by George Mann
Newbury, however, was sitting cross-legged on the rug before the hearth, surrounded by an impressive spread of newspaper cuttings, open books, and sheaves of notepaper covered in his spidery scrawl. He’d pushed the furniture back to create a temporary space in which to work, researching—Bainbridge gathered—potential engineers who might be able to craft a new heart for Veronica.
“Is there anything to report?” Bainbridge prompted, when no response was forthcoming.
Newbury didn’t look up. “There’s been no change,” he said absently. He continued to study the open book on his lap. Bainbridge could see it contained diagrammatic illustrations of the inner workings of clockwork machinery.
Bainbridge sighed heavily. At least the room, for once, did not carry the stink of opium smoke. In fact, the window was slightly ajar, and the curtains open. For the first time in weeks, there was natural light spilling in. If there was one good thing about the whole affair, it was that it may have shaken Newbury from his more detrimental habits. For a while, at least.
“She’s stable, then,” said Bainbridge, for lack of anything else to say.
This time, Newbury did glance up. His expression was fierce. “She’s dying, Charles!” he said, angrily. “She has no heart, and she is dying.” He looked away, and the anger suddenly dispersed, replaced instead by an anguished, haunted look. “What’s worse is that there’s very little you or I can do about it,” he continued, after a short while.
The moment stretched. Bainbridge hardly knew what to say to the man. He couldn’t reassure him that everything was going to be well, because he fully suspected it might not. And he couldn’t tell him not to embark on some ill-fated folly to find a new heart for the girl, because all that would achieve was Newbury giving him the cold shoulder. The best thing he could do under the circumstances, he decided, was to offer his support and ensure that Newbury was at least looking after himself. “You cannot continue to blame yourself for what happened,” he said, in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.
“If I’d listened to Aldous, Charles … if I’d taken the threat of the Cabal seriously, then I might have arrived back here in time to stop her. I might have saved her life.” His voice cracked with emotion as he spoke.
“You did save her life, Newbury,” replied Bainbridge, softly. He could understand that deep sense of guilt, that need Newbury felt to replay those fateful events over and over in his mind, looking for things he might have done differently. Bainbridge had gone through a similar process with Isobel.
At least he was beginning to grieve now. It might make things more bearable later, when the inevitable happened.
“Temporarily, perhaps,” said Newbury. “But I will not rest, Charles. I’ll scour the Continent, or farther afield if necessary. I’ll find her a heart.”
Bainbridge shrugged out of his heavy overcoat and laid it across the back of the divan. He balanced his cane beside it. “Well, at least allow yourself a few moments to have a drink with a friend. You need a rest.”
Newbury nodded in silent acquiescence. He placed his book carefully on the floor and stood, trying to avoid disturbing the neat stacks of paper.
Bainbridge set about pouring them a drink, while Newbury pulled over two armchairs. They settled by the window, with the sound of bustling people and horses carrying through from the street outside.
“So, what of the Prince?” said Newbury, accepting his drink.
Bainbridge smiled. “Indeed. What of the Prince,” he echoed. “I know you went there, Newbury, to Marlborough House. There’s no use denying it. I heard about the butler’s unfortunate ‘accident.’”
“The damnable wretch deserved it,” said Newbury, taking a sip of his brandy.
“He wanted to press charges,” said Bainbridge.
“I’ll bet he did,” replied Newbury. “Although I doubt it would do him much good. I imagine there’s plenty of evidence that places him squarely in the dock alongside the Prince. He knew everything that was going on in that house. I’ll wager he was privy to the Prince’s plans. Probably even helped them along a bit, to curry favour.”
“Foulkes will be keeping an eye on him for the foreseeable future,” said Bainbridge. “But that wasn’t why you went there, was it? For the butler, I mean.”
