by George Mann
“But really, Newbury…”
“Charles, we’ve seen all sorts of bizarre things during our many cases together. Why is this any different?”
“Because we’re talking about something as fundamental as the ability to copy a living person!”
“That doesn’t make it any more outlandish than automata with human organs, or poltergeists, or any of the other bizarre things we’ve seen before.” Newbury gesticulated at Bainbridge, imploring him to understand.
“But who? And why?”
Newbury shrugged again. “I can think of any number of reasons. If you were a jewel thief with the ability to copy himself, what would you do?”
“Sit and grow fat on the accumulated wealth of my duplicates,” Bainbridge replied thoughtfully. “And pay my sponsor a hearty cut of the proceeds.”
“No.” Veronica shook her head. “No. We’re missing something. It’s not that simple. If Sykes could just create copies of himself that easily, why was he at Cromer Street? The corpse with the calluses–that body has been lived in. Why would he still be committing a crime himself when he could have one of his duplicates do it for him? If it were me, I wouldn’t risk capture.”
“And there’s more,” Newbury said. “We still haven’t explained why he was lying dead at the foot of the stairs, surrounded by the spoils of his trade. I find it highly unlikely that his mechanical beast would turn on him after all this time. Not unless someone else was controlling it.”
Bainbridge leaned heavily on his cane. “This is a dark and intricate web, Newbury. And we still haven’t worked out what, if anything, it has to do with Graves and the Bastion Society.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re involved, Charles, somehow. There’s a lot more to Enoch Graves than meets the eye.”
“Sir Charles?”
Veronica turned at the sound of a man’s urgent voice echoing down the passageway.
“Sir Charles?”
“Through here,” Bainbridge called in reply, with a dark scowl.
Veronica heard footsteps ringing on the tiles. Someone was running. Seconds later, a young man in a police constable’s uniform came hurtling out of the passageway and into the room, skidding to a halt on the slippery tiles. “Sir Charles!” he said, leaning against the wall as he attempted to catch his breath.
“Yes? What is it, man?”
“You’re needed, sir,” the constable said between gasping intakes of breath. “There’s been an intruder at the palace. Her Majesty sent for you.”
Veronica saw Bainbridge start in surprise. “An intruder at the palace?”
“Yes, sir. An attempt has been made on her life.”
Veronica and Newbury turned to stare at Bainbridge, waiting to hear his response.
“Have you got a carriage waiting?” Bainbridge asked, his voice low and serious.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’m on my way.” Bainbridge turned to Newbury. He looked as white as a sheet. “You’ll have to finish things here, Newbury.”
Newbury narrowed his eyes. “Charles, do you need me there? I could come along—”
“No.” Bainbridge cut him off. “I’ll send for you if I need you. Finish up here, then get over to the Grayling Institute and talk to Fabian. We need to find out what that fool Graves is up to, and whether he has anything to do with this doppelgänger business.”
Newbury nodded. “Very well, Charles. Hurry. And give Her Majesty my regards.”
Bainbridge turned and ran after the young constable, abandoning the use of his cane as he dashed headlong towards the waiting carriage.
Veronica watched him go, then turned to face Newbury, who was looking down at the two dead men with a thoughtful expression. “You want to know, don’t you?”
“What?” He didn’t look up.
“How he did it. How he copied himself like that.”
Newbury chuckled, but didn’t take his eyes off the bodies. “At this moment, Miss Hobbes, more than anything else in the world.”
Veronica grinned. This was what she’d been waiting for. All the dead bodies, all the waiting around in the morgue, the arguments, the shouting. All of it had been worth it for this. She watched him as he carefully lifted the shrouds, one after the other, and covered the corpses.
Newbury—her Newbury—was back.
CHAPTER
12
Amelia woke, and she knew she was dying.
She felt as if she were floating, surrounded by stark, inky blackness. Her body was numb and unmoving. Everything was still, silent.
