by George Mann
“Fabian?” Graves almost spat the name. “That pretentious upstart? Dear me, no. The duplication technology is the work of Dr. Warrander, our Chief Engineer. Fabian was a pupil of his, a long time ago. Warrander taught him everything he knows.”
Newbury suppressed his surprise. He had no reason to doubt Graves’s claim. He’d always wondered where Fabian had earned his stripes. As far as many people were concerned—Newbury included—Fabian had simply emerged fully formed, a medical man, an inventor, an engineer. He knew Fabian had been away at war and had experimented on wounded soldiers, finding ways to patch them up and send them back into battle, but that was about the sum of his knowledge of the man’s history. He wondered if Graves knew about the experiments with duplication that Fabian was conducting at the Grayling Institute with Amelia, and whether Fabian had also learned that from Warrander. Newbury suspected that was probably the case. It would be too much of a coincidence otherwise. Newbury waited to see if Graves would elaborate.
Graves smiled. “You’re wondering now why Fabian parted company with the Bastion Society. You’re a clever man, Newbury. You understand so much of what’s going on here.”
Newbury smiled, but ignored the pandering.
Graves shrugged at his lack of response. “Fabian had always wanted to push his work beyond the point where any of us felt comfortable. He never really accepted our beliefs, was more interested in the physical world than the spiritual one. When he went to the Queen and offered to find a way to preserve her life, he took a step too far. He was ejected from the society. By then he didn’t need us, or Warrander, anymore.” Graves folded his arms. “I must admit, Newbury, that we never even considered he might be successful. By then the Queen was already on her deathbed. Even Warrander believed he would fail.”
Inwardly, Newbury grinned. But Fabian didn’t fail. That must be what this whole business was all about. Fabian had found a way to extend the Queen’s existence, and Graves and his bizarre society considered that the greatest blasphemy of all. Fabian had offered the Queen longevity, binding her spirit to her decrepit body beyond the course of its natural life. To Graves, this was the ultimate anathema, the gravest of crimes. The result was that the Empire was being ruled by a woman whom Graves and his men believed should have died long before, an undead monarch whose very existence undermined their core beliefs.
So was it the Bastion Society that was planning to move against the Queen? Did they want her dead? Surely they didn’t have the means to storm the palace as Amelia had envisioned. Newbury needed to keep Graves talking until he found out. “I’m surprised you didn’t help Fabian to the grave, just like Sykes. It sounds as if he would have benefitted from the same sort of lesson.”
Graves clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “I knew you were one of us, Newbury! You’re quite right. We made an error of judgement allowing Fabian to go free. But we had other considerations at the time. He’d taken a position as the Queen’s personal physician. A role like that brings with it a certain level of protection, both physical and political.”
Newbury nodded. “You didn’t want to go up against the Queen.”
Graves frowned. “We didn’t have the means to go against the Queen. It wasn’t a matter of desire.”
So that was it, then. It had all been a matter of timing. They’d been preparing, and now they were almost ready to show their hand. “Surely you can’t want to depose the Empress? To murder a crippled old woman in her own palace?”
Graves laughed. “Oh, Newbury, such melodrama. She’d be dead anyway if it wasn’t for the machines keeping her alive. That’s no life. And she’s no innocent old woman, as well you know. I’m surprised to hear you rush to her defence. She’d hardly do the same for you.” Graves paused, leaning forward to look Newbury directly in the eye. “The Queen doubts you, Sir Maurice. I’m sure you’re already uncomfortably aware of that fact. She doubts your commitment and your integrity, to the extent that she deployed one of her best agents to spy on you, right under your very nose.”
Newbury clenched his jaw. The words hit home like a knife twisting in his gut. So even this indefatigable fool knew the truth about Veronica. He bit back his retort, holding his nerve but simmering with anger. He felt a bead of sweat forming under his hairline and shivered.
