The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (20 page)

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.

Wherein It Is Proven One Can Go Home Again

H
is 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.

Wellington hastily disengaged the brake and guided the motorcar back on the road to the manor before a fight could break out across the seats. The wind kicked up, as if in response to their respective moods. Eliza’s dire frown threatened to be a rather unpleasant beginning to the re-establishment of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences.

“Don’t mean to be rude . . .” Barry leaned forwards, his head popping in between them, and pointed to the manor. “But it looks a little . . . well . . . deserted?”

“We could hardly do what we need to do if it wasn’t.” Eliza placed her finger on the young man’s forehead and pushed him back into the cart. “Do be a love, Barry, there’s a good lad.”

From his vantage point Wellington couldn’t see all of Barry’s expression, but at least the eccentric man went silent. He probably had experience with Eliza Braun’s short temper before.

“This is very nice, Mr. Books,” Liam spoke up suddenly. “A look at being to the manor born, eh wot?”

They pulled up to the front of the house, and Wellington turned to face Liam. The boy wore a smug look of contempt but it faded once he locked eyes with the boy.

“If you believe I lived a life of privilege, I did. On the surface. I assure you, Liam, what happened within these walls was not worth all the riches of the world.”

Alice tightened her grip on Serena. He must have looked a tad frightening. That was fine. He wanted them to be frightened of Whiterock.

“Wellington?” he heard Eliza say.

He engaged the cart’s brake and took a deep breath. The Ministry was depending on him. He needed to take control of Whiterock, not the opposite.

To break the icy silence, Wellington gestured out towards the estate. “It wasn’t always this oppressive. Mother rode horses here, and she made sure to take particular care of the tenants too. In the summer she held wonderful parties out on the back terrace, and at Christmas she’d host a beautiful dinner.” For a moment he was whisked back to those magical times, when his father had only been a distant cloud on the horizon, and his
whole world was his warm and lovely mother. He smiled. “I’d sometimes sneak down from the nursery and peer through the bannisters at all the immaculately dressed people.”

Eliza’s eyes sparkled as she leaned against him. “I can just imagine you doing that. Curious as always.”

Wellington knew Eliza would have loved those parties. The thought brought a smile to his face, even as his eyes wandered over the long grey face of Whiterock Manor, with its church-like windows, and looming gargoyles on every corner. His grandfather had the building remodelled back when Queen Victoria was a girl. Gothic had been all the rage so it wasn’t really a surprise he’d chosen that style, though somehow Grandfather Henry had kept all of the gloominess, but yet managed to avoid the charm most others worked to instil in the architecture. It looked as if it had grown from the surrounding dour hills, like an iron frown.

Eliza shifted in her seat, and he knew her imagination was struggling to see the house as a place of beauty. “You did tell me your father is dead, didn’t you?” she ventured.

Wellington ground his teeth before he answered. “Yes, I made absolutely sure the evil bastard was cold in the grave myself. I only left Whiterock when he was walled in the mausoleum, and after I was able to scour the house for any . . . infernal devices of his design. Believe me—this is the safest place we could ask for in all of England.”

Wellington caught Barry’s eyes huge with shock and curiosity, but before the conversation could turn completely morbid he went to one of the lion statues at the base of the steps. He pressed the brick he remembered slid back to offer him keys. The hiss from the front door’s pneumatic locks made the chill silence of Whiterock Manor all the more unsettling. However, he would not be intimidated by a house—no matter how grand or full of memories it might be. He had his love at his side, and he was no longer that terrified, lonely boy. Eliza wrapped her fingers around his as Wellington disengaged the final lock.

“It might be rather grim”—she tilted her head up to look at the three-storey structure, long and low against the landscape—“but at least it isn’t a ruin.”

Barry stood there twisting his fingers on each other, as if
even in contemplation he needed to be moving. “Looks like a good solid roof. The rest doesn’t really matter I suppose.”

Eliza slapped his shoulder with a lightning-fast movement of the back of her hand, which made him leap in place. “We need a few more things than that, Barry. It’s headquarters until we can return to how things were.”

Her countryman looked completely unperturbed. He opened his mouth to reply, but Wellington, fearing more delay than they could afford, spoke up. “I retained an old army friend, Ralph Turenne, to act as caretaker, make sure water, sheep, or indeed people don’t get in. I think it will suit our needs admirably.”

“Will we expect his company sometime?” Eliza asked. “You said this house was secure.”

“It is. I’ve been working through a solicitor. The solicitor in turn works through an anonymous member of the estate”—Wellington motioned to himself—“and the estate, upon my father’s death was transferred to another. My mother, actually, under her maiden name.” He chuckled. “Thank you, Parliament, for the Married Women’s Property Act of 1882. Between that and a few skills I learned while in the Ministry, Lillian Morton was as Lazarus; and Whiterock remained standing, but in secret.”

The final lock disengaged with a sharp hiss. He stepped back and took it all in. The stone gargoyles on the roof, the marble snarling lions on either side of the steps and grand doors, and the rows of windows, all vacant. He could not believe he was here again. The last place . . .

“So,” Barry chimed in softly, “are we going to stand out here all day?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wellington replied with a grunt as he shouldered the large oak door open, “welcome to Whiterock.”

As Wellington walked into the foyer, the archivist was flooded with a thousand images, most of them unhappy, but a few like the sound of his mother’s laughter, gave him the strength to do what was needed. The smell of camphor and dust sifting around him, he walked deeper into his ancestral manor with what he hoped was at least an outwards show of bravado. His only concession was never releasing Eliza’s hand as they walked together into the main hallway. The marble
floors echoed their footsteps, and then for a brief moment all was silent.

Until Barry Ferguson was able to get his bearings, that was. He spun around in the hallway, arms spread, head tilted upwards, and gazed at all the ancient stonework. Though there was not a gear in sight, he seemed to be experiencing some kind of epiphany.

“Nothing this old in New Zealand, is there Eliza Doo?” His voice bounced through the main hall, and probably woke a few pigeons in the distant bedrooms.

Her grumble managed to bring a smile to Wellington’s face.

The furniture was all covered by white sheets, and the light filtered through the dirty windows in strange patterns. The only thing that was clean was his mother’s portrait hanging right above the first landing on the stairs. It was apparent that Ralph had faithfully obeyed Wellington’s wishes in this regard too.

“She’s so beautiful,” Eliza said, forgetting Barry for a moment, and stepping towards the painting. “I remember the one in your house, Wellington, but this one is even more spectacular.”