by George Mann
***
Sandford, the agent’s butler, had proved his usual accommodating self. He’d ushered Fabian in through the private entrance, taking his cloak and offering him a stiff drink. From the look on the old man’s liver-spotted face, Fabian had gathered he might need it, so he accepted it with grace and downed it quickly, thankful for the fortification.
Now he was standing before Queen Victoria herself, resplendent in her mechanical glory.
The audience chamber was kept shrouded in a permanent gloom, the heavy drapes pulled shut over the curtains. The reasons for this were twofold: both to keep prying eyes from seeing in-the world outside the palace knew little or nothing about the Queen’s current condition-and to protect her from the sunlight, as light sensitivity was an unexpected side effect of his treatment regime. Anything stronger than a dull glow would cause her to recoil in agony, so she mainly inhabited this one room at the palace, wired into her life-support system, hidden away in the darkness.
The Queen rolled forward in her wheelchair to greet him. She looked old and tired. Fabian moved to inspect the machinery that encased her. She was lashed into the chair, held in place by two large tubes that jutted from her chest, feeding her collapsed lungs with oxygen from the tanks that were strapped to the rear of her device. Humming machines pumped fluid around her body, a pinkish substance created by the Fixer, distilled from the essence of rare plants he had obtained in the jungles of South America.
“How are we today, Majesty?” Fabian bustled around her as he checked the connections and levels of the machines.
“We no longer sleep, Doctor. We pass the nights alone in the darkness while the Empire rests. We have the most lucid waking dreams.”
“Of what do you dream, Majesty?”
“Of Albert. Of a decaying Empire, fading as the light of England fades. Of everything we have built becoming dust without a firm hand to guide it.” Her eyes were glazed and she was staring away into the distance, as if seeing something else other than the shadowy interior of the audience chamber.
He stood back, inspecting his own handiwork. “Fascinating.”
Victoria’s head snapped around to regard him. Her eyes flashed with anger. Her tone changed seamlessly from whimsical to commanding. “We are not one of your little experiments, Fabian. You’d do well to remember that.”
Fabian bristled. He felt little beads of sweat form under his hairline; it was hot inside the audience chamber. “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course. I merely seek to understand so that I may help-”
Victoria waved her hand dismissively as she cut him off. “Prattle and poppycock. We know how your mind works, Doctor. Do not dare to attempt to placate me with platitudes and fabrications. My body may be faltering, but my mind is not. You consider me a puzzle, a medical aberration to be solved. On occasion that perspective has proved beneficial to one’s situation. But you must never forget we are also your Queen, and we demand and insist on your respect.”
Fabian offered a tight-lipped smile. “You command and always will command my enduring support, devotion, and respect, Your Majesty.”
Victoria almost spat at him. “More platitudes. We fear, Fabian, that your opinion of your own importance has become somewhat overblown. You are a physician. Nothing more. Remember your place.”
Fabian took a deep breath and fought against the rising tide of anger that pushed at the limits of his patience. The woman was insufferable. He had saved her life! He had constructed the life-support system that had single-handedly ensured her survival. The only one who understood how to keep her breathing. The one who had given her a clockwork heart. The Victorian Empire endured because of him. She would do well to remember that.
It was within Fabian’s power to end Victoria’s reign with the flick of a hidden switch that he had incorporated into her life-giving chair during its construction. A safety measure, he had told himself. A means of ensuring that if it all went wrong, there was a way out. He’d initially considered this a precaution in case the surgery that had welded her to the chair had failed, but now he dreamed of the day he might trip that switch, and smiled secretly at the notion that it was he, not the Queen, who held the real power in the room.
Outwardly, however, he bowed his head and mumbled an apology, allowing the Queen to consider him admonished. Now was not the time to reveal his secrets. But there would come a point when it would prove necessary for him to assert that power. The thought galvanised him.
Victoria’s breath was rasping and dry. Fabian tentatively approached her chair and leaned in, making an adjustment to the intravenous fluid system that kept her hydrated. Close up, she smelled of stale sweat and chemicals, preservatives. He wondered whether her maids were washing her and changing her dressings as regularly as he had ordered. He would quietly check with them later.
“So? What news from the Grayling Institute?” This, then, was the real purpose of his summons.
Fabian stepped back from the chair. The bellows hissed and wheezed. He looked down at Victoria, meeting her gaze. He tried to keep the defiance out of his expression. “Things… progress. While the engine has proved ineffective on nearly all of our patients, on the girl it is finally beginning to work.”
Victoria rubbed her hands together with something approaching delight. The grin on her face was obscene.
Fabian swallowed and continued. “Seven days. Seven days is the longest we’ve achieved so far. But I am hopeful the duration will increase with further testing.”
“Why do they fail?”
Fabian shrugged. “The girl is frail and sickly. Her… special talents are a tremendous drain on her physical well-being.”
“We are not interested in her physical well-being. Her talents, however, are of much interest.”
