by George Mann
“This rather alters things,” he said, trying to swat her away as she dabbed once again at the cut above his eye.
“I suppose it does. Attempted murder is a far cry from burglary.” She grabbed a fresh ball of cotton wool and dipped it in the bowl of warm water she had placed on a side table. She winced with the movement; she’d received a long gouge in her wrist during the course of the fight with the spider machine, and Newbury had already helped her to dress it.
Newbury’s eyes flicked back to her face. “Indeed. It begs the question of who exactly would be out to make such an attempt on my life. Either Sykes really is still out there, somehow, and knows I’m on to him, or someone else has control of his machine and is using it for their own increasingly nefarious purposes.”
Veronica stepped back, her hands on her hips. Sometimes she found it difficult to stomach the sheer arrogance of men. “I think that upon reflection, Sir Maurice, you will find the intended victim of any such assassination attempt was, in fact, me. This is my apartment, after all.”
Newbury grimaced, and she saw her words had immediately struck home. “You’re right. How truly inconsiderate of me,” he said. He reached over and took her hand, giving her a most curious look that she found difficult to read. There was concern in his eyes, but there was something else, too. Realisation? Recognition? Dismay? “Of course you’re right. The likelihood is that you, my dear, were the intended target of the mechanical beast. In many ways that makes my question even more of a pertinent one, and yet also profoundly more concerning.”
“Do not concern yourself overly with me, Sir Maurice. I can quite ably look after myself.” She tried ineffectually to stifle her wry smile. “So what now?”
“First of all, we must ensure that both you and Mrs. Grant are safe. I insist you spend the night in a hotel. Then tomorrow we shall take the remains of this device to Charles, and together we can discuss our next move.”
“Very well,” Veronica said, fighting back the urge to disagree. She could see the sense in his words. An attempt had been made on her life, after all. “I’m sure Mrs. Grant will be only too happy to spend the night at her sister’s lodgings. I shall speak with her now. Perhaps if you could gather up the components of that… thing, we could take them back to Chelsea, where we know they will be secure?”
Newbury leaned over and plucked a ball of cotton wool from the side table, using it to wipe away the trickle of blood that was threatening to run into his eye. “An excellent plan, my dear Miss Hobbes.” He regarded the bloody swab in his hand. “My thanks to you. For being so… considerate.” He dropped the swab onto the table beside the others.
Veronica smiled. They both knew there was a deeper meaning imbued in those words. “No need. No need at all. I’m only glad you were here.”
Newbury nodded but didn’t respond.
“Right, then,” she said brightly. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Grant. It won’t take us long to throw some belongings in a case.”
But Newbury was already staring out the window, lost in thought. She left him there, pondering whatever it was that she couldn’t see, and set about making arrangements for the trip across town.
***
The streets stuttered by in quick succession, a series of flashing, half-seen images, turning the once-familiar city into nothing but a hazy blur. The light was failing now, and Veronica rested her head against the seat as the cab hurtled on, its steam engine roaring and hissing and spitting.
She’d seen Mrs. Grant off in a cab to her sister’s rooms a short while earlier, having told her there had been an intruder and that Sir Maurice wished to ensure that everything was secure. Before she left, Mrs. Grant had packed Veronica an overnight bag for the stay in the hotel, while Newbury had scooped up the remains of the spider device in what was left of the blanket. There were large gouges in the floorboards where the mechanical beast had tried to escape through the floor, proving, if nothing else, that the thing had possessed at least some sense of self-preservation. She wondered how intelligent it had really been, and who had created it. It sat now on the seat beside Newbury, a collection of shattered clockwork and electrical components, lifeless and wrapped in a ruined blanket. She shuddered as she thought about what might have happened if Newbury hadn’t been there when it attacked. If she’d been asleep… Well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Perhaps she’d been a little hard on Newbury back at the house. She supposed that was simply a sign of her frustration with him-of his inability to see what he was doing to himself.