“Yes. Yes! I can see by the look on your face, Newbury, that you know I speak the truth. But it matters little. Soon enough the Queen will be gone and there will be a new monarch on the throne. One who is perhaps even less tolerant of your vices. Victoria’s era is ending, and with it, so will yours.” Graves reached up and removed his bowler hat, tossing it on the table and running a hand through his hair. “I’m going to offer you a choice, Newbury, and you should consider it very carefully. I know all about your work and your fascination with the occult. I know your habits and how you crave the Chinese weed. I know your methods and your personal affairs. I know everything there is to know about you.” He paused, giving his words time to sink in. “And still I do not doubt you like the Queen does. You are a remarkable man, Newbury. It doesn’t have to end there. When she falls, there is a place for you by my side, as one of us, as a member of the Bastion Society. Unlike the Queen, we understand you, Newbury. We can offer you salvation.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Will you join us?”
Newbury regarded Graves coolly. “I will not,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
Graves’s face fell. His extended hand curled into a fist, and he banged it angrily against the arm of his throne. “Then I fear, Sir Maurice, your time has come to its end. I will keep you alive only long enough to see the ruination of everything you hold dear. Victoria’s reign will crumble, and with it, you and Miss Hobbes. I’m only disappointed that you haven’t the intelligence to see what you’re dismissing so casually, Newbury. You would have shined among us. Your experiments could have flourished. You would have had access to secrets you can only begin to imagine, the undisclosed history of the world. But I can see now it was not to be.” He sighed. “Instead, your corpse will rot in the ground until your spirit is returned to the earth to make recompense for your inadequacies.” Graves snapped his fingers, and the two guards stepped forward. He addressed them haughtily. “Throw him in the cell with the girl,” he said, turning his cheek. “I do not wish to look upon him any longer.”
Newbury felt the guards’ hands grip his shoulders, and he stood, allowing himself to be led away. His captors led him out through a side door and along a dank passageway lit only by torches crackling in iron brackets affixed to the walls. As they walked, one guard before him, the other nudging him regularly from behind, the passageway sloped steadily down, slowly taking them beneath ground level. Other tunnels branched off at regular intervals, like rabbit warrens, and occasional wooden doors denoted access to hidden rooms. Here, the tunnel walls were undressed and roughly hewn, as though the whole network of catacombs and tunnels had been chiselled out of the bedrock after the house above had been built. Newbury assumed this was the work of the Bastion Society, using one of Warrander’s contraptions to carve out a secret haven beneath the city. He wondered how far down the tunnels went, and what else they were keeping down there.
As it transpired, he didn’t have the opportunity to find out. The two guards marched him around a bend in the main tunnel before coming to an abrupt stop in front of a heavy wooden door. One of them slid open a small panel in the door and peered inside. “Stay back,” he barked at the occupant, whom Newbury assumed to be Veronica. He was proved right a moment later when he was unceremoniously shoved inside with her, a sword at his back. The door slammed shut again, and he heard the key scrape in the lock.
Newbury glanced around. They were alone in near darkness, no light but what seeped in through the gap beneath the door. Newbury rushed over to Veronica, who was sitting huddled on the ground, her knees pulled up beneath her chin. “Veronica! Did they hurt you? Are you alright?”
She nodded and looked up at him. “I’m alright, Maurice. Is there a
ny news of Sir Charles?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Let’s hope. He’s a resourceful old fellow.” He coughed.
“Did you get anywhere with Graves?”
Newbury dropped to the floor beside her, resting his back against the wall. It was uncomfortable and cold. He couldn’t stop shivering. “Yes. He asked me to join them.”
“He what?” Veronica was astounded. “I hope you told him you’d do no such thing!”
“Of course I did.” Newbury sighed. “But there’s more. They’re the ones behind the attack on the Queen. They’re gearing up for an assault on the palace.”
“My God,” Veronica said. “And have they got anything to do with what’s going on at the Grayling Institute?”
