by George Mann
"Of course. We're sorry to have kept you." Veronica took Newbury's proffered arm and began to edge away. Then, as if just remembering something, she stopped and looked back. "Oh, and Mr. Stokes? Just one more thing before you go?"
"Yes?"
"Could you tell me why all of the passengers were confined to their seats, with loops of rope around their ankles?"
Stokes looked as if he were about to choke. "A simple safety precaution, Miss Hobbes. In case of emergency all passengers are required to insert their left foot into the safety brace underneath the seat in front. It stops people tumbling all over the craft if the pilot encounters dangerous turbulence whilst airborne."
Veronica nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Stokes, you've been most helpful."
She watched with Newbury as the little man scuttled away, keen to put distance between him and the ire of the moonlighting academics. The light was fading now, the sun low in the sky over the city. The crowds of people around the edges of the park had begun to thin and disperse.
"You understand, of course, that there's no feasible way in which the skeleton of a brass automaton could have been incinerated in that blaze? Especially when one considers that the majority of the human cadavers are still relatively intact." Newbury sounded contemplative now, rather than angry.
Veronica nodded. "My thoughts exactly."
"I'm beginning to think that Her Majesty's suspicions were correct. Something is definitely wrong here, and I'll wager it has its roots in the offices of Chapman and Villiers Air Transportation Services." He sighed, blinking to keep himself alert. "For now, though, I think it's time I retired to my lodgings. Can I drop you at home on my way, Miss Hobbes?"
She nodded, clearly exhausted. "Please do, Sir Maurice."
He held the cordon for her as they took their leave of the crash site and made their way to the nearest carriage.
The evening was still and cold as Newbury, attired only in a simple dressing gown, settled in his study before a roaring open fire. A book was open on his lap- Trelawny's History of Esoteric Societies of the Seventeenth Century -one of the many aged, leather-bound volumes that lined the walls around the room. Other shelves held more bizarre specimens; vials of chemical compounds; jars filled with preserved biological samples; a pentagram cast out of twenty-four carat gold; the bleached skull of a chimpanzee and much more besides. Paper files were stacked neatly in rows along one wall, containing reams of case notes, old academic papers, clippings and other assorted reference materials, collected during many long hours of research. The study was his private haven, the room he filled with all of the ephemera of his life. It was the one place where he could relax, where he felt free to become himself and where much of his actual deduction was carried out; over time, the study had become a place of revelation. He eased back in his armchair and turned the pages in his book.
Mrs. Bradshaw had retired for the evening after drawing him a bath and admonishing him enthusiastically for the state of his clothes. He smiled. She was forbidden from entering the study, but if she were to ever see its contents-not least the cluttered manner in which he liked to keep it-he wagered she'd flee his service at once. Not only that, but many of his files contained confidential information that needed to be kept away from prying eyes. He had no reason to doubt Mrs. Bradshaw's integrity, but he suspected the contents of his files would be enough to discredit the monarchy at least ten times over, and he feared what temptation could do to even the most loyal of people. For that reason, he kept the door to the room locked at all times, even when he was inside of it. He'd invited Bainbridge in once or twice, for he trusted him implicitly, and, after the events of the previous summer-during which they'd hunted a madman intent on inflicting an Ancient Egyptian plague on London-he knew the man had a stomach for the esoteric.
Tonight, however, he was happy for the solitude. He sat watching the dance of the flames for a while. He couldn't help thinking of the ruined, tortured faces of the corpses in the wreck of the airship that he'd seen that afternoon. Veronica had taken it badly, but so, in truth, had he. He'd seen innumerable corpses in his lifetime, of course, but in this instance it was a matter of scale; never before had he witnessed a scene quite as horrifying as this.
He reached for a small, brown bottle from the shelf behind his head. The label was peeling, but he knew well what it contained. He unscrewed the lid and poured a measure of the liquid into the half-full glass of claret that rested on the side table by his armchair. The laudanum would help him sleep, or so he told himself as he raised the glass to his lips and took a long drink. In the morning he would meet Veronica at the office and they would make their way to Battersea, to Chapman and Villiers's manufactory. There he hoped to find out more about the mysterious automatons and their creator, Mr. Pierre Villiers, an exiled Frenchman who-he had read-had been brought up on charges over a decade ago for experimenting on human wastrels in his Parisian laboratory. Still, that was for the morning. For tonight, he hoped, oblivion was near at hand. He drained his glass and sank back into the comfort of his Chesterfield, waiting for the laudanum to do its work.
