by George Mann
“This man, this boy, found his way into our audience chamber uninvited. An attempt was made on our life. He tried to tamper with Dr. Fabian’s machines, to disconnect the hose that feeds our body its breath.” Victoria emitted a racking cough, and she spasmed momentarily before returning to normal. All the while, the machine continued to hiss and groan, her chest rising and falling in time with the bellows that operated her breathing.
“My god…,” said Bainbridge.
Victoria laughed. “Your concern does you credit, Sir Charles. But do not think for a moment that our confinement in this contraption is an indication of our weakness. We are quite capable of protecting ourself.”
Bainbridge glanced again at the body of the intruder, the bolt in the chest. The Queen had done that?
“We are not so naive as to believe that we do not have enemies, Sir Charles. This chair was constructed with a number of defense mechanisms and weapons that we can deploy if it becomes necessary. This man, and whomever he represents, clearly underestimated our abilities. They shall not be so foolish a second time.”
“Quite,” said Bainbridge, unsure exactly how to respond. He’d stood before this chair a hundred times before, and never once had he considered that it might have a purpose other than the medical one for which it was created. That the Queen was harbouring deadly weapons. He wondered absently whether she had used them before.
“We suppose you are wondering why we had him propped in the chair in such a manner?”
He was, but he had decided it would be inappropriate to ask. It was not his place to question the Queen’s judgement, only to protect her and her subjects from harm.
Victoria took his silence as an affirmative. “It was so we could see his face, Sir Charles, to look upon the countenance of one who would have us dead.” She chuckled again. Her tone became suddenly serious. “Do you recognise him?”
Bainbridge studied the young man’s face more closely. “I fear I do not, Your Majesty.”
“Then make it your business to, Sir Charles. We are intent on understanding his motivation.”
Bainbridge nodded. “As you say, Your Majesty.” He tugged at his moustache nervously. “Do we know how he got in?”
Victoria gave a gesture that he took to be an approximation of a shrug. “We believe that is neither here nor there. Through a window, we are told, left open by a servant to air the room. We believe he must have obtained a schematic of the palace somehow, to have navigated through the warren of passageways and hidden doors to find us here.”
She looked from Bainbridge to the body in the chair. “But such matters are easily dealt with.” Her tone was now dismissive, as though she considered the whole affair to be nothing but a trivial part of her day, another of the challenges of presiding over an Empire. “We have doubled the guard and sent instruction to the Royal Engineers to post their war machines in the grounds of the palace. No one will enter without us knowing of it.” She paused. “We now fear, however, that whoever is responsible for the attack may escalate their offensive when they discover their initial strategy resulted in failure.”
Bainbridge could see the logic in her thinking, although the idea of an outright assault on Buckingham Palace seemed unimaginable to him. Nevertheless, more sentries, more soldiers, and more police would ensure that the palace could be protected, whatever the eventualities.
The real question was from whom. “So you don’t believe, Your Majesty, that he was a sole agent?” Bainbridge had heard many tales of the foolish individuals who had attempted to break into the palace over the years, usually in search of souvenirs or to try to force an audience with the Queen.
Victoria made a sound that was somewhere between a wet cough and a chuckle. “Look at him, Sir Charles. Young, handsome, wealthy. Why would a man in that position choose to break into Buckingham Palace and attempt to take the life of the monarch?” She stared up at him as though daring him to answer. “Someone got to this young man, filled his head with idealistic notions and a desire to change the world. Someone with far greater concerns than an impressionable young upstart. Someone who wants us dead.”
Bainbridge nodded slowly. “Were there any signs, any warnings? Any letters of protest?”
Victoria sighed. “Every day… thousands of them, from all across the Empire. It seems we cannot so much as stir without causing a ripple of discontent. These are difficult days, Sir Charles.”
Bainbridge had expected as much. He tried to hide his exasperation. “Are there any particular pressure groups of concern? Or perhaps one that has recently increased their activity or the frequency of their protests? Any political camps that have come to your attention?”
