by Mann, George
She nodded. "Good night, Sir Maurice."
"Good night, Miss Hobbes."
The door snicked shut behind her, and a moment later Newbury rocked back in his seat as the cab rolled away towards Chelsea, and home.
Chapter Six
Morning brought with it a laudanum fog that would have proved debilitating, if not for Mrs. Bradshaw's revitalising breakfast of bacon, eggs and Earl Grey tea. Newbury, wrapped in his blue velvet dressing gown, sat heavily at the table, wincing at the sunlight that was streaming in through the dining room window. Outside, a frost had settled, clearing the fog, and people were already beginning to bustle along the streets, their carriages creaking loudly, their animals yapping and chirping, their steam engines firing noisily as they careened along in ground trains and other, stranger, steam-powered vehicles. The last two months had seen a proliferation of new devices: bizarre, single-person carriages that barrelled along at great speed, bowling everyone and everything over in their wake. They were smaller than a hansom, but far larger than a bicycle; squat, fat little things on four wooden wheels, into which the driver lowered himself, leaving his head and shoulders exposed to the elements. Newbury was a huge supporter of progress, but he didn't believe the city was ready for the coming transport revolution that these new devices seemed to foreshadow. Aside from that, they were damn ugly, and a nuisance, too. Perhaps Veronica was right, after all. Perhaps there was a very real need to slow things down, to stop the world from rushing too hastily towards the future. Or perhaps he was just feeling dour and hung-over.
He’d been taking more risks recently, with the laudanum, and he knew he was playing a dangerous game. He'd even visited an opium den, just over a week ago, a place at the back of a coffee house, known to its clientele as "Johnny Chang's". It was a nauseating place, full of Chinese sailors and fallen gentlemen, but the heady aroma of the opium and the promise of relief at the end of the pipe had proved too tempting, and he had allowed himself to wallow there for most of an afternoon, buried in a sea of silk cushions. Chasing the dragon was something new to him. Until that point a week ago, he had experimented only with laudanum, measuring it out into glasses of red wine and imbibing it in the comfort of his own home. But the ritual of the pipe was exotic, bewildering and, somehow, more appealing. He planned to purchase one of the devices for use in his apartments. He preferred to indulge himself in private.
Newbury understood that others could not appreciate his craving for the opiates, that both Charles and Veronica saw it as a weakness to be overcome. But to Newbury it was much more than that, more than just the need for a physiological intoxication. It helped him to think, to see the world from a different perspective. It was during his opium hazes that he often found the solution to a case, or made a connection where previously he had seen none. The drug allowed him to retreat into the crevices of his own mind, and what he found there was often illuminating. It lifted the shades of perception, opened his eyes to things that others would deem impossible. It enabled him to trust his instincts. Without the opium, he feared he would not be half the detective he was, and that troubled him beyond regard for his physical wellbeing. So he continued to indulge, keeping his practices hidden from the world. The opium was at the epicentre of a maelstrom of need and desire. It was fuel for his mind, but poison for his body.
For a moment, Newbury considered going back to bed. He allowed himself to entertain that fantasy for a few minutes, knowing full well that it was never truly an option. He had to meet with Veronica for a start and besides, he was fully expecting to receive a summons to the palace to discuss the missing agent, "Caspian", and whether or not Her Majesty had any intention of pursuing the matter further.
Regardless, his mind was also exercised by the mystery surrounding the Theban mummy. He'd spent the evening reading through his library of occult tomes, searching out any references to irregular mummification practices in Ancient Egypt, but had found nothing that could help him to identify what it was that Winthrop had uncovered in Thebes. Unperturbed, he had dashed off a note to Aldous Renwick, a long-time correspondent and a master of occult literature, describing the circumstances and asking his friend to examine his own library on the off-chance that he might be able to throw up something different. For the time being, both of Newbury's mysteries had stuttered to a halt. Whilst he waited on others, he would do all he could to help Veronica bring her own matter to a close.
