The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (17 page)

The brass mechanical man let out a dismissive snort of steam, causing Sussex to step back as he was acutely aware of how much within the Maestro’s reach he was.

Ivy smoothed the lines of her beautiful dress, inclined her head and looked at him with the coolness she usually only reserved for servants. She had always been warmth and comfort to him, but now he saw none of that.

“Yes, Peter?”

“Did . . .” God, his throat was dry. He tried again. “Did you know about all this?” He waved his hand to encompass the massive joining of human and brass that threatened to take over his room, the still doctor, and the slightly smirking Italian woman.

Ivy nodded, her eyes boring into Sussex. “I was one of the first people Henry here approached.” She leaned forwards a little, motioning to the chair before her. “Sit down, my love, before you fall down.”

His hand gripped the seat’s high back, and he cast one final glance at the Maestro, who watched everything from the shadows. Turning his back on the Maestro, he found, did not fill him with as much dread as facing his wife.

Once he had settled into the chair, his wife’s features
softened as she took his hands into hers and confessed, “I was so worried for you, Peter. You were never the same after the war. You just became worse by the month, and it fell upon me to consider our family. I confided in Henry, and he seemed to think you would make an excellent subject for his trials.” Her bottom lip began to quiver as tears welled in her once-cold gaze. “Look at all the good he has done with you. You have come so far.”

“I have?” he asked, a sob of his own escaping into the dimness of the room.

“She loves you with such devotion . . .” hissed the brass man from the darkened corner, “though God knows why.”

Now the foreign woman offered advice. “If you share this devotion, and trust her, you will listen to what she has to say.”

His head pounded, threatening to split and spill his brains all over Ivy’s immaculate dress. Then, on Henry’s gentle nod to him, Sussex realised these were his only friends, his only loves in the entire world. Henry had kept him from madness while Ivy had been his steadfast supporter for many years. She was, after all, the mother of his children. And even the assassin. She had kept his secret.

He licked his lips and asked Ivy, “What should I do?”

“You need to sign the order, just as Henry has instructed.” Her voice was a low croon. “Give over control of the Queen’s protection to the Maestro, and let the Maestro do whatever monstrous deeds he needs to.”

It sounded like such a simple thing to do. “The Queen. She relies on me. This is my sworn duty—”

Ivy’s grip tightened suddenly on Sussex’s, causing him to cry out. If his hand had been trembling, the vice-like hold she had on him remedied that straightaway. He had no inkling Ivy possessed such strength.

“Stuff duty,” she snapped, her tone so sharp he was afraid it would cut his throat. “You’ve had a butcher’s at the orders, now do wot the good doctor here done told ya to do! Sign the bleeding paper and be done wi’ it!”

His wife’s voice had never sounded like that to him. If he wasn’t so certain of her breeding, Sussex might have believed Ivy was spawned from the East End or some other terrible district.

“Ivy,” came Henry’s gentle, comforting voice, “no need to excite yourself.”

Whatever horrifying humour had overcome her now slipped away from her, lifting as would a morning fog. The darkness disappeared from her eyes. Her touch was gentle again. She ran her fingertips along his cheek and tittered lightly.

“My dear Peter, I love you and have never been more proud of you.”

On her proclamation, Sussex slipped out of the chair to fall on his knees before her, allowing himself to collapse into her lap, sobbing in the folds of her dress. She smelled so sweet: warm roses, and exquisite tea. He felt secure there, and not even the aggravating hisses of the brass monster haunting him could destroy that peace.

Her hand began to slowly stroke over his hair, as calming as his own mother’s—or rather the nurse who had raised him. Sussex felt a pen slip between his fingers. Raising his head, he saw Henry leaning down towards him with the instrument, his smile kindly and reassuring. With a silent acknowledgement, Peter Lawson, Duke of Sussex, understood. It was perfectly all right to sign orders charging the Maestro with the Queen’s protection. Perhaps the Maestro’s intentions remained a mystery, but Henry believed in Sussex’s vision of the Empire’s future. Henry was convinced the Grey Ghosts played an essential role in bringing this vision to a reality . . . and Sussex trusted Henry.

