by George Mann
"Because, Newbury, you were brought in to replace him. In many ways you're the same sort of man: brilliant, dedicated, effective. But even the very best of men are fallible. Don't think that I don't know about your fondness for the laudanum, for a start."
"Look, let's not get into that now."
Bainbridge took a long draw on his brandy. "The Queen is worried. Not because she doubts you, you understand; but because she's seen it before. Knox left a bad taste in her mouth. In all our mouths. She's concerned that, one day, you may drift too close to the line, that the allure of the occult is too strong, not just for you, but for any man."
Newbury gripped the arms of his chair. "God damn it, Charles! That's ridiculous. How can she equate me with a man like that? I have a mind to head back there now, to have it out of her myself!"
Bainbridge slammed his drink down on his desk with a bang. "Don't be a fool, Newbury! Didn't you hear what I said?
It's precisely that sort of behaviour that Her Majesty is trying to avoid." He stood, looking down at his friend. "Newbury, we've been friends for a long time. Listen to me when I tell you this. Stay away from this. It'll do you no good. Ashford is dead, Knox is lost, and you, my friend, are one of the finest men I know. It wouldn't do to mix yourself up in this business. The Queen has nothing to fear. I've told her that myself. She's simply trying to protect you."
Newbury looked up at Bainbridge, resignation in his eyes. "I'm afraid it's not that simple, Charles. Ashford isn't dead, at least not in the way you think he is."
"What?"
"The Queen told me herself, just this morning. It's all starting to make a horrible sort of sense. After what happened at the docks — after they found Ashford's shredded remains —Dr. Fabian took the body to his laboratory and rebuilt him. He's still alive, but he's barely human. Her Majesty said he is `a blunt instrument' and 'no longer a man in the way that I'd understand it'. He's been living undercover in St. Petersburg for five years. Now, for some reason, he's gone rogue. He's probably somewhere in London as we speak. Her Majesty thinks he's returned to wreak vengeance, that he's probably half mad. She's charged me with bringing him in."
Bainbridge flushed red. He looked flustered. "My God..." He grabbed for his glass and downed the rest of his brandy in one long gulp. "It seems that I don't know everything, after all."
"I'm beginning to think it's an epidemic." Newbury took a pull on his own brandy. "Do you think he's come looking for Knox?"
"Perhaps. I don't know. Knox hasn't been heard of for years. 'There could be other reasons."
"Such as?"
Bainbridge shrugged. "All I know is that the Ashford I knew would never go rogue. Not without a damn good reason. Perhaps he's on to something. Perhaps he's following a trail. Or perhaps he really has lost his mind."
Newbury nodded, slowly. "Perhaps. Being half-dead for five years, trapped in Russia without his family. No one could blame him." He placed his empty tumbler on the edge of Bainbridge's mahogany desk. "Will you help me, Charles? I don't even know where to begin."
The Chief Inspector looked pained. "Newbury... I can't. I have no time. I'm about to head out to the scene of a murder. A high-profile one, too. A lord has been found dead in his home. I need to attend to it before I can think of anything else."
Newbury smiled. "Of course. Can I ask — what are the circumstances?"
"It's all rather rum. Lord Henry Winthrop, found dead in his drawing room at Albion House. He held an extravagant soiree on Tuesday evening, something to do with a mummy unrolling. He'd just returned from an expedition to Egypt. It looks like a bungled robbery, according to the chaps on the scene. The burglar may have been disturbed by Winthrop: there's not a great deal missing. We're wondering if someone scoped the place out during the party and tried to come back the next day."
Newbury was already on his feet. "Charles! I was there. Two nights ago, at the party. I spoke to Winthrop. My God..."
"What! Then you could be of use to me on the scene. Can you talk me through what happened there?"
"Of course. I may even be able to point you to a suspect. There was a heated exchange at the party between Winthrop and a man named Blake. Wilfred Blake. He left under a heavy cloud."
