Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences (29 page)

Joe chuckled darkly, his voice back to Cockney.

“Wrong. We still have to put an end to the murderer. Allemande.”

“You mean capture her and deliver her to the Ministry.”

He paused before answering. “Roight. Of course that’s what I meant.”

The climb down had been a nightmare, but Joe’s urging kept her moving. The sun was just turning the sky a cheerful pink as they hobbled into the bakery. Her shop girls stared, their mouths in perfect Os, but Anne-Marie merely flapped her good hand and demanded a box of éclairs, which she gave to Joe before pointing upstairs. He took it in ruined but expensive gloves, and only as he preceded her up to her apartment did she notice the bloody rips in the back of his jacket where the grotesque’s talons had torn into muscle.

They spoke little as they tended to each other’s wounds with the dusty medical kit she had never opened before. Her hand would always bear a shiny pink scar across the palm, but it would still function. His back required a few stitches, which she was able to manage. He grilled her on Madam Allemande: how to find her room, how many statues were there and whether they were all clockworks; and what she had said about tunnels, and catacombs, and Englishmen.

“Are you sure?” Joe asked for the tenth time.

Anne-Marie pulled the suture too tightly and snapped, “Of course I’m not sure, you oaf! I was drugged and nearly thrown from Notre Dame by a clockwork grotesque. We’ll go after her first thing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s too late.”

She snipped the thread and held up her raw, scarred hand, and he fumed silently but didn’t press the matter. Still, something about the way he kept staring at the clock and her door didn’t sit right. Just in case he had ideas about apprehending Allemande without her, Anne-Marie waited until his back was turned to twist open a sleeping pill and pour its contents into one of the éclairs. Within moments of devouring the pastry she presented on a doily, the giant oaf was snoring on her floor.

Ever since being assigned to Paris twenty years ago, Anne-Marie had dutifully written up her report every month and sent it on to the Ministry office in London. And every month, the same pigeon had arrived with her cheque, thanking her for her service to the Queen.

It took her some time to compose the report for her first real assignment, and she drank cup after cup of black coffee to the tune of Joe’s snores while she attempted to record every victory and flaw of their escapade. Finally satisfied that she’d provided the most accurate and honest account possible, she limped to the roof. Slipping her missive into a metal tube, she released the pigeon and watched it soar into the clouds toward London. Her heart was a scramble of feelings: had she done well, or had she very nearly failed? Would she remain active and work as Joe’s partner, or would she go back to being a boring baker, forever waiting for excitement to walk through her front door? Would they wait for word from this Doctor Sound or move on Allemande tomorrow? If Joe truly wanted to take down the mad cabaret owner, would Anne-Marie be strong enough to stop him and ensure that he followed protocol?

As she closed the wire door, she noticed an unfamiliar squab pecking at crumbs among her brood; one of the shop girls must’ve found it and forgotten to tell her. She pulled it out and unrolled the message.

Dear Miss Bouvier,

Status: Activated

Your mission: Theodore Gilly, a member of the House of Usher and an enemy of the Ministry, is en route to Notre Dame de Paris to investigate and revenge the death of his brother, Ned Gilly. He will be traveling under an alias, but his size and gorilla-like visage are difficult to hide; an image is included. Gilly is adept at accents, disguises, interpersonal manipulation, hand-to-hand combat, and weaponry. Intercept him at the Gare du Nord; full bodily harm is allowable. In this case, always shoot first; he’ll kill you if he thinks you’re a threat. As we are unable to get a second agent into Paris in time, we are promoting you to an active status, and sending in our closest agent, currently stationed in Callais. Agent Joseph Tipping is half a day behind Gilly and will assist your investigation upon arrival. Agent Tipping is also delivering a replacement tracking ring. Please send this bird back with a message to confirm status and compliance.

Welcome to active duty! Your mother would be proud. Be careful.

Doctor Sound

The Mystery
of the Thrice Dead Man

In Which Agent Books Takes a Paid Holiday

J.R. Blackwell

One Thousand Twelve Feet above the Atlantic Ocean

September 8, 1894

Wellington clung by his fingertips to a freezing metal pipe on the outside of the giant airship
Hammarström
as it zipped through the sky. He chanced a look down, to see the clouds floating below him, and below that, the wide expanse of the rolling ocean. From the balcony above him, where he had been so unceremoniously tossed, beyond the rush of air outside the ship, he heard the crackle of electricity and a loud shriek.

“Not a real mission,” he muttered, clinging to the cold pipe. “Practically a paid holiday,” he growled, and looked up towards the ship full of pirates that waited for him if he could find his way inside.

The Ministry Archives

London, England

September 3, 1894

Agent Wellington Books, Archivist to the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences and the greatest solider that no one had ever heard of, wound the knob on his pocket watch, smoothed his lapel, dusted a speck off his shoulder and opened the first of the three folders in front of him.

Wellington was adding an extra layer of depth to the archives, noting files not simply by agent and region, but also by city, and notable individuals who had been involved in the various missions.