Chapter Six
Given the heavy fog of the previous day, the morning seemed unusually bright as Veronica made her way up the steps outside the main entrance of the British Museum. Birds twittered in the trees overhead, and the sun poked through the clouds to sprinkle bright columns of light across the city.
After the horrors of the previous day, Veronica had retired to her lodgings in Kensington where she'd bathed, eaten and gone directly to bed. Now, feeling somewhat refreshed, she hoped that the coming day would prove less fraught, and also less likely to inspire nightmares. The scenes from the crash site were still emblazoned on her mind, and she tried to push them to the back of her thoughts as she prepared herself for what the new day might bring.
Watkins, the doorman, was on hand to permit her entrance to the museum at this early hour, and he did so with a kindly smile. It was not yet eight, but she suspected Newbury would already be sitting at his desk, reading the morning newspaper as was typical of his morning routine. All the more surprising, then, was the scene that greeted her when she did finally make distinctly absent from the stand inside the door. Instead, Miss Coulthard sat at her desk, her face in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks in desperation and dismay.
"Oh, Miss Hobbes. I'm sorry that you should happen upon me in this state." She looked up at Veronica as she came through the door.
Veronica quickly peeled off her coat and hat and pulled a chair up beside Miss Coulthard, taking her hand in her own. "I take it there's still no news?"
Miss Coulthard, sobbing, nodded briskly. "We've had no word. Neither have his employers. We all fear the worst, Miss Hobbes. I can think of no reason why he'd stay away this long, unless the revenants have got him."
"Now, Miss Coulthard, we don't know anything for sure. I do think it's unlikely that he's had a run in with one of these 'revenant' creatures. I hear lots of talk about them, all over the city, but I'll admit I've yet to see one myself, and in truth, I'm starting to wonder if they even exist at all." She smiled warmly. "Have you seen one with your own eyes, Miss Coulthard?"
"No, Miss Hobbes, I can't say that I have."
"There you are, then. Neither of us can even verify their existence. So how likely do you find it that Jack may have encountered one on his way to work?"
"Well…" Miss Coulthard wiped her eyes, sniffling. "I suppose not likely at all. It's just…" She screwed her hands into fists, frustrated. "What else could have happened to him?"
Veronica rubbed the back of her neck. "Well, that's what we'll engage the police to find out today. I'm sure it'll turn out to be something quite innocent."
Miss Coulthard smiled. "Thank you, Miss Hobbes. I've been waiting here for Sir Maurice to accompany me, after what he said to me yesterday, but he hasn't arrived as yet. I fear he's made other arrangements or decided to go elsewhere this morning, on an errand or such like."
Veronica glance
d at the clock, a slight frown crossing her face. "No, no. We definitely arranged to meet here this morning. I'm sure he's just been held up. When he arrives we'll put on a fresh pot of tea and then I'm sure Sir Maurice will send a note across town to his associates at Scotland Yard." Veronica noticed that Miss Coulthard had reached into her pocket and was now clutching a small, sepia photograph to her chest. "Miss Coulthard, may I enquire as to the identity of the person in your photograph?"
The secretary looked down, staring at the photograph as if seeing it for the first time. She held it out to Veronica. "My brother, taken before he went off to war."
Veronica took the battered old picture and gave it an appraising look. A man, dressed in a field uniform, posed for the camera, a rifle cocked over one arm, his other arm resting against a large stone plinth. The backdrop was a large canvas showing paintings of trees and other unidentifiable flora. "He's very handsome, Miss Coulthard." She turned it over. There was an inscription on the back, written in a shaky hand. It read: 'Jack Coulthard, 1895'. "Where did he see action?"
"Africa. He was invalided out a few years ago after he took a bullet in the leg. He healed up well enough, and then took his bar exams and applied for a position at Fitchett amp; Browns. They've done well by him, too. He's made quite a name for himself amongst the junior members of the establishment."