Newbury shook his head. “As far as I can ascertain, they know nothing about Fabian’s current … experiments. It seems that Fabian might have learned about the duplication technology from a man here, Warrander, and adapted it for use at the Grayling Institute. The Bastion Society isn’t interested in creating living copies of themselves; that would go against everything they believe in. But Fabian has no such qualms.”
Veronica bristled. “Then it’s down to the Queen. It has to be. She’s behind it, Newbury. I know she is.”
Newbury wanted to challenge her on that, wanted to ask her how she could be so sure, but he suddenly couldn’t speak. He was shaking. Sweat was trickling down his face. He ran his hands through his hair, loosened his collar. His skin was crawling, alive with sensation. “We have to get out of here,” he said.
Veronica turned to face him, concern in her eyes. “What’s the matter? What have they done to you?” She altered her position, kneeling before him, cupping his face in her hands. “Oh, Maurice,” she said, realising.
“I’m sorry,” was all he could muster. “I’m so sorry … the weed.”
He closed his eyes. Veronica clutched him to her, holding him gently as he shook. He longed for unconsciousness. More than anything, though, he longed for the brown bottle of laudanum with the peeling label he kept in his study, for the cosy oblivion it would bring.
CHAPTER
20
Bainbridge woke slowly, consciousness returning in stuttering explosions of light and sound: a fragment of a woman’s voice, a bright light, the scent of burning wood, the kiss of raindrops upon his cheeks. It hurt to breathe. In fact, simply existing seemed to be enough to cause him pain. Every fibre of his body ached. He was cold and wet, and he couldn’t feel his left arm.
His eyelids fluttered open. He was lying on his back. Above him there was only the vastness of the slate grey sky, obscured by a shimmering cascade of raindrops that glimmered in the light of a nearby streetlamp. To his left, a curling trail of black, oily smoke rose in a stark column. The cobbles were hard and cold beneath his head.
Slowly, he dragged himself up into a sitting position. He reached for his cane. It wasn’t there. He looked around in confusion. Then the memories snapped back into place. The hansom. The explosions. The two men who’d attacked him. He’d left his cane buried in the guts of one of them.
What had the man said to him as he’d sprawled on the ground spitting blood? “With the compliments of Enoch Graves.” The Bastion Society. Of course. First they had made an attempt on Miss Hobbes’s life, and now they’d come after him.
He had to hurry. He had to get to Newbury, to stop his friend from walking into a lion’s den … if it wasn’t already too late. He had no idea of the time, no sense of how long he’d been out cold. All he knew was that he was soaked through to the bone, and that every inch of him throbbed with pain.
Well, almost every inch. He still couldn’t feel his left arm.
Bainbridge looked down. A ragged fragment of metal casing, about the size of his hand, was lodged in his upper arm, just below the shoulder. His jacket was soaked in blood around the wound, but thankfully, it no longer seemed to be bleeding. The fabric was scorched and smouldering as a result of the fiery blast. Absently he wondered how long he must have lain there in the rain.
Then his sensation returned, and Bainbridge howled as his shoulder ignited in pain. He thought he was going to swoon again, but he steadied himself with his other hand and managed to retain consciousness. He heard footsteps and voices, almost drowned out by the patter of the rain. Did the other attacker survive the explosion? Was he coming to finish him off? Bainbridge didn’t have any more fight left in him.
Groggily he raised his head and looked up. A man and a woman were rushing towards him, concerned expressions on their faces. Behind them he could see the shattered remains of the hansom, still blazing, even in the pounding rain. The force of the explosion must have thrown him back at least fifteen feet, if not more. Other people were milling about, too, their faces twisted in appalled shock as they caught sight of the ruined carcasses of the horses and the exploded remnants of the three men. Bainbridge realised with a grim satisfaction that the surviving attacker must have been killed by the blast of his own weapon.
To his left he heard someone shouting and cursing. He glanced over. The shopkeeper.
