by George Mann
Later, she would understand this for what it was: the old woman’s attempt to rationalise the unfathomable ways of the world, and perhaps to remind herself that there existed people whose circumstances were far worse than her own. The old woman consoled herself in this manner, by averting her own face from the looking glass and turning its scrutiny upon the young orphan who had never known anything better. It allowed the woman to focus on something other than her own lowly lot in life, her pauper’s existence.
At the time, however, the old woman terrified her. She thought her a witch, an avatar of the devil himself. She cowered from that cavernous mouth and its spittle-flecked lips that spewed only poison and fear, trying to shut out the woman’s spiteful words. The onslaught was relentless, however, and by the age of seven she found herself believing what the woman said: that she had killed her own mother upon quitting the womb, that her very soul was inhabited by evil, and that she would never amount to anything in this life. All that awaited her was an eternity in the fiery pits of Hell.
One day the woman described this terrifying place to her, told her of the torture she was likely to endure, of the demons with their silky forked tongues and pitchforks, the way they would force her to live out her worst fears for all eternity. The girl asked the woman if she, too, would go to Hell, since she knew this place so well. The woman reached out and cuffed her brutally across the back of the head for her insolence.
She wished the old woman dead, then, and not for the first time. She balled her fists and could almost see the woman’s wizened old face contorting in pain as she collapsed upon the hearth, near where she sat in perpetual, indolent repose. Her hair would catch alight like dry tinder, and with a whoosh of flame she would ignite, blazing suddenly bright in the grainy dimness of the parlour. The chair would catch fire, and the flames would spread, licking at the table legs, engulfing the wooden shelves, and finally spreading throughout the orphanage. The entire building would be razed to the ground in the purifying inferno, and all of the nannies and maids and tutors would burn incandescent like tallow candles.
The girl would be free, then, to escape a diabolical future in the acrid pits of Hell.
It did not happen quite as she’d hoped. When the old woman finally did drop dead, almost a year later, the young girl was peeling potatoes in the kitchen with two other orphans. They heard a wheezing grunt from the adjacent parlour. The girl put down her paring knife and—with some hesitation—tiptoed through to the parlour to investigate what had become of the old woman.
She was thrilled to see the scene from her imagination brought vividly to life.
The old woman lay face down upon the hearth, her jaundiced eyes still open but unseeing, her skin pallid and grey. Her mouth yawned open, slack jawed, and drool pooled upon the slate tiles beneath her. Her arms were outstretched, as if she’d been reaching for something when her heart had suddenly given out. Everything was as the girl had imagined, save for one small detail. The woman’s hair had not caught the dancing flames that even now leapt and caroused in the grate, but had fallen just a little short, fanned out like grey bristles upon the hearth.
She was fascinated by the sight of this dead thing that had once been a person. It was unreal to her that the woman had ever actually been alive. She stood over the corpse for a full minute before she was struck by the notion that, if she wished, she could bring about the conflagration she had always dreamed of. One nudge from the edge of her boot and the woman’s head would be close enough to the flames for her hair to catch alight. She could encourage the fire to escape, just as she longed to escape. She could feed it the flaccid corpse of this horrid old woman, who would burn—not in Satan’s realm, but there on the hearth, roasting like a suckling pig. It was everything the old woman deserved, and more.
It would look like an accident. She would not be held accountable. She would claim she had found the woman that way, that she had attempted desperately to put the flames out with the jug of water from the table, but it had not been enough; the fire was too ravenous, too eager.
She stepped forward, raising her foot, her heart bursting with excitement, when she heard a wheedling scream from behind her. She turned to see the other girls, half-peeled potatoes still clutched in their pale hands, and knew there and then that her escape was not to be.
The old woman was buried in the churchyard, and the girl was forced to stand in attendance with the other children from the orphanage. Some of them wept sorrowfully, for the funeral reminded them of their own losses. The young girl, however, who had never known her parents and did not feel their loss, wept tears of frustration instead. Her dream was over. There would be no escape from the orphanage, and though the decrepit old woman who had tormented her for so many years was now gone, her words continued to ring in the girl’s ears. The devil was waiting for her, impatient to reclaim his own.
When escape did finally come, it was from the most unexpected of quarters. An inventor who lived in the city came to the orphanage to claim himself a daughter. His wife had died that very morning of a terrible wasting disease, and he told the matron how the woman had always wanted a child of her own to nurture, a daughter she could shape in her own image. Her disease, however, had prevented her from bearing a child of her own, and in the latter years of her life she had been too weak for them to take in an orphan.
As she had lain on her deathbed, her husband clutching her hand as she faded, she had asked him to grant her one final promise so that she might rest: She made him swear that he would go directly to the orphanage to find a young girl on whom to bestow all of his fatherly affection. His loving wife had not wanted him to be alone in his grief, and wished only that her legacy might be continued through a child.
The matron saw this, of course, as an opportunity to unburden herself of one of her charges, and as the inventor was well-known and well-respected throughout the city, she encouraged him eagerly in this pursuit.