With no other thought entering his brain, the duke scribbled the required signature onto the parchment. Then with a sigh of contentment, he let the pen drop from his fingers and roll away. As Sussex put his head once more in his wife’s lap, he felt so much lighter, both spiritually and emotionally, knowing that he had done the right thing.

Ivy whispered as she stroked his hair, “I’m so very proud of you, my darling.” And with that, nothing much else mattered.

Let the summer storm outside rage all it liked. He was safe at home. At last.

In Which Our Heroes Take Stock of Their Resources

I
t was a typical summer storm, sudden and uncalled for.

The country bus puffed and rumbled over the road from Salisbury with the passengers stoically silent within. Under her cloak, Eliza was holding Wellington’s hand with her left, while her right held the sleeping Serena against her shoulder. Just a mile or two more, and their journey would hopefully be done.

The Travel Centre had proven a far greater challenge than originally anticipated. Their flight to London had been delayed as the delegation’s liaison was nowhere to be found. His disappearance sent the collected nobility into a chaotic uproar. While that meant the Bommbursts and their party of gifted school children could easily mingle into the Prussian contingent, the contingent’s inability to operate without a Section P agent overseeing every last detail detained the airship. The safety buffer of time Wellington and Eliza believed they had dwindled to a deficit. If they could not pick up a bus straight after their arriving in London, it would be dangerously close to rendezvous hour.

Directly opposite, Alice and the children swayed in time with the bus. Some were asleep, but Alice and Christopher were not. The maid was cloaked and Eliza knew that her hand
had to be resting on her knee, close by the rifle concealed in her Ministry-created leg. Christopher, who Eliza had reluctantly armed somewhere over the Channel, had his head turned looking out into the growing gloom.

His face was already that of a man, but the loss of Callum was still plain to read on it. She knew better than to tell him it was not his fault, but she hoped that when they tracked down the missing boy he’d at least forgive himself a little.

Since they were not the only passengers crowded and packed into the public bus, conversation was impossible, but Eliza shared a look with Alice. The young woman had ceased to be a maid, and her face was that of a real warrior. The New Zealander could only hope that Alice would not have to release any of her formidable talents with that shotgun tonight. Tonight they would, if all went well, be at least among friends.

The rain had just begun pounding on the roof when the bus pulled to a stop outside the Red Lion public house. Wellington gave Eliza’s hand a squeeze before taking Serena from her, and stepping out. With a nod to Alice, the children were now awake, alert, and stepping into the heavy English rain. They all scampered towards the low white building with its thick layer of thatch, and Eliza just prayed they were not being observed, because the heavy rain coupled with the final hours of their flight had become so harried it was impossible for her to tell otherwise if they were safe or not.

Serena rubbed her eyes sleepily and slipped out of Wellington’s arms. She always wanted to be treated like a grownup, and any sign that she wasn’t made her rather upset. Her eyes widened at the little pub they all gathered in. It was warm. It was familiar.

But was it safe? Did they make it in time?

“Where are we, Mummy?” she asked, taking hold of Eliza’s hand in a way guaranteed to make the agent’s heart melt.

“The Red Lion Inn,” she told her. “This is the only public house in all of England within a stone circle.”

“Avebury is incredibly ancient,” Wellington broke in, but Eliza stopped his history lesson with a well-placed look. She knew the Seven had been through enough without being lectured on a past they had no interest in.

“I’ll book us rooms,” Alice said, gathering the children
around her. A broad-faced woman wearing a rather worn apron was already hustling in their direction. “You go find our friends.”

Christopher did not look impressed that he was being syphoned off with the children, but he nudged Eliza. “I’ll look after ’em,” he said in a low voice.

“I know you will,” she replied with all sincerity.

Wellington was already ahead of her, walking deeper into the pub. A fire was crackling in the hearth, making the room welcoming. With the hour and the weather as it was, there were no locals nursing pints at tables or along the bar. There was only one person present, apart from their own persons and the publican.

