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

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  Dinner was pleasant enough, though as the meal went on Arthur noticed a rather sour expression crossed Bernard’s face whenever he wasn’t expressly guarding it, as though everything in front of him of was simply failing to meet his expectations. Nevertheless he was a capable enough conversationalist, and before turning in the agent even regaled Arthur with a few redacted but engaging tales of pursuing malefactors through the streets of London. Truth be told, it was still difficult to get a read on the Englishman—it was plain he was not fond of America, but the next morning as the time came closer to depart for the island, the agent became more and more excited.

  He also seemed easily distracted, glancing out the window often, both during dinner and afterwards on returning to the field office.

  Foul weather delayed their departure, causing Bernard to pace like a dog following a stranger on the other side of a fence. By the time the ferry arrived on Block Island, however, the last of the rain had retreated and the afternoon sun was at its peak, nearly taking the edge off the chill in the air, save for the breeze still coming off the water. Asking directions in the tiny harbour town proved easier than expected, though the walk took them out of town and down a road that was little more than packed earth and lonely stands of trees by the seaside.

  Richard Henry’s house stood by itself at a bend in the road on a little bluff overlooking a narrow strip of beach, with the dark blue expanse of the ocean beyond. A small dock jutted out into the sea, a rowboat tethered to the solitary post. The house itself was a simple affair done on the slightly grander scale that money tends to lend things, weathered white paint with dark trim and surrounded by a low stone wall with a disproportionately large iron gate, currently standing slightly ajar. Bernard approached the gate without hesitation, peering through curiously, though Arthur hung back.

  “Something wrong?” Bernard asked.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Arthur said.

  “Oh, absolutely,” Bernard replied airily. “They’re expecting us.”

  “How is that possible?” Arthur said with a start. Suddenly the house seemed far more sinister.

  “A gentleman was shadowing us last night. He showed potential, but he needed a bit more coaching on remaining in shadows when close to streetlamps and open windows. His bowler brim was the tell. I suspect he might have been at the train station as well.” He pushed open the gate and gestured for Arthur to follow. “Shall we?”

  “Right into a trap?” Arthur tried to keep the squeak out of his voice.

  “Sometimes the best way,” Bernard said. His smile was back, as wolfish as ever and not at all comforting in context. Together the two men crossed a small courtyard and stopped at the heavy wooden door. Bernard raised his cane and rapped at it twice, a pair of robust knocks that must have sounded like thunder inside the house. A bell sounded somewhere within, and through the frosted glass panel next to the door proper Arthur could see a shape coming toward them. There was the sound of a heavy bolt sliding back, and then it happened. Quickly.

  In fact, Arthur had never seen anything happen so fast in his life.

  When the door opened, Arthur had no sooner opened his mouth to speak to the elderly gentleman in the servant’s livery than Bernard shouldered the young researcher aside, sending him sprawling in the shrubs next to the door. Light glinted off the silver ball atop Bernard’s cane as it flashed down in a tight arc, striking the servant’s wrist in mid-draw. A revolver the doorman was sliding from his jacket clattered against the stones of the stoop. Bernard was already moving in behind his strike, grabbing the man’s injured wrist with his left hand and pulling forward while pivoting his body so that the man collided with him right at the hip. The servant yelped as he was hip-tossed and went sprawling, landing on his back with a heavy thud. Bernard knelt down, following the man to the ground, and administered a single, savage punch to the man’s temple that left him limp.

  “My-My God!” Arthur stammered, struggling with the shrubbery as he clumsily regained his feet. “Did you—”

  “No,” Bernard said simply. He rose to his feet and took off his spectacles with a casual gesture. He looked as if he was going to place them in his coat pocket, then seemed to think better of it and offered them to Arthur instead. “Mind holding these? I’d hate to have them broken. Step lively, there’s a fellow. Likely to be another one or two of those about before we can meet our mysterious Mr Henry.”

  “Certainly,” Arthur mumbled, feeling a little numb, taking the spectacles and hurrying after Bernard. The agent had turned on his heel and started off into the house like a man out for a brisk constitutional.

