by George Mann
Newbury fell back in his chair, laughing.
“Yes, that’s right, you enjoy yourself at my expense, Newbury. You’re not the one who’s keeping the Home Secretary waiting!” He tried to sound scornful, but he couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice. It was good to see Newbury smile.
“Dinner tomorrow at Chelsea? Scarbright’s promised to cook his famous venison again.”
Bainbridge grinned. “How could I resist?” Then he offered Newbury a scornful look. “You’re not keeping him, you know. A temporary arrangement, that was all.”
Newbury laughed. “Whatever you say, Charles. Whatever you say.” He rose and took Bainbridge by the hand. “Now go on, go and find out what the Home Secretary is up to. I’m dying to know.”
Bainbridge gave a heartfelt “Bah!” before dashing for the exit, his coat still flapping over his arm. For the first time in a few months, he had the feeling that Newbury was going to be just fine without him.
CHAPTER
29
The rain was still pelting against the roof of the hansom, a constant, distracting patter that seemed to drown out the sound of Veronica’s thoughts as much as the creaking and groaning of the vehicle. It had been raining for days now, a relentless downpour that caused everything to take on a drab, grey appearance. Or perhaps, she mused, that was more a reflection of her mood than the effects of the weather.
Veronica stared out the window as they trundled down the narrow lane, bouncing and jolting over the uneven road, little more than a dirt track potted and rutted by years of use. The rain was like a veil drawn across the world. Through it she caught only glimpses of the village, as they passed by rows of squat terraced cottages, the central green, the public house. Veronica was now a few miles south of London in a small village called Malbury Cross, which she had first visited three or four months earlier while investigating the affair of a clockwork scarecrow that had taken to hunting the local people through the usually quiet streets.
When the time had come to find a bolt-hole for Amelia, it seemed as good a place as any. It was out of the way, and—clockwork scarecrows aside—seemed quiet and tranquil, just the sort of place for someone to repair to while they convalesced, away from prying eyes.
Veronica heard a bird squawk loudly nearby and looked out the window, but could see nothing beyond the blur of raindrops striking the pane. The hansom ploughed on across the slick, waterlogged ground, and Veronica sighed and rocked back in her seat, feeling drained.
It had been a gruelling week, culminating in Amelia’s counterfeit funeral, and the consequences of all that had happened were only now beginning to dawn on her. Fabian was dead, the Bastion Society was in tatters, and the Queen … Well, she supposed Victoria’s days were coming to an end.
Most important, however, was the fact that she still had Amelia, and the burden of her sister’s care was now Veronica’s to carry alone. Newbury would help—of course he would—but it was unfair of her to expect any more than that of him. He’d already done so much, given up so much of himself to come to her aid. Now, it was down to her.
The hansom drew to an abrupt halt before a small thatched cottage. It was a pretty, picturesque little building, detached and at the far end of the village. It sat squat in the centre of an extensive, mature garden. Rose and holly bushes bordered an uneven flagstone path up to the front door, and smoke curled like grey ghosts from twin chimney pots. It looked inviting, even in the pouring rain.
Veronica grabbed her umbrella from the seat beside her and climbed out of the cab, dipping her head against the pounding rain while she struggled to put her umbrella up. It offered little protection against the onslaught, and within moments her skirt was plastered to her legs, soaked through to the skin. She felt sorry for the driver, who was hunkered down on the dickie box beneath a thick woollen overcoat and a black cap. He looked like a drowned rat. She paid him his fare, plus a few extra coins in an effort to compensate him for the long drive and the inclement weather. He nodded in gratitude, water dripping from his chin, and took the reins, cajoling the horses into action. The beasts’ breath made steaming clouds in the air.
Veronica turned and fumbled with the latch on the front gate, eventually having to balance the umbrella under one arm as she simultaneously opened the latch and hefted the gate itself to force it open. The hinges squealed, and the rain stung her eyes as she ran up the path towards the cottage, leaving the gate hanging open behind her.
