by George Mann
The worst horror, however, had been seeing Newbury in such a desperate condition after he'd managed to make his way back to the cab. Even now she feared for his life, feared what this 'Fixer' character may do to him, and worse, feared that his words of reassurance regarding the revenant plague were simply that-words-and that before long he would succumb to the terrible blight and, regardless of how tightly she had tied his bandages and how well she had stanched the flow of his lifeblood, she would lose him anyway. She couldn't bear the thought that Newbury might transform into one of those horrifying creatures, and she knew that he, too, would rather die than let that happen. So she had resolved to visit Amelia at the asylum, to take advantage of her sister with a long list of difficult questions, and to try to ascertain what the future held.
Amelia was watching the other inmates as they went about their laborious routine. "Tell me I'm not reduced to that, Veronica. I feel like a little bit more of my life is sapped away from me each and every day I spend in this terrible place."
Veronica hugged her sister closer. "You're not, Amelia. You're not like that at all."
"Then why do I have to live like this? What have I done wrong to deserve to be locked up in here? It's basically a prison cell."
Veronica didn't know what else to say. "I'll get you out, Amelia. I promise. I'll find a way to get you out."
Amelia shifted slightly in her arms, and smiled. "I know you will, Veronica. I know it's just a matter of time."
Veronica looked at her sister quizzically. "Do you know something? Have you seen something in one of your visions?"
Amelia shook her head. "You know it doesn't work like that,
Veronica. I only remember snatches of what I see, dream-like sequences and unconnected images. In one of them I see you and I, walking down the street together, away from this place."
"Can I ask you something? Something I promised I'd never ask you?"
Amelia slipped out of Veronica's embrace, stiffening slightly on the bench. "What is it?"
"Have you seen what becomes of Sir Maurice? In the future, I mean." Veronica couldn't meet her eye.
"No. Nothing." Amelia shrugged. "Well, that is to say that I do not recall seeing anything. Why, what happened?"
Veronica was exasperated. She balled her hands into tight fists. "Try for me, Amelia. This is very important. Try to remember if you've seen him during a recent episode. Anything at all. Even just a glimpse."
Amelia looked pained. "Veronica, I've never even met the man. This is not something I know how to control. It happens, and then it is as if the episode somehow leaves a residue in my mind, fleeting images I can sometimes remember. It's not as if I can recall the entire episode at will."
Veronica tried to fight back the tears. "I know, Amelia, I know. I'm so sorry." She turned away, breathing deeply to steady herself.
Amelia put her hand on Veronica's arm. "Don't be. Clearly something terrible has happened and I want to do everything I can to help."
"You already have. I suppose now it's just a matter of time."
"What happened? Tell me."
"Sir Maurice was attacked by three revenants this morning. They practically tore him apart, but he managed to get away. He was fighting for his life, bleeding all over the carriage-all over me-but we managed to get him to the surgeon."
Amelia put a hand to her mouth. "Will he make it through?"
Veronica was solemn. "I don't know. Worse than that, though, is the threat of plague. I have every fear that he might have been infected."
"Oh God."
"That's why I came to you, Amelia. I had to know if you'd seen him in one of your visions, had to know if he was going to be alright. I should never have come. It was unfair of me."
"Sister, you've done so much for me. Is it not fair that I at least attempt to repay that love and loyalty from time to time?"
"It doesn't work like that, Amelia. You don't owe me anything."
"I know exactly how it works, Veronica. That's why I love you so."
Too late, Veronica noticed that Amelia was starting to take short, shallow gasps at the air, beginning the process of inducing an episode. She clutched her by the shoulders. "No! Stop it, Amelia! Stop it now!"
Amelia shook her head, gasping for breath.
Veronica held her tight. "I'm sorry, sister."
"…I…know…" Amelia began to fit, her body shuddering as her muscles went into spasm. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets, showing the milky-white underside of her eyeballs. She rocked back, saliva running from the corner of her mouth.
Veronica glanced around to see if any of the nurses had noticed. They were still engaged in conversation by the main asylum doors. She clutched Amelia close, trying to keep her safe.
Amelia began to babble. At first it seemed incoherent; a long chain of moaning sounds and half-formed words, but then Veronica began to make sense of what she was saying.
"…from the sky…like a child's balloon, tumbling…tumbling towards the ground…water…shouting…confusion."
Veronica shook her head, trying to get through to her sister. "No Amelia, that's already happened. The airship has already crashed!"
"…water…dripping water…a clockwork man." She gasped, gulping air down into her lungs, her entire body shaking as the fit took complete control of her body, "…a dark place…a woman's voice…Veronica!" The shuddering stopped. Amelia turned towards her sister, her unseeing eyes fixed on Veronica's face. It was the most eerie thing Veronica had ever seen. She let go of Amelia, reflexively forcing herself backwards on the wooden bench. She heard footsteps on the gravel behind her.