"Good man! Come on, grab your coat. The carriage should be ready and waiting. Once we've got this nasty business out of the way I can help you with Ashford, assuming that he doesn't show his hand in the meantime." Bainbridge strode over to the coat stand in the corner and collected his overcoat, gloves and cane. Newbury followed suit. He couldn't help but wonder if, somehow, Winthrop's death would prove to be connected to the mystery surrounding the screaming mummy. But it was not enough of a distraction to quell the rising feeling of disquiet that gripped him, tightly, in the chest, every time he considered Bainbridge's words: "The Queen is worried... even the very best of men are fallible."
He knew that feeling only too well himself.
Together, the two men set out for Albion House.
—— Chapter Eight ——
Veronica stood on the gravel path at the foot of the sanatorium building and tried to will herself to smile. It was mid-morning, and the journey to Wandsworth had been fraught with chaos. The progress of her hansom had been arrested at the scene of a terrible accident, in which a small, steam-powered vehicle had exploded, sprinkling the driver in a bloody mess across a residential square, leaving debris scattered over the road and frightened horses bolting in every conceivable direction. Many cabs, including her own, had been dragged halfway across the neighbourhood, and Veronica would not have been surprised to learn that these errant vehicles themselves had been the cause of further accidents. Thankfully, her driver had been quick to get his spooked horses under control, and had soon arranged for a swift detour to avoid the inevitable delays that awaited them in the other direction.
In truth, however, Veronica knew it was not this that had leftt her feeling so dejected. Sir Maurice had failed to make their appointment once again that morning, and whilst she knew that she shouldn't blame him — wrapped up as he was in the whole "screaming mummy" affair — she couldn't help but feel a little slighted that he should choose to spend his time worrying about a musty old corpse rather than aiding her with a serious investigation.
Then, of course, there was Amelia. Last time she had visited her younger sister, a week earlier, Veronica had found the experience almost unbearable. Amelia was growing weaker and frailer with every passing day. It was as if her sporadic seizures were somehow draining the life out of her, stealing her vitality, as if she was suffering from some kind of wasting disease that was slowly dragging her towards death. Veronica couldn't bear to stand by and watch that happen. She cared for Amelia too much.
She stared up at the building. It looked foreboding, deserted. The airing courts were empty, and a thick, rolling mist lay heavy on the gardens. The clock tower disappeared into the milky sky above the entrance. She couldn't put it off any longer. Sighing, Veronica walked decisively towards the sanatorium, her boots crunching noisily on the loose gravel.
Inside, the reception area was a remarkable counterpoint to the misty solitude of the sanatorium grounds. Here, there were signs of life in plenitude. A nurse sat behind the reception desk, a vacant expression on her face; a doctor strolled purposefully along the corridor, his shoes clicking on the tiled floor; the sounds of patients in their rooms, suffering from any number of terrible mental afflictions. Veronica always felt disconcerted by the sounds of the inmates. Their keening, shouting, wailing and babbling was a constant background noise, disturbing and inescapable. It left her feeling edgy, as if she was surrounded by fear, and it was this, if nothing else, that made her wish that Amelia could be found a more salubrious environment in which to heal. She was certain that her sister's surroundings were adding to her slow decline. Veronica blamed her parents for that, for washing their hands of the "embarrassment". They had insisted on having her committed. What she needed was love, and to be treated like a real person, not someone
who needed to be hidden away from society, or else a puzzle that was proving difficult to solve.
Distracted, Veronica turned to see Dr. Mason, Amelia's physician, approaching across the reception hall. He looked tired, worn down by his work. He was dressed in a smart black suit with a white collar, although he had evidently removed his tie and had forgotten to replace it. He was swarthy, with dark hair swept back from his forehead, in his fifties, and when he spoke his voice was filled with relief. "Miss Hobbes. I'm glad you've come. I've been trying unsuccessfully to reach your parents for a week now."
Veronica frowned. "Dr. Mason, I do not pretend to follow their movements. I fear I am no better equipped to locate them than you. Perhaps they are visiting Father's cousin, in Paris." Her expression softened to one of concern. "Why? Is there news of Amelia?"
Dr. Mason looked pained. It was evidently bad news. "Your sister is gravely ill, Miss Hobbes. I fear you must prepare yourself..."
Veronica gave an involuntary, wracking sob. Prepare herself... Then things had become even more desperate for Amelia. Quickly, she gathered her composure, but her voice was thin and reedy when she spoke. "How long?"
