The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (25 page)

Wherein Wellington Thornhill Books Has His Heart Dismantled

F
rom the boat’s solitary smokestack, a thick black cloud suddenly belched into the air. A hard, rhythmic knocking vibrated through the deck, and the captain swore loudly while two crewmen opened the booby hatch to access the engines.

This was Wellington’s cue. “Starboard, Cap’n,” he grunted. “There’s a mooring open.”

“I see it!” he barked back. “You tend ta ya’ duties, secure that line. We got a schedule ta keep!”

Wellington tipped his cap while he and Doctor Sound, both of them wearing tattered overcoats and caps of watermen, grabbed one of the larger ropes coiled on the side of the modest cargo barge. They limped their way over to the mooring just outside the rear dock accessing Miggins Antiquities. The lasso caught the piling, and as the stern swung about, Wellington and a smaller waterman leapt onto the dock and pulled at the thick rope.

“I said secure that line!” the captain roared. “This ain’t some leisurely punting we’re havin’ today.”

“Crotchety old bastard, isn’t he?” grumbled Eliza as she and Wellington ran the rope around the thick wooden piling.

“Well, how would you feel if your perfectly operating engine suddenly started sputtering?” he asked her. “Cuts into the profits of the day if the old man is late.”

Once the rope served as solid security for the boat, Wellington and Eliza reached out for Doctor Sound, whose fine fashion struggled to remain hidden under the tattered peacoat, and helped him on to dry land.

“Well done,” Doctor Sound said, his eyes scanning up and down the dock. “Now quickly, as the crew is currently preoccupied with Miss Braun’s speciality.”

At a cursory glance, the morning’s fog long burned off and revealing the various businesses that made up Industry Row along the Thames, Wellington could not see any sign of watchers, snipers, or flashes of tweed. Miggins Antiquities, or at least its rear façade which usually hosted ships of various sizes, remained intact and—much to the outward relief of Doctor Sound—secure. It was odd seeing their headquarters so still. There were no dockhands busy unloading innocuous trinkets no better than glorified junk while specialists hidden within handled designated crates that were incoming finds of incredible value to the Ministry. Wellington caught no shadows moving in front of windows, no agents recently returned from the field or just about to leave on assignment, no dispatches from field offices being hurried to the director’s office. Nothing moved, save for them.

Miggins Antiquities was not dead, though. It was simply secured.

Doctor Sound continued to cast wary glances over his shoulder as he hobbled up to the heavy iron door. He took a deep breath before pressing his thumb into the groove above a numeric keypad. He winced, then sucked at the pinprick point on his thumb while his other hand began punching in a code of some fashion.

“Strange seeing Miggins so quiet like this,” Eliza whispered, an echo of Wellington’s own thoughts. He’d never had a partner before, but he hoped it was a sign of their growing relationship, not that he was going mad.

“I suppose we should be thankful it isn’t crawling with Department agents.” Wellington shuddered. “I do hope they haven’t helped themselves to the
Ares: Mark One
.”

“For once, let us think positive,” she said. “They are more concerned over two Ministry agents, one of them a super soldier masquerading as an archivist, as opposed to—”

“Agent Braun,” Sound said with a huff, “as this is a rather lengthy sequence of numbers, the light banter between you and Agent Books is a touch distracting, and I would prefer not to prick my thumb again as that needle has, I’m afraid, become quite blunt.”

“Sorry, sir,” they both replied.

Another five numbers, and then Sound pressed the green button at the bottom of the pad. Seconds later, a bolt softly hissed from the other side of the door, followed by another, and then another. Sound let out a long, slow breath and then turned the large handle downwards.

“Shall we?” he asked, pushing the door forwards.

The iron door groaned lightly, but the echo in the corridor seemed to announce their entrance. When the silence returned, though, Wellington knew without question they were alone.

Eliza threw a switch set in the wall, and the lights set in the ceiling of this access passage flickered to life. “The generator is still operating.”

“As it is powered by the Thames, I would think so,” Sound returned, closing the door behind them. Once shut, the powerful hissing from the hatch’s bolts threatened to deafen them all, but then the sound and the steam settled, and once again all went quiet.

“If you are all armed,” Sound said as he let his long peacoat fall at his feet, “I would recommend you remain at the ready.”

Eliza drew her pounamu pistols while Wellington drew from an inside holster a Remington-Elliot. On considering the compact weapon, he holstered it and then reached to his side to draw a Wilkinson-Webley.

“A Crackshot?” Eliza asked. “Where did that come from?”

“Whiterock armoury,” he said, holding up the larger four-barrelled pistol. “Not quite the stealth of the Remington-Elliot, but a touch more stopping power. Something we will need considering potential close quarter confrontations, wouldn’t you agree?”

Eliza sighed. “I love you, Wellington Books.” Apparently she had abandoned any attempt to conceal their relationship.

Wellington chuckled, even as he coloured. “How very sweet of you to say, Eliza.”

“Would you two care to find a vacant office, or perhaps a spare storeroom to consummate your budding romance,” Sound said somewhat sharply, “or would you care to proceed to the Archives which is, may I remind you, the
purpose
of this little outing?”

“Proceed, sir,” both replied, shedding themselves of their tattered overcoats.

While the silence served as reassurance they were alone, it also unsettled Wellington. This was not normal, at least not normal for Miggins Antiquities. There should be teletype machines clacking orders and reports, the voices of agents and associates sharing stories of their adventures abroad. There was, however, nothing. Merely the three of them disturbing a void.

They ascended a small staircase, coming to a stop at a modest wooden door. Sound stepped back as Eliza approached the door with her signature pistols held up. She motioned for Wellington, who slipped his hand up to the handle.