“We are learning a great deal, Your Majesty. A great deal. But I have yet to identify exactly why the engine works on the girl and no one else, and whether those talents are part of the reason for our success. These are the two areas that concern me most: the long-term viability of the… product, and how to replicate the success with another subject. I would not want to risk causing any lasting harm to, let us say, a more significant patient…”
The Queen gave a sickly laugh. “You always were of a cowardly persuasion, Doctor, too keen to keep your own neck off the block.” She looked suddenly serious. “Ensure the machine is fully operational within a week. We grow weary of waiting.” She laughed again, but this time it was spiked with menace. “And close your mouth, won’t you? It’s unbecoming.”
Fabian, stunned, stammered out his reply, pushing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “But that’s impossible, Your Majesty. Absolutely impossible. Seven days! Our success has been incredibly limited so far. We’re making headway, yes. But a week! I simply can’t do it. We’ll need months of testing and experimentation before we’re even close to being operational!”
Victoria’s expression hardened. “You will do as we say, Fabian.” She used his name as a curse. “You will go from here and you will not return until the device is in full working order.” She seemed to consider her next statement carefully. “Double the amount of testing on the girl.”
Even Fabian felt himself blanch at this. “But Majesty, it will kill her.”
“We are not concerned with whether she lives or dies, so long as the tests prove successful. Identify the factor that separates her from the others. Discover the reason for your recent success. Go to work.” With this she turned her cheek to him and waved a hand in casual dismissal.
Fabian remained still for a moment, unsure how to respond. He wanted to rage at her for the ridiculous nature of her demands, her arrogance. But he knew he could not win that particular battle. He ground his teeth, dug his nails into the palms of his hands. Victoria resolutely refused to look in his direction; as far as she was concerned, their business was over and he had ceased to exist.
Fuming, and filled with a frustrating sense of impotence, Fabian turned on his heel and stalked out of the aud
ience chamber, leaving Victoria chuckling to herself in her chair. He would do her bidding. For now. He could do nothing else. But the time would come for him to assert his dominance. And that time was growing closer by the day.
CHAPTER
8
Packworth House, the building frequented by the members of the Bastion Society, was perhaps the most grandiose clubhouse that Veronica had ever seen. Not, she admitted to herself, that she’d seen the insides of many gentlemen’s clubs in her time.
Nevertheless, this one in particular had an air of the spectacular about it, unlike most of the more austere establishments that she’d had the misfortune to frequent. Even Newbury’s club, the White Friar’s, with all its writers and artists and bohemian types, had nothing on this place. She looked around in barely disguised wonder. The money that must have been spent…
They were standing in a huge saloon, a hall that could have seated three to four hundred people. Tables were placed with unusual precision, according to some prosaic pattern that she supposed would really be discernible only from the wide baroque balcony that ran around the entire perimeter of the space, high above her head. A large marble surround, depicting characters from classical myth, enclosed a roaring fire, even this early in the day. Tall vases stood to either side of it and were filled with plumes of bright emu and peacock feathers, their multifaceted eyes watching her with unblinking interest.
Servants bustled amongst the tables, still clearing away debris from the prior evening’s festivities, which-from the look of the place-had evidently been a riotous banquet of some kind. And before the little group of Crown investigators, greeting them in a haughty but polite manner, was Sir Enoch Graves, the club’s premier.
The man was clearly an eccentric. She’d already been able to discern, from just the few words he had spoken, that he was possessed of both an enormous intellect and the requisite ego to accompany it. He was thin-painfully so-and in his early forties, with a pencil-thin moustache on his top lip and a shock of silvery grey hair that was parted and fell in a comma across his forehead. He was dressed in a black evening suit with a rapier strapped to his side-a dress sword-and spoke with an upper-class lisp that belied-to Veronica at least-the affected nature of his persona.
“Welcome to the Bastion Society,” he said, gesturing with open arms to the room around them. He smiled, but Veronica thought it looked more like a threat. “I do apologise for the state of the place. The poor servants have their work cut out for them this morning. I think we somewhat overdid it last night.”
“A special occasion?” Newbury ventured, his voice low.
Graves cocked his head to one side, as if wondering how to respond. “A new member. We were celebrating his induction into our little club.”
Bainbridge raised his eyebrow at the understatement. “Not so little,” he mumbled beneath his breath.
Graves laughed. “Quite so, Sir Charles.”
Newbury scratched his chin unconsciously. He was processing something, some piece of information he had gleaned from the room, or something Graves had already given away. “A new member?” he ventured. “Do you actively encourage applications?”
Graves smiled. “Are you interested in joining us, Sir Maurice? I’m sure we’d be delighted to welcome someone of your stature into our fold.” He paused as if waiting for a response from Newbury, but went on when he realised none was forthcoming. “But to answer your question: No, we do not. We have a strict vetting and admissions policy, and we adhere to it with the utmost devotion.” Veronica noted his hand was now resting on the hilt of his sword. “We believe in chivalry and order, in upholding the standards which have made this country great. We believe in protecting the land of our birth and setting an example for how a refined Englishman should behave. We are knights of the realm, Sir Maurice, and we act in her best interests.”
His voice had gradually grown in volume and timbre as he’d delivered his carefully practised speech. Now he was grinning wolfishly at Veronica. “It is not often that we have a lady on the premises, Miss Hobbes. Please forgive me if I seem a trifle overzealous. I believe wholeheartedly in our cause.”