"It's all in their heads, Veronica. Tell him. You must tell him. It's all in their heads." Amelia collapsed back into spasms once again, and Veronica, shaking, looked round to see two of the nurses rushing to Amelia's aid. They gathered her up as quickly as they could and laid her out on the lawn beside the wooden bench, holding her down as she continued to spasm. Veronica leaned over them, desperate to see if Amelia had anything more to say, unprepared for her sister to go through all of this agony on her behalf without even finding an answer. But it was not to be. Amelia's episode began to subside and the twitching of her body slowed. She didn't utter another word. Veronica slumped back onto the wooden bench, thankful, at least, that her sister seemed to be unscathed.
Amelia's breath was shallow and she looked dazed, unsure where she was or how she may have got there. She looked up at Veronica, the nurses still pinning her arms to the ground.
"Veronica?"
"Yes, I'm here, Amelia. Are you okay?"
Amelia blinked, looking at the faces of the two nurses who were holding her down on the cold grass, awaiting the arrival of the doctor. "I'll be alright." She met Veronica's gaze. "Did you find what you were looking for?" Her eyes were questing, searching for approval from her older sister.
Veronica looked away. "I'm not sure, Amelia. I don't know what it all meant."
Dr. Mason came running towards them, then, his face flushed. He scowled when he saw Veronica sitting on the bench in the middle of the scene. "Hello, Amelia. I think it's time we got you inside." He turned to Veronica. "Your sister will be taking her leave of us now."
Veronica nodded, briefly. She stood as the nurses helped Amelia to her feet. "I love you, sister." She stepped forward and kissed Amelia on the cheek. "Be well."
"I'll try."
And with that, Veronica turned and walked away from the scene, her hand on her head to keep her hat from fluttering away in the breeze.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next morning Newbury rose early, still tender from the ministrations of the Fixer the previous day. He went directly to the bathroom and washed his wounds, and then applied a thick layer of the yellow poultice to each of them in turn. The substance smelled faintly of beeswax, although he could only guess at what else it was comprised of. He felt vibrant and nervous with energy, partially the result of too much rest, and partially, he imagined, the continued effect o
f Dr. Fabian's compound. His wounds had begun to heal already, too, although there was still a long way to go before he'd be back to anything like his normal physical form.
Newbury had spent the remainder of the previous day holed up in his study, pacing the room, smoking his pipe and doing his utmost to stop himself giving in to his cravings for the laudanum, which sat in its little brown bottle on the shelf across the room, teasing him with promises of warmth, forgetfulness and solitude. He had sorted through a number of papers from his years in India, searching out references to the revenant plague and attempting to lose himself in reminisces of the period. Mrs. Bradshaw had prepared him a lavish roast beef dinner, and he had taken it in the dining room, the first time for months that he had made a point of sitting down to eat a proper meal in his own house.
By morning, however, he felt he could carry on like this no longer. In truth, he was concerned that boredom would indeed drive him to the dreaded opiate that he was attempting so pointedly to resist. Instead, he had resolved to head to the office, to deal with any outstanding correspondence, ensure that Mrs. Coulthard was bearing up, and otherwise busy himself with work on his now-overdue academic paper. He secretly hoped that, in doing so, he would happen upon Miss Hobbes with news of the case, and together they could spend the day mulling over the developments so far, gathering their thoughts whilst his constitution was restored and agreeing on a course of action for the following day. If nothing else, he knew Her Majesty would not look too kindly on him wasting another day in lackadaisical pursuits when he had a case to solve, injured or not.
It was still too early in the day to expect Mrs. Bradshaw to have risen to make breakfast, so instead Newbury settled for organising himself a pot of Earl Grey and rummaging up a few slices of toast, which he ate with a smear of marmalade whilst reading the morning papers. Then, confident that he was well enough for a brief stroll, he fetched his coat and hat and set out, drawing in the fresh morning air and celebrating the fact that he was still alive. The previous day's events seemed like a lifetime ago, a dark and distant memory, and if it were not for the occasional twinge in his upper torso as he walked, he could almost have believed that it had been nothing but a fantasy.
Presently, tiring from his walk, Newbury hailed a cab to take him the rest of the way to the museum. The streets were still quiet, but the sun had risen and the fog was already lifting. He bounced along in the back of the cab, wincing every time the horses ran over an uneven patch of cobbled road and the wheels juddered, jolting his injured body painfully.
The museum grounds were still deserted when the cab pulled up outside the main gates. Newbury clambered down and paid the driver, who doffed his cap and set the horses trotting off towards Charing Cross Road, their hooves clattering loudly in the otherwise empty street. Newbury crossed the courtyard and mounted the steps up to the main entrance, smiling warmly at Watkins, who was on hand even at this hour to welcome early arrivals. Pulling his gloves off and loosening his scarf, Newbury made his way down to the basement floor and along the short corridor to his office. Taking his key from inside of his jacket pocket, he turned it easily in the lock, pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was clear Miss Coulthard had visited the office in the last couple of days. The correspondence had been neatly stacked in the appropriate trays, the cups and saucers had been tidied away and there was a note on her desk, in her handwriting, addressed to him. He picked it up, unfolded the card and scanned the neat copperplate briefly, before dropping it into the waste paper basket beside the door. No word on her brother Jack, it seemed.
