by Mann, George
Newbury's pipe had gone out. He looked around, catching sight of a small carriage clock on a bookcase, surrounded by heaps of notebooks and journals. The night was still young. "I say, Charles. We're terribly maudlin this evening. What do you say to a trip to the White Friar's? A game of billiards and some banter."
Bainbridge smiled, his whiskers twitching amicably. "You know what, Newbury, that's the best idea I've heard in days."
"Come on then, old man." Newbury placed his pipe carefully on the mantelpiece. "Let's forget about the past for a while, and the future. Let's revel in the present."
Bainbridge nodded. "But first," he raised his glass, "the brandy."
Newbury chuckled and did the same. "Yes, indeed. The brandy."
Chapter Twenty-Six
Newbury stood by the window, holding back the netting and peering out onto the sprawling view of Kensington High Street below. It already seemed like a lifetime had passed since the incident on Knox's submersible, but in truth it had only been a matter of days. The fog had lifted during the intervening days, leaving behind only a few thin fingers that still clung obstinately to the street lamps, or lurked in the quieter parts of the city.
Below, the street was a hive of activity. He watched a ground train rolling by, the passengers inside bobbing easily with the motion of the vehicle. Hansom cabs sent pedestrians scattering as they bowled along the cobbled road, and children ran circles around each other, frolicking in the morning sunshine.
This was the third time that Newbury had called on his assistant since she had been discharged from the hospital, and on each occasion he had found her sleeping, unable to receive visitors. As she had on both previous occasions, Mrs. Grant had tried to send him away with assurances that her mistress was recovering well — no doubt concerned that his presence would in some way disturb that recovery — but today he had resolved to not take no for an answer. So, instead, he found himself waiting in the drawing room as Veronica dozed peacefully nearby.
He turned to her, leaving the constant drone of the traffic behind him. She was resting on a chaise longue, her head and shoulders propped up, covered by a blanket that had been neatly embroidered with the design of a willow tree. Her shoulder was strapped to protect her wound. She stirred, and he crossed the room, stepping closer so that she might see him when she woke. Her eyes opened. She looked momentarily dazed, and then her eyes fixed on Newbury, a pretty smile lighting her face. "How are you, Miss Hobbes?"
Veronica moistened her lips, and then looked around for a drink. Newbury fetched the jug from the bedside table and poured her a glass of water. She drank from it thirstily. After a moment, she handed it back to Newbury and gave a small cough. She looked up at him. "I'm well enough, Sir Maurice. It takes more than a bullet to incapacitate me."
Newbury smiled. "I'm delighted to hear it. I've been... concerned."
Veronica's eyes were shining. "Yes, I'd rather hoped you might." She paused whilst he tried to make sense of her statement. "But really, I'm recovering well. The doctor was able to repair the wound, so now it's just a matter of time. Although I admit I find this convalescing business most tiresome. There is so much to be done."
Newbury laughed. "Yes, well. You'll recall how often you berated me for attending the office last December when I should have been at home, resting. I fear I set a rather bad example. I've never been the best at sitting still."
Veronica glanced at the door, as if to be sure that her housekeeper, Mrs Grant, was nowhere in the vicinity of the room. "It's a good thing you were wrong about Ashford, isn't it?"
"How so?" asked Newbury, an impish expression on his face.
Veronica shrugged, and then winced as the gesture obviously caused her shoulder to spasm in pain. "He said he would turn himself in after you'd seen him at the house, just before we set off for the docks."
Newbury offered her a wry grin. "No, Miss Hobbes. I said that I was confident he would do the right thing."
Veronica frowned. "Precisely... Oh... you mean..."
Newbury glanced away. His expression darkened. "I fear I used the poor man, Miss Hobbes. I used his anger, his desire for revenge. I used him as a weapon against Aubrey Knox. In truth, I suppose I engineered his death. I must take responsibility for that, just as I must take responsibility for poor Mr. Purefoy, and for your injury. I could hardly bear the fact that you were hurt."