Slowly, sensation began to return. Her head was throbbing, her heart fluttering in her chest. She was rasping for breath, dragging the air down into her lungs. And what was that? A gritty, metallic taste in her mouth. Adrenaline? Blood?
Yes, blood. She must have bitten her tongue.
Amelia tried to steady her breathing. She was on her back. Beneath her she felt the softness of her mattress and bedding. She wanted to shrink into it, to wrap herself in it like a cocoon, to be subsumed by it and retreat into unconsciousness. She longed for a place where she didn’t have to think about the things she had seen, where she could escape from the world and all its horrors, from the thoughts of her own impending death and the absolute futility of fighting it.
But she could feel herself coming round, the world slowly drawing into focus. It was like surfacing from a pool of water, muffled sounds beginning to make some sort of disjointed, disordered sense.
Someone was holding her hand, speaking to her. She could make out nothing of the words: just heard the low, monotonous voice, talking ceaselessly.
She tried to open her eyes but her eyelids felt as if they were gummed shut. Her mind was suddenly filled with a cascade of stuttering images, terrifying, confusing images: fire and smoke; the whole world spinning, twirling, dancing—a constant, repeating revolution, turning again and again. Dizziness followed by screaming followed by exquisite pain. She imagined this was how most people would describe Hell.
Amelia knew she had seen her own death. She had seen the walls caving in around her, heard the deafening noise of exploding masonry, the crack of splintering stone. She had seen the world ending all around her and her own inability to get away.
And then silence. Nothing but profound, infinite silence and the smooth porcelain face of Mr. Calverton looming over her, his darting blue eyes hovering menacingly above her face.
She opened her mouth to scream, but choked on the blood that had pooled at the back of her throat. She tried to sit up, but found herself rooted to the spot. She gasped and struggled, and then felt steadying hands on her shoulders, keeping her still, keeping her safe.
It was then that she realised the voice she was hearing belonged to Dr. Fabian, and his words slowly resolved into something meaningful. “Try to breathe, Amelia. Deep breaths.” The concern was evident in his voice. “There, now.” He patted her hand. “There, you’re coming round.”
Amelia’s eyes blinked open. She searched the room in panic. No sign of Mr. Calverton, and the walls were not caving in. No fire, either. Not yet. Only the smiling, worried face of Dr. Fabian, leaning over her, studying her intently.
She took a moment to collect herself, to get her bearings. She was lying on her bed, in her room at the Grayling Institute, still wrapped in her nightdress. Her hands were trembling.
“You’ve had another episode, Amelia,” Dr. Fabian went on. “I believe it must have been induced by the intensity of the treatment. It’s the first one you’ve suffered in some time. Can you speak?”
Amelia swallowed. The sensation was like broken glass in her throat. “Water?” she croaked.
“Yes, my dear. Well done. Can you sit up?”
Amelia propped herself up on the pillow while Dr. Fabian reached for the jug on the nightstand and poured her a small glass of water. He handed it to her and she sipped it gratefully. “I think the worst of it has passed,” she said. She felt her heart rate slowly returning to normal, but her nerves were stil
l jangling and her head continued to pound. She felt utterly exhausted.
Dr. Fabian leaned back in his chair, causing the old wood to creak in protest. He pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose with his index finger: that nervous gesture again. “It’s my fault, Amelia. I’m sorry. I pushed you too far, too quickly. I should have been more patient. But we were making such progress—”
“No,” she said. “Stop that. You’re doing everything you can. We’ve come so far. We can’t give up now.”
“No, my dear. There’s no chance of that. I couldn’t give up on you now.” Dr. Fabian folded one leg across the other. He regarded her coolly. “Do you remember your dreams, Amelia? Can you recall what you saw?”
“No,” she lied. And then worried that she’d responded too quickly. She couldn’t face it yet, couldn’t bring herself to talk about it. Saying it out loud made it real, and all she wanted to do was forget. “That is,” she continued, “nothing that makes any sense.”
