by George Mann
Newbury looked pained for his friend. "Look, I'm making some progress with my research that could suggest a couple of avenues for your men to investigate. Why don't you call on me later at the office and I can talk you through it? Right now, I think it best that you get that cadaver moved to the local morgue and have the surgeon begin the post-mortem directly. A body lying around in the fog might be too much of a temptation for these 'revenant' creatures to bear." He glanced around at the nearest constable who was shuffling uncomfortably on the spot.
Bainbridge shrugged. "Yes, yes, you're quite right." He turned to the constable on his right, waving his cane. "You, man. Go and organise some transport to get this body moved." The other man hesitated, as if he were about to protest. Bainbridge was having none of it. "Well, go on then!" The constable scuttled off into the fog. Bainbridge turned back to Newbury and Veronica. "I'd better go with them, make sure the surgeon gets the correct instructions. Can you find your own way back?"
Veronica nodded. "Of course we can, Sir Charles. But first, would you object terribly if I put a few questions to your men?" She moved over to stand beside Newbury.
Bainbridge looked confused, but assented readily. "No, no, my dear. Anything at all if you think it may prove useful in helping to solve the case."
Veronica nodded appreciatively, and then edged her way around the body and approached one of the remaining two constables.
"Good morning, ma'am." He looked vaguely uncomfortable; it the thought of being questioned by a woman.
"Good morning, Constable…?"
"Pratt, ma'am."
"Good morning, Constable Pratt. I'm in need of some assistance. You see, my colleagues over there are labouring under the impression that I'm fully up-to-date with all the minutiae of this murder inquiry, but, as I'm relatively new to the job, I seem to be missing some of the pertinent facts. I was hoping you could help me out of my predicament?"
"Certainly, ma'am. Where would you like me to begin?"
Veronica feigned ignorance. "Well, we could start with the victims. How many are there now?"
Pratt hesitated before going on. "Well ma'am, there are seven official victims, all of them strangled to death and abandoned in the street, just like this one. All from the same area of the city."
"Official victims?"
"Yes ma'am. Folk around here are saying there's actually around three times that number, if not more. Sometimes the families come and move the bodies before the police happen upon them, other times the corpses are stripped and robbed and end up floating down the river."
"And what of witnesses?"
"People aren't too forthcoming, ma'am. They're attributing these killings to a phantom, the glowing policeman. Talk like that makes them clam up good and proper when a man in uniform comes knocking on their door. Not only that, but people are scared to come out at night. On one hand they're worried about the murderer, on the other about the revenants that are walking the streets at night, hiding in the gutters like animals. Places like this, they ain't safe, ma'am. People keep themselves to themselves."
Veronica smiled. "So do you think this is the work of the glowing policeman, Constable Pratt?"
"I'm not qualified to say, ma'am. But I do know folk who claim they've seen him out here, wandering around in the fog, his face and hands glowing with ghostly blue light whilst he waits for his next victim."
"Thank you, constable. Most useful." She made her way back to where Newbury and Bainbridge were standing, a wry smile on her face. "It sounds as if these bodies may be just the tip of the iceberg."
Bainbridge nodded, obviously impressed. "You continue to confound me, Miss Hobbes."
Veronica smiled. "Let's just hope it proves useful in bringing the killer to justice, Sir Charles."
"Indeed. Indeed."
Newbury docked his hat to his old friend. "Charles, we'll take our leave. Watch your back out here, won't you, and remember to call by the office this afternoon for a talk. I'm sure we can start moving forward in this matter, hopefully before another sorry individual loses his life."
"Thank you, Newbury. Your assistance is most appreciated."
"Say no more." And with that, Newbury and Veronica turned on their heels and disappeared into the fog-laden morning in search of a cab.
"I liked your trick with the constable back there." Newbury was in a much more talkative mood, now that the two of them had managed to hail a hansom cab and were on their way back to the museum. Veronica was relieved that, this time, they'd been able to settle on a more traditional vehicle, pulled by horses instead of the more temperamental steam engine they had suffered before. She regarded Newbury from across the carriage.