Veronica shook her head emphatically. "No. Sir Maurice, the responsibility is wholly mine I went after those girls. I knew the danger I was opening myself up to. And as for Ashford — he was dead long before you ever got to him. He was just a ghost in a machine, the remnants of a man, bound to steel and brass. If you offered him anything, you offered him a resolution, an end to his nightmare. You offered him a chance at peace."
Newbury took her hand and held it gently in his own. "You're too kind, Miss Hobbes. I don't deserve that. But I thank you for it all the same."
Veronica squeezed his hand. "You deserve more than you allow yourself room to imagine." They regarded each other in silence.
After a moment, Newbury brightened. "There is something I've been meaning to say." He looked her in the eye. "But I haven't been able to find the right time."
Veronica's response was almost breathless. "Yes."
Newbury could see something in her eyes, in her expression. The weight of expectation. Hope. In turn, something inside him snapped. He could barely look at her. "It's about Amelia."
"Oh."
"No, it's good news!"
Veronica offered him a weak smile. Clearly, she'd hoped for something more. But he couldn't give her that, couldn't put her through it. Couldn't put himself through it. He'd seen what had become of Charles and Isobel, of Ashford and Catherine. The risks were too great.
Veronica, of course, was brave enough to put it to one side, to hide her disappointment. She toyed, absently, with the edge of her blanket. "Go on."
"I've spoken with Her Majesty. She's in agreement. Amelia is to be moved to a private establishment, the Grayling Institute, under the care of her personal team of physicians."
Veronica's eyes widened. "Oh, Maurice." She tried to sit up, but it was clearly too much. Newbury waved her still.
"I believe it is a sign of Her Majesty's gratitude towards you. For all your work on her behalf, and for your help with the Chapman & Villiers case. Evidently, you're highly regarded."
Veronica sighed, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "That's quite wonderful news. Please extend my gratitude to Her Majesty."
"I will." He put his hand on her arm. "Just as soon as you're well, I'll take you to see her — Amelia, that is — in her new home. I'm convinced things will work out for the best."
Veronica smiled, warmly. "More than that, Sir Maurice, I'm convinced this intervention will save her life. Or at least prolong it for some time." She glanced out of the window, as if seeing something that wasn't there. "I shall have to inform my parents."
"No need. The matter has already been taken in hand. Your parents have signed the relevant documents. Amelia is being transferred on Friday."
Veronica touched her damaged shoulder with an unconscious gesture. "I don't know how to thank you."
"By getting better. There's nothing more important now." Newbury paced back to the window.
"So what did Her Majesty have to say about the deaths of Knox and Ashford?"
Newbury shrugged. "I saw her this morning. She was sanguine. She gave little away. I suspect it draws a line under a long and complicated story, a story that I'm only now beginning to understand."
Veronica nodded. "I suppose it does." Newbury studied her expression. What was it that she wasn't telling him? For now, he knew, he had to forgo all such thoughts. What was important was that she recovered, as quickly as possible. "So, what next?" she asked, inquisitively.
"Next? Next we do what we always do. We return to our sedentary lives, to fine wine and cigars, to meals with Sir Charles, and to an office at the British Museum
. To filing papers and writing dry academic treatise, as we await further instruction. It doesn't sound so bad, when you put it like that, does it?"
Veronica looked longingly out of the window, and sighed. "I'm not so terribly good at waiting."
Newbury's face cracked in a wide grin. "Nor am I, my dear Miss Hobbes," he crossed to where his coat was draped on the back of a chair, preparing to leave her to rest, "nor am I." He studied her from across the room. His eyes twinkled. "I'm sure it won't be long before something comes our way. Besides, it's nearly spring. It wouldn't do to miss the fine weather, stuck indoors behind a musty old desk." He located his hat, and placed it on his head with a flourish.
"You're leaving, then?"
"For now. I've had word that an old friend of mine is in town. It's high time I paid him a visit. In the meantime, you need to rest. I'll return on Friday with news of your sister."
Veronica allowed herself to sink back into the cushions of the chaise longue. "Be sure to do just that. Friday seems like an eternity away."