Director Sound, a sturdy mug in his hand, stood with his back to the door. For a moment that was all she could see. Her heart surged. While the good doctor remained alive, so did the Ministry.

“Have you seen the circle?” she asked gently. Please, God, if he responded with the passcode, this ridiculous chase would come to a close.

“Far more impressive than Stonehenge.” He turned to look at them both. The smile he gave them both brought tears to her eyes. She had to cover her mouth to smother the sob she knew would escape. “It’s magnificent!”

Doctor Sound was lucky that neither she nor Wellington rushed over to him. Instead they ordered their drinks—a beer for her, a cider for him—and wandered over to join the director at a table. The twinkle in his eyes said all that she needed to know: he was just as glad to see them as they were to see him.

He then said in an overly loud voice, “Can you just imagine all the pagan men and women worshipping their gods here? I bet there were blood sacrifices and lots and lots of carrying on. Some of these rituals celebrated
naked
I dare say!”

Wellington afforded a laugh. Eliza could not help herself in joining him. Throughout all this, the director still carried his endearing oddities.

“Very good to see you, agents Books and Braun, very good indeed,” he chortled. “How was your trip from Germany?”

Wellington raised an eyebrow. “Sir, how could you have possibly known we were . . . ?”

“I have my sources,” the director assured them, though his confidence sounded a little hollow. “Even in such dark times as these, I still have my sources.”

“It was a comfortable enough trip,” Eliza said, taking a sip of her beer. “But we were all worried about what we would find once we got here.” Her eyes darted around the empty room.

“You find us alive,” Sound said gravely. “At least some of us.”

As if on cue the door to the Red Lion banged open and two men burst into the room, both with rainwater pouring off their hats, which they promptly removed.

Eliza’s mouth opened ever so slightly. “Barry Ferguson?”

The young man—who had chiselled features with auburn hair that was neatly trimmed, save for the top which seemed to flop about a bit—straightened up and tugged at the bow tie around his neck. When his eyes fell on Eliza, he seemed to glow with happiness much like a boy on Christmas morning.

“Eliza Doolittle Braun!” he trumpeted, his pitch far too high and his voice far too loud. “Heavens to Betsy I never did think I would see you again!” Then his voice dropped an instant later, his eyes slowly casing the room which would have made no logical sense as he had already identified her boldly and brashly as it were. “Mind you, I didn’t think this would be the place our paths would cross again. Perhaps a lovely pie shop.” And then he pointed at her, his words a manic stream of consciousness. “A
proper
pie company where one could get a decent pork and apple pie, or perhaps a pub somewhere in Auckland—your dad’s maybe?” He clapped his hands. “Right, neveryoumind, we are here, we are reunited, and it’s bloody good to see you again, Eliza Doo!” He turned away as if to say,
Right then, we’re done
, but he held up his finger and waved it in the air as he added, “One more thing—tell your uncle Roger I borrowed his tractor. Hope he doesn’t need it back.”

“You see what I have to work with, Basil?” a gravelly voice replied behind them all.

The man shaking rain free of his cloak had a head of wild white hair. His expression was stern, hardened it would seem over years of service to Her Majesty. Between him and the director, there was a certain familiarity. Their hands clapped together in a firm greeting that softened the agent’s expression.
“Still, I can’t complain about the young upstart. He did get us here after all.”

“Rough journey from the North Isle?” Sound asked.

“South,” the agent corrected with a curt nod. “We were following up on a case in Dunedin.”

“Managed to catch a rugby game while we were there,” the younger man added. “Blimey, those Frogs do know how to keep that ball moving.”

The director gave a little chuckle, then beckoned Wellington and Eliza over. “Lachlan King, I’d like you to meet Agent Wellington Books. Agent Braun, I’m certain you are familiar with.”

