, the archivist apparently needed to be a part-time circus performer—preferably, a contortionist—for this to work.

Something snapped from behind him, and Malcolm’s screaming muffled slightly. He smiled at Eliza’s strike, but the smile disappeared on feeling a blow from Georgie’s elbow against his skull, rattling his senses soundly. The Department agent began wriggling out of his grasp. Another punch to his head caused Wellington to release him.

Dammit.

He took in a gasp of air and glanced over at Eliza, who was bringing the wine bottle about for what looked like a backhand blow to Malcolm. When the bottle came around, it remained intact. Wellington did not think Malcolm’s jaw could say the same.

“Eliza!”

Her eyes wild, Eliza looked up to Wellington then caught a glance of Georgie heading towards the rear of the train. First class.

“He doesn’t leave this train unless it’s moving!” she said, her grasp still tight on the blood-stained bottle.

The train, now travelling at its top speed, rattled underneath Eliza and Wellington as they made their way through the remainder of second class. On the gangway between the final second-class car and the initial first-class car, Wellington could see the Department agent fighting to keep his balance as they rattled along.

Eliza chucked the bottle into the night. “Welly, hang on to my belt,” she said, opening the gangway’s small gate.

“What in God’s name—”

“I need to send a message to Marius!” she shouted over her shoulder, drawing one of her pistols. “Now hold on to my damn belt!”

They were not travelling at the blinding speed of a hypersteam, but there was hardly any comfort to be found as the night folded around Eliza. He could see her pounamu pistol drawing aim on something at the rear of the train. The shot sounded like a bullwhip’s crack and then Wellington caught the glare of something small exploding. She pulled her arm in and then gave Wellington a nod.

Back on the iron landing, Eliza nodded. “Right then, let’s go get Georgie.”

First class was quiet. No one outside their cabins, perhaps on account of the gathering Rutger had mentioned. Wellington and Eliza had made it to a division between first-class accommodations and a dining car before catching up with the Department agent.

“Eliza,” Wellington said, “he’s too far ahead. At this rate, he’ll reach the delegation and—” His imagination filled in the rest. “Oh, dear Lord . . .”

“That won’t happen,” Eliza chuckled as light from the door ahead of Georgie made the Department agent stop in his tracks. “Marius got my message.”

Georgie looked back at Wellington and Eliza, then back to Marius. His hands suddenly shot upward as he was saying something. Perhaps he was identifying himself as Department and, on pointing frantically back at the two of them, warning Marius of rogue agents out to do harm to the imperial delegation.

Marius’ sudden punch must have come totally unexpected.

Georgie stumbled back into one of the tables, and then scrambled back behind the dining furniture as Marius advanced on him. From Marius’ vantage point, he had Georgie cornered.

From Marius’ vantage however, he could not see the knife that Georgie drew from an ankle sheath.

Damn.

Wellington burst through the doors at the moment Georgie attacked. Marius caught the man’s wrist on descent, but the ferocity of the lunge sent both men stumbling back through the doors from where Marius came. They both hit the next car,
remaining locked in the struggle for the knife. The train lurched, giving Georgie a moment’s advantage, and he pushed. The blade now quivered just over Marius’ throat as the Section P agent found himself bent backwards over the gangway’s iron railing.

“Get down,” a voice commanded behind him.

Wellington did not question Eliza, but simply did as told.

A gunshot roared in the empty dining car, and Eliza’s bullet pierced the glass window between her and Georgie, knocking him off balance and sending him down to the gangway. Marius pulled himself upright and winced. That must have been hell on the man’s back.

“Excellent shot, Eliza,” Wellington said, pulling himself up.

Eliza holstered her pistol and shook her head. “I’m growing fond of shooting Department agents. This will not serve well for future inter-departmental operations.”

“I would say,” Wellington agreed.

Turning back to Marius, still on the gangway, Eliza said, “Four, von Hoff! You owe me—”

The jest ceased abruptly as Georgie leapt, only this time the attack’s momentum sent both men over the junction.