Veronica glanced over to see him watching her intently from across the cab, his face half lost in shadow. He smiled when he saw her looking, and for a moment she could almost believe it was the old Newbury sitting there, from the time before the opium dens and the absenteeism, the strange premonitions and the mummified hands. More than anything, she wanted that Newbury back again. She missed him terribly.
They sat in silence, regarding each other in the semi-darkness. “I miss you, too,” he said softly, and she wondered if he had somehow managed to read her mind. She glanced out the window again, afraid to look into his eyes. Afraid to acknowledge the conversation.
Not now, Maurice. She almost hoped he could read her mind, then. Not yet. She didn’t want to have that conversation now, not in the back of a dirty steam-powered cab, not with this Newbury, this drug-addled shadow of the man she loved. There would be time for that later, when he was better.
She realised she was balling her hands into fists. All she’d wanted for so long was to clear the air between them, to talk about the Queen, the secrets, the undeclared affection between the two of them. And now that that moment was here, now that Newbury was finally giving her the opening to have that conversation, all she actually felt was frustration. Because she wasn’t ready. And neither, she knew, was he.
When she finally looked back at Newbury, he had shifted his position and was resting his head against the padded seat, his eyes closed, his breath shallow. They would be at Chelsea soon, back at his house on Cleveland Avenue. She breathed a sigh of relief. The moment had passed. She watched Newbury stirring fitfully as sleep tried to claim him, and she wondered what he would make of Bainbridge’s little bit of interfering.
***
“What in the name of Hell does Charles think he’s playing at!”
Newbury was storming about the drawing room, gesticulating in fury at the neat piles of papers and the clean surfaces where the stacks of dirty plates and cutlery used to be. “I mean he’s… he’s… he’s tidied up!” As if in protest, he swept a stack of recent newspapers from the coffee table onto the floor, where they spread, rumpled, across the carpet.
Veronica tried not to laugh. She had warned Charles that Newbury would react like this. It wasn’t so much that he liked to wallow in his clutter-more that he had a system for finding things, albeit a bizarre and disorganised one, and anybody who disrupted that system was likely to fall afoul of his temper.
Nevertheless, she’d agreed with Charles that it was the only course of action available to them, given the circumstances.
“Who is that man, anyway? Charles’s bloody spy?” He glared accusingly at her. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”
Veronica leaned against the back of an armchair and fixed him with her sternest look. “Really, Sir Maurice, is there any need for that sort of talk? Sir Charles assures me that Scarbright is as reliable as they come. He’s been vetted by the palace, for a start. He knows all about your work. And your… current situation. He’s here to help.” She sighed. “Besides, it’s only a temporary measure, until you can persuade Mrs. Bradshaw to return.”
Newbury stooped and began gathering up the landslide of newspapers, his forehead creased in a heavy frown. “She’s not coming back, Veronica. I’m sure of that much.”
Veronica crossed the room to help him. She dropped to her knees. “Well, then. Wouldn’t it be best to accept Sir Charles’s gesture in the spirit in which it was intended? Let’s face facts, Maurice: You’re
a mess.” She caught herself, wondering whether she’d overstepped the mark. But Newbury seemed to be listening to her, so she continued. “See how it goes. Give it a few days. You have to admit, you could do with a hand around here, from someone who’s already aware of your eccentricities.”
“Eccentricities, eh?” He tried to glower at her disapprovingly but his eyes told a different story. He was amused by her sudden frankness.
“And besides,” she went on, “I understand he’s a most remarkable cook.”
Veronica nearly jumped at the sound of someone clearing his throat behind her.
“So I’m told, Miss Hobbes, although I’ll leave it to Sir Maurice to be the right and proper judge of that.” Both Newbury and Veronica looked up with surprise to see that Scarbright had returned from the kitchen during their brief conversation, bearing a tray filled with teacups and saucers. He set it down on the sideboard. “Earl Grey?”
