by George Mann
Knox was grinning foolishly, his once-blind eye twinkling with glee. He was parrying deftly with his blade — and Newbury, stumbling onto the deck and falling to his knees, Veronica still clutched tightly in his arms — winced at the sound of metal striking metal. Rotten flesh, flayed from Ashford's forearms by the constant thrashing of the sabre, spun away in great clods, exposing more of the bizarre, brass skeleton beneath. Ashford barely seemed to register the blows. If he felt any pain, it was lost in the snarl of rage that Newbury could see writ on his face. This was why Ashford had come back. It had all been for this moment. He would have his revenge on Knox, for separating him from his family, for being the catalyst that caused him to be turned into a monster. Newbury thought he caught a glimpse of something else in that expression, too. Sadness. Ashford had reached the end. He didn't want to live any longer, not the abject half-life he'd been forced to endure for the last five years. He was set on a path of self destruction, and he fully intended to take Knox down with him when he fell.
The huge, recreated man staggered forward, almost losing his footing near the prow as the Methuselah dipped into the water. He swung at Knox, his feet causing water to spray into the air as he stomped across the half-submerged deck. The fight between the two men was far less elegant than Newbury's earlier encounter with Knox, but in many ways more effective. It was clear that Ashford had the upper hand, if by nothing other than virtue of the fact that he seemed unconcerned by the shower of blows he was allowing Knox to rain down on him as he pushed forward, relentlessly, focused on his goal.
Newbury could hear the ship's engines choking now, and he knew it wouldn't be long until they were all pitched into the cold water. He looked down at Veronica. Her face was pale from loss of blood. Hastily, he tested the tourniquet he had placed around her shoulder. It was still holding, but she needed surgery, and soon. He needed to get her to the Fixer. But there was no way -off the boat, other than the river. He dared not risk plunging into the cold river with Veronica already so weak. He feared she wouldn't survive the shock. He needed to get past Knox and Ashford. Perhaps then he'd be able to make a jump for the quayside.
As if reading his thoughts, Ashford took decisive action. Ploughing forward, he raised his arms and grabbed for Knox, ignoring the sharp downward swing of the other man's sword, which bit hard into the coil of tubing that stretched from Ashford's chest to the back of his skull. Blood and chemicals sprayed into the air, describing a wide arc, but Ashford paid them no heed. He chopped down hard at Knox's wrist, causing the doctor to lose his grip on the sabre. It spiralled away, clattering to the wooden boards, the weight of it causing it to slide across the uneven deck of the listing ship. Newbury watched it slip away into the water, disappearing into the murky depths of the Thames. Ashford was about to finish it.
Standing, Newbury held Veronica tightly to his chest as Ashford grasped hold of Knox, wrapping his huge, sinewy arms around the other man's chest and lifting him bodily into the air. Mechanical servos squealed as Ashford applied crushing pressure, his feet planted firmly on the deck, water lapping at his knees.
Knox wailed and spluttered, wheezing as the air was forced out of his lungs by his slowly collapsing ribcage. His legs kicked uselessly, his arms pinned to his sides, as his body was constricted by his former victim. His head turned, his eyes fixing on Newbury. Newbury could see the panic there, the desperation behind those eyes. His mouth opened and closed. He was mouthing something. Newbury stepped closer.
"Help... me..." Knox gasped. But all Newbury could see were the faces of the dead girls in the cellar beneath the Archibald Theatre, Veronica's face as the bullet ripped through her shoulder, and Purefoy's disembowelled corpse, spread out on the floor like an anatomical doll. He remained steadfast, unmoved by the doctor's plight. His jaw was set firm. There would be no redemption for this man. The hate burned within Newbury like a furnace. Knox was everything that Newbury was not. Charles was wrong. The similarities were superficial. Perhaps they were two extremes on the same scale, but they were poles apart. He needed to believe that.
Knox gave a spasm, his neck jerking back, blood spouting from his lips, his eyes rolling back in his sockets, as, with one, last, sudden movement, Ashford squeezed the last of the life out of him The doctor's head lolled to one side.
After a moment, Ashford released the corpse, which flopped like a child's toy to the deck of the boat and then slid, ungraciously, into the river. A moment later there was nothing but a few escaping air bubbles to mark the departure of Dr. Aubrey Knox.
