Ministry Protocol: Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Read online

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  It’s not until I’m en route to home once again that I remember the little ginger jar. A serving man packed it away before I left Peking. With nothing to do while on board, I decide to catalogue all the artefacts of my travels. Unfortunately, the little jar is stowed somewhere in the hold below.

  It’s a star-filled night and the moon is just rising above the waves. The boat plunges between troughs and I let the fresh sea air fill my lungs.

  It’s then that I notice a dark shape slinking across the deck above.

  I rub my eyes, trying not to stumble across the deck when the ship pitches. I look up, searching for the tell-tale shape.

  I would almost swear that a great cat just crossed in front of the railing.

  Then, I hear the scream.

  It’s faint. A fairly good distance off, but it’s coming from the direction of the hold. I sprint past the flickering gaslights that line the corridor.

  The hold door is open. The screaming has been replaced by ominous silence. I draw my pistol, though firing it could potentially light this place up like a torch. Perhaps the threat of that will be enough to stop whatever is happening.

  I creep down the stairs. There’s a light shimmering like the moon on water, and for a moment I’m filled with the terrible certainty that the hull has been breached and the ship is sinking. My stomach knots in that familiar ache. I’ve not felt this since Peking. I had hoped not to feel it again until we were at least docked.

  I try to keep silent, but among ghosts, the merest breath is a betrayal of the living.

  The woman I saw back in the Old Summer Palace glares at me. She is kneeling over someone. A quick glance tells me he’s already dead.

  “What are you doing?” I say, striding boldly toward her. “Did you kill this man?”

  She is shaking her head softly as if she doesn’t understand, but I know she must. I can tell by her eyes that she recognizes my expression.

  “I don’t know why you’ve followed me, but I will banish you at the first opportunity, I swear it.”

  She understands that, too, because her lips curve in a wicked smile.

  “Try it,” she says in halting English.

  She dissolves into fog.

  The ship’s crew rushes downstairs as I’m approaching the body. It’s a man—one of the crewmembers I’d seen helping load heavy crates when I’d first come on board. His throat is torn out. The large muscles of his arms have been gnawed on.

  A ghost couldn’t possibly have done this. But a tiger or a leopard…

  I’ve seen the damage those creatures can do.

  Three sailors gape in horror. I hear the cabin boy weep into another man’s shoulder.

  “Who would do such a thing?” one of them asks me.

  “Not who,” I say, standing. “What.”

  One of the men has the good sense to come and cover the corpse with a sheet. “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Gentlemen,” I say, “do you happen to know if anyone has smuggled a leopard on board?”

  I am as incredulous at the words coming out of my mouth as they are.

  “There were lots of large crates packed up in Tianjin. I reckon one could have been smuggled in then,” one sailor says.

  “I suggest you have someone inspect those crates then. Its secret lair is likely to be in one of them.”

  “How do you know so much?” the man who covered the corpse asks.

  “I’ve seen stranger things than you can possibly dream in the wildlands of Asia. I’m telling you—nothing but a cat could do this.”

  They don’t dispute me again.

  “I’ll tell the captain,” one of them growls.

  I nod. “I urge everyone to keep their doors locked,” I say. “Especially at night.” I won’t say anything about the ghost following me. She is mine and I must deal with her in my own way. Any credibility I’ve built just now would be destroyed in an instant if I so much as hinted at anything that smacks of Spiritualism.

  It’s only when I get back to my room that I realise I’d forgotten to search the hold for my crates so I could begin cataloguing them, starting with the ginger jar.

  The murdered man is buried at sea very quietly, so as not to arouse passenger fears on board. I am dubious that this will be the last killing. Once a tiger or leopard develops a taste for human flesh, it can never be sated by anything else.

  I conduct my own investigation, sweeping the ship from stem to stern, but there are places I can’t go.

  When I try to go into the hold, a burly-looking boatswain is standing at the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He shakes his head at me, defying me to protest.

  “But I just need…”

  One eyebrow rises.

  I suppose it’s time to talk with the captain.

  I’ve been avoiding it because the captain is an old warhorse, the sort who will wag his jaw until your ears hurt. He’ll go on about his own bravery and expect you to corroborate until the sun rises or he sinks under the table from too much drink. Unfortunately, the former is more likely than the latter.

  But if I want access to the hold, there’s only one place I can go.

  When I knock on the door to the captain’s quarters, I’m still trying to think of a better plan. I’m in full military dress. That should count for something.

  A serving man ushers me in at about the same moment another arrives with tea things.

  The captain is already seated. He feeds bits of cake as it arrives on the table to the little white and brown dog in his lap. He doesn’t rise when I enter and barely spares me a glance. He is in no mood for games.

  “Seat yourself, Major.”

  “Gordon, sir,” I say, trying not to bristle. I’m quite certain he knows who I am. But this is his domain and apparently he will lord it over us as he sees fit.

  The serving man pours me tea, and the clean bergamot scent uplifts me almost immediately.

  “Look, Gordon,” he says, “I hear a man died and you are saying that there is some sort of tiger or such nonsense on board.” He lets the little dog lick his fingers before he picks up a teacake and pops it in his bearded mouth.

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Well,” he picks up his teacup and eyes me over its gold-ringed rim before he takes a swallow. “I sincerely doubt that a large cat did this. But I honestly don’t care whether there’s a leopard on board or not. I want you to find it and dispose of it.”

  “Sir?”