He was a smart, tall man in his mid-forties, dressed in an immaculate black suit with a bow tie and the white gloves of a professional butler. His hair was dark and swept back from his forehead, turning to mottled grey at the temples. He was wearing a moustache that curled upwards spectacularly at its tips. The result of this, Veronica thought, was that he looked as if he were permanently wearing a smile.
Newbury clambered to his feet, looking flustered. “Yes. Thank you, Scarbright. Most welcome.”
“Very good, sir.” He set about preparing two cups. “I thought venison for dinner, sir, prepared with creamed potatoes and greens. If that suits?”
“Um, yes, that suits very well. My thanks to you,” Newbury managed to stutter out in reply. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Excellent news, sir. I shall endeavour to have it with you shortly. Your tea.” Scarbright handed the cup and saucer to Newbury before turning to Veronica. “Miss Hobbes. Shall you dine here before repairing to your hotel?”
Veronica smiled and shook her head. “I fear I must first secure myself a room in a suitable establishment.”
Scarbright gave an ever-so-slight smile of satisfaction. There was a gleam in his eye. “I took the liberty, miss, of making the arrangements on your behalf. A driver will be waiting to escort you to the Albert Hotel shortly after dinner.” He offered them both a bow. “I fear I must now retreat to the kitchen. I urge you to ring if you have need of me.”
“Very good, Scarbright,” said Veronica, crossing the room to retrieve her tea.
Newbury watched Scarbright leave the room with a stunned look. When the door had shut behind the butler, he turned to Veronica. “Very well.”
“Yes?” she ventured.
“He can stay. For now. But I’ll be having words with Charles in the morning.”
Veronica could hardly contain her laughter as she collapsed into one of the chesterfields to drink her tea.
CHAPTER
10
Bainbridge wasn’t behind his desk when the police sergeant showed Veronica and Newbury into his office the following morning. Instead they found two foot-high stacks of paper files balanced precariously on his chair, an empty brandy glass resting on a notepad on the desk itself, and the remnants of two cigars in the ashtray.
The sergeant was only able to offer his apologies and the reassurance that Sir Charles would be back to see them shortly. If he knew the whereabouts of the chief inspector, he didn’t feel at liberty to disclose them.
Newbury, whom Veronica had been surprised to find waiting for her in the hotel lobby an hour earlier, fresh-faced and chipper, dropped into the other chair beside the fireplace and grinned up at her expectantly, as if waiting for her to say something interesting or profound. Instead, she shrugged noncommittally and moved around the other side of Bainbridge’s desk. She had deduced from this sudden alteration in Newbury’s attitude and appearance only one thing: that, in the time between dinner and breakfast, he had once again resorted to the oriental weed. He had clearly not imbibed enough of the dreadful poison to send him into one of his fugues, but certainly enough to take the edge off his withdrawal. She could think of no other explanation.
Perhaps, she thought, this was only to be expected. At least he had chosen not to while away the morning in some sordid opium den across town. He could have resorted to the little brown bottle of laudanum he kept on the mantelpiece, taking a small draught to ease the symptoms of his withdrawal. Scarbright would know the truth. Inwardly, she smiled. Perhaps Scarbright was Charles’s spy, after all. But if that were true, he was as much hers as the chief inspector’s.
Veronica glanced over the twin stacks of files on the chair. Each one had a different name scrawled on its brown paper wrapper: Richard Mars, Nicholas Kyme, Stuart Douglas -the list went on. There must have been thirty or forty of them. None of the names meant anything to her, and she supposed they might be unrelated to the case at hand. Bainbridge was the chief inspector, after all. He was probably considering a plethora of other cases. Yet it was clear from the empty brandy glass and the stubs of the two cigars that he had been here most of the night, and she decided that it really wasn’t much of a leap to assume he’d spent the time reading through the files.
Veronica looked at the notepad on the desk. The top page was covered in scrawl, along with a series of faint brown rings left behind by the bottom of the brandy glass. But scratched in capital letters across the centre of the page in heavy black ink were two words that jumped out at her almost immediately: FABIAN = BASTION.
She looked over at Newbury, who was still grinning. “You see it?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “How did you-?”