"I'm glad to hear it, Miss Coulthard. Now, I think this photograph will be useful for the police, if you can bear to part with it for a short while? They'll be able to use it to show Jack's likeness to their officers. It'll make it easier for them to spot him if they know exactly who they're looking for."
Miss Coulthard nodded. "I thought as much." She passed Veronica the picture, and watched as the other woman slipped it safely into her purse. "I don't know what we'd do without him. It'll ruin us if he can't be found."
"I'm sure it won't come to that. Now…" Veronica trailed off at the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door. "Ah, that sounds like Sir Maurice. Come on, let's get that pot warming." She rose to her feet, just as the door swung open and Newbury stepped into the office. He looked haggard, like he hadn't slept. Dark rings circled his eyes, and his face had taken on an unusual pallor. He lifted his bowler hat from his head, and smiled. "Good morning ladies."
Veronica looked immediately concerned. "Sir Maurice, are you unwell?"
He shook his head dismissively. "Only a malady of my own making, I fear, my dear Miss Hobbes. Nothing a strong cup of Earl Grey won't fix." He draped his coat on the stand beside him. "Miss Coulthard. Any news on your missing sibling?"
The secretary shook her head, fighting back further tears.
Newbury frowned. "Well, give me your address on a piece of paper, along with the particulars of the last time you saw your brother, his place of work and any distinguishing marks that may help the police to identify him. If you have it to me in the next half hour I'll dash off a note to my friends at Scotland Yard."
"Thank you, Sir Maurice. I'm very much obliged to you."
"Say nothing of it, Miss Coulthard. It's the very least I can do." He rubbed his hand over his chin. "Now, Miss Hobbes, let us adjourn to my desk and see if we can't plan our next move."
"I'll be with you directly, Sir Maurice, just as soon as I've organised this pot of tea." She watched as he disappeared through the partition door, unsure what to make of his sudden change in demeanour.
"So what you're saying is that you're not convinced that the automaton was the cause of the disaster?"
Newbury nodded. His colour had returned and he seemed imbued once again with his usual energy. Veronica had to admit she was relieved; when he'd walked through the door that morning she'd been just about ready to hail a cab and ferry him to the nearest doctor. Now, after a recuperative cup of tea and a few minutes spent composing a note for Mrs. Coulthard, he was cheerfully engaged in outlining his current thoughts on the matter in hand. "What I'm saying is that I'm willing to hold off judgement until I've seen the evidence for myself. I've seen one or two of these automatons demonstrated in my time, and they're certainly amazing creations. Technology moves quickly, these days. If you've any doubt, just look up at the sky," he gestured with both of his hands, "Chapman and Villiers is one of the pre-eminent air transportation organisations in London.
If even a quarter of those airships above the city are under the control of an automaton, then in my book that's a wondrous thing indeed!"
"I don't doubt you're right, Sir Maurice, but we must be sure not to let our enthusiasm for technological developments cloud our judgement in this matter."
He looked at her slyly.
"I can see you've got a sharp sense about you, Miss Hobbes. You're absolutely right, of course. But equally I trust you will not damn the technology before we have carried out the due investigative process."
"Agreed. Even if Mr. Stokes is an odious wretch who did nothing but cloud my opinion of his organisation."
"Indeed. If we're lucky we'll have no further dealings with the man today."
Veronica sipped her tea thoughtfully. "So, what of the Whitechapel murders? Have you thought any further on the mystery of the glowing policeman?"
Newbury shook his head, slowly. "Alas, I've had to forego that particular case, for the time being, anyway. If we get to the bottom of this airship issue quickly enough, I'll see what I can do to help. Otherwise, I'll just have to point Charles in the right direction and hope he can get to the bottom of it himself. He's got plenty of good men at his disposal, and if the case does turn out to have a supernatural origin, it won't be the first time he's come up against that sort of thing and won."
Veronica raised her eyebrows.
"A story for another time, perhaps." He stood, pulling on his gloves.
Veronica placed her cup back on the saucer. "One last question before we take our leave. May I ask why this crash is deemed so important to the Crown?"