This new practice could allow for greater ease of research in existing cases. His detailed data extraction had led him to three cases that each bore similar names. It was when he was entering the name into his analytical engine that he realised that there were multiple entries, the only problem being that each noted the name as “deceased.” This morning he pulled the three files to review them for the circumstances of these deaths. It could be coincidence. Or it could be an indication of sinister deeds.

In the folder was a field report from an agent active in the West Indies, where a wizard had been reported to be holding captives and making them work in the mines. As Wellington read, he could see the scene play out before him. Though case files were dry reading to some, for the Archivist, they were little operas, and they breathed their stories into his brain as he read.

September 5, 1891

The Great Mines, Matabeleland

I am Agent Mary Land, and I do not believe in magic. I believe in justice. It was justice that brought me to the remote Matabeleland mines, justice that lead me to uncover Dragomir Negrubine’s slave trade, and justice that lead me to the entrance of the open mine during the deluge.

Negrubine, the wizard of the great mines, had already kidnapped many sons and daughters in the small village when I arrived. They said that Dragomir Negrubine used the young men and women as slaves for the mines, keeping them captive with terrible magic, the manipulation of lighting and fire.

I might not have made it to the mines if the albino giant hadn’t been my guide. He instructed me to call him by his Christian name, Joseph. He told a story of a lost sister who had been kidnapped, and later, found dead, grit and blood under her nails. He had sworn vengeance against the wizard, and it was only he, among all the villagers, who dared to go with me to oppose him.

The rains were coming down in dreadful floods, an inch of water at our feet, pushing us back, our feet sticking in deep mud as they trudged onward. My weapon was useless in this flood, but there were slaves at the mines, locked by Negrubin’s strange weaponry and the fear of his magic. The women of the village had presented me with a sword before I left and told me to avenge their stolen daughters. I had no intention to kill the wizard. I believed in justice and would see him delivered to the law.

Dragomir Negrubin was waiting for us by the open maw of the mine, his face lit from below by the fire at his feet that burned a blue flame despite the downpour. He had long black hair that was tied back from his face, and he wore a long, purple robe. His blue eyes had dark circles under them, as if he had been robbed of sleep by his evil deeds. He sneered at me as I unsheathed the sword.

“Dragomir Negrubine!” I cried. “You are under arrest for trade in slaves, theft, and illegal occupation.” I could feel the water matting hair to my face.

He laughed, his head tilting backwards, manic with joy. “Oh, and you think that you’ll take me in, little Mary, quite contrary?”

How did he know my name? I pointed the sword at his chest. “You don’t call me by that name,” I proclaimed. “I am an Agent of the Empire, and you are to face justice.”

The wizard opened his arms. “Then run me though, and we’ll see this drama ended. Because you’ll never take me alive!”

I shook my head “There’s been enough death, I am taking you to the law where you will answer for your crimes.”

Joseph held up a jagged knife. “No, he dies today!” he cried. I ran to stop him but the giant was too fast, and he ran the wizard through, the blood spurting from the wizard’s chest and on to their hands, washing away in the rains of the monsoon.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “But I couldn’t allow—not after what he did,” the giant said.

I looked back towards the village, where tiny lights flickered in the darkness.

Wellington closed the file. Joseph had escaped justice, fleeing into the night. Agent Land, alone in unknown territory with a group slaves to free from dangerous conditions had to choose between going after him, and freeing captives. She, rightly, chose to free the victims, but when she resumed her search, Dragomir Negrubine was gone. His body was never recovered. Since the “wizard” engaged in the terrible slave trade was dead, the case had been closed and the file rightly put in the archives.

But then, there was another case file, one year later, from Agent Gerrold Collins of Scotland.

September 10, 1892: Scotland: On the moor of Obin

The children of the town of Obin had disappeared in the night, their bodies found, mangled on the moor. Some said an animal dragged them out of their beds. Others said that it was a cursed creature, half animal, half man, possessed of a demon.

I am a man of reason, of logic, and that the face of such a horror could only be that of a man. “I will prove you this,” I had said as the men of the town and I trudged across the moor, “that despite what you think you’ve seen, there are no such creatures as werewolves.”

A terrible howl rose from the mist and the five men who accompanied me trembled. “Dragomir is real,” said the old man who had guided me to the moor. “Believe or not, he runs with a pack of wolves, and they devour those unwise enough to meddle with him.”

“He may be a killer,” I said, turning towards the echoing howl, “but he is only a man.”

Then there was a flash of lighting, and outlined against the hill was a shape, a hideous shape whose top half was wolf, and bottom like a man. He was running in a strange loping gait. In front of him a child ran, screaming a high-pitched wail. Someone pressed a rifle into my hand. “Silver bullets,” were the words whispered, but all I knew in that moment was that a murderer was after a child, and I raised the rifle and took the shot.

The bang echoed in the moor, and the creature fell. The young doctor, who was with me, a fresh-faced blond young man who was as mild as he was tall, ran towards the fallen creature. I arrived at the scene as the doctor was opening his bag, bringing out bandaging. Laying before us was a half-naked man, a blood-filled hole in his chest. Blood pooled under his tall, lean, body. His long dark hair spread around his head.