Newbury clicked the door shut and draped his coat and hat on the stand. He crossed to his private office, noting that there was a pile of papers for him to sign, obviously left there by Miss Coulthard, and growing in size every day he was away from the office. He disliked the menial administrative duties of his position at the museum, but in other ways it held his interest when he wasn't on a case, allowed him to come and go as freely as he liked and gave him access to many files and artefacts he would otherwise find it very difficult to obtain. Not only that, but it served as a perfect cover for his position with the Crown, meaning that, rather than having to hide himself away from society as many of the other agents did, he could instead continue to ingratiate himself with the nobility of London, all of which, he felt, provided him with a greater opportunity to do his duty for Her Majesty and the Empire. Connections, in London, were everything, and he found they opened doors where others would find them locked.
Flexing his damaged shoulder muscle to stop it from stiffening up, he lowered himself heavily into his chair. He flicked through the pile of papers on his desk, sighing in dismay. There wasn't even enough there to keep him engaged for an hour, and whilst his paper on the druidic tribes of Bronze Age Europe was in dire need of further work, in truth he still hoped to find an opportunity to get back on the case before the morning was out. He drummed his fingers on the desk. He needed to talk to Musgrove.
Newbury looked up at the sound of the main door clicking open. He glanced at the grandfather clock through the open door of his office. It was still too early for it to be Miss Hobbes. Perhaps, in an effort to distract herself from the difficult situation at home, Miss Coulthard had decided to come to the office early that morning?
He stood, moving round from behind his desk to greet the new arrival. He stopped short when he heard a familiar clacking sound, like brass feet clanging against the porcelain titles of the floor.
Automaton.
He backed up, wondering how one of the clockwork men had managed to get into the museum, let alone track down his office on the basement floor. The feet continued to clatter on the tiles, slowly, deliberately, and Newbury realised that, judging from the sounds of their shuffling movements, there must be more than one of the devices.
A moment later, one of the units appeared around the corner behind the coat stand. Newbury stiffened. It seemed to survey the office, its spinning eyes flicking from one corner of the room to the other. When it caught sight of Newbury it began to move again, turning around slowly and approaching him, its arms hanging limp by its side. Another one shuffled into the room behind it.
Newbury braced himself. "What are you doing here? What do you want?"
The automaton cocked its head slightly, as if trying to compute his words. Then, stopping about six feet away from him, it raised its right hand before its face. There was a soft, almost pneumatic snicking sound, as thin, knife-like blades slipped out from the ends of its fingers, turning its hand into a vicious, razor-sharp claw. Newbury edged backwards until his legs encountered the edge of his desk. The automaton resumed its slow, relentless march towards him. Behind it, the other unit edged further into the room, blades clicking out of the ends of its fingertips to form an identical, gruesome-looking weapon. He noted with dismay that the right hand of that second unit was already smeared in blood. He supposed that answered his question about how the devices had found their way into the museum.
Knowing that he was already seriously injured and therefore unlikely to be able to hold the automatons off for long, Newbury decided to go on the offensive. He waited a moment until the nearest unit was only a matter of feet away from him and then charged it, trying to use his speed and body weight to his advantage. The automaton saw him coming, however, and twisted out of the way, contorting itself in a manner a human being would find impossible to emulate. Newbury, unable to stop his momentum, slammed into the side of Miss Coulthard's desk, jarring his injured shoulder and spinning awkwardly to the ground. The desk overturned, sending sheaves of paper blooming into the air. Just in time, Newbury realised he'd landed at the feet of the second automaton, and rolled to the left, narrowly avoiding its falling hand, which chopped down against the tiles with terrifying force, splintering the porcelain in a cloud of dust. Newbury, still on the floor, grabbed out for the automaton's leg, yanking it forward and unbalancing the device, sending it smashing down to the hard floor beside him. It
immediately began to clamber to its feet, twisting its shoulder joints to give it better leverage. Newbury climbed to one knee and thrashed out, bringing the coat stand crashing down in front of him just in time to block the path of the other automaton, which was charging him from across the room. He had to think fast.
Leaping to his feet, he cast around for a weapon. His abdomen and chest were on fire as his movements pulled on the stitches, tearing at his damaged flesh. The automatons, scrambling over the coat stand, had been reduced to relentless killing machines, stripped of their harmless guise as servants. Their gears churned as they both came at him again, swinging their bladed hands towards him, one of them only a matter of inches from his face. He fell back, banging his head awkwardly against the wall. Trying to ignore the burst of sharp pain that flared at the back of his skull, he dove to the left, sending the kitchen equipment skittering across the tiles as he tried to take cover behind the small gas stove, forcing his way over the top of it and onto the floor on the other side. Between the stove and Miss Coulthard's overturned desk, he found himself trapped in the corner of the room, with nowhere else to turn. The one thing in his favour was the fact that the automatons seemed unable to work out how to clamber over the furniture, instead choosing to reach over and slash at him with their razor-sharp finger blades. He tried to stay out of their reach.