“Stop pussyfooting around the question!” Victoria snapped, and the sound of her voice echoed throughout the audience chamber. “If you’re asking us whether we have any notion as to who is behind this attack, then the answer is no. Or rather: no one in particular. We have long lost count of the number of enemies who would see us dead. They are manifold. It is a matter that no longer concerns us.” Her eyes narrowed. “It is your job, Sir Charles, to discover which of them is responsible for this insolence, so that we may smite them. Do you find that callous?”
Bainbridge had never enjoyed entering into these games with the Queen. He knew he could never win. “Not callous, Your Majesty. Just necessary.”
Victoria accepted his answer with a conciliatory gesture. “We fear we have nothing to go on, Sir Charles, other than this silent corpse.”
“Your Majesty has had someone go through his pockets?” Bainbridge ventured.
The monarch inclined her head. “Quite empty. Quite empty of anything useful. No papers, no wallet, no maps or instructions. No keys. Nothing. Whoever had prepared the young man prepared him well for his endeavor, and knew only too well the consequences of any mistake. We wonder if the young man himself was equally aware of his chances.”
Bainbridge stared at the corpse, attempting to read it much as Newbury would have. But it was no good-he couldn’t do it. He didn’t work like Newbury, wasn’t wired that way. Bainbridge worked on instinct, and it had seen him through twenty years of policing. He relied on his gut. And his gut was telling him Victoria was right, that the man was a messenger of some sort, a warning. This was the first wave of the attack. The Queen was sensible to fear the worst. “Whatever the case, Your Majesty, the consequences will be grave indeed when we discover who is responsible.”
“Be sure of it,” she replied, and Bainbridge was in no doubt as to the veracity of her words.
“I shall post a detail from Scotland Yard, Your Majesty, here at the palace. My men can work with the guard to coordinate security.” Bainbridge wanted to be ready if the enemy-whoever that enemy was-decided to strike again.
“As you deem necessary,” she said in a tone that suggested she thought the point of little consequence.
“And I shall have the body removed for identification purposes. I will get to the bottom of this matter, Your Majesty, I assure you.”
Victoria cackled once more, and the look on her face said everything that needed to be said: that his very future depended upon it. “Leave the body for a while,” she said, smoothing the front of her skirts. “We wish to look upon it some more.”
Bainbridge felt a hollow sensation growing in the pit of his stomach. He shifted uneasily on the spot. He didn’t even know where to begin with the investigation. If the body really was devoid of any clues, then he had almost nothing to go on. Newbury was tied up with Sykes. There was no way he’d be able to pull Newbury away from the Sykes case without the whole thing unravelling. And Newbury hadn’t been quite himself for a few months now.
Bainbridge hadn’t felt this lost since his early days at Scotland Yard, when he’d been hauled up before Lord Roth and berated for losing an important piece of evidence during an investigation. Little did either of them know that the Queen’s agents were the ones who had stolen it, and Bainbridge spent a week on the beat for his “incompetence.�
� Later, he discovered the truth, but by then Lord Roth had already received his comeuppance from the Queen, and Bainbridge had accepted a position as an agent himself.
He gave a short bow and the Queen shifted in her chair, dismissing him casually and returning to looking into the face of the man she had killed just a few hours earlier.
Bainbridge quit the audience chamber with a heavy heart. Newbury and Miss Hobbes would have to continue with the Sykes case without him, at least for the time being. He had no choice in the matter. An attempt on the Queen’s life meant… well… Other than the outbreak of war, he could think of nothing more serious with which to occupy his time.
It was cool outside, grey clouds hanging low in the sky like oily smoke. In the courtyard a group of engineers were unloading a large structure from the back of a wagon. It looked like a huge iron cannon, but the rear end was attached to a large boxlike contraption with glass portholes on each side. The box-a generator, he assumed-contained a spinning coil that flickered with dancing blue electricity. It was clearly a weapon of some sort, but Bainbridge had no idea of its use or effect. He imagined it worked similarly to his cane-that, when triggered, it could be used to discharge massive bolts of electricity at the enemy.