Without further ado, the matron stirred the girls from their chores, rounding them up in the exercise yard for the man to inspect. She told the girls that one of them would be granted the gift of a new father that day, and that they must all be grateful for the opportunity and pleased for the girl who would be saved by this wonderful, benevolent man. The matron spoke of God and His divine will, and how in the eyes of the Lord all men are made equal. Today He would bestow a gift upon one lowly orphan that would raise her up and alter the course of her life. The matron was unable to hide the wavering note of jealousy in her own voice as she explained this.
The girl held her breath as the inventor paced up and down before the line of smiling orphans, twirling the ends of his exuberant moustache as he contemplated his options. He seemed to be a gentle, intelligent man, and she giggled nervously as he pinched her cheek and ruffled the hair of the girl beside her, measuring them up as if they were livestock on display at a butcher’s market.
She did not allow herself to feel even the slightest glimmer of hope that she might be selected to become his new daughter, for she already knew that she was bound for a future of eternal damnation, and that no man in his right mind would wish to take her in as his charge. Consequently, when he ceased his pacing in front of her, removed his hat, and placed it gently upon her head, she could not believe that he might represent the means of escape she had so longed for. But when he took her by the hand, and—after a few brief words to the matron—led her out to his waiting carriage, her tiny number of possessions bundled into a small leather satchel, she allowed herself to smile properly for the first time since the old woman had died.
Perhaps, she thought, this kindly man represented her salvation. Perhaps this was finally her escape, her new life. Her chance to begin anew.
For a time all of this was true, and her most precious hopes and desires were fulfilled. Finally, she was blessed with someone to love her, and a life outside the dingy, oppressive walls of the orphanage.
But time is a cruel mistress, and it was not until much years later that she would learn t
he truth: that there is no such thing as salvation, and escape is only ever an illusion conjured up by the hopeful.
CHAPTER
9
The Queen, Newbury considered, was looking decidedly unwell.
This in itself should have come as no surprise. Her Majesty was now living a mechanically assisted half-life, confined to a life-preserving wheelchair that wheezed and hissed and groaned as it pumped air into her lungs and fed nutrients and preservative fluids into her bloodstream. Large coils of tubing erupted brazenly from her chest, snaking away to the twin canisters mounted on the rear of the machine. Her now-useless legs were bound together around the calves and ankles, and a metal rod supported her partially collapsed spine. Newbury had even heard talk that Dr. Lucien Fabian, the man responsible for developing the remarkable equipment, had built and installed a clockwork heart in Victoria’s breast. He had no way of knowing if this was anything other than idle speculation, but it wouldn’t have surprised him to discover that the monarch was, in fact, as heartless as she seemed.
Whatever the case, it could never be said that the Queen looked well. But today, even in the gloom of the audience chamber, Newbury thought her flesh had taken on an even more sickly pallor than usual, and her breathing was sounding progressively more laboured. This, he presumed, was a consequence of Dr. Fabian’s recent death, which meant that the physician was no longer on call to tend to his charge or the maintenance of his machine.
Unknown to the Queen, Newbury himself had played a significant role in Fabian’s demise. Now, seeing the consequences of his actions, he felt a sharp pang of guilt. He let the emotion pass. The Queen did not deserve his pity. Her own machinations were what had led her to this point: her constant scheming, her emotionless exploitation of others, her unrelenting desire for immortality. She was the architect of her own downfall, and he refused to repent for the choices he had made. Even if they meant that her life-giving machines would fail and she would die.
He stood over her now, both of them caught in a globe of orange lantern light in the midst of an eternal sea of black. She looked up at him from her chair, a sickly smile on her lips. “You took your time, Newbury.”
He nodded, but didn’t reply. There was a reason he’d been ignoring her summons for weeks: He’d been unsure if he could face her following the events that had led to Fabian’s death. Upon arrival at the palace that morning, however, Sandford, the agent’s butler, had explained that, while Victoria did wish to speak with both Newbury and Bainbridge regarding the case in hand, she first desired an audience alone with Newbury. Thus he faced her alone, Bainbridge having been ordered to wait outside until he was beckoned.
The Queen spluttered into a handkerchief. “We trust you have finished with your little rebellion?”
Newbury swallowed. “I was … indisposed.”
Victoria laughed. “Yes, chasing the dragon at Johnny Chang’s. Do not think your movements have gone unnoticed, Newbury. If we had suspected it was anything other than a temporary aberration, we would not have indulged you for so long.”
Newbury smiled inwardly. He knew exactly who was watching him, and precisely what she had reported back to the monarch. Victoria wasn’t as informed as she liked to imagine. Clearly, the Queen had no reason to suspect the truth about what had happened at the Grayling Institute, or the fact that Newbury and Veronica had smuggled Amelia out of there alive.
“I am at your service, Your Majesty,” he said, diplomatically.
The Queen raised an eyebrow in haughty disapproval. “Do not attempt to dazzle us with platitudes, Newbury. You are an agent of the Crown. It should not be necessary to remind you that we tolerate your indiscretions and excesses only because it serves us to do so. There must be results as well.” She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “We fear for your position.” Her tone gave little away, but Newbury heard this for what it was: a thinly veiled threat.
“I understand, Your Majesty,” he said, cautiously.