  “That is to say…find whatever did this—man or beast—and kill it. Before it harms anyone else. We’ll make a big show of getting rid of the leopard so that everyone will know they’re safe.”

  I swallow. The lapdog looks at me with disdain, and I notice the little red bows tied around its floppy ears.

  “Sir, let me see if I understand correctly. You want me to find something and kill it and make a big show of disposing of it, regardless of whether it’s the cause of the problem?”

  The captain leans forward. The little dog grunts in disgust and slides off his lap. “Do you know what happens on board a ship when mass hysteria takes hold, Major?”

  I do. And it doesn’t just happen on board ships. It can happen in barracks, in the jungle, anywhere people are enclosed.

  “People die, Major. Lots of people. We need to send a message to the killer that we will deal swiftly with such actions. I think you’re just the man to do it.”

  “Why?” I say.

  “This leopard thing was your idea. You find it and take care of it.”

  I suppress a sigh. “I will need access to the hold. Most of my things are packed away there.” Not to mention the storage crates where something—or someone—might hide. But I still believe, despite the captain’s doubts, that I’m right. I saw a large cat on the deck. The sailor’s wounds are the sort such a creature would make. “You should advise people to keep their berths locked and not go abroad at night,” I add.

  “
Fine,” he says. “But I want this dealt with swiftly. The longer people feel unsafe, the more hazardous they become.”

  There seems to be no room for further discussion. “Yes, sir.”

  I dislike the way he commands me. I am not, after all, in the Navy or any other such marine division. He truly has no call to enlist me in giving aid. But he is right in that something must be done, and I will not shirk my duty to protect the citizens of the Empire.

  I have a gut-wrenching feeling that my solution may not be as neat as the captain would like it to be.

  After I leave his quarters, I return to the hold where the boatswain still stands, arms folded.

  “Let me pass,” I say.

  He shakes his head.

  “Captain’s orders, boatswain! Send the cabin boy to confirm, if you don’t believe me.”

  That seems to do it for him. He knows I wouldn’t say that unless it was true. He also knows he can find me if I’m lying.

  He grumbles something rather rude and deprecatory and steps aside.

  I venture down into the hold. I find a lantern secured in an alcove by the bottom of the stairs and light it carefully.

  Things have been re-arranged, crates opened. I poke around for a bit. There is nothing to suggest that my theory is true. But then, I’ve already begun to suspect there is more to this than anyone would guess.

  I can’t search everything right now, but I divide the hold into quadrants and search the first one. Nothing. No hair, no scat, no blood other than the dark stain where the sailor fell.

  I kneel down and place my hand against the cool boards. It’s early summer, so it shouldn’t be sweltering, but the stain is like ice. My fingers almost freeze to it. I draw back my hand, cupping my tingling palm.

  Whatever killed this man was not among the living.

  A ghost leopard? How is that possible? Naturally, I’ve heard of the Black Shuck in East Anglia and other black dogs that strike terror into the hearts of men. Never have I heard of this sort of thing in any other country.

  I remember the ghost of the woman kneeling over this man. I have only heard of fox spirits that can sometimes turn into beautiful women in China and Japan. They are reputed to have nine tails, which you can sometimes see even when they’re in human form. But I have seen no such thing with this ghost.

  I must know more about her. I must know why she followed me here. I must know if she knows why the leopard is haunting this ship. Could it be part of an ancient curse?

  In my things, there is a book from the Ministry Archives about the proper way to conduct a séance. I brought it knowing that ghosts might be a possibility in the old Imperial palaces, but never guessing I might actually need it to interrogate one about a murder.

  I find where they’ve stowed my trunk and unlock it. Everything is louder in the flickering silence. The thought that I am alone with a murdering ghost-beast possibly watching my every move is small comfort. In the jungles and palaces of China, at least I knew my enemy.

  The book is under a folded winter jacket that’s oddly heavy. As I lift it, the ginger jar slips out into my fingers. I remember that I meant to find it to begin cataloguing all the things I’ve collected. The book is beneath the coat. I juggle them both while securing and locking the lid, knowing that at any time the ghost leopard could pounce.

  Nothing pounces, though, and I manage to return the lantern to its place and climb the stairs without incident.

  In my berth, I lock the door. If I could possibly move the desk in front of it, I would, but the desk is bolted to the floor, like every other bit of furniture. Instead, I place my Wilkinson-Webley by my side on the bed. The light is fretful and my stomach growls, but I’m used to long, hungry nights. This one will be no different. Settling on the bunk with the book, I glimpse something in the flicker of the lantern I hadn’t noticed.

  On the ginger jar, a classic scene has been rendered in exquisite miniature. The roving mountains, the steadfast pines, and peaceful bamboo of Chinese literature are all present. It seems typical, and I’d not given the scene much thought since picking it up on my way out of the burning hall in the Old Summer Palace. But now I see a tiny, white-robed woman winding her way up the mountain path. On a crag above her, a leopard crouches, his tail sweeping down among the rocks. Her head is tilted as if she’s just noticed him, and I can make out the way horror crimps her features in just a brushstroke. Above them on the mountain are the tombs of the dead, where presumably she was headed before she encountered her certain doom. It is a stunning piece of chinoiserie, to be sure.

  I turn to the first page of the book. There is much mumbo jumbo about the evolution of the universe, the influence of the planets and so on. Eventually, I find that my eyelids are far too heavy. I put my hand down on the barrel of the Wilkinson-Webley to reassure myself. I don’t notice when the lamp gutters and goes out.