Not that it mattered, of course. The palace would now be transformed into a fortress, at least until the case had been resolved, the dead intruder had been identified, and the agency behind the attack-if, indeed, the Queen was correct in her assertion-had been exposed and obliterated. Bainbridge had no doubt that the monarch would leave no stone unturned in her quest to root out the villains. She was, if nothing else, tenacious. And more than that, her desire for revenge was as boundless as her temper.
Bainbridge found the police carriage waiting for him by the main gate. He would head to Scotland Yard, gather his men, and brief them on the necessary actions. Then, if there was time, he would send a note to Newbury. It was only midmorning, and he was already feeling weary with the day.
CHAPTER
14
“Are you sure about this, Veronica?”
She looked at him blankly. “Would I be here if I weren’t?”
They were sitting in a hansom cab at the foot of the long gravel driveway that curled, snakelike, across the grounds of the Grayling Institute. Veronica peered out between the window drapes. The glass was filthy with spattered grime, but she had a reasonable view of the building. She’d never seen it before, and it was completely at odds with what she’d imagined. It was a large country mansion, a former Royal residence, built in the dying days of the seventeenth century and now given over to science, converted into the laboratories and workshops of Dr. Lucien Fabian.
The house was grand and imposing, but also had an old-world charm, like somewhere she remembered visiting when she was a child. It had been a bright summer’s day, and she had played on the lawn with Amelia while her parents drank pungent tea in the orangery with their hosts. Amelia had been stung by an insect, and Veronica held her hand while their mother, a cross expression on her face, pulled the stinger from her arm.
Veronica blinked away the unbidden memory. She wondered how Amelia was finding her new home. She supposed she was going to find out.
She glanced at Newbury. He was right to ask whether she was sure about what they were planning to do. Veronica was hesitant. Not only about their plan for her to steal into the building unannounced while Newbury was quizzing Dr. Fabian about his relationship to the Bastion Society, but also in the end result. Newbury wanted her to speak with Amelia to test the validity of his premonition, his deep-seated fear that something dreadful was going to happen.
Veronica, however, had been expressly forbidden from visiting her sister, told that it would be better to allow her to heal in isolation at the institute, without the distraction of familial concern. She did not want to disrupt Amelia’s recovery. She also feared the results of her conversation with her. There was a significant part of Veronica that didn’t want Amelia to confirm Newbury’s assertions, because that would mean they were about to face something potentially devastating, something that had made even Newbury skittish and afraid.
On the other hand, if Newbury was wrong and Amelia had seen nothing that coincided with his predictions, then what did that say about Newbury’s state of mind? That he might be putting undue stock in the supposed results of his occult experiments? That his mind was addled by months of drug abuse? Clearly, either way, Veronica would have a difficult situation on her hands. But she couldn’t very well back out now, and whatever Amelia told her, she needed to know. If Amelia’s dreams had revealed a looming danger, then Veronica needed to be aware so she could work to prevent it from happening.
Newbury leaned forward and took her hand. “Five minutes, Veronica. Five minutes, and then back to the cab. Do not hang around. Do not risk discovery. Get in and out of there as quickly as you can.”
Veronica raised her eyebrows and fixed Newbury with an impatient stare. “Sir Maurice, I shall be in and out before anyone knows I was even here. You do not need to lecture me on taking risks.”
“No,” said Newbury. “I don’t suppose I do.” He sat back, satisfied. “You will wait here for me while I talk to Dr. Fabian?”
“Of course.”
“Very well. I’m led to believe,” he said, “that there are a number of possible entrances in the rear of the property, French doors that lead to the patients’ rooms. If you make your way around the house beneath the cover of the trees, I’ll distract the servants at the main entrance.” He stood, straightening his jacket. “Good luck, Veronica.”
“Good luck to you, Sir Maurice.”
