The Affinity Bridge nahi-1

by George Mann

  The Orleans Club, Newbury had informed her on the way over, was the offshoot of a gentleman's club based in Twickenham, the town dwelling for members of the latter who, it seemed, were welcome to invite guests to the establishment so long as they were of the male variety. Any women were referred directly to the ladies room and kept well out of earshot of the banter that took place in the main lounge. Veronica found the whole idea ridiculous, but she also knew that she wasn't about to overturn hundreds of years of tradition by simply complaining about it. She was aware that Newbury attended a club, and that he found it a worthwhile pursuit, in terms of both business and pleasure. Not only that, but it was important that they got to speak with Morgan, one way or another. She supposed she'd just have to live with it, for now.

  The building itself was typical of this type of establishment; a Georgian townhouse that sat mid-terrace between what appeared to be private dwellings on either side. Sash windows revealed little about the activities inside, covered by heavy drapes, and there were no signs or indicators that they had even come to the correct address, other than the number '27' on the door, as suggested in Morgan's letter. Clearly the members of the Orleans Club liked to carry out their business behind closed doors.

  Newbury stepped up to the blue panelled door and rapped loudly with the knocker. Almost immediately it creaked open and a butler appeared in the opening. Light spilled out onto the steps around their feet. Newbury presented his letter and informed the man that they had come for a private conference with one of the club's members, Mr. Christopher Morgan.

  The man studied Newbury and Veronica with what seemed to be a measure of disdain. "I'm afraid we have yet to enjoy the pleasure of Mr. Morgan's company today, sir."

  Newbury pulled his watch from his pocket, popping open the engraved case and glancing at the ivory face inside. "I see we're a little early. Perhaps Mr. Morgan intends to meet us here at four, as his letter suggests, or perhaps he is running a little late. Either way, I do believe that we'd like to wait."

  The butler nodded, opening the door a fraction wider to allow them to pass. "Sir can wait in the lounge, and I'll be sure to inform Mr. Morgan of your presence when he arrives. I'm afraid your companion will have to wait in the ladies room."

  Newbury put his hand on Veronica's arm. "As I suspected, my dear. I'll try not to be too long about it. Why don't you ask around in there and see if you can get a measure of this fellow from the other ladies? It may be that you can find out something useful while you're waiting."

  Veronica nodded. "Of course." She allowed the butler to escort her to the door of the ladies room, whilst Newbury disappeared down the hallway in the direction of the main lounge. The butler held the door open for her and she stepped through.

  The ladies room was clearly an underused commodity. The room itself was small, and whilst lavishly furnished, bore the musty odour of under use; Veronica had the sense that the place was more of a showroom than a location where ladies actually went to pass the time, at least by choice. She suspected that the room was provided as a service to those unlucky men who didn't seem able to go about their business without their wives following on behind them, limpet-like. That or it was listed as a benefit in the member's book, and as such had to be upheld for those rare occasions when a lady actually found herself in the unenviable position of needing somewhere to wait for her companion whilst he went about his business inside. Whatever the case, there were only two other ladies present in the room when Veronica entered, and both looked up, startled, to see a newcomer whom they might endeavour to coerce into a discussion of some sort. They both stood, placing the books they had been reading on the chairs where they had been sitting. Veronica smiled warmly. "Good afternoon, ladies."

  The two women looked at each other, and then turned back to Veronica. The one on the left, who was wearing a long dress cut in pale yellow silk, returned Veronica's smile. "Likewise, I'm sure." She indicated the chair beside her. "Please, won't you join us for tea?"

  "I'd be delighted." Veronica walked over to the table and the two ladies returned to their seats.

  The woman in the yellow dress poured Veronica a cup of tea from the silver pot on the stand beside her chair. "My name is Mrs. Isabella Marriott, and this," she glanced up, "is Miss Evelyn Blackwood."

  Veronica took the proffered cup and saucer. "Thank you. My name is Miss Veronica Hobbes. It's a pleasure to meet you."

  Evelyn Blackwood, a young, dark-haired woman in a red jacket and matching skirt, looked Veronica up-and-down. "Is this your first time at the Orleans Club, Miss Hobbes? I haven't seen you here before."

