by George Mann
She resolved then that she would do everything in her power to save her sister from Fabian and that horrible, porcelain-faced monster. Amelia would be free of them and the doctor would pay for his atrocities, whatever it took, whatever the consequences.
CHAPTER
15
“Tell me again what you saw.”
Veronica squeezed her eyes shut. Hot tears were prickling beneath her lids. All the pent-up emotion and horror and fear and shock were now consolidating into a burning rage. Rage at Fabian for the horrendous crimes he had committed against her sister. Rage at the Queen for orchestrating and enabling such abhorrent violations. Rage at Newbury for pacing back and forth before her with his incessant questions, when all she really wanted to do was race back to the Grayling Institute as fast as humanly possible, to gather her sister up in her arms and steal her away to somewhere safe.
Veronica dug her fingernails into her palms and clenched her teeth. For all her efforts, she couldn’t get the images out of her head, and all Newbury seemed to want her to do was remember them, over and over. She fought back the urge to scream at him. It would do Amelia no good whatsoever, and in her heart, she knew that Newbury was trying to help. But she wanted action, above all else. She wanted to do something about the situation rather than simply sit there and discuss it.
They were back in her Kensington apartment, which was just as they had left it the previous afternoon. The deep gouges in the floorboards and the scorch marks on the carpet remained as stark evidence of the battle that had taken place there. There was no sign of Mrs. Grant, of course, who Veronica had insisted remain with her sister for a few days in the interest of safety. She only wished she could do the same for her own sister, that she could send Amelia away to a place of safety, away from Dr. Fabian and his sinister assistant.
Veronica took a deep breath, asserting control over the riot of emotions she was experiencing. “There were so many of them, whimpering in the darkness. Lashed to horrible, mechanical implements of torture. They were barely human, Maurice: animals in the shape and guise of Amelia, borrowing her appearance, her voice. But they were not her. They had nothing to do with her.” She broke off, stifling another sob. “And they babbled. They babbled prophecies, scratching them into the walls and the floor with their fingernails until their fingers were nothing but blunt, bloody stubs.” Her body trembled and she let out a low, heartfelt moan at the memory. Tears streamed down her cheeks, spattering her dress like unwelcome rain.
Newbury stopped pacing and stood before her, his face etched with concern. “But I saw her, Veronica! I saw her with my own eyes. Fabian explained to me how successful his treatment program was proving and then led me to her room. She looked well. Thin and tired, but well.”
Veronica’s confusion was like a thick London fog. She only wished she had the means by which to navigate through it. “Do you think she knows?”
Newbury shook his head. “Indeed not. I believe she is quite ignorant of the truth. I didn’t speak to her for long, but what she did say made it clear that she regarded Fabian very highly indeed, and that she felt whatever restorative treatments he had been administrating were working. She said the seizures had almost completely stopped, with only a handful of reoccurrences when they had pushed the treatment too far.” Newbury shook his fist at the wall in frustration. “How did he do it?”
“I don’t…,” Veronica started, before she realised it was a rhetorical question. Newbury was thinking aloud.
He returned to his pacing, pressing his fingers nervously together to form a spire before his chest. “It could be a side effect of his treatment, an unexpected by-product.” His words lacked their usual conviction. He was testing theories, running through scenarios in his mind. Veronica knew that Newbury didn’t really believe it.
“No.” Veronica shook her head emphatically. “This was deliberate. They’re trying to harness her abilities, trying to use her to predict the future.”
“They?” Newbury looked puzzled.
“Fabian and the Queen,” she replied.
Newbury frowned. “You think the Queen is aware of this?”
Tired and exasperated, Veronica abandoned all pretense of polite conduct. “Don’t be so blind, Maurice. Think about it. Fabian is the Queen’s personal physician, and he has her ear. Think about what he is offering her, what Amelia could do for them if they could harness and channel her abilities. A monarch who can predict the future! Of course she’s aware of it. She’s probably behind it!”
