Steampunk International

by Ian Whates

  “Yes, yes,” said Newbury. “We’ll get to that. We have all afternoon.”

  “That may be the case, but if we spend it gallivanting about, I’ll end up in the same position, taking the advice of some darn sales clerk who doesn’t know their arse from their elbow.”

  “Look, it’s just up here. It’ll only take a minute.” He led Bainbridge along the street towards what appeared to be a small office building. He peered up at the windows. The blinds were closed. “I’m sure this is the right address…”

  “Oh, so now you’re not even sure where we’re supposed to be,” said Bainbridge, but it was clear he’d given up protesting.

  Newbury carried on along the street a little way. Here, he found a doorway recessed from the pavement. A small plaque on the wall read: LEXINGTON GALLERY.

  “A-ha! Here we are.” He tried the handle, and the door yawned inward.

  “A gallery?”

  “Yes. As I said, it’ll only take a minute.” Newbury stepped inside, removing his hat and nodding to a young attendant inside the foyer, who gestured towards another door. Bainbridge bustled in behind him, cane clacking on the tiles.

  Intrigued, Newbury wandered through into the adjoining room. It was a large, open space, well-lit despite the lack of windows. The floors were polished boards, and the walls were clean and white, and adorned with a vast array of vivid paintings of various shapes and sizes. There was no one else in the room.

  “My God.” Newbury turned to see Bainbridge standing in the doorway, gawping at the sight before him. “They’re all by Wither. The paintings we found at the house.”

  “And more,” said Newbury. “I read an article about it in The Times. The Lexington Gallery has been appointed by Wither’s estate to dispose of the collection. It turns out there was another cache at a lock up in Limehouse, too. Apparently there’s been a lot of interest.”

  “It’s abominable. After what he did…”

  “I appreciate your position, Charles. Really, I do. But then again…they are rather impressive, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, just look at her expression here.” He stepped closer to a painting depicting the blonde woman riding side saddle on a black mare, the wind whipping through her hair as they galloped over the moors towards a distant castle. She was looking back at him, over her shoulder, and her green eyes seemed to come to life, to twinkle with an unspoken secret.

  He sensed Bainbridge coming over to stand beside him. “They’re remarkable, yes, of course they are. It’s just…I cannot separate the art from the man. He was a murderer and a thief. A vagabond of the highest order. The world is better off now that he’s dead.”

  “And his art is six times more valuable, no doubt,” said Newbury. He beckoned to the attendant, who was standing in the doorway, regarding them with interest. “I’ll take this one,” he said, indicating the painting.

  “You’ll what?” said Bainbridge. “What are you going to do with it? You’re not going to hang it in your home, for goodness sake?”

  Newbury grinned. “Don’t worry, Charles. You won’t have to look at it. I’m not about to hang it in my drawing room.”

  “Well, at least that’s something, although I’m damned if I can understand what you see in it. I think it’s the height of distaste. The whole lot of them should be burned.”

  “You always have been a harsh critic, Charles.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

  Newbury nodded. “Alright, let’s go and see about this present for Miss Hobbes. Just let me leave my card with the attendant, and I’ll call back for this later.”

  Bainbridge muttered something vaguely conciliatory, and together, the two men set out into the cold afternoon.

  Having seen Bainbridge into the back of a hansom cab a few hours later – following the purchase of a rather handsome volume of Keats’ poems – and with not even the prickle of a potential case to throw himself into, Newbury had found himself wandering across town, enjoying the brisk, dry chill, and musing on the paintings he’d seen in the gallery that morning. He understood Bainbridge’s reaction to the gallery’s sale, and didn’t necessarily disagree with him – the idea of trading on Wither’s less than salubrious deeds as a means of making money from his art seemed distasteful at best. Nevertheless, there was something about the man’s work that had struck a chord with him, and left him feeling as if there was something about the case that remained unfinished.