Newbury offered her a dramatic bow. "Until then, Miss Hobbes."
"Until then, Sir Maurice."
And without further ado, he was gone.
Chapter Twenty - Seven
Amelia Hobbes rocked back in the carriage seat, brushing the window drape aside with her hand. She stared out at the city beyond. The streets rushed by like a series of still, blinking images; grey, unfamiliar. It had been so long since she had left the grounds of the sanatorium, she'd lost all sense of time. Was it months? Years, even?
Sighing, she allowed the drape to fall back into place, casting her once more in darkness. She felt tired and weak, yet filled with a new sense of optimism. She had yet to see that optimism reflected in the eyes of others, however. Dr. Mason had been kind, as always, seeing her off at the sanatorium gates, even suggesting that — time permitting — he would consider making the long trip to the Grayling Institute to pay her a visit. But Amelia could see what was really reflected in his eyes: he did not think that she was long for this world. Perhaps he was right... but perhaps not.
She knew little of the mysterious Dr. Fabian, but Veronica spoke highly of his reputation, and Amelia was well aware of his status as the personal physician to the Queen. She could hardly be bestowed with a greater honour. She had much reason to thank the enigmatic Sir Maurice Newbury, although she didn't doubt that his motives had been less than altruistic, more to do with winning the affections of her sister than with truly aiding Amelia in her plight. But that was by-the-by. Whatever his motive, Sir Maurice had given her hope: hope that Dr. Fabian might see her visions as more than just a facet of her supposed insanity; hope that in doing so, he might help her to find a way to control those visions and prevent her body from descending further into wrack and ruin. Not that there was much of her body left, she thought bitterly, glancing down at her bony knees, clearly protruding through the thin fabric of her dress.
Amelia had once been pretty, as pretty, at least, as her sister. But now, emaciated, subjected to a harsh life in the sanatorium, and covered with scars from wounds she had earned during her numerous "episodes", she looked older, worn out. There were lines on her face, dark rings beneath her eyes. And she was disgusted by her own fatigue. Above all else, she hoped that Dr. Fabian could help her to restore her energy, her enthusiasm for life, her desire to want to get out of bed in the morning. Dare she consider that Dr. Fabian might even find a cure for her? No, that was too much of a fantasy. But nevertheless, she felt the little germ of hope seed itself in the back of her mind. If she chose not to acknowledge it, perhaps it could grow unimpeded.
Tired, Amelia rested her head against the cool leather of the seat back, and closed her eyes. She would sleep now. Soon, she would have much to remain awake for.
Amelia came to as the carriage juddered to a brisk stop. She sat forward, urgently scrabbling for the window drapes. The carriage had come to rest at the far end of a long, gravelled driveway, and through the window she could see the corner of a grey, stone mansion. They were here. She felt her heartbeat quicken. This was it. Her new home. The Grayling Institute.
Amelia clasped her hands on her lap, letting the curtains fall back into place. It wouldn't do to display her impatience. She waited. Unbearable minutes ticked by, although in truth she had no way of judging how much time had actually passed. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard footsteps crunching on the gravel outside. Someone called up to the driver, but the words were lost in the breeze. The footsteps approached the cab. She realised she was holding her breath, as the handle turned slowly and the door of the cab was pulled open. Light flooded in through the open doorway, stinging her eyes. She blinked away tears, momentarily bringing her hand up to her face to shield her eyes from the glare. She had spent too long in darkened rooms at the sanatorium.
Framed in the doorway was a diminutive man, no taller than five foot four, balding, with trailing wisps of dark hair still clinging, resolutely, to his temples. He blinked up at her through the small, wire-rimmed spectacles that were perched on the end of his nose. He was dressed in a smart brown suit, with a white collar and black tie. His face split in a wide grin. "Good morning, Miss Hobbes. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Dr. Lucius Fabian."