Newbury stared at her, agog. She could tell she was getting through to him, so she pressed on. “We have to get her out of there. This can’t be allowed to go on.”
Newbury turned and paced to the window. He stood with both hands on the window ledge, looking out at the street below. He was silent for a while, then he turned to face her. “Veronica, you are talking about going against the Queen.”
“Yes, and I’m talking about saving my sister.” She met his gaze, her eyes blazing with defiance.
“This is bigger than we know, Veronica. We must consider the implications. All of them.” He turned back to the window, lost in thought.
Veronica didn’t know what to think. Everything was spiralling through her mind, a confused mess. She had no idea what to do next. All she knew was that she had to help Amelia, and whatever Newbury said, the longer her sister stayed in that dreadful place, the more danger she was in.
“Sykes!” Newbury snapped his fingers, and Veronica gave a start. He turned to her, suddenly animated. “Edwin Sykes is the key.”
“What about Edwin Sykes?” she said angrily. Now was not the time to be worrying about the case.
“Duplicates, Veronica!” he said, rushing over to her side. “There has to be a connection. Why didn’t I see it before?”
It was Veronica’s turn to look astonished. “Of course! You think Fabian is still connected to the Bastion Society, that Sykes was copied in the same way as Amelia.”
Newbury shrugged. “I don’t know. But it seems like too much of a coincidence for there to be no connection.” He dropped into a chair opposite her. He looked tired, but enlivened nonetheless. “Fabian told me about their strange occult philosophies. They believe in the passing of the soul from one body to the next. Perhaps there’s some explanation in that?” He shrugged. “We must tread carefully, Veronica.”
Veronica nodded.
“And we must think of Amelia’s health.”
“Her health! He’s duplicating her and torturing the copies! Treating them like animals!” She felt the anger beginning to swell inside her again.
“Yes. I know. And I promise you, Veronica, that we will get her out of there. We will find a way. But I saw her. I saw her in her room, and she is quite well. The real Amelia. The one that really matters.” He paused, as if to allow the weight of his words to sink in. “We can’t simply go barging in there to extract her. Not only because of the consequences with Fabian and the Queen, but for Amelia’s own health as well. You saw how ill she was in that Wandsworth sanatorium. Do you think we could do any better?”
Veronica hung her head. She knew he was right. Of course he was right. What would she do with Amelia if she had the opportunity, right then and there, to get her out of the Grayling Institute? Bring her home to Kensington, where she could be attacked with killer assassin machines? Where there were no nursemaids or doctors or medical equipment that might help her? Perhaps worse, where the Queen would know she was hiding. Veronica hadn’t considered that before now. Amelia had become an asset. She had a value to the Crown. Victoria wasn’t likely to let that slip away without a struggle. And Veronica knew what lengths the Queen would go to in order to recover her property. She’d been charged with doing just that, on more than one occasion.
Nevertheless, Veronica could not allow Fabian to continue. What he was doing was immoral and maleficent, and she would not allow Amelia to be a part of it, whether her sister was aware of her exploitation or not.
She reac
hed out and took Newbury’s hand. It was an impulsive action, and she did not really know why she had done it, other than for the reassurance it might offer. It was cold and clammy to the touch. “So what next? How do you propose we continue?”
Newbury leaned forward in his chair, bringing his face level with hers. “We need to gain some perspective. We need to understand what’s going on. Only then can we begin to formulate a plan.” He squeezed her hand. “I swear to you, Veronica, we will do what is right for Amelia. You have my word.”
Veronica gave a weak smile. “Thank you. I…”
“I know,” he finished. He released her hand and stood, brushing himself down. “Tonight I shall return to Packworth House and the Bastion Society. If we can get to the bottom of their strange little club, perhaps it will help shed some light on your sister’s plight. In the meantime, I will consider our options.”
Veronica rose from her seat to stand before him. “You shall return to the Bastion Society?” She wiped at the tears that were still trickling down her cheeks.
