The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (8 page)

Eliza leaned across and squeezed Alice’s hand, just once. “You did the right thing—
very much
the right thing. The rest of the children are safe because of you. Well done.”

Her maid suddenly let out a sharp cry and crossed the kitchen to a wall where rucksacks hung. She grabbed one and opened it on the centre table. “The children snatched this from that doctor’s place. It is something you must . . .”

A rapid knocking made everyone in the kitchen jump.

“Miss, there’s people outside, comin’ this way!” Liam shouted even as he kept banging.

Eliza and Wellington darted to the window and carefully nudged aside one of the shutters.

Five men were immediately obvious, making their way to the door of the château. Eliza’s right hand dropped to her pistol.

Wellington stayed her hand. “Look at the tweed they are wearing . . .”

Her eye was not used to taking in fashion details in such situations; but Eliza, on recognising the pattern, let out a long sigh. A sigh that turned into a soft groan.

“Who else wears such a dreadful tweed with such cheap bowler hats?” Wellington slowly shook his head. “The boys from the Department.”

“The Department.” She was so mad she could spit. “This is the last thing we need right now.”

The Department of Imperial Inconveniences—formed in the last few years and fancying themselves as dreadfully important—were, in Eliza’s mind, best qualified in cleaning up after the Ministry. Hardly what she would deem “reliable” when it came to support or competency of any kind in the field. If they cocked up their cover, as these pillocks were prone to do, Eliza was going to have someone’s guts for garters.

As she turned away from the window to go deal with them, her face flushed with annoyance, Wellington laid a hand on her arm.

“You don’t have the best history with the Department,” he said softly. “Mind if I go out and share a quick word with them?”

Eliza let out an angry grumble, but saw the sense of it. She’d never been an agent known for her diplomacy, especially inter-departmentally. “Fine,” she said, flicking her hand in the direction of the door. “But those fools owe us a drink when all this is sorted out!”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Wellington said with a shrug.

She followed him to the door, grabbing a Remington-Elliot, and allowing it to spin on her finger before presenting it to Wellington handle first. “Take this.”

“Tosh, Eliza,” he scoffed. “Perhaps Doctor Sound also picked up your distress signal. They are probably our extraction team.”

She heard him reassure Liam of the same thing, probably trying to calm him down too, just before he stepped outside to disappear into the sunshine.

This extraction had better lead to the fastest of debriefings. The sooner they returned to London, the sooner they could be on their way to finding Callum.

“Miss Eliza,” she heard Liam—still by the door—ask, “are these fine gents taking us back to Old Blighty?”

“Certainly, and once we’re done at the Department,” Eliza grumbled as she walked over to a counter, “we are going to get Callum.”

She remembered that in one of these cabinets . . .

“There you are,” she whispered on finding the bottle of scotch.

While she poured herself several fingers’ worth of the spirit, her eyes strayed to a modest stack of newspapers on the
counter top. Just as she had trained the maid for this situation, Alice purchased local newspapers, staying apprised of what was going on wherever she managed to stop for any given time. The agent let out a sigh, and thumbed back, following Alice and the children’s journey in reverse. The newspaper at the bottom, a rag she recognised from London, was devoted entirely to the rumoured plans for the Diamond Jubilee celebration next year. The Queen had just recovered from a bout of ill health, and everyone was worried the old dear was going to pop her clogs before hitting the actual event—though no one wanted to say it.

As Eliza flicked through the pages, her eyes found a headline on the second page. It was a black-bordered column of a sensational nature, this one reading in bold letters:

THE TERRORS OF TECHNOLOGY:
Another Motorcar Accident Only Impresses the Dangers of Automated Travel Machines

Usually her attention would wander onwards to the latest news from the outskirts of the Empire, but she had to know why this journalist would instil a fear of science into the paper’s readers. Maybe this was Welly’s influence. Something was nagging in the back of her head about the newspapers, but her eyes had already taken in a name that washed away any chance of figuring out what that was.

It only took a moment to process the words.

She immediately flipped the newspapers to the one dated on their arrival in the country. She quickly scanned the columns . . .

. . . and found another familiar name staring back at her.

Eliza called out, feeling her heart pound a pace, “Alice, I’m going to need something from you.
Now!
”

Wherein a Man’s Past Catches Up with Him, Much to His Relief

I
t was damn hot in Queensland. Not much surprising there. It was one of the true consistencies of the world after all.

Luckily for Bruce Campbell, formerly of Her Majesty’s Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, it was a good excuse for a beer—not that he really needed one. Still, finding a pub in Rockhampton was about as easy as throwing a stone and hitting dirt.

Bruce decided that today the Royal Fitzroy Hotel would get his business. He’d been too long under a noon sun chasing the weasely sod who had bushwhacked his client’s train, and now it was time for a break. He was sweating under his hat, and it was running down his back. It didn’t matter if you were born to it, there was something about Queensland heat a body couldn’t get used to.