Newbury glanced out of the window, as if avoiding the question. When he looked back, his expression was pained. He was searching for Bainbridge’s understanding. “I needed to hear him say it, Charles. I needed the Prince to admit what he’d done. I didn’t go there to threaten him, or strike him, as much as it might have granted me some satisfaction. I went there to see the expression on his face as he told me what he’d done.”
“To look for remorse?” asked Bainbridge, surprised.
“Perhaps,” said Newbury. “I don’t really know.”
“Well, it’s in the hands of the Queen now. It remains to be seen if she’ll send him to the gallows for treason,” said Bainbridge, before taking a long draught of his brandy. “Although it’s a rum business to have to face your own child in such circumstances. I’m not convinced I could do it.”
“The irony is,” said Newbury, “I think we might have been better off if he had succeeded. He might have changed things for the better. Under the circumstances, however, I cannot forgive him. I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done, whatever becomes of him.”
“If only he’d found another way,” said Bainbridge, morosely. “If he’d asked for our help, rather than making us his enemies.”
“He was consumed by his own hubris,” said Newbury. “And at the end, when it was all out in the open, he spoke of an abomination, a child grown in a laboratory. It was the thing that tipped the balance. He seemed to suggest that the Queen would favour this child over him, displacing him as the rightful heir to the throne.”
“He’s done a darn good job of ensuring that,” said Bainbridge, pointedly. “But it’s the first I’ve heard of this child. It may, of course, have simply been the ramblings of a deluded man. He cannot have been in his right mind.”
Newbury frowned. “No. I mean, you’re right—he was undoubtedly suffering from grave disillusionment, to the point of inducing madness—but the child bears investigating all the same. I think it might be the product of one of Dr. Fabian’s more unsavoury experiments at the Grayling Institute. I understand he was dabbling in such things.”
Bainbridge nodded. “I’ll brief Archibald on the matter,” he said.
“The investigation continues, then?” said Newbury, his interest piqued.
“For now,” replied Bainbridge, still unsure how much to say on the subject, “Archibald will continue to keep the Queen under observation.”
“And what about you, Charles? Where will this all end?” said Newbury, gulping down the last of his brandy.
“Who knows, Maurice?” replied Bainbridge, with a shrug. “For now I’m just content to carry on. Someone has to.”
“It’s a dangerous game,” said Newbury, “but when this business with Veronica is over and she’s back on her feet, I’d like to help.”
Bainbridge nodded. He couldn’t help but smile, despite everything, at his friend’s candour. “We’ll get through this, Newbury. Whatever happens.”
Newbury gave a fleeting smile, and stood, dusting himself off. “I must continue with my research,” he said, glancing over at the book he’d left lying open on the floor.
“Oh, right. Yes. I’d better be off, then,” said Bainbridge, levering himself up out of his chair.
Newbury stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “You can stay, if you like. Pour yourself another drink. It’ll be good to have company while I work.”
Bainbridge nodded. “For a little while, then,” he said. It was rare for Newbury to openly invite anyone to remain while he worked, and a signifier of precisely how much support he needed. “As long as you don’t mind if I smoke.”
Newbury laughed. “Of course not, you old fool. Now, go and tell Scarbright to put a kettle on the stove, will you? I�
��ve had enough of brandy and maudlin. I’m in need of a pot of tea.”
“Right you are, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, grinning. His friend returned to his spot by the hearth, reclaimed his book, and immediately lost himself in its pages. “Right you are.”
CHAPTER
32
“Come forward, child. Come into the light where we can see you.”
Alberta did as she was commanded, shuffling forward into the soft orb of light cast by the Queen’s lantern. The monarch turned to her and smiled, flashing the stumps of her blackened teeth. “Ah, there you are, Alberta,” she said. She held her lantern up so that it swung back and forth on its creaking handle, scattering ghosts. “Today we must continue with your education.”
Alberta gave a solitary nod. Her lips did not betray the turmoil roiling in her belly. It was not that she was scared of her adoptive mother—although, perhaps, on reflection, there was a small modicum of fear. It was more that she wished not to disappoint. The punishments for such disappointment were grave indeed. This she had discovered during the many months of rigorous preparation she had so far endured, the training lavished upon her by the Queen to equip her for her future role as monarch.