“I can see that you do,” she said, mindful to keep any judgement out of her tone. She’d already decided that she heartily disliked the man, but it clearly wouldn’t do to broadcast the fact.
Bainbridge, however, was less tactful. “All laudable stuff, I’m sure-” He broke off to cough into his handkerchief, and Veronica couldn’t help thinking he was disguising a laugh. “-but tell me, if all of that’s true, all that stuff about chivalry and order, why would you associate yourselves with a criminal such as Edwin Sykes?”
Graves tried but failed to repress a scowl. “Direct and to the point, Sir Charles. Let me tell you something about Mr. Edwin Sykes. He’s one of those newly made men, not born of good breeding stock. I’m sure you understand what I mean-” He looked pointedly at Bainbridge. “-but he’s a gentleman all the same, and I understand he has been convicted of no crime. He supports and champions our cause. I have no hesitation in recommending the fellow, and whilst he may not be my first choice for a dinner companion, he is a fine and upstanding member of our society.”
Bainbridge nodded. “When did you last see him here at Packwood, Sir Enoch?”
Graves looked thoughtful. “I’m not really sure, to be honest, Sir Charles. A few weeks ago, perhaps? I’m terribly sorry I can’t be more specific. I’ve had so much on my mind. I’m running for government, you see. And what with the party last night… I suppose I haven’t really been paying attention. Sykes moves in different circles.”
“If I may, sir?” All four of them turned to see one of the butlers, an older man dressed in a smart black suit and white gloves, who had been clearing a table just to the left of their small circle. He looked incredibly nervous.
“Go on,” said Bainbridge, leaning on his cane.
“I believe I saw Mr. Sykes here last night, at the party. He arrived late, after dinner had already been served. He joined some others by the fire for drinks.” The man’s voice wavered as he realised Graves was glaring at him. “Um, although it was only the most fleeting of glimpses. I could, of course, be wrong.”
There was a warning in the delivery of Graves’s response that was impossible to miss. “Thank you, Edwards, but I fear you are mistaken. Please carry on.” He watched the butler scuttle away with an armful of napkin rings clutched tightly to his chest, then turned back to the others. “Edwards is getting on a bit. Not the most reliable memory, but a stalwart all the same. One of the fixtures and fittings around here, really.” A moment’s pause. “I can absolutely assure you that Edwin Sykes was not here at the clubhouse last night. We haven’t seen him for some time.”
Newbury seemed to take this in. “That would be entirely consistent with our findings, Sir Enoch. We’re currently holding Edwin Sykes’s body in the police morgue.”
The colour seemed to drain suddenly out of Graves’s face. He appeared to momentarily lose his composure. “Oh… oh dear…,” he stammered, as if unable to order his thoughts. “What… what happened?”
“As yet we’re not entirely sure. But we suspect foul play,” Newbury answered, clearly choosing to omit any details. Veronica had the impression he might be attempting to lead Graves into a trap, or at least find out if the premier knew something pertinent that he was trying to hide.
“Foul play?” Graves sounded deeply concerned by this eventuality.
“Yes. Murder.” Newbury kept his voice level, calm.
“When?”
“Three days ago, or thereabouts.”
“Good God.” Graves looked genuinely appalled. “Good God.” He glanced at Bainbridge. “Have you any notion who’s responsible?”
“We’re following up a number of leads.” Bainbridge lied in response, and again Veronica realised her two companions were playing a clever game with Graves, trying to get him to trip himself up, circling him like hunters closing in on prey. It was fascinating to wa
tch. “Perhaps you could help us. Do you know of anyone who might have had a quarrel with Sykes, or a reason to want him dead?”
Graves shook his head. His voice hardened. “The only quarrel I’m aware of was with you, Sir Charles. Is there any reason Scotland Yard would want him dead?”
Veronica winced. That wouldn’t sit well with Bainbridge, and clearly Graves was not beyond playing his own game, trying to rile the chief inspector and lead the conversation in a different direction.
To his credit, Bainbridge allowed the comment to wash over him and continued with his questions. “Did he ever keep a room here at Packworth House?”
Graves shrugged. “We all do, on occasion. But certainly not in recent months. As I say, he moved in different circles. We hadn’t seen a lot of him about. But I’m sure he was working to further our cause, whatever he was up to.”
The conversation lapsed into a strained silence. The only sound was the clinking of the empty wineglasses that the waiting staff were clearing away at the other end of the room.
“Have you ever used your sword in anger, Sir Enoch?” Newbury indicated the rapier hanging from the other man’s belt.
Graves seemed flustered by this sudden turn in the conversation. “I’m not sure I like the implication behind that question, Sir Maurice.”
“It’s a simple enough question. I’d be obliged if you’d answer it.”
“Then the answer is no, I have not.” Graves was clearly fuming now. His top lip quivered in anger. “Are you saying Sykes was murdered with a rapier?”
“No.”
Graves looked close to exploding. “Then I fail to see the relevance…” He trailed off, leaving his sentence hanging.