“Oh, quite,” he said with a charming smile. Eliza felt her skin prickle at the man’s greeting. She remembered first meeting him in the Wellington office when she enlisted into the Ministry’s service. Old as he was, King was quite charming, especially when sitting opposite a young recruit at a candlelit dinner. “Glad to see that you are still thriving in the field as I imagined you would. And Books, is it?” His brow furrowed and then he turned back to Sound. “Any relation to that rather odd archivist you have back at headquarters?”

“I am that rather odd archivist from headquarters,” Wellington offered before Sound could speak.

“Really?” King straightened slightly, adjusting his cravat, and then looked Wellington from head to toe. “And you’re out in the field now? A rather lofty jump, is it not?”

“Believe me, Lachlan,” Eliza said, placing a gentle hand on Wellington’s arm, “he is more than fitting for the job.”

“Well then”—he rapped a pair of leather gloves against Wellington’s chest—“if you have won the approval of Braun here, that will suffice.”

Sound then motioned to the younger man. “And this is his partner, Barry Ferguson.”

Barry was exactly as Eliza remembered him back when they grew up together in Auckland. Same bright eyes of wonder, same wide smile, same enthusiastic demeanour that, much like a small incendiary, could explode at any moment. She watched him shake Wellington’s hand, so hard that Wellington nearly lost his balance.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said to Wellington, his excitement still apparent as he continued to catch his breath.
“Cannot tell you what a pleasure this is. I mean, you and Eliza Doo here, working together, eh? That’s just brilliant, that is.” Again, his voice dropped in its volume but the intensity was still present as he said, “Big fan of that analytical engine you have in the Archives as well. Tried to make one based on the descriptions we have on record. Almost got it. Couldn’t get it to make a proper cup of tea, though.”

“Perhaps I can help you with a new design once this brouhaha settles down?” Wellington asked the young man.

Barry’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Oh! That would be grand!”

“Barry,” Eliza said, snapping the two men out of their reverie. “When did you join the Ministry?”

“Oh, shortly after you left,” he said, turning back to Eliza. “Seemed like a good job. Good pay, nice people, exciting life traversing the world.” He took a breath, and then his expression of elation slipped away. He now looked a bit embarrassed. It was as if his honesty compelled him even when it was better not to say anything. “It was also a nice way to, well, keep tabs on you, as it were. You know, let your mum and da’ know you were safe.”

“Gentlemen,” Sound interjected quickly as Barry was taking another breath, “if I could debrief with you over here. So far, you are our only representatives of the Antipodeans. I would like to hear the condition of our Australia and New Zealand operatives.”

The three of them adjourned to the fireplace as Wellington and Eliza countered to a small table by the window. Raindrops large and heavy pounded against the panes of glass, occasional claps of thunder making their frames rattle ever so slightly. Eliza took in a deep breath of her own now and smiled. It was good to see Lachlan and Barry again. Delightful reminders of home.

Well, perhaps not
entirely
delightful as Wellington asked the inevitable. “Doolittle?”

“It’s a family name, I will have you know.” She then grumbled, “You have no idea how close I came to be called Philippena, another family name I was quite happy to avoid.”

“Doolittle?” Wellington asked again.

The second time asking crooked her eyebrow. “Drop the query, Books, if you wish to
enjoy
my company tonight. Or ever, for that matter.”

On the door opening again, Eliza felt her own smile widen, a rush of both euphoria and relief on the agent shaking the rain free of his own cloak. It was impossible not to recognise the enigmatic agent of the Ministry straightaway, but then again it was impossible to mistake the man for anyone else considering the ebony hood completely encasing his entire head, a pair of dark lenses set where eyes would be.

It was also impossible to mistake Agent Maulik Smith for any other when his synthesised voice tickled your ears. “Oh my goodness, Agent Braun is present. And here I thought I was in a place of safety.”

“Stuff it, Maulik, and give me a hug!” Eliza pulled the bulky man close. “I’ve been wondering about our comrades abroad.”

“Indeed, and far be it an easy task for me to simply ‘blend in’ with the locals,” he chuckled, his laughter crackling through the tiny set of speakers in his throat. “Still, I managed to escape Kolkata. Once out of India’s borders, it was nearly smooth going.”