“Marius!”
Eliza screamed, pushing Wellington aside and running to the gangway.

Wellington ran to the window of the dining car, trying to peer out behind them. He ran for the junction between cars, joining Eliza at the rail. Her eyes were frantically searching in the darkness. For what, Wellington didn’t know, but he looked into the inky black, interrupted only by the soft lights of the train.

“He’s gone,” Eliza finally whispered. “Marius is gone.”

In Which an Illusion Falters

T
he woman stood in the Duke of Sussex’s parlour, taking in its opulence, the details of the artwork surrounding them, and trinkets from his travels abroad. A beautiful woman would hardly be unwelcome in his home, yet every instinct in his body screamed to get her out of there. It was the same woman who had so impertinently summoned him to an audience with the Maestro. She had dressed differently then, but just as wantonly, perhaps wishing to tempt him.

As if she could.

Her creamy long neck was in evidence as she had her dark hair pinned up, and a vast expanse of matching soft curves, since she was wearing a grey shirt over the top of her corset. Captivating as she was, the fashion for undergarments being on show with a certain set of society had never sat well with Sussex. Still, even unfaltering in his devotion to his family, the Duke was still a man. Her wicked, immodest dress undoubtedly made his pulse race and distracted him from important thoughts. Her slim legs encased in a pair of highly inappropriate riding breeches hardly calmed his nerves.

He cleared his throat. “What did you say again?”

Her voice was soft, traced with the exotic beauty of Tuscany,
and yet with all her allure, she somehow still managed to warn him of what she was capable. The thunder from outside preluding her words should have been melodramatic, but Sussex found the moment rather ominous. “My master is here. He demands an audience with you about our plans for the celebration.”

Adjusting his cravat, Sussex did not meet the beautiful intruder’s eyes. “How did he get in? This is my house, my sanctuary. I never—”

“There is nowhere closed to my master,” she replied smoothly. “He goes where he wills, and today he wills that in your house you welcome him.”

Sussex’s thoughts immediately turned to Ivy. Fenning had told him she was entertaining some of her lady friends downstairs. Certainly there was nothing to be done about the Maestro being here, but he could only hope that Ivy kept the tea flowing and the gossip along with it.

It was most fortunate his sons were both away at boarding school.

Sussex got to his feet and, though his stomach was rolling with fear, said to the woman, “Where is he?”

“In the library.” She tilted her head and examined him with her bright eyes. “You look ill, my lord. Do you need a glass of fortification before this?”

Last time she had shown no concern for his well-being—quite the contrary in fact. This change in attitude made him feel, rather strangely, better.

“No, I am quite well. It was just the oysters I ate last night.”

She nodded, though did not smile or make further comment. Instead, she turned and led him to his own library, as if somehow she was the footman to the Maestro, and now it was Sussex who was a stranger in his own house. She opened the door to the room that had once been a sanctuary, and following him in, shut it behind her.

Sussex glanced around the library, and at first all he saw was familiar: the warm scarlet drapes, the polished wood, the rows of leather-bound books. Then a figure turned to face him, but it was an entirely human one. Henry Jekyll, his old friend and doctor, was here.

Sussex felt his throat seize. Why was Henry here? Was he also bound in servitude to the masked and terrifying man in
the brass suit? The doctor had the protection of the Queen of the British Empire now. What could the Maestro possibly hold over this brilliant man of science to make him betray his loyalties to the Crown?

He opened his mouth to ask that very thing, when the hiss of steam venting caught his attention.

Spinning around, the duke caught a glimpse in the flicker of lightning of the Maestro, standing within the thick shadows it supplied. He was frighteningly silent in his approach considering all the metal that was strapped on him. Or perhaps he’d been standing there the whole time watching Sussex enter the room? Either possibility was not worth contemplating.