Amelia smiled, edging forward in her seat. "Good morning. Dr. Fabian. It truly is an honour. I —"
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "No need, Miss Hobbes." He looked her up and down. "I'm sure you are tired after your long journey. I think it best that we see you to your new rooms inside the Institute, where you can take some time to rest and recuperate. Then, later, we can talk of how we intend to manage your... affliction." He grinned. "Come now. Are you able to walk?"
Amelia sighed. "A little, perhaps. I fear that, these days, I am rather weak."
Dr. Fabian searched her face with beady eyes. "Yes. We'll have to see what we can do about that. Now, if you can manage to climb down from the carriage, there, we have a wheelchair at hand to assist you to your rooms."
Amelia nodded. With a huge effort, she lifted herself up from her seat, clutching at the sides of the cab to lend her support. Dr. Fabian stepped up onto the footplate and offered her his hand. She took it gratefully, noting that his fingers were fat and soft and well kept. Hesitantly, leaning on the doctor for support, Amelia stepped down from the cab onto the driveway below. She glanced up at the building as she dusted herself down. The Grayling Institute was an enormous country house, probably two or three hundred years old, once the domain of princes and kings, but now given over to science and more practical pursuits. This was Dr. Fabian's private establishment, managed on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen. This is where he did his great work, where members of the Royal Family themselves were brought for treatment, whether it be a dose of syphilis or a case of the "family sickness". She'd learned all this from Veronica, and consequently, she found herself in awe of the place, of the doctor and of her wondrous surroundings. To live in a palace! Already she felt her spirits lifting. How could she not recover here? Just the look of the place was enough to imbue her with energy.
Dr. Fabian adjusted his glasses. Amelia wondered if it was a nervous tic — it was the third time she'd noticed him do it in as many minutes. He glanced at the open doorway of the institute, which sat behind four Corinthian pillars at the top of a long slope. Amelia suspected that there had once been a set of stone steps, but these had now been replaced by a ramp to improve access for the infirm. Dr. Fabian's reedy voice echoed out in the empty courtyard. "We're ready now, Mr. Calverton."
Amelia sensed movement in the shadow of the doorway. She watched intently. Sure enough, a moment later, a figure appeared, brandishing a small wicker wheelchair, which she assumed would be used to escort her into the premises. But as the figure emerged from the shadows of the doorway, Amelia felt her breath catch in her throat. The man with no face! The figure she had seen in her visions. She felt suddenly gripped with panic. The man pushing the wheelchair barely
had the look of a man about him at all. His face was entirely hidden behind a featureless, porcelain mask, designed to give the impression of a blank human face. Two slits allowed his startling blue eyes to peer out from behind the mask, and his head was closely shaved, covered in a fuzz of auburn stubble. His upper torso was still human, and he was wearing a smart black jacket and a cravat. Beneath the waist, however, Mr. Calverton was more machine than man. His legs had been replaced by gleaming brass contraptions that parodied their biological counterparts, pistons spitting furiously in the thighs, servos grinding in the knees.
Mr. Calverton cocked his head as if to acknowledge Amelia, but otherwise remained mute. There was a long, silent pause, before he edged forward with the wheelchair, his pointed metal feet scraping on the flagstones. The servos squealed and whined as he slowly descended the ramp. When he reached the gravel path, he rolled the wheelchair forward, as if gesturing for Amelia to take a seat. She noticed he was wearing white gloves.
Amelia felt a shiver run along her spine. There was something about the man, something she'd seen in her visions, but was not yet able to place. He had a story. A story that had not yet come to an end. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know what that end might be.
Dr. Fabian seemed to notice Amelia's alarm, and put a steadying arm around her shoulders. "Come now, Miss Hobbes. There is no need to be afraid. Mr. Calverton will see to your every need."
Trying not to grimace, Amelia allowed herself to be led forward towards the entrance. Mr. Calverton came forward to greet her. She studied his blank expression, realising that it was this, more than anything, which had inspired her sense of unease. She was unable to read his face. She had no idea if, behind that plain, porcelain visage, the man was smiling or frowning at her. His eyes seemed vacant. Dead. Suddenly, she felt a longing for her old room, back at the sanatorium. She closed her eyes and tried to suppress her fears.