Newbury looked resolute. “Well, it may be dangerous. You’re in no fit state for that sort of business.”
She glowered at him. “With respect, Sir Maurice, I should argue that I’m presently in a better state than you.” Newbury gave a sad smile, acknowledging the truth of her words. “Besides, I can’t stay here. I can’t sit and do nothing. Not after what I’ve seen today.”
“Very well,” said Newbury. “We shall repair to Chelsea until cover of darkness. Then, my dear Miss Hobbes, we shall practise a little breaking and entering.”
CHAPTER
16
“Your Majesty will be pleased to know the incident has caused no lasting damage to the equipment.” Fabian stood from where he was crouching behind the Queen’s life-preserving chair. He ran his fingers along the length of the air hose, testing the connections, looking for any nicks or scratches in its smooth surface. He could hear her ragged breathing as the gas was forced in and out of her lungs, causing her chest to heave and deflate, heave and deflate, a constant, rhythmic sigh. This had to be the most prolonged death in all of human history, he mused with satisfaction, a glacial descent into obliteration and decay.
“We were already well aware of that fact, Physician. Otherwise we would already be dead.” Fabian winced. Victoria’s sarcasm was as sharp as a knife, and it cut him deeply. His right hand moved, as if by its own volition, hovering over the small hidden trapdoor in the brass frame of the chair where the switch resided.
The switch. He could pop the housing open and flick it now, instantly stilling her clockwork heart. It would be so easy. He dared himself to do it. The ticking of the tiny meters, the turning of the cogs—one flick of that switch, and an electric current would jolt through her fat, bloated body, and the equipment would seize. It would take only seconds for her to die, but there would be time enough for her to see the face of the one who had ended her life.
His hand lingered there over the switch, as it had a hundred times before. This time. No one would know. He would let her die, her lungs slowly deflating, her brain silently starving of oxygen. Her clockwork heart would freeze, and he would reclaim it from her, a souvenir, a reminder of the time that she had died. He would tell them all that he had done everything in his power, that he had fought for her life, tried desperately to stop her fading, but that the intruder had somehow damaged the machine and there was nothing he could have done to save her. So easy.
Fabian felt an overwhelming urge to do it, to bring an end to it all, right then and there. His fingers caressed the outer casing. The brass was cold to the touch.
“Come around where I can see you, Fabian,” her voice commanded.
He jumped back from the chair, startled. Did she suspect? She couldn’t possibly know about his little safety mechanism. Could she? What would she do if she were to discover it? His life would be forfeit. That much was certain. She would not—could not—tolerate such a risk to her survival. Whatever the reasons—of course he would tell her he’d only wanted to provide a euthanasia device in case it all became too much for her—she would utterly destroy him if she even suspected its existence.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Fabian. He took one last look at the air tanks. Yes, everything was in place. The intruder had barely had a chance to touch them before the Queen triggered the security measures and a bolt had shot from the chair, burying itself in his chest. He never even stood a chance.
Fabian circled around the seated monarch. He never enjoyed being this close to her. She stank. Not the subtle, sickly odour of an ageing woman, but rather the rank, wretched stench of festering decay. The chair provided the Queen with all the essentials of life, but many of her bodily functions persisted, and while nursemaids regularly attended to Victoria to sponge her down, the extent of his machinery meant that she could never truly be cleaned. Not only that, but the wounds he had opened in her chest to feed the air hoses into her collapsed lungs had never truly healed, becoming sore and pustulent beneath their wrappings.
The consequence of which—while none of her agents, visitors, or staff would ever dare react to it in her presence—was that she smelled like a pungent, rotten grapefruit.
Fabian stood before her and met her gaze, but immediately averted his eyes when he saw the admonishing glare she had fixed him with. He studied the floor by her feet.
“You seem quiet, Fabian. Tell us, what troubles you?” Her tone was mocking, patronising.
The very fact of your continued existence.
Your arrogance.