  He certainly hadn’t intended to visit Wither’s grave – at least not consciously – but a short while later he realised he was wandering along the narrow lane close to the cemetery where Wither had been buried. He’d not been back since that rainy day of the funeral, and now the cemetery looked rather different, the ground covered in a hoary layer of frost. With a shrug, he ambled along the lane to the gate, pushed it open – eliciting a groan from the rusted hinges – and stepped through.

  Today there was no service underway in the church grounds, and while the heavy oak door of the church itself was propped open, it looked cold and uninviting within.

  Newbury walked along the narrow path that wound between the headstones, following it down to the lower field where Wither had been interred. His breath plumed, and he jammed his hands in his coat pockets to keep warm.

  A man in a heavy grey overcoat was standing over Wither’s grave, noisily raking the hard ground. Newbury approached, his boots crunching on the frozen soil. The man looked up, and Newbury smiled at the familiar, ruddy face. “Good afternoon.”

  Fred Ford peered at him for a moment, and then his face broke into a toothy grin. “Oh, hello,” he said, straightening his back and taking the opportunity to stop working for a moment. He leaned heavily on his rake. “I wondered when you’d be back for it.”

  “For…?” Newbury started, before realizing what the old man was driving at. “Oh, you mean the umbrella. No, not at all. Keep it.”

  Ford looked somewhat perplexed. “But it’s a very fine umbrella, sir. I’ve been keeping it safe for you, like. Down in the potting shed.”

  “Really, it’s nothing. I have others. Indeed, they seem to multiply when I’m not looking.”

  Ford put his hand to his mouth and gave a wracking cough. “Oh, excuse me. It’s this damn cold. Gets me the same every year.” He straightened up again. “So you’re here to visit your friend. Only, you did make a point of telling me he wasn’t really a friend, which is why I got around to thinking it must have been about the umbrella.”

  Newbury grinned. “Well, you have me there, Mr. Ford,” he said. “Do you know who this man was, and what he did?”

  “Aye. I know all of them what’s buried here. But it ain’t for me to judge, is it? Like the vicar says, that’s the purview of him upstairs.” He looked to the sky for a moment, his expression solemn.

  “Well, I only wish I could be so generous, Mr. Ford. I was there the day that he died. I saw what he’d done. I was part of the team that investigated his crimes.” He hesitated.

  “But?”

  “But I can’t shake the notion that I’m missing something.”

  “Ah, well, clever chap like you, I’m sure you’ll work out what it is that’s bothering you. I always find the best way to find something is to stop looking for it. Whatever it is, it’ll turn up when you need it.” He stirred the ground with his rake.

  Newbury laughed. “Wise words indeed. Well look, I’ll leave you to your…” he trailed off as he considered what the man was doing. “You’re out here raking, in mid-December?”

  Ford shrugged. “Needs must. It’s these darn weeds. Never seen nothing like ’em.” He dropped to one knee and scooped up a handful of tiny leaves. They glinted in the sunlight, tiny and metallic. “They’re tenacious buggers, I’ll give ’em that. Every day there’s more of the blighters.”

  Newbury leaned closer, peering at the strange growths in the man’s palm. They were like no weed he’d ever seen – the leaves gave off a strange, coppery sheen, and the vine-like stems were twisted an
d threaded like steel cable. “May I?”

  “Be my guest,” said Ford. He stood, tipping his hand into Newbury’s. Newbury poked at the odd little things with the tip of his index finger. They felt fragile and thin, delicate. He tipped them carefully into his coat pocket.

  “They’re remarkable. Do they grow all over the cemetery?”

  “No, I’ve only noticed them these last few weeks. Mostly around the grave of your friend here.” He grinned and met Newbury’s eye. “I know, I know…”

  Newbury smiled, perplexed. “Well, I’d best leave you to it. Thank you for your time, Mr. Ford.”