Newbury paused for a moment, as if deciding how much he should disclose to this woman, who-despite her only having been in his employ for a matter of weeks-he was already beginning to trust with his life.
Veronica took his lengthy pause as a sign of his disapproval. She flushed red. "Oh, please forgive me! Have I overstepped the mark?" She stood, nearly knocking her cup and saucer over as she banged awkwardly against the edge of his desk.
Newbury waved her to sit down again. "No, not at all, Miss Hobbes. The truth of the matter is simple: I don't know. I'll admit I'm finding that question peculiarly frustrating. I can see no obvious connection between the affairs of the monarchy and the disaster that became of The Lady Armitage, Not only that, but the Whitechapel case is more definitely within my area of expertise." He sighed. "Nevertheless, one must do one's duty. And I must admit I'm rather intrigued by this whole automaton business." He held the door open for Veronica and ushered her through.
Miss Coulthard was sitting at her desk, the nib of her pen scratching noisily as she attempted to transcribe one of Newbury's recent academic papers for the museum archives. He shook his head as he collected his coat. "Miss Coulthard? Did you manage to have my letter sent to Scotland Yard as I instructed?"
"Yes, Sir Maurice. I sent it by cab as you requested."
"Very good. Then I must ask you what you're still doing here, scratching out one of my illegible essays when you should be at home, awaiting news of your brother?" He smiled warmly.
"Well, sir, this document was supposed to be completed for filing yesterday. I was concerned about getting behind in my work."
"Poppycock! Now, Miss Hobbes and I will be gone for the rest of the day, so I dare suggest you won't be missed. Go on, be off with you. I shan't take my own cab until I'm convinced you're well away from this place."
"Thank you, sir. I won't forget your kindness." She placed her pen carefully back in the drawer and fumbled with her papers.
A moment later, when Miss Coulthard had collected her belongings, the three of them left together, locking the door to the office behind them.
>
Chapter Seven
From the Chelsea Bridge the airship works were clearly visible in the morning light as a series of immense, red-brick hangers, squat beside the shimmering Thames, fumes rising like smoke signals from a row of tall, broad chimneys. Steam hissed from outlet pipes in great, white plumes, whilst water gushed back into the river in a deluge of brown sludge. Huge airships were tethered to the roofs of the hangers, reminiscent of a row of children's balloons, bobbing languorously in the breeze.
Newbury looked out over the river. Ships and boats of all shapes and sizes drifted lazily along the shipping lanes, dipping gently with the ebb and flow of the water. It was busy, thick with the detritus of industry. It was noisy, too; horns blaring and gulls chattering over the constant clatter of horses' hooves as they rolled over the bridge towards their destination. He caught sight of one ship to which the others were giving a wide berth. He studied it for a moment through the window. Large red crosses had been painted on the sides of the hull and the flag had been lowered to half-mast. He guessed it was a plague ship, carrying the corpses of the dead out to sea, where they would likely be dumped, unceremoniously, into the water. He knew from his discussions with Bainbridge that the corpses of plague victims had been turning up all over the city, particularly in the slums, where the people lived in squalor and the virus could easily spread from host to host. Stories of the 'revenants' were spreading, too, with the daily newspapers parroting the rumours heard on the streets and sensationalising the epidemic for the gleeful consumption of cockatoos such as Felicity Johnson. They were right to fear, though; before the virus killed its host it would completely unravel their humanity, transforming them into a monstrous killing machine. Their flesh would stop regenerating, their only thoughts becoming animalistic, feral; in short, they would be reduced to nothing but the basest of creatures, and with that loss of faculty they'd become almost unstoppable, feeling no pain, showing no awareness of wounds that would kill an average man. It was as if the virus, somehow, kept them alive through all of this, waiting for an unidentified biological trigger. Then, after a handful of days had passed, the virus would complete its work and turn their brains to sponge, dropping their spent, lifeless bodies by the side of the road. It was a bad way to go. He hoped, for Miss Coulthard's sake, that she was wrong and that her brother had so far managed to evade infection. Everything he knew about the virus suggested if that if he had been infected, by now he'd either be dead in a gutter or else stalking the fog-shrouded streets by night, a mindless monster in search of food and blood.