Downing the dregs of his tea, Newbury forced himself to stand, flinching as the movement caused a brief explosion of pain in his temples. He sighed, cursing under his breath. Then, swooping up another piece of toast from the rack, he made his way with trepidation towards the washroom, where he planned, if at all possible, to make himself reasonably presentable.
†
A short while later, following a wash and a shave, Newbury had dressed and was feeling more like his usual self. He had donned one of his black suits, with a white collar and red cravat, but he knew from catching a glimpse of himself in the cheval glass that the black rings beneath his eyes betrayed his tiredness, if not the reason for it. He hoped he could hide it from Veronica. He couldn't bear to think that she could consider him weak.
It was just after nine o'clock, and Mrs. Bradshaw had cleared away the debris from breakfast, leaving a small silver tray on the table containing his post for the day. He eyed it from across the room, immediately recognising the heavy, vellum envelope that lay atop the pile. So, he'd been right about the summons. He collected the small pile of letters and took them through to the drawing room, which adjoined the dining room through a single door. In the corner of the room, sat atop its little wooden perch, the brass owl that he'd inherited from Lord Carruthers trilled noisily and fluttered its metallic wings.
Casting the rest of the pile on the coffee table, Newbury searched out his letter-opener — a small blade he'd picked up in India, with a handle shaped like the head of a tiger — and slid it underneath the gummed fold of the envelope from the palace. The vellum tore readily, and inside there was nothing but a small note card, printed neatly in the perfect handwriting of one of Her Majesty's administrators. He withdrew it and held it up to the light.
Newbury,
You are expected at the palace forthwith. Victoria R.
He turned the card over in his hand, smiling. Perhaps now he'd find out a little more about "Caspian" and the reason for the man's failure to rendezvous at the station the previous day. Miss Hobbes, he feared, would have to wait a while longer. He placed the card on the bureau beside the letter-opener. Then, taking a moment just to steady himself, he fetched his coat and hat from their place in the hallway, and set out to see his employer, Her Majesty the Queen.
"Well, Newbury?"
Her Majesty had not kept him waiting for long. He had taken a cab directly to Buckingham Palace: one of the loud — but fast — steam-powered vehicles that Veronica detested so readily. Sandford, the aged butler who now waited on the Queen's small coterie of field agents, had been waiting for him by the side entrance and had guided him in, taking Newbury's coat and hat and hurrying him along the secret passageway to Her Majesty's audience chamber.
Newbury stood before the monarch now, trying to make her out in the shadowy half-light of the room. She was sat, as ever, in her life-giving chair, the pumps and bellows wheezing noisily as they artificially inflated her lungs, heaving her chest back and forth alarmingly as they forced her to breathe, artificially sustaining her life. Tubes coiled from the bags of strange-coloured fluid that were attached to a metal frame above her head, pumping preservatives, saline and other, more unusual compounds into her bloodstream. Her chest was covered by a swathe of black crinoline, but Newbury could see where the tubing snaked from the tanks at the back of her chair, up under her arms and into her chest, just below the breasts. Victoria was the Empress of half the world, and she clearly wasn't going to give it up without a fight. At least not whilst she had the marvellous machines of Dr. Fabian to keep her alive indefinitely.
> When she spoke again, her voice was a husky, gritty rasp. "Where is our man, Newbury?" She offered him a reproachful look.
Newbury took a deep breath. "Your Majesty, I attended the rendezvous as requested. The agent codenamed 'Caspian' was not in the appointed carriage, nor did he make himself known to me on the platform. All I was able to glean from the experience was that the person who had inhabited compartment 3b was carrying with them some item or creature that smelled distinctly as if it were carrion."
Victoria raised an eyebrow. She wheeled forward in the chair, the wooden rims creaking against the marble floor. Her hands were shaking with the effort. "Newbury. Let us make the situation clear to you. You must locate this man, 'Caspian', and bring him to the palace forthwith."
Newbury tried to hide his exasperation. "As you wish, Your Majesty. To do so I fear I will need some more of the details, however..."
Victoria laughed, a wet, spluttering laugh. "Very well." Her face became serious. "This is a difficult assignment, Newbury. It may have repercussions for both you, personally, and for the Crown."