“We sincerely hope that you do,” she replied, licking her dry lips and narrowing her dark, beady eyes. “Our summons are not to be dismissed lightly. Nor our patronage. It has limits.”
Newbury remained silent, listening to the wheezing grind of the breathing apparatus as they forcibly inflated and deflated the monarch’s lungs. The moment stretched. Finally, the Queen spoke. “Now, fetch the policeman. We have business to discuss.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, his tone level.
The policeman? Newbury considered this as he crossed the audience chamber towards the thin strip of light emanating from beneath the door, behind which Bainbridge was waiting. He wondered if the Queen had ever called Bainbridge that to his face. It was appallingly dismissive. But then, those were the games she played. It was her way of maintaining control, of establishing her position. She would undermine her subjects to remind them that, despite the fact that she was strapped immobile into a grotesque life support machine, she was the one who held all of the power in their relationship. It might once have been an effective strategy, even on Newbury, but he knew this woman for what she was, and he, too, understood the rules of the game. As did Veronica—perhaps more than most.
Bainbridge, on the other hand, still struggled to reconcile her behaviour with the innate respect he held for the woman’s position. He made allowances for her because she was the monarch, whereas Newbury did not think such allowances should be granted. If anything, he believed the monarch should uphold the values and integrity of the nation even more resolutely than her subjects, to lead them by example.
Bainbridge was waiting in the passageway, a respectful distance from the closed door, so as to make it clear he had not been eavesdropping on the conversation within the audience chamber. He was staring up at a portrait of the Tsar. Newbury was struck once again by the Russian monarch’s resemblance to Albert Edward. The royal family had connections all across Europe, forming an intricate web with Victoria at its heart, matriarch and dictator. That was what had struck Newbury about the Prince’s words of warning the previous day: If foreign agents were indeed swarming over London, wouldn’t it be at the will of the Prince’s relatives?
Bainbridge glanced over questioningly as Newbury stepped into the passageway.
Newbury gave the briefest of nods to indicate that all was well—or, at least, as well as could be expected. He beckoned Bainbridge forward.
Silently, Bainbridge joined him, limping a little without the aid of his stick. Newbury had rarely been to the palace alongside his friend, and always found it somewhat ungracious of the monarch to demand that the chief inspector leave his cane with Sandford. She was clearly growing more anxious about having anything in her presence that might be construed as a weapon.
At the sound of their footsteps, Victoria hoisted her lantern to shoulder height. Her sagging, pale face was cast in harsh relief, taking on a ghostly aspect in the gloom.
“Ghost” is right, thought Newbury. This once-great woman had been reduced to a shadow, trapped in the interstitial place between life and death. She went about her days in this miserable darkness, refusing to let go, refusing to relinquish her ever-tightening grip on the Empire. The Prince of Wales was right to question her validity as ruler.
“Come closer,” she said. Newbury and Bainbridge approached, their footsteps echoing into the black void that surrounded them.
“What progress has there been in your investigation, Sir Charles?” she asked.
“My investigation, Your Majesty?”
“Do not patronise me, policeman.”
So, thought Newbury, she does call him that to his face.
“The bodies found with their hearts removed, of course.”
“Little progress as yet, I fear, Your Majesty,” replied Bainbridge, his tone altering slightly, becoming more clipped, more restrained. “There are few leads, and we have yet to ascertain the significance of the stolen organs. We are concerned there may be some occult significance to the deaths. I have asked Sir Maurice
to assist with the investigation for that reason.”
The Queen’s eyes glittered as she glanced from one of them to the other. They settled on Bainbridge. “Very good. There may be political significance to the deaths. This is a line of inquiry we urge you to explore.”
“A political motivation, Your Majesty?” asked Bainbridge, his exasperation barely concealed.
“Indeed so. At first we assumed it was a coincidence, but it has since become clear that a coincidence is unlikely. All four of the victims have been agents of the Crown.”
“All four?” echoed Bainbridge. “Your Majesty, there have only been three reported deaths that match the modus operandi of the killer.”
Victoria emitted a wet, rasping cackle. “Quite so, Sir Charles. The fourth victim was killed while sequestered for an … operation. Due to the nature of that operation, it was paramount that the corpse was removed from the scene and swiftly disposed of. We cannot have everyone knowing our private business.”
Newbury silently considered the Queen’s words. This changed everything. If the victims were all, in fact, agents of the Crown, then a motive had suddenly appeared. It didn’t explain the strange manner of the deaths or the significance of their splayed chests or stolen organs, but it was clearly the link that they were looking for. Once again, Newbury found himself astounded by this woman. He’d worked closely with her for a number of years now, but still had no real notion just how extensive her network of agents was. She was a master manipulator, a matriarchal spider at the heart of her vast and intricate web, guiding her myriad operatives throughout the Empire.
“I fear this puts an entirely different complexion on the situation, Your Majesty,” said Newbury. “Were the dead agents all engaged in the same operation? Or could their murders have been revenge for past endeavours?”
Victoria turned her head slowly to regard him. Her eyes narrowed. “None of the agents knew each other, if that is what you’re asking, Newbury. And no, they had never been engaged against a common foe, simultaneously or otherwise.”