Alberta looked up at the Queen, whose demeanour remained unchanged: ever vigilant, ever waking. She looked sickly in her massive, engine-like chair: pale, with dark rings beneath her eyes. A thick bundle of cables and tubing now sprouted from the back of the device, fanning out across the tiled floor behind her and trailing off into the shadows. These were new. Another improvement devised by the odious Dr. Warrender, no doubt; another of his desperate attempts to keep the monarch—and thus, her patronage—alive.
Alberta was disgusted by these machines, the industry with which they whirred and groaned and wheezed as they fought to keep the decrepit woman alive. And yet, she could not deny the stirring of pity that she felt for her adoptive mother, nor the respect and affinity she had for the effectiveness of her rule. If there was one thing she had learned during her indoctrination, it was that the Queen, despite her circumstances and eccentricities, was an effective and dedicated ruler.
“Today, child,” said the Queen, startling Alberta from her thoughts, “we shall talk of loyalty.”
“Loyalty, Your Majesty?” echoed Alberta.
“Loyalty to family,” said the Queen. “Loyalty to the Empire. Loyalty to what is good and proper.”
Alberta nodded. “I believe I understand, Your Majesty,” she said.
The Queen ignored her reply. “You shall learn of loyalty, Alberta, by looking upon the face of a traitor. One who would put his own interests above those of his country and his monarch. One whose greed became absolute and utterly consumed him.”
“Of whom do you speak, Your Majesty?”
“See for yourself,” replied Victoria, placing the lantern in the crease of her lap and grasping the wooden wheels on either side of her chair. She rolled herself forward, slowly and painfully.
Alberta gasped as she realised there was another person with them in the audience chamber. As the diffuse light of the lantern moved closer, she saw a man sitting in the shadows, bound to a chair, arms pinned behind his back. His legs were tied to the chair, and he was wearing a cloth gag so that he could not speak. It looked decidedly uncomfortable. He was a portly man, balding, with a large grey beard and hooded eyes that scowled at the monarch with ill-concealed rage. His grey suit was rumpled and creased, and stained with spots of what appeared to be spilled blood. She could not tell if it was his own.
Alberta recognised him at once. “Is this not…” She hesitated, unsure for a moment whether to continue. She decided it was better to go on rather than remain silent, under the circumstances. “Is this not your son, Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales, Your Majesty?” she asked, her tone level.
The Queen emitted a wet, rasping cackle. “It is a traitor,” she replied, “and all traitors are as one in the eyes of the Empress. Remember that, Alberta. Blood shall count as nothing in circumstances such as these. Those who would betray us must pay dearly for their sins.”
Alberta said nothing, but stared silently, curiously, at the pale face of the Prince.
Albert Edward raged in his chair at the Queen’s words, struggling to break free and cursing ineffectually from behind his gag. His bonds, however, were expertly tied, and he did not have the strength to break them.
“This man,” continued the Queen, “would take what is ours, Alberta. He works to undermine our power, to expose us so that he might claim our throne for his own. This insurrection will not be tolerated.”
Alberta nodded. What would the Queen do, to this, her own son? Surely he would not hang like a common criminal?
“However, we are not, Alberta, wholly without mercy,” said the Queen, as if reading her thoughts. “He shall not hang.”
Alberta felt no relief at these words, simply a cool, collected interest. The effect on the Prince, however, was immediately visible. He slumped back in his chair and ceased his struggling. His demeanour softened. Alberta could see the relief in his eyes.
“No,” went on the Queen. “For him, we have a different solution in mind.” She glanced over her shoulder, into the looming shadows. “Warrender?” she called.
Alberta heard footsteps from behind her. The doctor apparently had also been lurking in the shadows. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice giving little away. Alberta shuddered.