The Methuselah shook violently as its engines began to fail. Ashford stood, watching the water for a moment, as if anxious to ensure that Knox would not suddenly resurface, and then turned and staggered towards Newbury. The pump in his chest was still pushing fluid through the severed pipe, but it now become a pathetic trickle, dribbling down the side of Ashford's head. The man himself had begun to tremble. With great difficulty, he raised his feet above the sloshing water and jerked himself over to where Newbury was still cradling the unconscious Veronica to his chest. River water was now pouring into the open hatch by Newbury's feet, and he knew he had only minutes to get Veronica to safety.
Before he could reach Newbury, Ashford collapsed to his knees. The red lights of his eyes were flickering, unsteady and dim. Newbury realised that without the preserving chemicals his brain must have been drying out, starved of moisture and oxygen. He was near death. He looked up at Newbury, who met his gaze with a smile. "You did it, Ashford. You did it."
Ashford's ventilator was wheezing heavily, rasping as he dragged air into his artificial lungs. He seemed to be struggling to open his mouth. When he did, the tinny, metallic sound of his voice lacked its usual bass timbre. "Thank Charles for me, Newbury." And then he convulsed, froze, and dropped to the sinking deck of the ship, the red lights of his eyes fading to a pinprick of light, and then disappearing to a steady black. His head dipped below the water line.
Newbury lurched into action. Veronica's breathing was shallow. She'd lost a lot of blood, but the wound was clean, straight through. He only hoped he could get her to a surgeon in time.
Cautiously, he walked to the rear of the boat, his feet sloshing in the water. There was no way he could make the jump to the harbour, not with Veronica in his arms. He'd have to swim. He hoped Veronica could survive it. But there was no other option.
Cursing, he glanced up and down the quayside, looking for a means by which he could scale the harbour wall. His best option was to get to one of the other nearby boats, and from there, to safety. Hesitantly, he lowered himself into a sitting position on the side of the ship and then pitched himself forward into the water, careful to buoy Veronica so that her head remained above the surface. It didn't seem that long since he was last in the Thames, since Veronica was dragging him from the belly of a sinking airship, and he would have laughed aloud at the irony, had it not been for the gravity of his current situation.
Long, powerful strokes soon propelled him towards the nearest vessel: a large, white yacht, bobbing on the water about a hundred yards from the sinking submersible. The owners were nowhere to be seen. It wasn't difficult for Newbury to haul himself and his precious cargo up the small ladder to the safety of the deck.
Shivering with cold, his head pounding from the earlier blows, he didn't wait to catch his breath. Instead, he took a running jump over the small gap to the dock, from where he knew he could carry Veronica to a hansom, and from there on, swiftly, to safety.
—— Chapter Twenty-Five ——
So, what did Her Majesty have to say about it all?" Sir Charles Bainbridge took a large gulp from his glass of claret and leaned heavily on the dinner table, regarding Newbury. The two men had only recently finished their meal and Mrs. Bradshaw had yet to return to clear away the evening's debris.
Newbury shrugged. "Nothing, as yet. I'm seeing her tomorrow."
Bainbridge raised a knowing eyebrow. "Tomorrow? It's been, what, three days?"
"A day or
two won't change anything, Charles. Her Majesty knows that." Newbury smiled.
Bainbridge sighed. "You'd do well to remember that it's not our place to take the law into our own hands, Newbury. I mean, why didn't you call me, man?" Bainbridge was adamant. "You went and put yourself, and Miss Hobbes, in great danger. I could have helped."
Newbury shook his head. "No, Charles. The Yard would have only got in the way. This was not an occasion for the police. It had to be handled differently. You must recognise that sometimes, we need to act outside the law."
"But Newbury, you're forgetting. I'm not only a policeman."
Newbury grinned, a twinkle in his eye. "You can take the man out of the Yard, Charles, but you can't take the Yard out of the man. You'd do well to remember that."
"Well, yes. Perhaps you're right." Bainbridge chuckled. "Dastardly affair, though. Do you believe that's the last we'll see of Aubrey Knox?"
Newbury's expression grew serious. He picked at the remnants of his pudding. "I believe so. I hope so. He looked quite dead when Ashford dropped him into the water."