Like most things in life,
Bruce thought,
you just have to learn to cope
—and it just so happened that beer was his favoured mechanism. His grey stallion, Eureka, was ready for a rest too. They’d both reached the end of haring around the bush for one day. When Bruce slid his long, lean form down out of the saddle, Eureka let out a long grateful breath, and
shook himself. The tall stallion didn’t need to be hitched, and it was the former agent’s policy not to anyway; it was sure as eggs that as soon as he did there would be the need for a quick getaway.

Bruce patted the steed’s sweating flank, rewarding the faithful horse with shade, a well-deserved rest, and some water. He left Eureka swatting flies with his dark tail as he strode into the hotel, knocking dirt off his boots while taking stock of the pub. It was the usual round of ne’er-do-wells with nothing better to do in the middle of the day. A collection of broken-down miners, old men . . . and him.

He’d only been in town for three days, but the barman knew him by now. He nodded, and a shot of rotgut whiskey and a beer appeared. It was the kind of magic that Bruce appreciated. After he knocked back the shot, he proceeded to the beer with relish. The barman filled the shot glass a second time without comment or having to ask.

It bothered Bruce that his target was appearing more and more elusive. Without the Ministry’s resources, tracking someone down was much harder than he’d expected. Still, it was this or stay home with the wife, and sell insurance.

A fate worse than death as far as Bruce was concerned.

He’d much rather stay out in the wilds of the outback than go home to Emily. She had a lady’s name, but carried the disposition of a ship’s angry quartermaster. She was not so terrible the first week he was home. In fact, she was quite pleased to have her beau back in the same hemisphere. The pleasantries faded rather quickly in the second, and by the month’s end, he was reminded of why he had not hesitated when assigned to the home office. So what was a man with his particular set of skills to do after an agency had dismissed him?

What he did best—catch those that would do ill. No, he would stick it out in Rockhampton and eventually get his man . . .

. . . after he’d drunk a few more beers.

When someone jostled his elbow causing him to spill his beer, Bruce felt his temper flare. It was a double offence. For one, he was reminded that his reflexes were not what they had once been. He had always been underestimated as a bit of a lumbering lummox, but when he needed to remain alert he
could avoid brushing up against complete strangers. Complete strangers could easily turn unfriendly, and he knew one agent too many who never made it home on account of that. Every day away from the Ministry’s service meant his reflexes would grow dull. Such laxity could end up costing him his life, considering the colourful types he crossed back in his cloak-and-dagger days. He hated that feeling.

The second offence, of course, was the wasting of perfectly good beer. No, it certainly wasn’t
good
beer, but it was cold and it was his. Now part of it was on the floor.

He slammed his mug on the bar and was about to deliver an elbow of his own when the smell of roses reached his nose. A woman.
No,
Bruce corrected himself,
a lady.
A smile stretched on his face before his eyes had properly focused on her, a face currently concealed by a large hat that was tilted towards him. Hopefully the face was as pleasing as the figure, an ample bosom just visible. The lady was also prettily dressed—too pretty for this particular pub in this particular town.

Bruce cleared his throat. “Now usually I’m the one buying drinks, but I believe in women’s rights and all that. Seeing as you made me spill a bit, I believe—”

But his clever jape abruptly ceased when the woman finally turned to him with a greeting. “Hello, sweetie.”

There were many women from Bruce’s past. Many. Perhaps numbering into triple numbers, but there were some that he would prefer never to cross paths with again for a number of reasons. Topping this long list of ladies best left unseen was Beatrice Muldoon, the fair lady in front of him. It was hard to tell with her sitting down just how tall she was, but he recalled very well her towering over him last time they’d parted. He also recalled what a splendid right hook she carried as she had punched him several times in the face. From recollection, he’d gotten blood over her pretty dress and that had made her quite cross. That night had been the last straw with her when it came to their occasional trysts.

The news of his marital status had also not impressed the tall blonde woman from the Department of Imperial Inconveniences one bit. He presumed that was what had finally severed ties between them.

Maybe there had been a change of opinion. Perhaps she’d spent some long lonely nights thinking on their times together. He was pleased to see that she was still the vision he remembered her to be.

Bruce leaned back slightly on his bar stool. “G’day, Beatrice. Bloody hot, isn’t it?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she said, picking up a beer mug of her own and taking a swig.
Yeah,
Bruce thought as he watched her drink,
that always kept me comin’ back. Refined and posh, like a proper lady, but a hard drinker and stout brawler.
Beatrice set down her drink and asked, “I wondered if you’d come home after that nasty piece of business with the ‘Spooks’ and your cock-up.”

Thinking on his failure to the Ministry and that particular parting Bruce still found painful, and the Australian had learned the drink also helped him avoid thinking about that pain.

“Well, I had made my bed, now hadn’t I?” He shrugged as he took a good swig of his own beer. “Perhaps it was time for me to come back to Australia. When a man loses all that he has known and all that he has come to believe in, what better to do than go back to the beginning, wonder what you hath wrought, and find out if you can make it right?”

“How poetic of you, Bruce,” she said, allowing her eyes to wander up and down him. “I think excommunication has released the philosopher in you.”

He snorted. “Coming home after the things I have seen and done has given me a perspective. I’m trying to appreciate it.” He then pointed a finger at her and warned, “And while you may think you and your Department types are clever with the nicknames, they aren’t welcome by me.”