Your stench.
These were the things he longed to say, to shout into her fat, imperious face. These are what trouble me.
But his impulse to survive made the words stick in his throat, just as it had stilled his hand above the termination switch a matter of moments before. “Merely your health, Your Majesty. I was concerned to ensure your well-being, and whether the intruder’s actions had posed a lasting threat to your continuing safety,” was what he said instead.
Victoria grinned, showing her rotten teeth. “Admit it, Fabian. You are more concerned for your equipment than you are for us. We understand. We are not that different, you and we. We have a business arrangement.”
Fabian contemplated her words. No. This was a test. It would not do to rise to her manipulative insinuations. “Not at all, Your Majesty. You do me a discredit.”
Victoria laughed. “Perhaps,” she said cryptically.
Fabian smoothed the front of his shirt nervously. He needed to change the subject. “I was paid a visit by one of your agents this morning, Your Majesty.”
Victoria raised an eyebrow in interest.
“Sir Maurice Newbury,” he went on. “He called upon me at the Grayling Institute.”
Victoria looked immediately uncomfortable. “Did he have the Hobbes girl in tow? He usually drags her around behind him like a lapdog.”
Fabian shook his head. “Not that I am aware of, Majesty. If he did, he chose not to bring her into the building with him.”
Victoria gave an audible sigh of relief. “She must be kept away at all costs. She is useful to us where she is, and if she were to discover the truth about her sister’s … situation … we fear her usefulness would come to an end.”
God, she was cold. Fabian swallowed. “Very good, Your Majesty.”
Victoria gestured impatiently for him to continue. “So, Newbury? It seems he might be coming in from the cold.”
Fabian frowned. He didn’t know to what she was referring. “He’s busy with a murder enquiry, I gather.”
Victoria seemed animated by this development. “Yes, this Edwin Sykes matter. Duplicates, found at the scenes of two crimes. Are they yours, Fabian? Are they experiments gone awry? You said the machine had failed with every subject except the young Hobbes girl.” Her tone was accusing.
“No, Your Majesty. The duplicates were not from any of my experiments. What you say is true: The engine of life has produced nothing but lifel
ess carcasses for anyone but the Hobbes girl.”
Victoria frowned. “So tell me, Fabian, who else could be experimenting with duplication technology? We’d imagine it to be a rather small field of expertise.”
Fabian smiled. “Newbury mentioned Enoch Graves, Majesty. He quizzed me about the Bastion Society.”
“Ah, Sir Enoch. We should have put him down some time ago. His ceaseless dabbling in matters that do not concern him has become a most tiring distraction. We have already put a stop to his political aspirations.” She gave a wet, spluttering cough that drew her last word out into a long hiss. Fabian saw flecks of dark blood spattered on her lower lip. “Newbury will deal with him now,” she continued. “We have more pressing concerns.” She shifted in her chair, attempting, unsuccessfully, to reposition herself. Fabian thought about trying to help her, but he knew that would only result in more biting remarks. A few moments later, she gave up. “Tell us, Fabian, what of the prophecies?”
Fabian shuffled uncomfortably. He’d been expecting this, but talk of the Hobbes girl’s special talents always set him on edge. As a scientist, he was fascinated by the phenomenon, but he felt ill at ease every time he considered the facts. The girl could see into the future. He could not explain it. No matter how he tried, how hard he pushed Amelia, he could not find a rational explanation for her abilities. If he hadn’t known better, he would have written it off as a hoax, but he had seen the proof with his own eyes.
Fabian had spent long nights transcribing Amelia’s dreams, filling notebooks with her lucid rants, and sketching the visions she described. In time, he had witnessed those visions come to pass. It was remarkable. Truly remarkable. And it clearly had its origins in the realm of the supernatural, not the more knowable world of science. He feared he would never be able to uncover Amelia’s secrets, because he could not understand where her powers came from. They were outside his experience, more the fodder of priests and holy men than of medicine.