  Veronica nodded. "Yes, indeed. My associate is here to meet one of the members. I thought it wise to wait for him in here."

  Isabella Marriott gave her a conspiratorial wink. "So, dear, who exactly is this mysterious 'associate'? You can be sure that your secret is safe with us."

  Veronica almost laughed out loud. She had no reason to hide her association with Newbury, and it was clear that the two ladies, so starved for company, were fishing for gossip and intrigue to keep them amused. It would do no harm to let them think what they would. In fact, it may help to draw them out on their thoughts about Morgan. "I'm here with Sir Maurice Newbury, the academic and anthropologist."

  Isabella and Evelyn exchanged glances. "A sir? Well, didn't you do well for yourself, Miss Hobbes?" Both of them began to giggle like schoolchildren. Veronica was finding the whole experience incredibly trying. "So tell, us, Miss Hobbes. Is he devilishly handsome?"

  Veronica took a sip of her tea, wishing for a moment that it was something stronger. "Well, I suppose he is, rather." She tried to look coy, playing along with the conversation.

  Evelyn clapped her hands together. "How exciting! A new romance in the Orleans Club. Just wait until we tell Juliana!"

  "Now, now, Evelyn, don't get carried away." Isabella placed a hand on her friend's knee. "Miss Hobbes is only just getting started." She looked at Veronica expectantly.

  Veronica saw her chance to turn the conversation in a different direction. "Well, Sir Maurice is here for an important meeting with Mr. Christopher Morgan. I've heard a lot about the man, but I've never had occasion to meet him. Is he a fine fellow?"

  Isabella looked impressed. "Oh, Miss Hobbes, one of the finest. Mr. Morgan is a pillar of our community, both here and in Twickenham. He owns an art gallery in town, and all the ladies who've been lucky enough to visit the place say it's full of the most wonderful paintings. Mr. Morgan is a true gentleman. I'm sure that if your Sir Maurice is having any dealings with Mr. Morgan it is a good reflection on them both."

  Veronica smiled. "I'm delighted to hear it, Miss Marriott. I appreciate your candour."

  Evelyn leaned forward, clutching her empty teacup to her knee. "Do you think Sir Maurice might decide to become a member of the Orleans Club? I'm sure the other gentlemen would make him most welcome, and I'd love to introduce you to Juliana."

  Isabella cut in before Veronica had chance to answer. "Juliana is Evelyn's elder sister. She recently married an industrialist named Greene. She has pretensions of becoming a novelist."

  "Really?"

  Evelyn looked uncomfortable. "Actually, I believe she's really rather good. She gives Margaret Oliphant a run for her money, anyway." She patted the book beside her on the chair, and smiled.

  Veronica tried to look engaged by the idea. "I'm sure that she's very talented indeed, Miss Blackwood." She placed her cup and saucer on the table. There was a rap at the door. The three women looked up to see Newbury framed in the doorway.

  "Miss Hobbes. I'm sorry to disturb your conversation, but I believe our business here is done."

  Veronica tried to hide the relief on her face. As she stood, Isabella leaned in and whispered surreptitiously. "You're right dear, he's terribly dashing."

  Veronica smiled knowingly and turned to face both of the ladies. "Good afternoon, ladies. It's been a pleasure."

  Evelyn glanced from Newbury to Veronica. "You must
come and see us again, Miss Hobbes. Sir Maurice, do say you'll bring her again."

  Newbury coughed to cover his laughter. "All in good time, I'm sure."

  Evelyn smiled triumphantly. "That's settled then. Next time Juliana may be here. I am sure she'd be delighted to tell you about her writing."

  "I'll look forward to it." And with that Veronica turned on her heel and joined Newbury in the hallway, before the two of them took their leave of the Orleans Club and headed out into the cold afternoon.

  "So, how did you find Morgan?"