“Have the traitor removed to a comfortable room at Bethlehem Hospital,” she said. “I wish to hear of him no more. We shall suffer no mention of the man, and hear no reports of his progress.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” said Warrender, as the Prince began again to buck wildly in his chair.
The Queen, as if unprepared to witness this distasteful display, wheeled herself backwards, allowing the darkness to swallow the Prince once more. “You see now what becomes of traitors, Alberta. You must remember this moment. The time will come when you, too, will be forced to make such judgements.”
“I understand, Your Majesty,” she said again. Today, it seemed, she would avoid punishment. The appetite of her adoptive mother for such things had clearly been sated.
“Very good,” said the Queen. “Now, run along. Return to your rooms. Your tutors will be wondering what has become of you. There is still much to be done.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Alberta.
She turned and hurried from the audience chamber, pretending to ignore the sounds of struggling men as they fought to contain the Prince’s desperate thrashing, and the sickening, vindictive cackle of his mother.
EPILOGUE
The Gare du Nord was as imposing as any of the major London railway stations, Amelia decided, as she stood on the bustling platform, jostled by the surging crowd of fellow travellers.
It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was slanting in through the half-moon windows that lined the upper walls of the station, falling in great columns upon the multitudes below. Dust motes swirled and danced on eddies high above their heads.
The air was filled with the cloying scents of steam and smoke, and the clamour rang loudly in her ears: the hiss of pistons and the screech of whistles; the exhalations of the sighing engines; the chatter of a thousand or more people gathered beneath one roof.
Amelia glanced at Newbury, who looked broodingly handsome in his tailored black suit and top hat. His complexion, however, was almost as pale as his collar and cuffs, and he was thinner than she’d ever seen him. He did not wear his concern lightly. Behind him, a struggling porter fought to maintain his composure beneath the weight of their bags.
She studied the engine at rest at the platform before her. It was like nothing she could have imagined: a feat of engineering so miraculous that it might well have been born of a feverish dream, rather than designed on a drawing board by men of science. The gargantuan train snaked the entire length of the platform and beyond, its dark wooden panels and gold livery resplendent. The carriages themselves were two-st
oried and twice as tall as Newbury, even wearing his hat. Row upon row of gleaming windows reflected the sunlight, making it difficult to see into the cabins inside.
Earlier, she had watched in awe as the engine had arrived at the station, raging along the platform as if it were a fabulous mechanical beast at the close of a hunt, steam dribbling from the corners of its mouth. Now, even from where she was standing on the platform, she could still feel the intense heat of its furnace. She felt for the fire men who would feed such a thing as it dragged its huge payload across the Continent towards Russia.
Amelia couldn’t help but feel a pang of trepidation at embarking on such a journey. Nevertheless, Veronica, in her comatose state, was relying upon them. There was little choice. “Confirm to me again, Sir Maurice, that this journey is absolutely necessary,” she said, seeking reassurance.
Newbury looked over, his expression firm. He put his hand on her arm, gripping it intently, and she wondered for a moment if he wasn’t clinging to her as much for his benefit as hers. “Amelia, it is entirely necessary. If we are to help Veronica, then we must undertake this journey. Only the artisans of St. Petersburg can provide us with the intricate mechanisms we need to replace your sister’s heart.” Amelia nodded. “And,” continued Newbury, “if I am to take such a journey, you understand that you must accompany me. It is the only way in which we can continue with your treatment. We will be gone for some weeks.”
“Very well,” said Amelia, forcing herself to smile. “Then we must continue as planned.”
“I have booked us adjoining cabins,” said Newbury, “that open into a shared living room. We should be comfortable.” He smiled. “Come on, let’s try to settle in whilst our fellow travellers board.” He gestured to the porter, and the man, now sweating profusely, struggled across the platform towards the train. Newbury held the door open for Amelia, and together they boarded L’Esprit du Paris for the onward leg of their journey.
* * *