“One . . .” he whispered, “two . . .”

On “Three” they swung the door open and Eliza led with her pistols, her eyes taking a quick assessment of the building’s main foyer. The interior metal doors, much as it was with the bulletproof blinds that had dropped inside the windows, appeared intact. No signs of fatigue or breach. From the stillness and feel of their surroundings, no one was there. In fact, it appeared nothing had been disturbed since the Phantom Protocol order.

“What do you think?” Eliza asked Director Sound, lowering her pistols.

“It would appear that Miggins Antiquities remains secure,” he replied. The man then reached into his waistcoat and produced the clockwork key all agents of the Ministry carried on their person. “Proceed to the Archives, if you would. I have something to retrieve from my office.”

“You have—?” Eliza began.

“My dear Miss Braun, you of all people should know and appreciate the value of travelling light, which is what I had to do once Phantom Protocol was initiated. Now, as I have a moment, indulge me.”

“But there is over fifty years of history in the Archives, and our time is—”

Sound raised a finger to stop Wellington’s words. “As I told you back in Whiterock,” he began as he turned the key, calling the lift, “I have initiated a plan. It has been ongoing since the Ministry retreated underground.” Once the lift arrived, Sound gave a wink to the two of them. “Now, to the Archives with you both. I will be there momentarily.”

Wellington shook his head as they watched the lift ascend up to the director’s office. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

“Shall we, then?” Eliza asked, referring to the door to the right of the lift.

Once more, they found themselves in an oppressive, heavy silence. It seemed to reflect the job ahead, waiting patiently in the dungeon of Miggins Antiquities. Wellington knew Eliza understood the weight of what they were doing, but it had to be said.

“This is a generation of work we’re taking apart.”

She looked up from the step she stood on. “This hurts, Welly, I know, but would you rather have those Department pillocks rifling through here? Doctor Sound is right. There are items and artefacts in the Archives far too dangerous for those plonkers to get their hands on.”

“Yes, of course.”

She ascended a few steps and gently placed a kiss on his lips. “Chin up, Welly. We are doing what needs to be done. Not only what’s best for the Ministry, but for the Empire.”

He nodded and took a breath. “Very true.” Motioning ahead, they both resumed their descent as he added, “With all the surprises we have weathered over the weeks, I admit it will be nice returning—even for a brief time—to a place as familiar as the Archives.”

At the base of the stairs, the wooden door opened to the dimly lit entryway where the lift chamber ended. The heavy ship’s hatch looked just as Wellington remembered it before he and Eliza caught the last airship out of London bound for America. He gripped the wheel lock and turned it to one side, disengaging its simple mechanism. The door groaned on its hinges as Wellington pulled, eventually opening on its own accord. He motioned for Eliza to enter. She smiled and inclined her head in silent thanks. She stepped through, and he followed suit . . .

. . . and froze on the platform overlooking the Archives.

“What?” he managed to stammer. “What . . . ?
What . . . ?
”

Hovering silently over the rows of shelving units were brightly polished spheres, but
how
they were hovering remained completely and utterly concealed. No props. No steam jets. No thrust of any visible kind. They just
floated
, the faintest of whines only heard when they accelerated from one point to another. Wellington counted four of them, their surfaces so brilliant they caught the gaslight like mirrors.

When a sphere suddenly floated out from underneath the platform, Wellington and Eliza both stepped back. He had never seen his lover—or anyone else for that matter—draw a pistol so fast. A green light appeared in the centre of the odd flying device, and as it hovered before them Wellington had a moment to study its details. The sphere itself was slightly larger than a lady’s hatbox, and just underneath its featureless surface, lights flickered on and off as if there were some sort of computation sequence carrying itself out. The light passed across Eliza, then Wellington, and then winked out. With a soft
whoosh
the object flew away, seemingly content with their arrival.

“I think you can put the pistol away, Eliza,” Wellington finally said, making his way to the staircase.

Eliza’s gun did not lower. “Give me a good reason why.”

“They’re not attacking.”

From behind him, he heard the soft click of a pistol hammer easing back to a safe position. “Damn your logic, Books.”

The closer they descended to the Archives, the more the other odd devices came into view. Wellington was certainly acquainted with automatons. Clockwork or steam powered, they were popular devices in most upper- or even middle-class homes. Families had one or two tucked away for either menial tasks, such as sweeping or mail retrieval, or, for the more affluent, acting as guards for their estates.

These automatons, however, were entirely different: featureless and silent with the exception of a soft hum whenever they lifted or moved a crate. It seemed each shelving unit was assigned its own pair; and these mechanical beings had been busy devices as they had already catalogued, packed, and stored someplace the records and artefacts from the higher shelves.

He wondered how they had reached them, when he and
Eliza were given a demonstration. One of the silver automatons let out a low whine, and then the square base on which it rested lifted off the ground. Like their spherical brethren, these automatons had the ability to hover. Also like their flying counterparts, they gleamed in the light of the Archives lamps, as if made of fluid steel, an incredibly high sheen akin to silver.

“Excellent!” came a voice from behind them. “The Staff are making admirable progress!”

Doctor Sound practically glowed with satisfaction as he drew closer to them. He was carrying with him a wide, slender suitcase. If he were to open it, Wellington hazarded a guess, it would easily cover a small dinner table.

A soft whine caught his attention, and he turned to see one of the silver automatons approaching quickly, deftly manoeuvring between Eliza and himself to approach Sound.

“Good afternoon, sir,”
the automaton spoke, using a purely synthetic voice that sounded as smooth as cream.

Dear Lord,
Wellington thought,
it speaks! And it sounds completely human!