He glanced at the woman and Henry as if they could supply answers. The Italian whore crossed her arms in front of her chest, her face settling into a vaguely disappointed cast. The doctor’s expression however remained calm, in fact with a slight smile on it.

“Peter,” he said, moving forwards to shake the duke’s hand, “wonderful to see you again. You look”—he peered into the woman’s eyes—“well enough.”

“I am not,” Peter snapped, only to hold his breath again. As he slowly exhaled, he motioned with his head in the direction of the Maestro. “Not when such company calls upon my house like this.”

Henry shared a strange glance at his female companion, but swivelled quickly back. “You remember the Maestro, though, don’t you? From the airship when you were on holiday?”

Sussex frowned. Memories were tricky things, almost as elusive as eels. He pressed a hand to his head. “We were on the continent, doing the grand tour by airship . . . I remember that . . . and then . . . then there was an accident . . .”

“I was there. You saw me.” The Maestro’s voice came out twisted by the brass and steam. “I saved your whole family, and on the return voyage to England, I began conversations with Henry here.”

The recollection was fuzzy. Sussex recalled the airship well enough, with its delightful panorama. “I was sick,” he said slowly, his gaze never leaving the metallic monster’s brass helmet. “My valet had to care for me most of the time, but then . . . yes there was an accident . . .”

He remembered the screaming, and the terrible sensation of the airship losing altitude. People had been running about and he’d been unable to find his wife or his valet. “Was . . . was there a shooting?” he asked, taking a seat while he struggled with his twisting memories.

“There was.” The Maestro did not move from his spot near the dark window, but his glowing ocular seemed to brighten. It was blue this time, seeming to reflect his mood. Was there compassion in the Maestro’s words? “I took damage in your defence. I would at least hope you remember that.”

Sussex looked towards Henry, but the doctor merely grinned at him as thunder rumbled softly outside.

“Something amusing, Henry?” Sussex snapped.

Henry’s face grew suddenly still. “I am merely observing two very good friends of mine finding common ground.”

The question sounded choked. “Good friends?”

The Italian shifted slightly at that, and Sussex was almost sure she had let out a very restrained gasp. The duke felt as though he were trapped in some terrible nightmare where everything familiar was suddenly not.

“I don’t know why you are involved, Henry.” He put his head in his hands, just for a moment and closed his eyes. “We agree that change is needed, that the Empire is crumbling around us and we must treat that which slowly kills us from the inside. I know Victoria, under your care, is ready. She agrees a purge is needed.” His gaze switched to the Maestro. “But this . . . this monster . . . is he really necessary?”

“Oh, I find monsters are usually very necessary in matters of violence—even if it is for the betterment of the world.” Jekyll took a step forwards and placed a hand on the duke’s arm. “You and I are men of reasoning, logic, and science, my dear fellow. The Maestro here is the instrument that is capable of the acts we both know are necessary, and he has, upon his call, resources that are key to success.” The doctor patted him as if he were a beloved pet. “We need you to sign the order placing the Maestro’s Grey Ghosts in charge of the Queen’s safety. Government bodies are so . . . particular about memorandums, following orders and all that bureaucracy.”

Sussex swayed on his feet, his gaze darting around the room for an escape. If he ran fast enough, perhaps he could
outdistance the assassin and the hulking brass monstrosity. Certainly, the rain outside would slow the Maestro down.

But abandon Henry? His saviour?

The duke’s hands clenched in and out on themselves. The doctor was everything to him—in truth possibly more so than Ivy and his boys. Without sanity he was nothing at all, and Henry was his doorway to great things.

The doctor was standing stock still, looking at him as calmly as he ever did. For his own part Sussex felt as though the carpet had been literally pulled out from under him. He’d trusted the doctor all this time, placed his sanity, his position in society, and his very dukedom in his hands. When there had been no one else that could help him, Henry had appeared from nowhere to offer him hope. Now that same champion was asking him to put pen to paper and place the Queen’s well-being under the care of the Maestro.