"Quite... quite. But they're saying they haven't been able to find the body, as yet."
"Charles, I'd be amazed if anyone could find anything in that dock, let alone a man's corpse. For all we know, it was caught up in the propeller of some passing steamship or other, dashed into a thousand pieces."
"Yes. I suppose you might have it, there." Bainbridge placed his glass on the table before him, and shifted position, leaning back in his chair. "But what about this... Isis Ritual? What would have become of Knox if he'd managed to complete his machinations?"
Newbury shrugged, dropping his serviette onto the table and leaning forward to regard his friend. "The Osiris Ritual, you mean? Charles, I don't believe for one moment that it would have had any effect at all. That's what makes the whole episode even more grotesque. What he did to all those young women. He was extracting a hormone from their pituitary glands. But that, coupled with some esoteric ritual from Ancient Egypt? No. I believe it would have singularly failed to help him achieve his aim."
"Ah yes, his quest for extended life."
"I don't believe there's an answer, Charles. Knox was driven by an innate desire to live forever, and in doing so he surrendered what time he did have to this folly. What a waste. We should use our time on this earth wisely, Charles. Ashford knew that."
"Indeed he did." Bainbridge looked momentarily forlorn. "So what of Miss Hobbes? I understand it was a grave injury she endured."
"Quite so. Have you been to see her?"
Bainbridge nodded. "Of course. She seems to be convalescing well. No doubt she'll be back on her feet within a week or so. She has a strong will, that one."
"That she does." Newbury felt tired. He studied the empty plate before him. "I feared for her, Charles. I feared for what might become of her, for the danger that my gallivanting has put her in. This whole affair..." He sighed. "I don't know. I just had the sense that I was losing control."
Bainbridge nodded sagely, but didn't respond. After a moment, Newbury reached for his glass of wine and downed its contents in one long pull. He set it down again neatly before him. "Shall we retire to the drawing room, Charles? I'm feeling a need for my pipe."
Bainbridge grinned. "Excellent idea, old chap, excellent idea."
The two men abandoned the remains of their dinner and made their way through the large set of double doors into the drawing room. Newbury's clockwork owl sat on a perch in one corner, clicking its wings excitedly as they entered the room. A fire was burning low in the grate. Newbury felt immediately better. He strode over to the mantelpiece, collecting his battered old tobacco pouch and pipe. "Pour us a drink, Charles."
Bainbridge approached the worn, mahogany drinks cabinet, from which he produced two tumblers and a decanter of the finest brandy. Removing the glass stopper, he sloshed a generous measure into each glass and then turned and handed one to Newbury, who accepted it gratefully.
Standing by the fire, his sharp features cast in relief, he looked almost statuesque, a picture of nobility. His proud, hawk-like nose, his olive eyes, his finely chiselled jaw line: they were as distinctive and unmistakable as any man in London. Yet there were dark lines beneath his eyes, dark lines that told of another life.
"You look tired, Newbury."
"I feel it, Charles."
"You need to go to her."
Newbury looked perplexed. "Who, the Queen?"
"Miss Hobbes."
Newbury placed his tumbler on the marble mantelpiece with a chink, and began stuffing the bowl of his pipe with his usual fine; aromatic shag. He didn't raise his eyes to look at his friend.
"Perhaps I do." He blinked, and then buried the storm of emotions he could feel welling up inside of him. He needed to avoid that particular conversation. "So, Charles. It seems you were right about Ashford. Tell me, what connection is there between you, and Mrs. William Ashford? I know about the house."
Bainbridge sighed and downed his brandy in one long draw. He reached into his pocket for his cigar case. "It's nothing untoward, Newbury. It's not what you might imagine."
Newbury shrugged. He looked up, meeting his friend's gaze. "I hadn't imagined anything, Charles. I'm in no place to judge..."