"I've always believed that it's worth keeping one's ear to the ground, finding out what people are saying. Invariably, in my experience, that's where one may find the truth, or at least the kernel of the truth that has given rise to the tall tales."
Newbury nodded in agreement. "An admirable tactic, and one that I'm convinced will bear fruit. But consider this…" He paused for dramatic effect, "What if, in this instance, the tall tales were actually based on fact?"
Veronica's eyes betrayed her incredulity. "Come now, sir, you're not suggesting the glowing policeman is the real source of these murders?"
"Indeed not, although at this stage I'm loath to rule anything out. What I'm getting at is the notion that the stories could have been inspired by past events, occurrences from many years ago that have left a residual, latent fear amongst the folk of this particular district."
"You've found something, haven't you, in your studies? Some reference that sheds light on what's going on at the moment?"
"A reference that may shed light on what's going on at the moment. In truth it may also turn out to be entirely unrelated, although I find that difficult to believe, given the nature of the murders and the circumstances surrounding the deaths. I've already mentioned it to Bainbridge, but he puts no stock in the idea."
Veronica leaned forward in the carriage. "Do tell."
Newbury smiled. He was beginning to believe he'd made the right choice in hiring Veronica as his new assistant. "About twelve years ago there was a disturbing case in the Whitechapel area, in which a gang of petty thieves were discovered breaking into a house. Instead of fleeing the scene, they turned on the policeman who had found them, and viciously beat him to death. The thieves were never brought to justice, but for a month after the policeman's body was interred, a 'glowing bobby' was sighted around the streets, walking his beat and searching out his murderers, one after the other."
"What happened?"
"They all turned up dead. Strangled, just like the victims we've seen in the last couple of weeks. Such was his vengeance, it was said, that the murdered policeman had actually risen from the grave to seek revenge on his killers. Once they were all dead, the 'glowing bobby' disappeared, never to be seen again."
A ground train rattled by their cab, startling the horses and causing them to whinny noisily and pull up by the side of the road. The driver shouted down his apologies and waited for the other vehicle to pass before coercing the animals back out into the road.
Veronica sat back in her seat. "The parallels are uncanny."
"Indeed. But there are holes. Why would the spirit return now, after all this time? Did it ever really exist, or was it just a cover used by the dead man's colleagues to track down and dispose of his killers? What, if any, are the connections between the victims? I can't see a good reason for the spirit of the dead policeman to be taking these innocent lives, both men and women. I'm not convinced the profile actually fits."
"But you are convinced that it is possible? Have any other policeman been murdered in the area lately? Could it be the same phenomenon, but a different set of people involved?"
Newbury straightened his back. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "My dear Veronica, what splendid deduction! We'll get Bainbridge looking into it first thing this afternoon. I've been so wrapped up in trying to draw paralle
ls between the two cases that I'd overlooked this most obvious of angles."
By this time their cab was approaching Bloomsbury and the British Museum could be seen, through the window, an epic, monolithic structure rising out of the grey afternoon. Newbury took his watch out of his pocket and examined its face. He glanced at Veronica. "I don't know about you, but I'm feeling rather peckish. Spot of lunch?"
Veronica grinned. "Sir Maurice, I'm famished."
With Miss Coulthard gone for the day, the office was silent when they returned from lunch, with just the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner to break the monotony. The two rooms were connected by an interior door, the main office being a fairly large, open space with Miss Coulthard's desk placed centrally to face the door. The walls were decorated with an array of spectacular artefacts, ranging from mediaeval weaponry to a glass display cabinet filled with smaller antiquities from Egypt, Greece and Rome. A small stove had been fitted in the far corner, and a series of bookcases were overflowing with ageing, dusty tomes.
Newbury had just finished arranging his hat on the hatstand when Veronica, who had already gone through to the side room where their desks were located, reappeared in the doorway brandishing an envelope.