  They were waiting for a cab by the side of the road. The fog had settled even lower during the time they had passed inside the Orleans Club, and the street seemed deserted, wreathed in a thick smog. Veronica was standing close to Newbury, partly in an effort to fight off the penetrating chill, but partly for the comfort of having him nearby. The fog made her uncomfortable these days, what with all the talk of 'revenants' and glowing policemen. She had resolved to spend as little time out in it as possible, for the time being, at least.

  "I'm afraid I didn't find Morgan at all. He didn't keep our appointment. Either he was detained elsewhere, or simply decided that his information wasn't so inflammatory after all."

  Veronica frowned. "That sounds unlikely, especially after hearing about him from the ladies inside the club."

  Newbury chuckled. "Yes, you did seem to ingratiate yourself with them rather."

  Veronica sighed. "I admit that I find that sort of woman most difficult to engage. I think it was their sheer desperation at seeing another female face that led them to embrace me so quickly."

  Newbury shrugged. "Did they reveal anything useful, other than recommendations for the latest romance novel or the usual society gossip?"

  "Not as such. Although they did go on at length about Morgan, ensuring me he was an excellent fellow, a perfect gentleman and a 'pillar of their community'. Doesn't sound to me like the sort of chap not to keep his appointments."

  "Indeed." Newbury paused at the sound of horse's hooves. He stepped into the road for a moment, catching the attention of a cab driver. He came back to stand beside Veronica as the cab drew up before them, coming to rest beside the curb. "Well, it's been a difficult day for us both, Miss Hobbes, and I suspect, with the dark drawing in, that it's a little too late to go searching for Morgan now. What do you say that I drop you at home and we set out again first thing tomorrow morning for Morgan's gallery? We shouldn't allow the trail to go cold, no matter how tenuous it actually is."

  Veronica nodded her assent. After the day she'd had, she'd be glad for a hot bath and an early night. "Will you be alright, Sir Maurice?"

  He caught the meaning behind her words as he opened the door of the cab for her. "I'll be fine, Miss Hobbes. Absolutely fine."

  "In that case I think it is an excellent plan. I'm sure we could both do with the rest."

  They mounted the cab and gave the driver directions. Then, falling into a casual silence, each of them watching the fog roll by the windows of the cab, they set out for Kensington, and home.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Good God, Newbury. You look done for!"

  Bainbridge had never been a man to keep his thoughts to himself.

  "A rough night, Charles, followed by a long day. Think nothing of it." Newbury stood to greet his guest. "How the devil are you?"

  "Troubled, if truth be told. Can't seem to shake this damn Whitechapel case. I'm starting to think you may have been on to something, you know, with all that 'glowing policeman' business." He dropped himself into a chair in Newbury's lounge, sighing, and Newbury took a seat opposite him. He knew Mrs. Bradshaw would already be organising drinks. He hadn't been expecting Bainbridge to call, but he wasn't disappointed by the development. His old friend offered good company, and he was in need of a distraction, to prevent him from pondering too long on the other events of the day.

  "Well, I have no doubt Mrs. Bradshaw will be preparing a brandy. We can discuss it at our leisure before a warm fire. I only wish I could do more, but I'm up to my neck in this other affair."

  "You're a good man, Newbury. But tell me, I've heard nothing further on the airship disaster. What news?"

  "Little, I'm afraid to report. Her Majesty is anxious for a quick resolution, but the leads are few and far between. She's adamant there's foul play involved, but I admit I'm still unsure. I take it Foulkes hasn't turned up anything useful?"

  Bainbridge shook his head. "Indeed not. He's a good man. Thorough. If there was anything to be found, he'd have turned it out by now. I'm afraid it's in your hands, Newbury. Ah, look…"

  They turned to see Mrs. Bradshaw enter the room bearing two large glasses of brandy. Bainbridge took one from her, smiling, his bushy moustache quivering as he did so. "An asset to you, Newbury." He raised the glass to Mrs. Bradshaw. "I'm in dire need of a housekeeper like you, Mrs. Bradshaw. Many thanks." He took a long draw of the brandy, blinking as the alcohol assaulted his palate. Newbury sniffed at his glass and then placed it on the low table between them. He wasn't sure his damaged constitution was ready for it just yet. Mrs. Bradshaw quickly made herself scarce.