"How so?"
"That will no doubt become clear as you continue. For now, all you need to know is that the man you are looking for was once an agent named William Ashford."
Newbury frowned. "Ashford? I thought he died years ago, before my time? I've heard stories of the man."
Victoria gave the approximation of a shrug. The machinery groaned with the movement. "It was all a long time ago, Newbury. Ashford was killed, five years ago, in a manner of speaking. But he was rebuilt by Dr. Fabian as an instrument, and a blunt one at that. He has been living a half-life undercover in St. Petersburg, but now, for some reason, he has returned, contrary to our instructions. Another agent in Russia was able to warn us of his intended return."
"So Ashford is rogue? Why would he risk returning to London, and why should he travel so far by train, rather than airship?"
"Ashford is no longer a man, Newbury. Not in the sense that you would understand. He is an anomaly, neither living nor dead, but trapped somewhere in between and full of vengeance. His sense of what is right and wrong no longer equates to our own. We believe he has returned to seek revenge on those who plotted his downfall. He travels only by land and sea, for the altitude of an air-going vessel would affect the workings of the machines that sustain him." She paused, meeting Newbury's gaze. "You must find this anomaly, Newbury, and bring it to heel. One does not allow such things to travel freely about the capital."
"Quite so, Your Majesty. Quite so. I shall attend to it directly."
"See that you do. Put all else out of mind. Ashford must be foremost in your thoughts."
Newbury nodded. "There is just one other thing, Your Majesty, that I would prevail upon you for."
Victoria nodded her consent for him to go on.
"A boy. George Purefoy. He's a reporter for The Times. I have a notion that he deserves our attention. He could make an excellent agent, given time, perhaps."
Victoria waved a dismissive hand. "Later, Newbury, later. There will be time enough for taking a young apprentice under your wing. For now, we urge you to focus on the task at hand. Go to it."
Newbury watched as the Queen rolled back in her strange, mechanised chair. The darkness enveloped her. He turned to leave.
"Oh, and the Hobbes girl." Her voice called out from the shadows.
He looked back, but Victoria remained shrouded in darkness. "Veronica?"
"No. The younger one. We have considered your request and have decided to oblige. She will be moved to a new facility. More information will be forthcoming. We suggest you do not involve the family until arrangements have been made."
Newbury grinned. "Thank you, Your Majesty. That is most excellent news."
Victoria's hissing laugh echoed around the dark, cavernous room. "We do what is necessary. As do you, Sir Maurice." She coughed. "Now go and deal with Ashford."
"As you say."
Newbury crossed the room and stepped through the door into the passageway that would lead him back to Sandford, the waiting room and the cold London morning outside. It seemed Veronica would have an even longer wait on her hands; whilst Her Majesty had given him a little more to go on, Newbury still felt he was only hearing half of the story, and that, if he were to uncover a little more information about Ashford, he'd be able to bring the case to a much swifter resolution. Not only that, but her talk of Newbury's personal stake in the assignment had left him feeling more than a little uncomfortable. He had no idea how an agent from five years ago could have any bearing on him, or the nature of the repercussions that she had referred to. But he did know someone who might: Sir Charles Bainbridge. Charles had been an agent for many, many years and would likely remember Ashford. He may even have worked with the man on a number of assignments. Whether he knew the truth, or, like Newbury, had been led to believe that Ashford was dead, Newbury had no idea. But he knew that he needed to find out. He would head directly to Scotland Yard and speak with Charles. For now, it was the only lead he had.
Chapter Seven
Ashford, you say? It's a long time since I last heard that name." Sir Charles Bainbridge, Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard, moved about behind his desk, shuffling papers, a flustered expression on his face. He was older than Newbury, just over fifty, with greying temples and a big, bushy moustache. He was dressed in a grey suit, with a white starched collar and black neck tie. He glanced up at Newbury, who was sitting in a chair off to one side, watching his friend as he went about his business. "Why do you ask?"
Newbury stroked his chin thoughtfully. He hadn't really decided how to put it yet. "Her Majesty has asked me to find him."