Dr. Fabian nodded slowly. He regarded her with interest. She wondered whether he believed her or not. “Well then, I think, my dear, you should sleep. Your body needs to recover from the trauma of the episode. The seizure was exceptionally violent.” He turned his head and she saw two bloody lines on his cheek where her nails had obviously raked his flesh.
“Oh … I’m…”
“No need to apologise, Amelia. You were not in control of your faculties. Rest now for a few hours. I’ll send Mr. Calverton to wake you in time to get ready for dinner.”
Amelia nodded, although the idea of food was utterly nauseating. She downed the rest of her water, swilling it around her mouth to wash away the residue of the blood. Her tongue felt thick and swollen in her mouth. She handed the empty glass to Dr. Fabian, who rose from his chair and returned it to its place on the bedside table.
Amelia watched him leave the room, carefully pulling the door shut and locking it behind him. She curled up on the bed, bringing her knees up under her chin. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was fire and spinning and screaming. She felt the tears come then, a huge upwelling of emotion. She buried her face in the pillows to muffle the sound, and her body was racked with sobs.
So this was it. This was how her life would end, here, in the Grayling Institute. Even Dr. Fabian and his “engine of life” could not save her. She had seen it in her dreams. And her dreams, she knew from experience, always spoke the truth.
CHAPTER
13
The palace was a hive of activity. Bainbridge watched through the window of the police carriage as they were ushered onto the grounds by a man wearing the bright red uniform of the Queen’s Guard. They came to a halt a moment later and six armed members of the guard quickly converged on the carriage, their weapons ready.
The young constable—whose name was Brown—moved to get up from his seat, but Bainbridge waved him down. “Thank you, Brown. I’ll see to things from here.” After peering out the window at the armed men awaiting them, Brown quickly decided to do exactly as he was told.
Bainbridge leaned on his cane as he stood, swinging the door open and hopping down from the carriage. It was cool outside, and the fresh breeze ruffled his hair. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said to the guardsmen, who were each watching him warily. Their faces were stern and expressionless. They were jumpy, he realised. The attack on the Queen must have really shaken them up. Bainbridge didn’t much like the idea of being surrounded by nervous men bearing rifles. “Sir Charles Bainbridge, Chief Inspector, Scotland Yard.” The men lowered their guns, visibly relaxing.
“Very good, sir,” the one nearest to him said. “We’ll take you in.”
Bainbridge fell into step with the soldiers as they marched across the palace forecourt. Whatever had gone on here, the Queen was evidently taking it very seriously indeed. This was no small matter of a thief trying his luck. Bainbridge could tell he was going to be here for a while.
Around them even more of the red-coated guardsmen—an army of them—were milling about, taking up position around the perimeter of the building. It was clear the Queen had already taken measures to increase security on the grounds. Bainbridge wouldn’t have been surprised if there were more on the way. An attempt on her life, the fact that someone had managed to get so close to her: Bainbridge knew that heads were going to roll. Whoever had been responsible for the security detail that morning was going to find himself on the sharp end of the Queen’s wrath.
Bainbridge looked up at the mighty edifice of the palace as they passed beneath the pillared portico. The curtains were all drawn as usual, blotting out the sunlight and keeping prying eyes at bay. He realised with a smile that this was probably the first time he had entered the building through the main entrance, rather than the more discreet doorway around the back that was the mainstay of all Her Majesty’s agents.
He kept his eyes peeled, looking for any clues as to what might have occurred there that morning. He had interrogated Brown on the journey over but the boy had known nothing of any consequence. It had soon become clear that any briefing was going to be delivered by Her Majesty herself. Nevertheless, Bainbridge liked to be prepared, and it wouldn’t do to go before the monarch without at least a few observations and questions at the ready.