“Oh, how cute for a Spook,” Beatrice teased, “getting your dander up for an agency that wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

He gave her a wry grin. “They were good to me. I could have been better to them. Mea culpa.”

“So this is how you are spending your penance?” Beatrice asked, taking in the colourful assortment of outcasts. “Bounty-hunting train robbers? A far cry from what goes bump in the night, isn’t it?”

Bruce noticed he was pounding down his beer rather
quickly, and this concerned him as those instincts he knew were softening up the longer he was away from the Ministry were now kicking up a bit in his noggin. It could just be a coincidence that Beatrice Muldoon, agent of the Department of Imperial Inconveniences, was in Rockhampton, at the same pub as him, at the time he happened to ride into town on a bounty that only he knew the details of . . .

Bruce had never been very fond of coincidences, and in his line of work they were suspicious.

Behind the bar, in the dingy reflection of its mirror, the former Ministry agent let his eyes skip around the room a little. He knew exactly what to look for, particularly as this was the Department he was dealing with. There was no telltale sign of that signature tweed immediately apparent, but considering the amount of dust covering everyone, and not to mention the dim lighting in here, Bruce took cold comfort in not seeing any other Department agents. He gestured for another beer just to appear calm, but when it arrived he wrapped his fingers around it and waited for her to speak. She didn’t.

Because it was Beatrice, because the two of them enjoyed a past together, he decided to play along. “So, Beatrice, exactly what—or who—brings you all the way down under to the backside of Her Majesty’s royal bum?”

Beatrice folded her hands in front of her. “You know how I hate the cold.” Her voice was surprisingly light for such a tall woman, and marked with the stain of the upper class. “I thought a change of scenery was in order. Somewhere warmer.”

He couldn’t help laughing at that. “Darlin’, you’ve come to the right place. We only have two seasons down here: bloody hot, and bloody hot and wet. But I don’t think either of those are the reason for your little visit to Rocky.” He leaned forwards a bit. “You aren’t getting lonely, are you?”

The Department agent stiffened, and a flicker of anger over her features told him she was only barely keeping herself in check. That temperament was yet another reason he’d enjoyed her company so much. Beatrice had always been a very passionate person.

“Not at all,” she finally replied silkily. “In fact, I am far too busy to get lonely. The Department is keeping me on my toes.”

“Really?” Bruce tilted his head. “Now that’s quite a turn as
only a few months ago, I heard—oh, what was that bloke’s name?—Bernard Wilson, that’s it. I heard Wilson say the Department was coming up a bit short when it came to casework and funding for projects.”

“Oh, we’re getting the funding now,” she replied, and now there was a hint of a smile around her lips. “The higher ups finally came round.”

He didn’t let it show on his face, but that didn’t settle well with Bruce. The Department had always been the poor sister of the Ministry, either taking the leftover cases that were the most ridiculous or cleaning up after the Ministry when things got messy. A good example was that whole Phoenix Society hullabaloo. Tidying up after that affair, and trying to quell the two neighbouring towns that the Havelock Manor employed, stretched their resources thin. Truthfully, investigating strange lights in the sky and tracking down fairy folk made the Department the butt of many a joke back at the Ministry. Well, the butt of
his
jokes when he was at the Ministry, anyway.

Hearing that the Department now had received favours from those closer to the Crown made his skin crawl.

Bruce pushed his beer back and forth a little. “Did you using any of your amazing charms have anything to do with that? I bet lots of those lords would love a—”

Beatrice cut him off before he could say anything more. “That has nothing to do with it. Things have changed.” Her ice-chip blue eyes locked with his. “And that uncanny perception of yours is exactly the reason why I happen to be here in charming Rockhampton. We are in need of talent.”

That look was so sharp, Bruce felt pinned to the bar stool for a moment. He knew when a lady wanted him; it was a special ability of his, honed from years of experience, and the look Beatrice was giving him now was familiar. He covered his surprise and the twitch in his trousers by taking a small sip of his beer.

She must have recognised the look on his face, because her jaw tightened again. “Not that kind of talent, you git! I meant, for the Department. We have a vacancy.”

Bruce snorted as one of his jokes, specifically the one about how those not good enough for the Ministry went to
work for the Department, sprang to mind. “I don’t know if you can afford me, darlin’.”

Beatrice leaned in close. From this angle he had quite a delightful view of her impressive cleavage. “We need you, love . . . and we have the money to allow you that kind of life you enjoy. Excitement. Danger.” She gave Bruce a wry smile as she reached for the shot of whiskey he’d forgotten about, and toasted to him. “Maybe, even me.”

The mention of money did intrigue him, since he did prefer wine, women, and song to beer, whores, and accordion music. The offer from Beatrice, as well as the sight of her kicking back that whiskey, made this development even more tempting. However, he was not going to slide into bed with the Department without knowing exactly what they wanted. And they must have wanted something badly from him to have come all the way to Australia.

“I’m afraid my skills have gotten a bit rusty,” he said mildly. It wasn’t that hard to be convincing as she had snuck up on him. “More to the point, why would the Department hire one excommunicated from the game? I am damaged goods, especially when it comes to being a fella you can trust.”