He swung the door open and stepped out into the bright sunlight. His feet crunched on the gravel. Taking a deep breath to prepare, Veronica followed him, keeping close to the cab. She dropped out onto the ground, circled quickly around the back of the cab, and disappeared behind the cover of the trees that lined the perimeter of the institute.
Unbeknownst to Veronica, a pair of cool blue eyes watched her progress from behind a porcelain mask as she darted from tree to tree, moving with practised ease, looking for an easy way into the building.
***
A balding butler in a black suit with watery, pale eyes, was waiting for Newbury in the doorway of the old manor house. Newbury smiled as he mounted the steps and the elderly man gave a brief unnecessary bow. “Good day to you, sir. My name is Carrs. Can I be of assistance?” He had a broad East End accent, although he was clearly doing his best to hide it.
Newbury tried to seem jovial, although he wasn’t feeling it. His stomach was clenched and he was sweating under his collar. The dose of laudanum he’d taken that morning was already starting to wear off, and he felt his cravings returning with a vengeance. “Thank you, Carrs. I was hoping to speak with Dr. Fabian. It is an urgent matter, the Queen’s business, and I seek his advice.”
Carrs inclined his head. “Very good, sir. If you would care to follow me, I will show you where to wait while I attempt to locate Dr. Fabian.”
Newbury realised as he ducked his head beneath the lintel of the old house how diminutive the old butler really was. He could barely have reached Newbury’s shoulder, and he walked with a slight stoop. Newbury wondered if he were another of Dr. Fabian’s waifs and strays, an old soldier, or agent, or serviceman of some kind who had been rehabilitated at the institute and then kept on in service in recognition of the debt that was owed to him by his country.
Newbury would have liked to imagine so. But the cynic in him wondered if it were simply that Dr. Fabian did not like to surround himself with people who were either younger or taller than he was. It wouldn’t have surprised Newbury to discover that was the case: Everything he knew of the good doctor, from both hearsay and his own brief encounter with the man, suggested Dr. Fabian had an ego large enough to match his reputation.
Newbury followed Carrs through a number of winding passageways that branched off from the reception hall until they came to a chamber that had
been set out in the fashion of a drawing room. Dark oak panels lined the walls, and a portrait of a seventeenth-century cavalier, replete with plumed hat and close-cropped beard, hung upon the chimney breast. His face was intent and regal, and Newbury couldn’t help but feel the painting was somehow watching him.
The room had a musty smell about it, of age and underuse. A bookcase on the far wall was filled with leather-bound books, their spines adorned with gilt titling in Latin, French, and Italian.
A jug of water was set out on a small occasional table beside the fireplace, alongside two glass goblets that looked like they might have belonged to the era of the house itself.
Carrs bade him to take a seat in an armchair, also arranged before the fireplace. Newbury lowered himself into it cautiously, feeling the brittle leather creak beneath his weight. Clearly, everything in the room was an antique. He wondered if it were reserved for visitors. It clearly didn’t receive a great deal of regular use.
Seeing that Newbury was settled, Carrs took his leave, promising that he would return shortly with news of Dr. Fabian.
Newbury leaned back in the chair. God, he was tired. He fought to prevent his eyelids from closing. Now was not the time to let his attention drift. He had a job to do, and with Charles tied up with the situation at the palace, he’d have to deal with the Sykes case on his own. Besides, he had seen the way in which Veronica had looked at him that morning, her eyes full of hope. It broke his heart that he had let her down, and more than once. But there was still, at the back of his mind, a nagging doubt regarding her motives. He didn’t doubt her affections were real, but his trust in her had been eroded by the realization that she was working secretly for the Queen.
For months now, he had observed her movements and he no longer had any doubt that she was reporting on him to the monarch. Just the thought of it was like a knife twisting in his gut. How could she? It was a betrayal of the worst kind. He could think of no way to justify it. He’d tried to think the best of Veronica, tried to reconcile it with himself by assuming she was doing it for the best reasons. But he could not. He could not fathom her reasons. And it hurt doubly so because he knew, deep down, that he was utterly in love with her.