  In the space it took Arthur to glance over his shoulder at the man they left in the doorway, he heard a shout cut off with two swift thuds and turned back to see Bernard stepping over another servant. The man had evidently lunged from a side room, knife in hand, but the attempted ambush had earned him a trip into unconsciousness. Good Lord, but this English gentleman was fast.

  The house seemed a bit of a blur to Arthur, the details growing less distinct with each beat of his pounding heart, though later he would recall a collection of antique furniture and shelves heavy with leather bound books. From somewhere upstairs Arthur heard muffled voices and what sounded like heavy furniture being dragged across the floor.

  When they finally stopped at the base of a grand stairwell, Arthur whispered, “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “A good friend and advisor for the Ministry,” Bernard said. “Spent some time learning to fight in the Orient, something called Bartitsu.”

  “Never heard of it. Remarkable!”

  “Isn’t it, though? Our little secret, at least for now. But mark my words, when it gets out it’ll be all the rage in a few years.”

  “I can see why,” Arthur replied, looking at Bernard in a seemingly whole new light. “What now?”

  “They always go up,” Bernard said in a conversational tone as he mounted the staircase. That satisfied smile had grown even wider, and though Arthur felt as though he struggled to breathe from all the excitement, Bernard sounded no more impaired than if he was remarking on the weather to an acquaintance he chanced to meet in the park. “Never understood that.”

  “What’s that?” Arthur asked, his eyes darting to the upper level. Wasn’t Bernard worried about being discovered?

  “Cornered men,” Bernard said. He reached the top of the stairs, paused, held out a hand to indicate Arthur should stop as well. “They always go up, when they should go out,” Bernard said, too loudly, obviously baiting those others who might be listening. Bernard leaned out for a peek around the corner and ducked back with lightning speed—just as well, too, as there was a thunderous blast as some sort of rifle or shotgun was discharged. The bullet ripped a chunk out of the corner and sprayed Bernard with plaster, making it look as though he had been dusted with flour.

  “Oh, come now,” the agent said, face positively twisted with disgust as he looked at the mess. “Is there really any call for this?” Bernard reached into his coat pocket and threw something around the corner out of sight. “Best to close your eyes,” he added, not quite in time for Arthur to take action. There was a tremendous flash, not quite equal to a lightning strike but certainly cousin to one, followed by a man’s pained shout and another blast. “Just be a moment,” Bernard said, vanishing around the corner. There was a cry of pain, the scuffing of shoes on the floorboards, then another heavy crash.

  “You can come out now,” Bernard’s voice called from the corridor.

  “Thank you,” Arthur rubbed at his dazzled eyes, shaking his head instinctively to try to chase away the patches of colour lingering in his eyes. Arriving in the upstairs hallway, he looked past the open doors to more rooms of tasteful opulence and focused instead on Bernard. The agent was standing over the unconscious form of a heavyset man slumped against the only closed door in the hallway. A shotgun had been kicked away from his grasp, though judging by the nob alre
ady rising on his temple he was unlikely to wake any time soon. Bernard was rapping on the door with the head of his cane impatiently; his good humour apparently another casualty of the plaster dust.

  “Richard? Mr Richard Henry? Open the door, please.” Bernard huffed before knocking again. “We haven’t come to hurt you. Open the door and let us discuss matters like gentlemen. There’s nothing to be gained by acting the petulant child now, I assure you.”

  “I have a gun! If you come in I’ll shoot!” The voice was high with fear and tension but unmistakably still quite young. “I swear I will!”

  “No, you won’t,” Bernard said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “If you’d had a weapon you’d have used it by now, and we both know it. Come now. Don’t make matters any more difficult than they have to be. I promise, no harm will come to you.”

  There was a long silence, then the sound of the door unlocking. It swung open to reveal a nervous-looking young man with thinning brown hair. He stepped back immediately as Bernard entered, Arthur following, and all but tripped over himself in his haste. “You’re British agents, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” Bernard said simply.

  “Well, on paper, I’m an archivist,” Arthur stammered. Bernard glared at him. “But, ah, close enough.”

  “Well then,” Richard Henry said, drawing himself up a bit, “I’d say that you have no authority here, but I doubt that would stop you so I won’t waste my breath. We always knew you’d find us eventually. But you’ll never find the device. Not in time, at any rate.”

