The Affinity Bridge

by George Mann

  Bainbridge shook his head. "Not tonight, old friend. You've given me much to think about, and I must say that that pudding of Miss Johnson's is sitting rather heavily on me now. Don't have quite the constitution I used to."

  Newbury smiled. "You'll hear no argument from me." He held out his hand and the other man grasped it firmly. "Let me know if there are any further developments in the case. In the meantime, I bid you well and good night." He turned and made off in the direction of the White Friar's Club, gazing up at the sky in wonder at the vapour trails left in the wake of the passing airship.

  —— Chapter Two ——

  Newbury leaned back in his chair and, with a sigh, spread his morning copy of The Times out before him on the desk. After retiring from the White Friar's Club the previous evening he'd found he was unable to sleep. Nonetheless, with the coming of the dawn he had risen, dressed and caught a cab across the city from his Chelsea lodgings to his office at the British Museum. He had little doubt that his housekeeper, Mrs. Bradshaw, would curse him colourfully in her delightful Scottish tones for failing—yet again—to inform her of his plans, but he also knew that she was growing used to his unpredictable comings-and-goings, even if she feigned exasperation to his face.

  Outside, the sun was settling over the city and the streets were gradually coming to life as people set about their daily business. Soon the museum would be bustling with his fellow academics and, not long after, with members of the public, come to gaze in awe and wonder at the treasures on display in the gaudy exhibits. Newbury had been an agent of the Queen for nearly four years, and whilst he was typically engaged in some case or other—whether helping Scotland Yard or left to his own devices—he continued to maintain a position at the museum all the same. He was an experienced anthropologist, with a particular speciality in the religion and supernatural practices of prehistoric human cultures, and he often found his academic work had resonance with his work in the field. At present he was engaged in writing a paper on the ritualistic practices of the druidic tribes of Bronze Age Europe. He'd hardly found time to touch it for a week, however, what with the string of bizarre strangulations occurring around Whitechapel and his desire to aid his old friend, Bainbridge, in the hunt for the killer. Discovering that the culprit may have supernatural origins had only solidified his resolve to see the case through to the end, and what's more, the revelation put the case firmly and directly into his specific area of expertise. Since briefing the Queen with a missive the previous day, any time he spent aiding Bainbridge with his investigations was now considered official business.

  Newbury yawned. It was still early, and his secretary had yet to arrive at the office. He was anxious for a cup of tea. He regarded the newspaper before him, paying no real attention to the article he'd been trying to follow, which concerned a politician involved in some lurid financial scandal. He was dressed in a neat black suit, a white shirt and crimson cravat. His hair was dark—the very colour of night itself—and swept back from his face, and he was clean shaven. His eyes were a startling, emerald green. A casual observer would have placed him in his early thirties, but in truth he was approaching his fortieth year. He looked up at the sound of someone bustling into the adjoining room, and called out. "Good morning, Miss Coulthard. I'd like a pot of tea when you're settled, please." He returned, distractedly, to his reading.

  A moment later there was a brief rap at his door. He didn't look up from his newspaper when the door itself swung open and someone crossed into the room. "Thank you, Miss Coulthard. I trust you are well?"

  The woman cleared her throat. Newbury's eyes flicked up from the print. "Oh, my dear Miss Hobbes. I do apologise." He fumbled for a moment, unsure how to remedy his error. "I'm afraid I'm still getting used to the notion that another person will be sharing my office. Do come in." He half stood behind his desk, embarrassment clearly written on his face, as his recently-hired assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes, crossed the room and took a seat before him. She was pretty; brunette, in her early twenties, with a dainty but full figure, and dressed in a white blouse, grey jacket and matching skirt.

  She smiled. "Please don't apologise, Sir Maurice. It takes more than a little case of mistaken identity to offend me."

  Newbury returned her smile. "Very good. Let's get you settled in, then, shall we? But first...I don't suppose you're at all handy with a kettle?"

  An hour later, fortified by a constant supply of Earl Grey, the office had become a hive of activity. Newbury was working through his notes from the previous day, attempting to make sense of the various newspaper reports and apparent sightings of the 'glowing bobby' around Whitechapel. He was wearing a frown, lost in thought and deep concentration.

  Veronica was hard at work clearing the spare desk across the other side of the room, unpacking her small box of belongings and filing the many sheaves of abandoned notes she continued to find in drawers and random piles all around the office. She had placed her jacket over the back of her chair, rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and attacked the mess like it was some sort of villain in need of appeasing. Newbury was suitably impressed by her fastidiousness.

  It was into this scene that a distraught Miss Coulthard came running, late, her hastily tied bun coming loose so that strands of her hair flapped around her face as she came to rest in the doorway, breathless. Both Newbury and Veronica looked up in concern.

  Newbury was on his feet immediately, worry etched on his face. "My dear Miss Coulthard, whatever is the matter?"

  The woman cowered, as if afraid of what she had to say. Veronica offered her a heartfelt smile.

  "Oh sir, it's my brother Jack. He disappeared yesterday and we've every fear that he may have succumbed to that terrible plague."