Veronica rapped on the door and then tried the handle. It was bolted from the inside. She waited on the step, pressing herself as close to the building as possible in search of any semblance of shelter the overhanging thatch might offer.
A few moments later she heard footsteps and the sound of the bolt scraping in its brackets. She heaved a sigh of relief in anticipation of the coming reprieve from the downpour. Hot tea and a towel were, at that moment, the two things she desired most in the world.
The door cracked open and a suspicious-looking face peered out at her through the gap. When the woman saw it was Veronica, she flung the door wide open and beckoned her quickly inside.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Leeson, was a short, rotund lady in her late forties, with a kindly manner and a prim and proper accent that suggested she had once seen better days. She wore her platinum grey hair scraped back in a bun so severe that the resulting facial expression was one of permanent shock. She had an authoritarian air about her that gave Veronica the impression that she may once have been employed as a governess or schoolmistress.
Today, however, Mrs. Leeson looked heartily relieved to see Veronica at the door. “Oh, do come in, Miss Veronica, out of that rain.” She took Veronica’s umbrella and busied herself shaking it out before helping Veronica off with her coat. Veronica stood in the hall, trying not to drip on the sea green carpet.
“I’ll pop the kettle on, miss, while you make yourself comfortable. Miss Amelia is in the drawing room.” Her face grew momentarily more serious and she leaned in conspiratorially. “I fear the seizures have been growing steadily worse, Miss Veronica. Very frequent and very violent. I know you warned me in advance, Miss Veronica, but I didn’t expect anything like this.”
Veronica smiled. “I understand, Mrs. Leeson. I’m speaking with a doctor tomorrow. Someone who will be able to help. He’ll prescribe some medication and I’m sure that will make all the difference.” She’d made an appointment to see Dr. Mason at the hospital in Wandsworth. She hadn’t yet decided how she was going to broach the subject with him, but she knew he’d find a way to help. She was considering telling him she needed the medicine for herself, that she’d begun to have seizures similar to those suffered by her late sister, but the thought of lying to such a good man tied knots in her stomach.
Either way, her words seemed to appease the housekeeper, who smiled and nodded appreciatively. “Excellent news indeed, Miss Veronica. I knew you’d have the situation in hand.” She clapped her hands together. “Right. I’ll fetch the tea. And a towel, too, I’d imagine, judging by the amount by which you’re dripping on the carpet!”
Veronica smiled, and Mrs. Leeson bustled off down the hallway towards the small kitchen at the rear of the cottage. Veronica tried to shake the worst of the water from her skirt, and then followed her down the hallway as far as the drawing room door. Pausing there for a moment, she peered inside.
Amelia sat in a wheelchair by the window, which looked out across the farmer’s fields to the rear of the property. She looked pale and thin, but there was a glow about her Veronica hadn’t seen in years. Perhaps it was the fact that, for the first time in as long as either of them could remember, she felt like she had a home. For years, Amelia had been bounced from sanatorium to hospital, gradually losing not just her strength of body, but her strength of spirit, too. Now, Veronica thought, it seemed like she might finally be regaining some of that lost strength of heart.
Veronica rapped on the door and stepped into the room. Amelia turned and saw her there, and her face cra
cked into a beaming grin. “Veronica! You’re all wet!”
Veronica couldn’t help but laugh. “Have you seen the weather? Of course I’m wet!”
“But you still came,” Amelia replied, and Veronica walked over to stand before her, stooping low to kiss her gently on the cheek. “Is it done?” Amelia asked, her voice suddenly anxious.
“It’s done. Everyone believes you’re dead.”
Amelia stared out the window at the rain-lashed fields and the dark smear of clouds beyond. But Veronica knew she was seeing something else entirely. “Even Mother and Father?” she said.
“Yes. Even them.”
“How were they?” Her voice sounded strained, as if she feared whatever answer Veronica might give. All of the brightness Veronica had seen in her just a moment before seemed to have suddenly drained away.