"It's got the Royal seal on it. Someone must have delivered it whilst we were out." She handed it to Newbury. He opened it immediately, dropping the envelope to the floor.
"It's from the Queen." He unfolded the letter and began to read.
To our faithful servant,
It is requested you abandon all current activity and proceed immediately to Finsbury Park. An airship has crashed this morning in suspicious circumstances and one suspects foul play. Early reports suggest no survivors.
Full report expected in due course.
This is a matter of grave importance to the Crown.
Victoria R.
Newbury folded the note in half and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Veronica eyed him quizzically. He reached for his hat.
"We're off the murder investigation. At least temporarily." Veronica looked somewhat disappointed by the news. Newbury continued. "There's been an airship crash in Finsbury Park. I'm afraid we're going out again." He pushed his arm into the sleeve of his long, black overcoat and headed for the door. "Come on, I'll explain on the way."
Chapter Four
From over two hundred yards away it was clear that the airship crash was a disaster of phenomenal proportions. Black smoke spiralled through the sky in a dark, liquid trail, a smudge across the landscape, clearly denoting the point of impact and consequent explosion. The heavy fog was starting to lift now, but the scene it uncovered had Newbury wishing it had stayed put.
The wreckage was scattered across a wide area of parkland, isolated flames still licking in little, glowing puddles, where firemen had yet to extinguish the smaller pieces of debris that had come to rest in the area surrounding the main carcass of the downed ship. Hose carts circled the wreckage, whilst onlookers milled around a police cordon that had been established around the entire perimeter of the park. A tree was on fire on the far side of the site, and firemen were currently engaged in trying to bring it under control before the flames spread to the neighbouring evergreens.
The airship itself was now nothing but a burnt husk, its shattered substructure an exposed skeleton, stark against the surrounding parkland. It reminded Veronica of a beached whale she had once seen as a child, half-rotted in the sea air, its enormous ribcage exposed to the elements.
Newbury clambered down from the cab, choking on the thick smoke that lay heavy in the air all around them. The stench of the burnt vessel was almost unbearable. He turned to help Veronica down beside him, offering her a handkerchief to cover her face. She took it gratefully.
"What in God's name happened here?" Her voice was muffled from behind the small piece of linen that she held over her mouth and nose. Her eyes watered, stinging with the smoke.
"Airships such as this one get their lift from gasbags filled with hydrogen. The gas is highly flammable, and in a major impact such as this…" He shook his head. "Well, you can see the results for yourself. I've read about a handful of similar incidents. The most recent was in Bulgaria, I believe, where a pilot missed his berthing tether and instead lowered the ship onto the ground spike, ripping the gasbags open and engulfing the entire vessel in flame."
Veronica looked grave. "But all those passengers…" She was staring out over the chaotic scene before them, unsure what to make of it all. She drew her coat around herself, an unconscious gesture that belied her horror at the sight of the wreckage and the carnage it represented.
Newbury was lost for comforting words. He paused, and then looked around, straining to see over the bustling crowds of people. "Come on; let's see if Bainbridge is here yet."
Together, the two of them made their way around the cordon, looking for signs of the Chief Inspector. Newbury kept a hand on Veronica's arm as they pushed their way through the press of locals, who had turned out in droves to see the spectacle of the downed ship. Newbury supposed he couldn't blame them; for many it was a frightening near miss, with such a devastating explosion occurring so close to their homes. The vessel could have easily come down upon a row of terraced houses instead of the relative safety of the park. For others it was surely a unique opportunity to witness something that they would usually only read about in newspapers, a sensational spectacle to tell their grandchildren of in years to come. From a purely detached perspective-ignoring, for a moment, the human cost of the tragedy-history was unfolding before their eyes.
They pressed on, fighting against the swarm of people in an attempt to find someone who looked like they were in charge. Moments later, they found who they were looking for.