  Newbury shuffled uneasily. "I understand your concern completely, Miss Coulthard. Look," he indicated his visitor's chair, "come and take a seat for a while and Miss Hobbes here will fetch you a hot cup of tea." He glanced at Veronica apologetically and she waved dismissively before hurrying off into the other room to organise another pot of tea.

  Newbury put a hand on Miss Coulthard's arm in an attempt to reassure her. "Now, why don't you tell me exactly what you know?"

  The diminutive woman looked up at him, a pained expression on her face. "In truth, sir, there ain't that much to tell. Jack went off to work yesterday morning as normal—to Fitchett and Browns’, the lawyers—and never came back. We had a restless night, worrying what kind of a mess he'd got himself involved in, as he's never been one to loiter before coming home of a night. My sister-in-law and I took ourselves down to the law offices first thing this morning, to enquire as to his whereabouts, and it seems he never even made it that far." With this she let out a wracking sob, bringing her gloved hand up to her face to stifle her tears. "They had no idea where he was, or why he hadn't shown up for work the previous day."

  Newbury sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "I'm sure we'll find a suitable explanation, Miss Coulthard, if we apply ourselves. Now, tell me, what makes you think it's the plague?" He looked up at the sound of the kettle whistling in the other room, and caught sight of Veronica, listening to their conversation from the doorway. He nodded approvingly and then returned his attention to the crying woman before him.

  "There have been terrible things happening in our neighbourhood, sir, terrible things indeed. Revenants, they're calling them. Victims of the plague, found staggering around in the fog of a night, like wild animals, baying for people's blood. Bloodshot eyes, peeling skin; they're like walking corpses, wandering around in the darkness, waiting for passers-by. The plague transforms them into mindless monsters." She crossed herself to ward off the thought of the horrifying creatures.

  Newbury nodded. "I'm well aware of the phenomenon, Miss Coulthard. It's thought the plague was brought here from India, borne over by returning soldiers. It inspires a terrible brain fever and a degenerative state in the flesh. Was Jack bitten by one of these walking cadavers?"

  "Not that we know of. Jack kno
ws better than to loiter in the dark these recent months. But I fear he must have encountered one on his way to work that morning. The fog was thick around Brixton and it may have been upon him before he had an opportunity to flee."

  Newbury shook his head. "Unlikely, Miss Coulthard. As I understand it the victims of this plague find the light painful to their eyes and will avoid stepping out during the daylight hours unless desperate or provoked. Remember, they are driven by animal desires, and not those of a rational human being. Besides, anyone bitten by one of these creatures will incubate the illness for a number of days before showing any symptoms. If your brother was indeed harassed in the street he would have likely retained his senses and sought medical assistance at a nearby hospital. I'm sure, therefore, that there must be another explanation as to his disappearance."

  Miss Coulthard was still shaking. "You really think so?"

  Newbury smiled. "Indeed. There are many things that can keep a man away from his home for a night, Miss Coulthard, and whilst some are less savoury than others, I'm sure in this case there'll be a reasonable explanation." He paused whilst Veronica placed a steaming cup of tea on the desk before Miss Coulthard. "Now, see yourself right with that cup of tea and then take the rest of the day off. If there's still no news tomorrow come and see me again and we'll file a missing persons report with Scotland Yard."

  Miss Coulthard braved a smile. "Thank you, sir. It's just... we're all so on edge, what with the strange things that have been happening. Time was when we would have laughed it off. But with these revenants walking the streets...."

  "I know, Miss Coulthard, I know. The plague has us all concerned for the well-being of our loved ones and friends. I promise I'll keep my ear to the ground for any clues that may help you to locate your brother." Newbury stood and edged his way around the desk. "You stay put for a moment, Miss Coulthard, whilst I have a few words with Miss Hobbes." He crossed into the adjoining room, straightening his jacket and pulling the door shut behind him.

  Veronica looked up. "What is it?"

  "I'll wager it has something to do with drinking or gambling, or both." He shook his head.

  "Is there anything we can do to help?"

  "No. I'm convinced the situation will resolve itself. Another day or two and the man will show up at his own door, hungry and not a little sheepish. Either that or they'll find him in a cell across the other side of the city, too embarrassed at his own behaviour to tell his family where he's been."

  There was a rap at the outer door to the office. Veronica glanced quizzically at Newbury before crossing the room and allowing the door to swing open in her hand, revealing a messenger standing in the hallway, a small card clasped in his right hand.

  "Message for Sir Maurice Newbury, ma'am."

  "Thank you. I'll see that he gets it." She took the card from the young boy and turned to Newbury, who had sidled up behind her, his interest piqued. He took the card from her and turned it over in his hand.

  "It's from Bainbridge." His face had taken on a grim aspect. He looked up at Veronica. "Get your coat. There's been another murder."