Bainbridge nodded and looked down at the stack of papers in his hands. Then, realisation dawning behind his eyes, he dropped the papers into a heap and looked back at Newbury, before lowering himself into the chair behind his desk.
"Newbury, William Ashford has been dead for over five years. What on earth are you going on about?"
Newbury nodded. Clearly Bainbridge wasn't aware of Ashford's remarkable second life. "Indeed. That, apparently, is the received wisdom on the matter. But it transpires that there is more to Ashford's death than meets the eye."
Bainbridge looked confused. "Stop talking cryptically and get on with it, Newbury."
Newbury gave a curt nod. "You start. What can you tell me about Ashford? What sort of man was he, and how did he die?"
Bainbridge sat back in his chair. "He was a good man, I'll venture that much. I knew him fairly well. He was married, with two children. A boy and a girl, if I remember correctly. He was a good agent — hard, but fair. He always had the best interests of the Empire at heart."
Newbury nodded, glancing out of the window. In the yard below, a group of uniformed men were readying a police carriage. He turned to meet Charles's gaze. "So how did he die?"
"It was a nasty business, Newbury, and not something I care to remember."
Newbury furrowed his brow. It was unusual for Bainbridge to be so reserved. "Come on, Charles! This is important." He banged his fist on the table with impatience.
Bainbridge sighed. He leaned forward in his chair again. "What do you know of Dr. Aubrey Knox?"
"Not a great deal. Former agent. Lost in action about the same time as Ashford. It's never really come up."
"There's an explanation for that, Newbury. It's never come up for a reason."
"Go on."
"Knox was a genius. A brilliant man, who, like you, had a fascination with the occult sciences. He was one of the shining lights of Her Majesty's secret circle; he had proved himself to b e a reliable, loyal subject for over ten years, and his service record was impeccable. He took on many of the same sorts of cases that you take on now: anything strange, psychological, paranormal, supernatural. He had a depth of knowledge surpassed by none in the Empire, yet he didn't crave personal recognition. He wrote no papers, attended no lectures. In many ways he was the perfect agent; quite brilliant, b
ut quiet, effective, and unassuming."
"What happened to him? Is it all tied up with Ashford?"
Bainbridge nodded. "It was midway through eighteen ninety-six. June, I think. There was a botched assignment. I'm not sure of the details, but something went wrong. Something that everyone expected to be an easy job. Somehow, somewhere in the aftermath, it was brought to the attention of Her Majesty that Knox had been pursuing his own interests. He'd become obsessed with the practice of the occult. Agents were sent to his laboratory in Ladbroke Grove. They discovered that he'd been experimenting on human subjects: waifs, whores, paupers. No one knew what he was trying to do, but we were all appalled by it. It wasn't just the work of an enquiring mind. You should have seen the place, Newbury. It's burned into my mind. The things he'd done... he should be damned to hell for all eternity. Anyway, a warrant was issued for his arrest. Ashford was given the case. He was told to find Knox and bring him in, whatever the cost."
Pausing, Bainbridge stood, crossed the room and collected two brandy glasses from a shelf by the door. He reached into a cupboard and searched out a plain glass decanter, from which he removed the stopper and sloshed an ample measure of brandy into each glass. He returned to his desk and handed one of the drinks to Newbury. He looked pale. "Bit early, I know..." He shrugged. His tone changed. "Now, Newbury, you must understand that Ashford was very much unlike you or I. His disposition was entirely different. Put him in a room with a foreign agent and he'd make them talk, without even batting an eyelid. He was the sort of man who could bring down a network of criminals with sheer brute force. Simple, but effective. 'A tool', Her Majesty would call him, for when we needed 'something a little stronger'. But he had no experience of the occult, no sense of what he was getting himself into with Knox. And Knox, for his part, knew how to play him." Bainbridge sighed. "Ashford tracked Knox across the country for months, finally cornering him back here in London. But Knox was expecting him and had laid a trap. No one is sure exactly what happened to Ashford, but his body was found mangled in an abandoned warehouse near the docks, ripped apart, as if he'd been torn open like a paper doll. Knox was never heard from again."