Bainbridge tried to stand, but his legs were like jelly, and he collapsed back to the ground just as the two civilians arrived at his side. The man—dressed in an overcoat and wide-brimmed hat, his face mostly hidden in shadow—wrapped his arms around Bainbridge and propped him up, helping him to stand. Bainbridge leaned heavily on the man, panting for breath.
“… the explosion and came running.” Bainbridge realised the woman had been talking to him in urgent tones. He turned to look at her. She was the spitting image of Isobel. He staggered back and the man caught him, taking his weight. He looked again. It was more than just a passing similarity; she resembled his late wife so closely that Bainbridge felt his heart leap. He blinked, wondering if his mind was still addled from the explosion. No, it was true. This young, pretty woman looked just like the girl he remembered from all those years ago. Her face was framed in a bob of flaming red hair, the bridge of her nose dusted with freckles. Her eyes were the sharpest blue. Bainbridge smiled and tried to focus on what she had to say. “… dead. How did you get away?”
Bainbridge tried to speak but his mouth was gummed shut with blood. He swallowed and it stuck in his throat. For a minute he thought he was going to retch, but then he found his voice. “Scotland Yard,” he said. His words sounded slurred and unfamiliar, even to him.
“Scotland Yard?” the man echoed. “Yes, they’re on their way. We sent for them.”
Bainbridge shook his head. He tried to reach into his jacket pocket for his papers, but the lancing pain in his shoulder was too much to bear, and he fumbled ineffectually. “No,” he said, finally. “I’m from Scotland Yard. Charles … Bainbridge.” The last word was hissed out between clenched teeth.
The woman looked shocked and fearful, as if she wanted to help but didn’t know what to do. “We need to get you to the hospital,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the burning wreckage.
“No! Not the hospital,” Bainbridge exclaimed. He needed to get to Newbury, to warn him about Enoch Graves. And then to the Queen, and the palace. He must get to the palace. He swooned, and the world began to spin. Everything went black.
Bainbridge staggered and came to, his eyes blinking open again. He realised he’d been unconscious for only a second or two. The man in the overcoat held him upright as he sucked the cold, damp air into his lungs and finally righted himself.
“Sir, you need to get to a hospital. You’re badly hurt. Can you remember what happened?” said the woman, who was holding her trembling hands before her as if trying to keep him at bay. He realised he must have been a fearsome sight, bruised and battered from the fistfight, covered in blood and soot from the explosion.
“Of course I can remember what happened, Isobel!” he growled, swaying from side to side as his head swam. “Those damn vagabonds set upon me in my cab.”
“Isobel?” The woman looked utterly perplexed. She turned to the man. “I think he
must have taken a blow to the head. Let’s see if we can get him out of this rain while we wait for the police. Under that awning over there.” She indicated a butcher’s shop across the street, the doorway of which was sheltered by a large tarpaulin.
“What? Now hang on a minute!” Bainbridge took a step forward and immediately regretted it. His shoulder exploded in pain, and lights swam before his eyes. He grimaced and relaxed into the man’s supporting grip, giving himself over to the strangers.
The man heaved Bainbridge’s good arm over his shoulders and supported him as they shakily walked across the street. Every step caused bursts of pain in his arm as the jagged lump of metal shifted with the motion. The rain felt cool against his face.
People had been spilling out into the street ever since the fight began, and now a significant crowd had gathered, civilians who had been dragged from their homes by the sound of the explosions, out in the pouring rain to stare in wonder at the scene of devastation in their usually quiet street. A few of them caught sight of Bainbridge, lumbering helplessly towards the shelter of the tarpaulin, and pointed him out to their neighbours, chattering and speculating about what might have occurred. Bainbridge paid them no heed.
A moment later he was slumped on the ground once again, his back to the shop door, trying to catch his breath. He willed the police carriages to hurry. His head kept nodding forward as he dipped in and out of consciousness, and the pain in his arm was a constant, sharp reminder of his predicament.