Bainbridge smiled; a world-weary smile. "Well, I don't believe that for a moment." He used his cutter to snip the end off his fat, brown cigar. "You see, things were different in those days. We all knew one another, like you and I. Now, I think myself lucky if I can spot another agent in the same room. Her Majesty keeps us all at arm's length. But in those days... Well, suffice it to say that I knew Ashford well, and I knew Catherine too. She used to get on well with Isobel." Newbury nodded. It was rare that his old friend spoke of his late wife. "I think I told you that I was the one sent to talk to her after Ashford died. Or rather, as it transpires, after Ashford died for the first time. I could hardly bear it, Newbury. It was the first time. The first time I'd lost a friend like that, a friend in service. Yes, we'd lost policemen, and Catherine wasn't the first widow I'd had to break the bad news to. But this was different. Catherine was a friend. She cried on my shoulder, the entire night. She wanted me to help her tell the children."
Newbury could see that even the simple act of recounting the story was a painful exercise for his friend.
"I spent much of the night comforting her, and then managed a few hours of fitful sleep in the spare room. The next morning, I helped her to break the news to the boy. He was only three years old, Newbury. It broke my heart." Bainbridge paused, rasping a match across the rough strip on the back of the matchbook and bringing the flame up to the end of his cigar. He shook it out with a wave of his hand, taking a moment to puff on the acrid smoke. "It wasn't until afterwards that I became aware of their situation. She was destitute, and a Crown pension would be hardly enough to live on. She had two children, Newbury, two beautiful young children, and her husband had given his life in the service of the Empire. What was I to do? I couldn't see her cast out or sent to the workhouse."
Newbury sucked thoughtfully on his pipe, still standing by the fire, leaning on the mantelpiece with one arm. "So you took on the house in Bethnal Green. You paid the rent, and moved her in there with her family."
"I did. I'm not ashamed of it, Newbury. She's a good woman, and I never asked for anything in return. You should see her with those children."
"I did see her. So did Ashford. He knew, Charles. He knew what you had done for him. On his death bed he told me to thank you."
Bainbridge smiled. His voice was filled with sadness. "I should have liked to have said goodbye."
"Better that you didn't, Charles. I'm not sure you would have liked what he'd become."
Bainbridge plumed smoke through his nostrils. He regarded Newbury with a severe expression. "I'm not sure any of us like what we've become."
Newbury nodded. He recognised the truth in the other man's words. He turned and retrieved his glass from the mantelpiece, taking a lo
ng, slow drink.
Bainbridge stood, collecting his empty glass from the arm of his chair. He returned to the decanter. Beside it, on the lacquered surface of the drinks cabinet, was a tall, ornate object, made of glass and bone, with a small brazier on top, and a curling pipe that terminated in a matching bone mouthpiece, carved like the head of a dragon. "What is this, Newbury?"
Newbury looked sheepish. "A pipe, Charles. A new pipe."
Bainbridge caught his meaning. "For God's sake, Newbury! Haven't you realised that stuff is killing you? I'll not allow a friend of mine to succumb to a slow death by narcotics, least of all you."
"It helps me think, is all, Charles. There's nothing more to it."
"Like hell!" Bainbridge was red in the face. "You tell yourself that, Newbury, but in truth you're just like any of us, looking for a means of escape, something to hide behind. You've simply decided that this is your particular poison. And it is poison. You're killing yourself."
Newbury looked him in the eye. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I am looking for an escape. Then why is it you judge me so harshly?"
Bainbridge poured himself another large measure of brandy. "Because I don't want to be the one to put you six feet under. Because I know what it is you're doing, and I have no time for it. Why the hell should you be allowed to hide behind a veil of narcotics whilst the rest of us have to suffer regardless? We all have demons, Newbury." He placed the decanter back on the drinks cabinet. "For Heaven's sake, Miss Hobbes deserves better than that."
Newbury sighed. "You're right. Of course you're right. She deserves far better." It pained Newbury that he was the one who always put Veronica in harm's way. But she, in turn, was playing a game of her own, a game which he had yet to fully understand. But what he did know is that he could not allow her to become like Catherine: widowed young, abandoned. He understood why Bainbridge felt the need to protect that woman, to save her and her children from the workhouse, to offer her a better life. He was giving her the life that Ashford could not, but he was also giving her the life that he wanted. That was what Bainbridge was hiding behind. He craved normality. He longed for ignorance. The life of an agent was lonely, and it was lonely for a reason. He would do what he could for Miss Hobbes, but the kindest thing, he knew, was to do nothing. Charles was right. She deserved more than he could give her.