The six guardsmen came to a halt in a line before the doorway, stock-still, their rifles tucked beneath their arms. They turned towards him as he passed them one by one, heading towards the gaping mouth of the palace and the uncertainty that lay within. He hesitated on the threshold. “My thanks,” he said to the uniformed men before ducking quickly inside.
The grand hallway on the other side of the door was cavernous and austere, like something lifted out of another era and dropped into place, right there in 1902. Bainbridge had no idea where to go. His only experience of the palace was in the secret tunnels and passageways that led him directly from the agent’s entrance all the way through to the audience chamber.
He glanced around and was thankful to see Sandford, the agent’s butler, waiting for him in the shadows of the immense staircase. “Sandford! Thank goodness. Can you tell me what the devil is going on?”
Sandford came forward to meet him. “Morning, Sir Charles. I imagine I know only as much as you. Somehow, someone got into the palace and made an attempt on Her Majesty’s life. I understand she is quite well and that the palace has been fully secured.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “—but I believe she is determined to root out the incompetent responsible for the breach in security and have his head from his shoulders.”
Bainbridge grinned. “I find myself unsurprised by your words, Sandford. Any more?”
“No, sir,” the aged butler replied. “I’m afraid that’s as much as I know.”
“Very well.” Bainbridge removed his overcoat and handed it to the other man. “Can you take me to her?”
Sandford smiled. “Yes. She’s waiting.”
Bainbridge sighed, but kept his thoughts to himself. She was always waiting, he reflected, like the spider at the centre of a vast and intricate web.
He followed Sandford around behind the staircase, past rows of looming portraits and biblical scenes that adorned the walls. There, in a hidden recess, Sandford opened a door and ushered Bainbridge down a labyrinthine passageway in which seemingly innumerable doors led off into unseen and mysterious rooms elsewhere in the palace. They wound their way deeper into the bowels of the great house until, after a minute or so, Sandford stopped outside another unremarkable door and rapped loudly on the wooden panel.
There was no response. Sandford waited a moment longer and then pushed the door open, holding it for Bainbridge and gesturing for him to enter.
Bainbridge stepped into the audience chamber beyond, unable to contain his feelings of apprehension.
“You took your time, Sir Charles.” The Queen’s shrill, disembodied voice echoed around the murky darkness of the room. How did she do that? How could she see him in this perpetual half light she lived in? H
e didn’t know whether the lack of lighting was a result of her medical situation, or had more to do with the maintenance of her mystique: the enduring myth of the Queen, the enigmatic Empress. She had fostered that persona since the day that Dr. Fabian had installed her in the life-giving chair—unable, she said, to be seen or even portrayed in public in such a frail condition. Instead, she presented herself as the unknowable monarch, the omnipotent ruler at the heart of the British Empire, the all-powerful Queen.
Bainbridge had to hand it to her: she believed it, too. He wondered if she ever had the lights on when she wasn’t receiving visitors. He supposed he’d never know. He addressed the gloom, not knowing in which direction to face. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I was attending to a matter at the morgue, with Newbury.”
He heard her give a wet, rasping chuckle. “Ah, Newbury. So you managed to drag his carcass out of the opium dens.”
Bainbridge swallowed. So she knew. He thought he’d managed to keep that from her. “Yes … well … I needed his assistance with a particularly baffling case.”
Victoria laughed again. “Yes, we know all about your case, Sir Charles. The two identical bodies, the dead man committing crimes. No wonder you need Newbury’s assistance.”
Bainbridge moved towards the sound of her voice, trying to identify her location in the shadows. Victoria, wise to his movements, fell suddenly silent. Then, a second or two later, a light blinked on like a brilliant beacon in the darkness: the shutters of a paraffin lantern being opened.
Victoria was there, encapsulated in the warm globe of light cast out by the lantern. To Bainbridge, it looked as if she were somehow contained within a bubble, floating in an unfathomable ocean of black. And there was something else, too: another person, sitting in a wooden chair opposite her. He hesitated.