  Ford started to reply, but broke off into another coughing fit, and so raised his hand in farewell, leaning on his rake until the fit had passed. By then, Newbury had already disappeared into the lane.

  Spring

  “There. That should do it.”

  Veronica watched as Newbury tossed the newspaper onto the sofa and crossed to the window. He pulled aside the heavy drapes and – for the first time that day, despite it already being after eleven – allowed sunlight to stream into the room.

  She winced, squinting against the sudden change in the quality of the light. “An advert in The Times? Really, don’t you think you’re taking this a little far?”

  Newbury reached for his cigarette case, which was balanced on the arm of a nearby chair. “And why should you think that?” She could tell that her words had stung. She hadn’t meant to upset him – but maybe it was what he needed to hear.

  “It’s just… it’s been going on for months, now. We’re worried about you.”

  “We?” He lit his cigarette. “So Charles has put you up to this, has he?”

  “That’s not what I said. Look, I realise what happened – what you saw – was upsetting, but this obsession –”

  “Obsession?” Newbury threw his cigarette angrily into the fire, where it fizzled brightly for a moment amongst the logs. The room filled with the sweet stench of his favoured poppy. “That’s not what’s going on here.”

  “Then talk to me,” said Veronica. “All you do is stare at that painting. I can’t work it out. What is it that you expect to find in there?” She glanced away, unable to meet his gaze. “Is it the woman?”

  “No, of course it’s not the woman.” He was pacing now, wearing a track in the old rug before the fire. “It’s just that… something’s not right. We didn’t finish things properly. There’s something left unsaid. Unresolved.”

  Veronica reached for the teapot and poured herself another cup of Earl Grey. It was far too early to be drinking afternoon tea, but she’d long ago grown used to that little quirk of Newbury’s. “See, that’s what I don’t understand. You did solve it. You and Sir Charles. You worked out what he was up to, how he’d effected the murders. And you got to him, and stopped him. There’s nothing unresolved about the case.”

  “I watched him burn.”

  “Yes, I know, and I’m sorry you had to see that, Maurice, but it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could to smother the flames. I know you did.” She took a sip of her tea. It was lukewarm.

  “You didn’t see the look on his face, Veronica. I can’t help wondering if it wasn’t an accident at all.” He’d ceased his pacing and returned to the window. All she could see of him now was a thin silhouette, both hands on the sill as he peered out onto the bustling street below.

  “All right. Say for a moment that it wasn’t an accident. That he’d intended to set himself alight. What then? How does that change anything?” She took a final sip of her tea, and then abandoned it, placing the cup and saucer on the floor by her feet.

  “I don’t know,” said Newbury. “I suppose I want to understand why.”

  “Because he was insane. He’d killed all those people, constructed a vast, intricate fantasy around himself and his actions. Perhaps it all began to unravel. Perhaps he realised it was all in his head, and he saw what he’d done. Is he really so different from all the other dangerous madmen we’ve faced?”

  “But his art, Veronica. There’s something about his paintings that I can’t put my finger on. They’re not the work of a madman. There are no pictures of this so-called entity he spoke of, nothing that relates to the murders – just those beautiful studies of human longing and loss. The two things don’t correlate.” He took another cigarette from his case and lit it.

  “Have you considered that the paintings might date from before his psychotic break? That he might have stopped painting altogether once his mind had fractured, moved onto something else?”

  “Yes, I’ve considered it. And you might be right. But I still think they’re part of the story. There’s something in those paintings that’ll help me to understand. And I think it starts with the woman.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I hope you find her quickly, and you’re able to draw a line under all of this,” said Veronica. “There are other matters that deserve your attention. Other people who –” She stopped short at the sound of rapping on the door.

  “Come,” said Newbury.

  The door opened slowly, to reveal Scarbright, Newbury’s valet, who was wearing something of a sheepish expression. He was a handsome man, younger than most of the valets Veronica had encountered, and much renowned amongst Newbury’s circle for his great culinary skills. Newbury had poached him from Bainbridge some months previously, ostensibly on loan, but had so far refused to give him back. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but you have a caller.”