The man looked up, his ice-blue eyes focusing on me. “You. . .freed me,” he croaked, and then exhaled. The doctor leaned over, and pressed fingers to his neck “Dragomir is dead,” he declared.

Wellington looked up from the file. “Dragomir,” he said, tasting the name. That the name had appeared twice could be coincidence, but it was this third file that tied events together. Perhaps this was all too invigorating. It was time for mid-morning tea.

He had programmed the Analytical Machine precisely to make him the perfect cup for each time of day. For morning, a fine English breakfast, brewed loose-leaf in a special ceramic teapot that was exclusively for black teas. This would not be dulled with milk or sugar, but experienced head-on, the faint scents of honey, clove and lemon, to awake the senses for the day ahead. His tea would be brewed to specifications, to exactly the temperature of one hundred degrees centigrade, and only too steep for exactly four minutes. Later, there may be an Earl Grey in the afternoon, a definitive mix of his own devising, or, should he be feeling particularly adventurous, a darjeeling, the astringency of which left a calm awareness over the soul. The Analytical Machine, a steady sweet hum in the background of the archives, sung a little melody, and the tea was ready.

Wellington regarded his domain, the archives as they lay before him, silent and organised, all things just-as they should be. Except, of course, for the three files on his desk. The last file of the three, only a year old, stared at him. He needed to review it before he brought it to the attention of Doctor Sound, to be sure that what he had to share was relevant. He took a sip from his cup and opened the last folder from
Agent Sylvia Rodgers.

September 7, 1893: The Carpathian Mountains, Romania

I faced Baron Negrubine at the edge of the cliff. The Priest stood behind me, holding up his cross like a shield. I had tried to dissuade the Priest from following me, but he insisted it would be folly to face the “monster” alone.

The wind whipped the Baron’s long dark hair and his red cloak billowed around him like an angry cloud. “You are too late,” he said, his fingers curling under the chin of the beautiful young woman in front of him, “It’s already been done, She has married me, and her lands are mine!”

I pulled my Remington-Elliot Derringer and declared, “No marriage entered under duress is lawful.” I hope he heard me over these damnable winds. Strands of red hair were tickling my cheeks as they flew around my face.

The Baron’s blood red tongue slid over his teeth. “I am not of law,” he said, his voice strong despite the powerful wind. “I am of Hell itself!” He thrust the girl in front of him, his gloved hands tight on her small shoulders. “Would you take the shot, Agent Rodgers, and risk killing my beautiful wife?”

The Priest stepped in front of me and raised a crucifix. “God will judge you!” he cried.

The Baron shoved the young woman to the side and backed away, hissing. I tried to aim my Derringer, but the tall, broad-shouldered Priest stood in my way on the narrow precipice. I dared not try to move him, for fear of shoving him off.

“Out of the way!” I ordered.

“God!” cried the Priest, “and the sun!” In the distance, over the eastern mountains, the sun peaked on the horizon, a sliver of gold in the blanket of the velvety purple sky. Smoke curled from under the cloak of the Baron, and he screamed, his voice high, like an evil bird.

I couldn’t see clearly as the smoke reached me, stinging my eyes, making them water. The blond Priest approached the Baron, holding his crucifix high, and the Baron toppled backwards off the great mountain cliff.

I coughed, blinking away the stinging tears and crawled to the edge of the cliff to peer over the edge. Below, in the shadows, I saw nothing but smoke and mist.

“The demon is dead,” said the Priest, putting his hands around my shoulders, pulling me away from the edge. “Now, let us tend to the living.”

“He wasn’t a demon,” said the girl, looking up at us as if noticing us for the first time. “He was a man. And his name was Dragomir.”

Wellington stood up. Two was a coincidence, three was a connection. These cases needed to be reopened, which could only be done by the highest authority. It was time to go see Doctor Sound. He took the elevator to the administrative offices, folders in hand.

Books arrived just in time to see Agent Campbell, his face a deep scowl, emerge from the Director’s office.

“Ah!” said Wellington, “Agent Campbell, Good afternoon—”

Campbell grunted and brushed past him. “There’s no sense in that man,” he growled.

Miss Shillingworth held open the door for the archivist and motioned him to enter. Doctor Sound stood, pushing his portly frame from his seat when Wellington entered, and they shook hands. “Agent Books, please have a seat.” His tweed suit was well-fitted to his frame. Wellington always admired good fit on a well-made suit.

On the desk facing Wellington, there was a jumbled place setting, as if a mad waiter was preparing for service. The napkin was messily folded on the wrong side, and the soupspoon was placed on the inside of the other settings, nearly under the plate. He sat in front of the place setting, eyeing it curiously. “Agent Campbell appeared quite upset,” he remarked as he moved the soupspoon into the correct location and adjusted the water glass to the correct side of the wine goblet.

Doctor Sound, nodded, learning forward. “Unfortunately, I had to pass on his involvement with a mission. He simply wasn’t qualified.”

Wellington folded the napkin and laid it, carefully, next to the plate. “Interesting. I always thought him a most capable field agent, although his field reports could do with more…” He paused, cleared his throat. In for a penny… “…relevant details.”