Dr. Mason shook his head. "I cannot answer that, Miss Hobbes. Two or three months would be my estimate, judging by the rate of her deterioration."
Veronica realised she was clenching her fists so hard that her fingernails were biting into the flesh of her palms. "Is there nothing you can do?"
The doctor looked shame-faced. "I can make her comfortable." He wouldn't meet her eye.
Veronica blinked away stinging tears. "Where is she?"
"This way. I'll take you to her." He set off along the corridor, and Veronica trailed behind him. She dabbed at her eyes, attempting to regain her composure.
A few moments later, after following the doctor through a seemingly endless warren of blank, sterile passageways, they stopped before a door. "She's in there. She may be asleep." He turned, glancing back the way they had come. "I'll give you some time alone. Try not to tire her too much. And do your best to stay buoyant." He coughed once into his fist and then, smoothing the front of his suit, he left her there, standing outside the door. In a moment his echoing footsteps had dissolved into the ever-present cacophony of voices.
Steadying herself, Veronica reached for the handle and pushed the door open, stepping into the room. It was small, with space for only a single bed, a chair, and a bedside table. It was lit only by a single lamp, and the curtains were drawn shut over the window.
On the bed her sister lay slumped, almost entirely subsumed by the pillows and blankets. Her raven-black hair spilled out all around her face, and she looked painfully thin, emaciated by her inability to eat. Her eyes were sunken pits, and her face was gaunt. She was only nineteen years old, but could easily have passed for a woman twice her age. To Veronica, though, she was still beautiful. She offered her brightest smile as Amelia turned to look at her, startled by the sound of the door clicking back into place.
"Sister, don't think I don't realise what people see when they look at me." She offered Veronica a hard stare. "I'm dying. Degenerating. And the doctors don't understand why. I've seen myself in the mirror." Her face softened. "You don't have to hide your dismay."
Veronica crossed to her bedside. "I don't hide anything from you, Amelia."
"Then why are you standing there trying to pretend that everything is normal?"
"You know why."
Amelia shrugged. "I'm not scared, Veronica. It's nothing new. People die every day. It's the same for us all. Life is simply one long fight towards death. I've come to realise that all we learn from life, all we truly learn, is how to die with dignity. I intend to do just that."
"My God, Amelia..."
"Do you believe in God, sister? I mean really, truly believe in him?"
Veronica hesitated. Her voice was a breathless whisper. "I... no. I don't. At least not in the way you mean. I —"
"It's alright," Amelia cut in, her voice faltering. She turned her head on the pillow so that she was looking at the panelled door. "Neither do I. I don't have the capacity to imagine an afterlife."
Veronica sucked in her breath. "Amelia, that's a terribly stark view of life."
"It's a terribly honest view."
"And that's what you want? For everything to end?" Veronica couldn't keep the scorn out of her voice.
Amelia tried to sit up. She turned to meet her sister's gaze. "No! That's not what I want. Quite the opposite. I want to live. I'm not ready for it all to end. Not yet. But all the same, I recognise the end is near."
Veronica shook her head. "Don't you dare stop fighting this, Amelia!"
Amelia smiled and allowed herself to sink back into the folds of the pillows. "Veronica, I have no intention of giving up without a fight. Now," she beckoned her sister closer, "will you come here and let me look at you properly? I want to hear all of your news."
Veronica stifled another sob. She knew she needed to be strong for Amelia. Later, when she was at home, in the darkness. Then she could allow herself to cry.
She propped herself on the edge of the bed, taking up her sister's hand, and realising, surprised, that in the intervening seconds Amelia had drifted off into unconsciousness. Sighing, she brushed Amelia's long, dark hair away from her forehead, and watched her breathing, an overwhelming sense of sadness in her heart.
"Amelia, I have to go. I have to be somewhere. But I'll be back soon, I promise." Veronica's voice was a gentle whisper. She had sat by her sister's bed for over an hour, and it was only now that Amelia had begun to stir.
Amelia blinked up at her sleepily. "The missing girls?"
Veronica offered her a quizzical look. "Yes... How did you...? Have you started to remember the content of your visions?"