  —— Chapter Three ——

  The cab clattered noisily over the cobbled street as its pistons churned furiously and the driver swore at the mechanism in a half-hearted attempt to make it run faster. In the back, Newbury and Veronica sat in silence, jolted by the speed at which the vehicle rumbled towards its destination and the unevenness of the road. At the front, the driver sat upon his dickey box, pulling levers to direct the angle of the wheels as the steam-powered pistons fired with noisy abandon and the cab bounced along on steel wheels softened with rims of polished hardwood. Veronica couldn't help thinking that, whilst it might have taken them a few minutes longer, a traditional horse-drawn carriage may have offered them a more comfortable alternative to the loud, dirty transport within which they now sat. Newbury, on the other hand, was a keen supporter of progress, and whilst even the driver seemed to be having difficulty keeping the contraption under control, Newbury appeared to be relishing every moment of their tumultuous journey.

  Outside, the fog was still thick and cloying, a yellow, tubercular cloud that sat heavy over the city, a shroud over the populace and a haven for the creeping things of the dark. Veronica watched through the window, seeing only the impression of grandiose buildings looming out of the smog, or the occasional vehicle flitting by on the road, its passengers hidden behind darkened windows or wreaths of smoky fog. Gas lamps flickered in the damp air, a network of disembodied halos that lined the edges of the streets. Underlit carriages rode on a carpet of rolling fog. It was mid-morning, but it seemed to Veronica as if the day had somehow stalled, the sunlight replaced by a remarkable twilight that appeared to have descended all across the city. She looked up, presuming that the regular slew of airships that filled the skies these days had been grounded temporarily by the impenetrable weather, or else they had risen up above the smog to where the skies were clear and free of city air. She glanced at Newbury, but his face seemed suddenly serious. She folded her hands on her lap and waited.

  Presently, as they raced towards Whitechapel and the scene of the murder, the fog became gradually less dense and the buildings closed in, the streets becoming narrower, the towering mansions and sweeping terraces of Bloomsbury giving way to less monumental structures and more factories, breaker's yards and public houses. Veronica drew the curtain across the window inside the cab and Newbury raised an eyebrow in her direction, evidently interested to know what had spooked her. She pretended not to notice.

  A short while later the cab juddered to a halt and the driver clambered down from his perch and opened the door for the two passengers. The engine was still running, and outside, the noise of it was even more intense. It sounded like some great industrial machine, churning out clouds of steam and soot into the already bleak morning.

  Newbury made good on the fare and no sooner had he climbed down from the carriage than Bainbridge was at his side, leaning on his cane, his overcoat pulled tight around his wiry frame. He looked like he'd been here for a while already.

  "Ah, good, Newbury. We can press on." He paused for a moment at the sight of Veronica, unsure how to go on. He inclined his head politely. "Good morning, Miss Hobbes."

  He turned to Newbury. "Can I have a word?"

  Newbury smiled. "Indeed." They moved to one side.

  "My dear fellow, do you think it's a good idea to bring a lady to a scene such as this? She could find it terribly alarming."

  Newbury chuckled. "Charles, I may only have known the girl for a few weeks myself, but already I know better than to exclude her." He smiled. "Trust me, Veronica can look after herself."

  Charles shook his head, as if dismayed at what the modern world was coming to. "So be it." He sighed. "Come on, this way."

  He led them on to where the body was laying, sprawled out on the cobbles like a broken doll, its neck contorted into an awkward posture, the face a picture of anguish and pain. Surrounding the scene were three constables, their hands clasped firmly behind their backs, each of them keeping a wary eye on the surrounding fog and what it may or may not be hiding from view.

  "Any witnesses?"

  "No."

  Newbury knelt closer to examine the body. The man was dressed in pauper's clothes, dirty from the workhouse, with black filings underneath the fingernails. He was clean-shaven and appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Newbury turned him over, gently, examining the soft flesh around the throat, probing with his gloved fingers. He looked up at Bainbridge, who was standing over them, watching intently. "The neck's been broken, but the cause of death is definitely strangulation. Look at these marks here, here and here." He indicated with his hand. "This bruising suggests the victim was grabbed forcefully around the throat and struggled somewhat before finally being despatched. There's nothing of the perpetrator left at the scene, but it certainly matches the profile of the other killings."

  Veronica cleared her throat. "Has he been robbed?"

/>   Both of the men turned to look at her in surprise. "Good question, Miss Hobbes. Let me check." Newbury fished around in the dead man's pockets for a moment, before withdrawing a small leather wallet from inside the man's waistcoat. He opened it up. Inside was a smattering of low denomination coins.

  "He had little enough about him, but whoever—or whatever—killed him clearly wasn't interested in making a profit."

  Bainbridge tapped his cane thoughtfully against the cobbles. "So what did they have to gain?" The frustration was clearly evident in his voice. "Are they just killing people for the hell of it?"

  Newbury stood, handing the wallet to Bainbridge. "No, I doubt that very much. There has to be a motive here somewhere. We just can't see what it is, as yet."

  "Well I hope one of us starts seeing it soon. This is the seventh victim this month. Things are getting out of hand. I'm going before Her Majesty this afternoon and, currently, all I have to tell her is that the body count keeps getting higher!"

  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.