“I glanced at his desk when we walked in. Force of habit. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“That there’s a connection between Dr. Fabian and the Bastion Society? Very. You think that’s what Sir Charles has uncovered?”
Newbury nodded. “I’d wager on it.” He gestured at Bainbridge’s vacant chair. “I imagine they’re all members of that illustrious set. He’s been looking for connections, for a way in. Sometimes you can’t beat good old-fashioned police work.”
Veronica came round from behind the desk to take the vacant seat opposite Newbury. “I suppose this means we’ll be paying a visit to the Grayling Institute?” She didn’t know how to feel about that.
Newbury looked thoughtful. “Let’s see what Charles has to say about it all.” He looked round at the sound of footsteps from the hallway outside. “Here he comes. You can ask him now.”
Bainbridge bustled into the room precisely on cue, a whirlwind of huffing and sighing and gesticulating limbs. He saw them sitting there and waved his cane pointedly at Newbury. “Ah, good. You’re here. Lots to discuss.” He glanced at his chair and the heaps of files, and then at Newbury and Veronica, shrugging despairingly at the lack of available places to sit. Instead, he lowered the end of his cane to the floor and leaned on it heavily, trying to catch his breath.
Newbury had a sly look on his face. “About Fabian and the Bastion Society, you mean?”
“How the devil did you know that?” Bainbridge’s moustache twitched with barely concealed frustration. “Do tell me I didn’t waste the entire night discovering something you already knew.”
Veronica got to her feet. “Don’t let him taunt you, Sir Charles. We’ve simply seen the note you’d written on your desk. What’s the connection? Is Dr. Fabian a member of the Bastion Society?”
Bainbridge shook his head. “He used to be. Had some sort of falling out with them, by all accounts. Graves, in particular. A disagreement of some kind. I wondered if it might give us a way in.”
“Good work, Charles! That’s exactly the sort of angle we’re looking for. I’m sure Fabian will be able to shed some light on Graves and what that lot are up to.”
Bainbridge was still trying to catch his breath. “There’s more. Last night. Another robbery.” He looked from one to the other of them. “Same as before. But this time there’s a body.”
“Murder?” Newbur
y leapt out of his chair to join the others.
“It would seem so,” Bainbridge continued, “although I’m not yet in full possession of the facts. I am led to believe that the profile is the same as the Regent Street job, however. It seems that Sykes’s mechanical spider was used to force an entry.”
Newbury frowned. “What time was this?”
“Late. Almost certainly in the small hours,” Bainbridge replied.
Newbury gave a cackle of delight.
“What is so darn amusing, Newbury? A man is dead and we have another robbery to contend with.” Bainbridge shifted uneasily. “And you have cuts all over your face. What have you been up to, man?”
Newbury grabbed for the bundled blanket he had placed on the floor by his chair. “This, Charles!” He allowed the blanket to unravel, spilling the components of the spider all over the floor in a shimmering cascade of brass. The tiny cogs and broken legs tinkled as they struck the polished floorboards, bouncing off in all directions. Veronica sighed. Newbury did like his needlessly dramatic flourishes.
Bainbridge poked at the debris with the end of his cane. “Look, is someone going to explain to me- Ah. Yes, I see…” Veronica saw the realisation light up his face. He turned the remains of the machine’s carcass over so that it was the right way up. He studied Newbury’s face. “Is this what caused those cuts to your face?”
Newbury nodded.
“How interesting,” said Bainbridge. “It’s just as we’d imagined. About the size of a small terrier.”
“And a darn sight more intelligent, too. Tried to escape before I got it with the poker.”
“Came for you at the house, did it? Sykes must know we’re on to him.” Bainbridge fiddled with his moustache while he processed the information.
Veronica cleared her throat.
“Actually, Charles, it was Miss Hobbes’s apartment where the attack took place. And I have every reason to believe that Miss Hobbes herself was the target of the assassination attempt.” Newbury touched her arm, just for the briefest of moments. She wondered if he realised he’d done it.