Amelia gave an almost imperceptible nod. "A little." She propped herself up on her elbow, yawning. She looked suddenly serious. "Veronica, I've seen terrible things. Nightmarish things. A man with no face, looming out of the darkness. Horrible screeching sounds. And spinning. Always spinning, around and around, like I'm trapped on a carousel, unable to focus. I have no idea what it means."
Veronica couldn't bear to look Amelia in the eye. She studied her own hands instead, turning them over, following the map ot folds and tributaries described by her pale skin. "It may not mean anything, Amelia. It may be your mind attempting to heal itself, is all."
Amelia clenched her fists dramatically, gathering bundles of the bed sheets. When she spoke, her voice was hot with anger. "Not you, Veronica. I can't stand it if you begin spouting their rhetoric, too. You know better than that. Tell me you don't think that."
Veronica placed a placatory hand on her sister's arm. "I don't think that, Amelia. Not for a minute. But I hate what your... condition is doing to you."
Amelia nodded, silently. Veronica knew that she hated it too.
"I really have to go now, sister. I'll come back as soon as I'm able."
Amelia smiled. "I know you will."
Veronica placed Amelia's hand carefully on the bed and got to her feet. "Take care, Amelia."
Without looking back at the thin shadow of the woman who lay on the bed behind her, Veronica opened the door and stepped into the hall. Dr. Mason was nowhere to be seen, called away, she presumed, to attend to another patient. It was probably for the best. Veronica couldn't imagine dealing with the man now. Instead, she needed to throw herself into the case. Crying wouldn't help her sister. And out there, somewhere, were missing girls that she could help. She needed to do that, for herself, and for Amelia.
Drawing her coat around her, Veronica set out. Whether she could count on Sir Maurice's assistance or not, she would solve this case. And in the meantime, she would consider how best to aid her dying sister.
—— Chapter Nine ——
The police carriage pulled to a sharp halt. Newbury looked out of the window.
Albion House was once again bustling with people, but it was an entirely different sort of bustle t
han the one he had witnessed just a couple of evenings before. Gone was the impressive flock of lords and ladies, who had fluttered around on the front steps like preening birds, all dressed in their elaborate finery; replaced instead by an army of uniformed constables with grey, tired faces and expectant looks.
A large crowd of onlookers had gathered on the pavement outside of Lord Winthrop's house, each of them attempting to catch a glimpse of whatever gruesome mystery was hidden behind the shuttered windows. The bobbies were doing their best to marshal this unruly crowd, keeping them back from the scene and ignoring their pleas for information. Newbury guessed there would be half a dozen reporters in the mob. He wondered if one of them was Purefoy.
Newbury edged forward in his seat, leaning over to open the carriage door, but before he could it swung open, as if by its own volition, and a man's face peered in. He was wearing a full, black beard and his eyes were a shining sea-green. He looked official in his grey woollen suit and bowler hat. Newbury grinned: a wide, welcoming grin. "Inspector Foulkes. How unfortunate that we seem only to meet on occasions such as this."
The man glanced at Newbury and nodded sullenly. "Indeed, Sir Maurice. Unfortunate is the word. My job would be so much easier if people would only desist from killing each other." His moustache twitched. He glanced at Bainbridge. "Sir Charles, we haven't touched anything inside. What would be your preferred course of action?"
Bainbridge sighed. "I'd prefer to be back in my warm office shuffling papers. But I suppose we should get to it. We'll go inside and take a look." He climbed to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane and muttering beneath his breath. "This cold weather will be the death of me."
They stepped down from the carriage into the crisp London morning. The horses were sweating profusely, their breaths fogging in the cold air. Newbury looked up at the house. It seemed quiet; different, somehow. He supposed it was simply the lack of lights and noise coming from inside, the fact that last time he'd been here, it had seemed warm and inviting, full of bustle and excitement. Now, instead, it seemed cold and dreary, and Newbury knew that inside, all that awaited him was the stink of death and corruption. His mood darkened. Winthrop had been rather a buffoon of a fellow — a buffoon with a great deal of money to throw at his hobbies — but whatever had happened to him, in there, it was unlikely he deserved it.