  Newbury leaned back in his chair, making himself comfortable. The room was small and cosy, with three chairs, a roaring fire, a small bureau and a portrait on the wall showing his grandfather in his military attire. The man had fought in Afghanistan during the expansion of the Empire, and was in many ways responsible, if indirectly, for Newbury's fascination with the occult. John Newbury had died in action, and his small chest of belongings had been returned to the family back in London aboard an old steamer. Still only a boy, Newbury had wondered at the secret contents of the chest, which his father had kept locked and hidden under his bed. One day, when his father was away on business and his mother was receiving visitors in the rooms below, Newbury had taken the key from the drawer in the nightstand and crawled underneath his parent's bed, searching out the chest and unlocking the ornate clasp. The contents were to change his life forever.

  Aside from the more typical paraphernalia of war-a pistol, a dagger, a medal-the chest contained three books of a kind young Newbury had never encountered before. The knowledge within them would send him spiralling into a world full of mystery, full of magic and creatures of the night, rituals and charms. They contained a secret history of the world, a catalogue of the occult, and a guide to all the bizarre, esoteric practices that demonstrated the thin line between life and death. For weeks Newbury would return to the chest underneath his parent's bed, digging out his grandfather's books and reading by candlelight, filling his head with wonders. He still had the books, now, safe in his study, reclaimed from his father's belongings after both of his parents had died. The chest had remained in place for another thirty years, undisturbed, and the day he had finally laid his mother to rest he had returned to the family home to collect it. By this time, of course, Newbury had assembled a vast library dedicated to the arcane, but these particular volumes he had never found again, and they now held pride of place in his collection. He wondered if they were the only three copies of the books that still existed, anywhere in the Empire.

  Snapping out of his reverie, Newbury glanced at Bainbridge, who had downed the rest of his brandy and was watching him inquisitively. "Lost you for a moment, Newbury. Everything alright?"

  "Yes. Yes, indeed. I was lost in thought. Apologies, old man." He clapped his hands together, demonstrating that Bainbridge had his full attention. "So tell me, what's troubling you about the Whitechapel case?"

  Bainbridge stared at the empty glass in his fingers, turning it over so that it caught the light. "We're just getting nowhere, Newbury. More and more bodies are turning up, dumped all over the place, and we don't even have a suspect. The witnesses, such as they are, all report seeing a ghostly blue figure emerge from the fog, and then they damn well run for their lives. Who can blame them? Some report hearing the screams of the victims as they run, but that's about all we've got to go on. It's the same every time-the victim i
s strangled, apparently without motive, and none of their belongings are taken or disturbed. There is never any trace of the killer left on the scene, and we haven't been able to find anything that links the victims to one another either. I admit to being completely confounded by it all." He looked exasperated, and Newbury, taking pity on his old friend, got out of his chair and searched out a bottle of brandy from a small cabinet on the other side of the room. He placed it on the table in front of a thankful Bainbridge before dropping back into his seat.

  "Well, I can see why you're grasping at straws." He smiled. "Miss Hobbes had an interesting notion a few days ago that the killer may not be the original 'glowing policeman' at all, but a new one, an example of the same phenomenon at work, involving different people entirely. Have there been any constables killed in recent months?"

  Bainbridge looked thoughtful. "Not that I'm aware of. Although it's certainly worth double-checking. I'll have a man look into it tomorrow."

  "Excellent. Other than that, have there been any changes at all in the pattern of the murders? Any minor detail that you haven't mentioned to me as yet?"

  Bainbridge poured himself another drink. "Not as such, although the most recent body was different from the rest."

  Newbury leaned forward, his interest piqued. "How so?"

  "It was a gentleman. All of the victims so far have been paupers, down-and-outs. This chap was a member of a private club with connections to a number of well-respected families. He had no real business being in Whitechapel in the early hours of the morning. We're wondering if he was actually killed elsewhere and then moved across town to give the impression that he was just like all the other victims."

  "What was his name?"

  "Christopher Morgan. Owned an art gallery not far from here, I'm given to understand."