“We have skilled men. Soldiers dedicated to our sovereign, ready to lay their lives selflessly for her.” Sussex wiped away a stream of sweat that was now coursing down his forehead. “I know nothing about these Grey Ghosts other than they answer to him.” As Sussex pointed to the Maestro, another flash of lightning caught the sheen of his armour.

He had been bold to do so, but the Maestro remained motionless, the sapphire glow of his ocular steady and constant.

“As a doctor I know there is a time and use for every instrument.” Jekyll tightened his hold on the duke’s arm. “The Maestro’s personal army is an instrument we will need during the celebration. Without the Grey Ghosts, the purge cannot occur.”

“Perhaps you have simply lost your edge.” The angry words came out in a hiss of steam that made Sussex jump. “Typical.”

Sussex refused to be put in his place by a creation that might or might not be human. Who knew if there was a man of any kind in that twisted brass façade, and if there was, if he was even an Englishman at all?

Tugging down on his jacket, gathering the remaining tatters of his pride about himself, Sussex crossed the library and from a side table by his grand desk took out a cigarette from a silver case emblazoned with his family crest. The sight of it granted him a fresh courage.

“Lost my edge, have I? Says the machine hiding in the
shadows.” Sussex knew he was scrambling for ideas, some way to hold off the inevitable. He struck a match and lit the cigarette between his lips. “If you are the instrument Henry believes you to be, you appear to be a rather blunt one. I assume in your fashion you would be more useful as a hammer.”

It was a rather lovely insult at his costume. Even the Italian strumpet seemed amused, catching a glimpse of her covering her bow-shaped mouth.

He took a long deep puff of his cigarette, and blew the smoke in the Maestro’s direction. From his distance, it made no difference to the creation’s breathing, but Sussex hoped the symbolism was apparent.

“How do I know you will follow our plan?” he sneered, daring to step closer to the Maestro. “How would I know your mind, your intentions, for the Empire? I am a gentleman of the House of Lords. You?” Closer still. He would have never dared to advance on the Maestro like this in the past. However, that was on his terms. Peter was still master of this manor. “You’re a beast trapped in brass. We share
nothing
in common.”

He stared into the blue ocular that was presumably the brass man’s way of viewing the world, and tried to imagine the face that was buried in there behind the layers of technology. He was an abomination, but still mesmerising. He could see himself reflected in the grimy, battered surface, like a twisted distortion in a puddle of water. He observed the lines of bolts that held the man inside.

A single flip of a latch, and he would unlock the Maestro’s mask just enough to see what hideous deformity lay beneath it.

He heard the door open from behind him, but the velvet, familiar voice took his gaze away from the Maestro. “Peter, don’t.”

The cigarette tumbled from his mouth as a clap of thunder sent a tremor through the library. Everything was falling apart around him. There was no stopping it now.

Ivy did not look surprised. She stood there, her hand resting lightly on the door handle, while her gaze roamed over the rest of the people in the room. Words stuck in Sussex’s mouth as she gave a slight nod, entered the room, and shut the door behind her—all with no comment. She was wearing a tea gown to receive her innumerable ladies that she entertained for the
betterment of London’s urchins. Ivy always had a cause. Her dark hair was pinned up, and she looked every inch the high society, respectable matron, yet when the words came out of her mouth, Sussex feared he might never let any out of his again.

“So, Peter has found his courage, has he?” She shot a look at the Italian, a flicker of disdain passing over her face, before she took a seat in the chair between them.

“Yes, Ivy.” Henry’s smile threatened to light up the library, outshining the gas lamps around them. “We thought you were occupied for the night.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “The ladies have all been fed and watered, emptied of the contents of their pockets, and sent on their way.”

The world dipped and swayed, so much so that Sussex thought he might pass out altogether. Ivy had no questions for him, no concerns for the thing in their house. And she knew the assassin. She
knew
her.

“Ivy?” The pounding rain outside sounded stronger than his own voice, weak and trembling as it was.