  “No, it’s quite all right,” said Newbury, stepping away from the window. “I think you’ve rather saved me from a dressing down.” He glanced at Veronica, offering her a crooked smile. Veronica rolled her eyes. “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Aldous Renwick, sir,” said Scarbright.

  “Aldous! Well, you’d better send him up. And put on a fresh pot of tea, would you, Scarbright. I rather fear we’ve allowed your previous efforts to go cold.”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  There was a flurry of footsteps in the hallway, and then, moments later, Aldous Renwick came crashing in through the drawing room door. He was, to Veronica’s mind, one of Newbury’s strangest associates – a rambunctious fellow of around forty, who had the appearance of a much older man. His hair was a wiry mess of grey and white, which stuck out, untamed, like a wild mane. He was permanently unshaven, with crooked, tobacco-stained teeth and yellowed fingers. His shirt was open at the collar, and he was wearing a long, battered leather coat, its pockets bulging. Most disconcerting was his left eye, which had long ago been replaced entirely by a bizarre mechanism, which fitted imperfectly into the empty socket, protruding rudely, as if to give the impression that he was permanently wearing a jeweller’s lens. Deep within this artificial eye – for Veronica understood that the mechanism provided Renwick with some measure of vision – a red pinprick of light seemed to pulsate and glow.

  “Aldous, welcome,” said Newbury, striding over to greet his old friend.

  Renwick slapped him heartily upon the back, and then turned to regard her. “Miss Hobbes. A pleasure, as always.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Renwick,” she said.

  “Come in, find a seat,” said Newbury.

  “No, I won’t be stopping,” said Renwick. “I just wanted to give you the news as I was passing.”

  “Is something wrong?” said Veronica.

  “Oh, no, nothing like that, although I appreciate your concern.” He turned to Newbury. “It’s those weeds you gave me to examine. I’ve finished my tests.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ve been unable to establish anything conclusive. They correspond to no known recorded flora. And that metallic sheen? It doesn’t just appear to be metal. It is metal. Copper, to be precise. If I hadn’t heard it from you, Newbury, I’d say they’d been manufactured, rather than grown. Where did you obtain them, again?”

  “From the grave of Alfred Wither,” said Newbury.

  “Well, I can’t quite fathom what’s going on, Newbu
ry, but those so-called ‘weeds’ don’t appear to have any natural origin.”

  “All right. Thank you, Aldous,” said Newbury. He had a distant look about him, now, contemplative and bemused.

  “I’m only sorry I couldn’t give you anything more definitive,” said Renwick. “Look, I’d best be off. Sorry to be in such a hurry. I’m expecting a caller, is all.”

  Newbury grinned. “No, not at all. It’s appreciated, Aldous.” He guided Renwick to the door.

  When he’d gone, Newbury turned back to Veronica. “Listen. Tell Charles not to worry. I’m going to get to the bottom of this, but it’s not what either of you think. I’m certain that Wither was trying to tell us something; some message that we’ve missed. And I’m going to find it.” He walked over to the hat stand in the corner, and swept up his top hat.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “For a walk,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

  The cemetery was busier than he’d seen it in months. People were milling amongst the headstones, spilling out into the pale afternoon from inside the old church. The vicar stood beneath the arched doorway, shaking hands with his parishioners, as they filed past, chattering amiably amongst themselves. Newbury wondered what it must be like, to have so much faith in something, to receive such comfort from it. He envied them that.

  He was about to make a beeline for Wither’s grave, when he caught sight of Fred Ford, down on his knees beneath a tree, turning over the soil with a trowel. He altered his trajectory, and walked over to join him.

  Ford looked up as he sensed Newbury approaching. “Ah, good afternoon.”

  “It is, rather, isn’t it?” said Newbury.