Veronica felt a pang of guilt. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Amelia the truth, of the look of relief on their mother’s face as the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the ground. “Distraught. Sorrowful…” She didn’t know what else to say.
Amelia turned to her, her eyes wide. “Perhaps we should tell them the truth, Veronica? Perhaps if they knew?…”
Veronica shook her head. “No,” she said softly. And then more firmly: “No.” She squeezed Amelia’s shoulder affectionately. “You know we can’t do that, Amelia.”
Amelia sighed. “Well, I suppose being dead isn’t such a disappointment.” She looked up at Veronica and smiled, changing the subject. “How is Sir Maurice?”
Veronica raised her eyebrows at the question. “He’s well enough. I think the whole affair has rather exhausted him. Being incarcerated beneath Packworth House put a terrible strain on him.” That, she thought, coupled with the fact he hadn’t yet reconciled himself to the notion that the Queen—the monarch he had supported and admired for so long—was likely to die soon as a direct result of his actions. Worse than that, though, was the despondency that had stolen over him as he’d grappled with the truth about the Queen’s motives. That she’d been so fundamentally involved in Amelia’s plight was a betrayal of everything he had held dear, and he was struggling to understand his allegiances and the new world order that resulted from them. Veronica was concerned that, if left unchecked, that despondency might draw him back to the Chinese weed. She couldn’t allow that to happen, not under any circumstance whatsoever.
Amelia frowned. “Veronica, I know about the laudanum.”
“You do?” said Veronica. She met Amelia’s steady gaze. Of course you do, she thought. You’ve seen it in your dreams.
Amelia nodded. “How is he?”
Veronica sighed. “He’s … he’s bearing up. It’s difficult. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it.”
Amelia smiled. “He’s a man! Of course he doesn’t want to talk about it.”
Veronica laughed, and Amelia joined her.
“He knew, you know. That’s why we came to the Grayling Institute in the first place. He wanted me to talk to you, to see if you’d seen something in your visions. He’d been experimenting, dabbling with things he shouldn’t have been. A mummified hand, laudanum … whatever.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “He said that something dreadful was coming. And it was.”
The blood drained suddenly out of Amelia’s face. She went deathly white, paler than Veronica had ever seen her. She looked frightened. Truly petrified.
“My God, Amelia, what’s wrong?” Veronica glanced over her shoulder, panicked that Amelia had seen something behind her that she’d failed to notice. But there was nothing there.
Veronica dropped to her knees before her sister. She put her hand to Amelia’s face. Her skin felt cold to the touch. “Tell me what’s wrong!”
“He saw it, too?” Amelia asked quietly, as if scared of the implication of her own words.
“What? Amelia, what’s the matter? Are you talking about Newbury? What do you think he saw?” Veronica was growing concerned. Something was very wrong.
Amelia’s eyes flicked round to look at Veronica, and what Veronica saw in them filled her with dread. She’d never seen anyone look so scared in all her life. She didn’t know what to do, how to help.
When Amelia spoke, she could barely stammer out the words. “Veronica … it’s not what you think. Whatever happened, however bad it was … it’s going to get worse. Newbury was right. Something dreadful is coming.”
“But what about the Grayling Institute? What about the Bastion Society and the duplicates, what Fabian was doing to you? Surely that’s what he meant?”
Amelia shook her head. “No. That’s not it. I’ve seen it, too, lurking at the edges of my dreams, always just out of focus. Something horrible is looming. The future is already taking shape, Veronica, and I’m frightened.”
Veronica clutched Amelia to her, hugging her tightly. “It’ll be alright, Amelia. I know it will.”
“No, Veronica. It won’t.” Amelia sobbed, and Veronica stroked the back of her head affectionately. “If Newbury has seen it, too…” She trailed off.
“Seen what? What is it?” Veronica frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand, Amelia. What is it you’ve seen?”