  “We already—” Arthur began, but Bernard cut him off with another venomous look and pulled him a few steps away. “What?”

  “Don’t say anything you don’t have to,” the agent hissed, watching Richard carefully.

  “But, the location of the transatlantic cable is a matter of record,” Arthur whispered. “Surely he’s aware of that?”

  “Do rational men plot conspiracies?” Bernard replied, perhaps a touch too sharply. He collected himself, stepped back to Richard. “Of course, Richard. We are doomed, all of us, I’m sure. Speaking of our untimely demise, where is the rest of your intrepid band also bringing forth the end of days?” Bernard asked. “Seems a bit rude of them to leave you here to face us by yourself.”

  “And let you potentially capture all of us at one go? I think not.” Richard swallowed heavily, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. “I volunteered. It is my solemn duty to resist the forces of the Illegitimate Monarchy—”

  “Yes, yes, I applaud your martyrdom, now about this technological terror of yours,” Bernard interjected, “exactly what does it do?”

  Richard simply stared at him, trying for noble defiance and managing a passable semblance of it. Right up until the point where Bernard stepped toward him and brought the end of the cane up under his chin, anyway, at which point his stony demeanour crumbled.

  “It’s a resonant frequency generator,” Richard said quickly. “It generates very specific wavelengths that destroy particular kinds of matter attuned to the device. Our first field trials proved successful beyond our wildest dreams—avalanches, rockslides, and tremors. And our most recent project, for instance? British bedrock.” He managed a weak smile. “Might not be enough to sink the wretched island, but it should do enough damage that there will be no recourse but to recognise us as the legitimate heirs.”

  “You’re joking,” Bernard said flatly. “Actually, no, strike that. You’re mad.”

  “I don’t believe he is,” Arthur said, studying Richard’s face carefully. He was flushed and still sweating profusely, and swallowing every few moments. “Joking. I do not believe he is joking. I think he’s telling us the truth.” He leaned in an inch closer to Richard, and nodded. “And yes, he is quite mad.”

  “Oh?” Bernard asked, not turning away from Richard. “How do you know?”

  “Because dying men rarely lie,” Arthur said. “Look at him. He must have taken something before we came in. Some sort of poisonous failsafe.”

  “Richard? Is this true?” In response, Richard simply pitched forward, a slight trickle of foam issuing from his lips as Bernard and Arthur caught him by his armpits. The agent lowered Richard to the floor, his face screwed up in even more peevish displeasure, as though Richard’s impending suicide were somehow an insult to his person. “Why’d you build it? Tell me, you sorry sod!”

  “Wanted…” Richard coughed thickly, further ruining Bernard’s suit. “Wanted to show…the full extent …of our…” But his last words were gurgled more than uttered, and after a sudden, shuddering spasm, Richard laid his head back and breathed his last.

  “It simply astounds me how self-centred lunatics are. Truly. Quite selfish.” Bernard stood up, the look of disdain never faltering. “As though anyone even knew enough about them to question their resolve until they took up this lunatic endeavour.”

  “At least we know what the device is supposed to do,” Arthur said, trying not to look at the body. He didn’t desire to experience his breakfast in reverse. “That’s something. It explains the rock slides too. They must have been testing it locally before they moved forward with this insane scheme.”

  “That makes sense,” Bernard acknowledged tersely. He gripped his cane so tightly that his knuckles cracked. “At least to lunatic minds such as these. Best we head to the cable facility then, I imagine. If they were prepared to receive us here, I’ve no doubt they have more waiting.”

  “I have an idea about that,” Arthur offered. “Something that might not involve something quite so dramatic as storming a facility of armed men, but perhaps a bit more effective. We should get underway, then, before we’ve lost the light entirely. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  “Certainly,” Bernard said. “I will tell you something, though.” He stared the young researcher right in the eye, deadly serious. “If I ever find the penny dreadful author responsible for popularising these damned poison pills, I will give that man a thorough thrashing. Never give the silly blighters ideas.”

  The agent shook his head, daring to glance down at Richard. “Ideas just lead to trouble, really.”