The police had set up a temporary base underneath a bandstand, just inside the cordon at the far end of the crash site. Wreaths of dark smoke still curled through the air, and here, the stench of the wreckage was even more intolerable than when they'd first arrived. Newbury tried not to imagine what was causing the diabolical smell. He made his way over to the cordon line and called to get the attention of one of the men stationed there.
"Hello? May I have some assistance here, please?"
Two men in suits, deep in conversation, looked around to eye the newcomer. One of them flicked his wrist to a uniformed officer and the man came plodding over to where Newbury and Veronica were standing.
"Yes?"
"I'm attempting to locate Sir Charles Bainbridge. Can you tell me; is he present at the site?"
"No, sir. I don't believe he is." The other man looked irritated, as if anxious to get back to his post.
"Ah. Well, in that case, is there anyone else I could talk to?" Newbury reached into his jacket pocket and produced his credentials, which he waved at the constable. The monogram of Queen Victoria was clearly visible on his papers. "My name is Sir Maurice Newbury and I'm here on the business of the Crown."
The constable stared at him, wide-eyed. "Of course, sir. If you'd like to come this way?" The officer lifted the cordon and both Newbury and Veronica dipped their heads to pass underneath the rope barrier. Veronica, straightening herself on the other side, made a point of repositioning her hat. Newbury supposed she was trying to keep herself busy, and keep her mind from wandering back to the horrors on the other side of the bandstand.
The two men in suits were still talking as the three of them approached. Veronica glanced around. She could see that the police were struggling to get the situation under control; they were few in number and the constables were barely managing to keep the onlookers back from the cordon. Meanwhile, higher-ranking officers attempted to coordinate the other emergency services and ensure that nothing was removed from the wreckage that would prove useful in uncovering the cause of the disaster. Veronica was sure that the investigation was already underway, but it seemed to her as if the police had their hands full just trying to stop the crash site from getting out of control.
The bobby who had led th
em over from the barrier made a point of clearing his throat, and the two men in suits ceased talking for a moment to take them in. The man on the left, dressed in pinstriped grey, with a full beard and dark green cravat, looked Newbury up and down discerningly. He seemed about to say something when the constable stepped in. "Sir, this gentleman is here on behalf of the Crown."
The man nodded, an unreadable expression on his face. "The Crown indeed. Well, we can certainly use all the help we can get. Abominable affair." His face cracked into a sad smile. He held out his hand. "Inspector Foulkes of Scotland Yard."
Newbury took his hand. "Maurice Newbury."
"Ah, Sir Maurice. Yes, Sir Charles has told me all about you. Glad you could make it." He put his hand on the shoulder of the man he'd been talking with when they arrived. "This is Mr. Stokes, representing the company that built and operated the airship in question."
Veronica noted that Stokes was harbouring a dark frown.
Newbury took his hand, inclining his head politely. "Mr. Stokes." He stepped back, allowing the others to see Veronica, who had been standing behind him in the shadow of the bandstand throughout the course of the exchange. "This is my assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes. She'll be aiding me in my inquiries. Please ensure you extend to her all the necessary courtesy and freedom she requires to properly execute her role."
Foulkes looked startled by this new development, but quickly spluttered his assent.
Newbury turned to the man named Stokes. "Mr. Stokes, I'd appreciate it if you could elaborate on some details for me. Have you any notion yet of what occurred to bring about this sorry situation?"
Stokes looked immediately uncomfortable. He was a short, lean man, shorter than both Newbury and Foulkes and only a few inches taller than Veronica. He wore a brown suit and white collar, with black shoes that, Veronica noted, were filthy with mud, grime and ash from the crash site. His moustache was trimmed to perfection and waxed at the ends, and his bushy eyebrows did much to accentuate his apparently permanent frown. He shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. "Alas, we're only just beginning to piece together the sequence of events that preceded this tragedy. There is nothing in the wreckage to indicate what may have happened onboard, and we can see no obvious reason why it should have plummeted out of the sky as dramatically as it did. Unfortunately, there are no survivors left to question, either."