“I don’t know!” The frustration in Amelia’s voice was evident, as if she were desperate to explain but didn’t know how, couldn’t find the words. “All I have is a single word, a word that’s still there when I wake: ‘executioner.’ That’s it. That’s all there is. That and a feeling of utter dread.” She was weeping now, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“An executioner?” Veronica tried to wipe Amelia’s tears with the back of her hand but her sister batted her away. She wouldn’t meet Veronica’s eyes.
There was a rap on the door and Mrs. Leeson burst in, carrying a tray bearing teacups, a teapot, and a neatly folded towel. When she saw Amelia she hesitated, unsure whether she’d interrupted something she shouldn’t have.
Veronica stood, beckoning her in. “Come in, please, Mrs. Leeson. I’m sorry if we startled you. Amelia’s not feeling terribly well. If you wouldn’t mind popping the tray on the table there, I’ll look after things from here.”
“Of course, Miss Veronica,” Mrs. Leeson said, clearly thankful for the reprieve. She did as Veronica had requested, setting the tray down carefully and then beating a hasty retreat from the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
Amelia hung her head. “I’d hoped it wasn’t real. I’d hoped my mind was playing tricks on me, after everything that Dr. Fabian had done. I wanted so much to ignore it, Veronica. But it’s true. And it’s awful. Whatever it is, it’s truly awful.”
Veronica slumped into an armchair opposite her sister. An executioner? For a horrible moment she wondered if it wasn’t all to do with the Queen, if Victoria had discovered the truth about what had happened at the Grayling Institute and was planning to seek retribution. Would the Queen send someone after them? Could that be the executioner Amelia had referred to? She had no way of knowing. But she’d learned to trust Amelia’s instincts, and the thought filled her with trepidation. Something dreadful is coming.… She shivered, suddenly cold. After all they’d been through. Hadn’t that been dreadful enough?
Veronica watched Amelia as her thin body convulsed with tears and she curled up in the wheelchair, her face buried in the crook of her arms. Whatever, or whoever, this “executioner” was, Veronica resolved to fight it. Despite what Amelia had said, the future was still malleable, and if Amelia had seen something in it … well, that was only one likely outcome. It could still be altered. The vision was a warning, nothing more. Everything would depend on what they did next.
Outside, the rain continued to hammer against the windows. Veronica rose from her seat and reached for the towel Mrs. Leeson had left for her, dabbing her face.
She needed to talk to Newbury. His experiments might have to continue. And that, she realised, was a sacrifice they would both have to make.
CHAPTER
30
The audience chambe
r was shrouded in a blanket of impenetrable gloom, so dark that he had no real way of discerning the true size of the place. It might have been as small as his own drawing room or as large as a dance hall, but without a point of reference, without a light source to anchor himself, he had no way to be sure.
He supposed that was precisely the point. The Queen, he had been told, had a flair for the theatrical. He supposed she did it to unnerve her callers, to remind them of their insignificance, their place in the grand pecking order of the Court.
He peered into the stygian depths. There might have been a hundred other men in the room with them, or there might have been none at all. Not that it really mattered to him. He was here to see the Queen.
He had been there only once before, a meeting that—as far as any official records were concerned—had never actually occurred. He supposed he would have to get used to that. It had been dark then, too. He’d hardly even seen the Queen during the course of his interview. But it had most definitely been her. That sharp, acidic voice, the sound of Fabian’s labouring machine: they were unmistakable.
The man could hear the machine now, wheezing noisily as it inhaled and exhaled on behalf of the monarch, accompanied by the creak of the wheels as the Queen herself slowly rolled the life-giving chair towards him.
He remained still and silent, partly to avoid a transgression of etiquette, partly in an effort to discern how well she could see him in the darkness.
The mechanical chair drew closer and then came to an abrupt stop. Still, he waited for the Queen to be the one to break the silence. He sensed her close by, heard her chuckling softly under her breath. Then, a moment later, she spoke. “Good day to you, Physician. We hope you bring us pleasing news. It has been a … trying week.”
“So I understand, Your Majesty.” He hesitated, unsure of the best way to deliver his news. In the end, he decided simply to spit it out. “It is done. It worked.”