The Affinity Bridge

by George Mann

  "What was his name?"

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

  Newbury practically leapt out of his chair. "Charles! Morgan asked me to meet him this very afternoon! Now I know why he didn't keep his appointment. There has to be a connection. Look here..."

  He sprang out of his seat and rushed to the pile of papers he'd left on the bureau. He rifled through them, discarding most of them on the floor in his haste. After a moment he put his hand on the envelope he'd received that afternoon, containing the letter from Morgan. He handed it to Bainbridge, who eyed it curiously.

  "Go on. Open it, Charles!"

  Bainbridge slipped the letter out of the envelope and cast his eye over it warily. He seemed to take a moment to let it sink in, then folded it neatly, put it back inside the envelope and placed it on the table beside his drink. "So Morgan had a secret about the airship disaster, and then he turned up dead at the hands of the glowing policeman on the same day he was supposed to meet with you to reveal it."

  "Or at the hands of someone wanting us to believe it's the glowing policeman. He may well have been killed elsewhere and deposited at Whitechapel, just as you suggested."

  "It can't be a coincidence."

  "Only further investigation can help us to establish that, my dear man." Newbury was animated now, and he reached for his brandy, hoping it would help to steady his jangling nerves. "Charles, I need to see the body."

  "Impossible."

  "How so?"

  "Because it's already been delivered to the morgue for a post-mortem examination. They'll be cutting him open at first light."

  Newbury shook his head. "Then we go now. It's imperative that I get to examine the corpse. It could shed light on both of our cases."

  Bainbridge nodded, although he was obviously reluctant to venture out again at this hour. He glanced at his fob watch. It was approaching seven o'clock. "What about dinner? Could we stop somewhere on the way?"

  "Afterwards, Charles! This could be the breakthrough we've been waiting for. Let's not waste another second!"

  Bainbridge downed the last of his brandy and stood to join Newbury at the door. "My private coach is downstairs. We'll take that directly to the morgue. They won't be happy to see us at this hour, but I'm sure we'll be able to talk them around. Shall I send for Miss Hobbes?"

  Newbury thought for a moment. "Let's not. We'd only disturb her unduly. I can fill her in when we meet tomorrow morning."

  Bainbridge nodded, and together they set out in search of clues.

  The morgue was a cold and dreary place, in keeping, Newbury supposed, with its function as a repository of the dead. This was the place where murder victims or other suspicious deaths would be sent by Scotland Yard for closer examination, before the cadavers were forwarded to a funeral parlour and prepared for burial. Paupers, of course, tended to go directly from the table to a wooden box, and then into the ground, without the dignity of an elaborate service. The state did what it could, but as the politicians insisted on reminding everybody, it was not a charity.

  Newbury looked the place up and down as Bainbridge spoke with the mortuary attendant, showing his credentials in an effort to solicit the man's help. The room had a clinical feel, with white tiled walls and floor, steel instruments set out carefully on wooden trolleys and a pair of marble slabs, empty and awaiting the freshly dead. Newbury shivered despite himself. The room reminded him of a bizarre underground station, with a curved roof and tiled archways leading to other rooms. The entire building seemed to echo with their footsteps, silent save for the voices of the other two men as they agreed, finally, that Newbury could examine the corpse of Christopher Morgan.

  The mortuary attendant—a tall, lean man, freshly shaven, with his blonde hair swept back in a widow's peak and a pale complexion that suggested he spent the majority of his time indoors—led them through one of the open archways and into an adjoining chamber, where one of the slabs was covered by a white sheet. With a serious look in his eye, the attendant drew back the cover and allowed them to gaze upon the cadaver that had once been Christopher Morgan.

  "Is this the man you're looking for?" His voice was nasal and thin.

  Bainbridge was starting to get impatient with the man. "We'll have to take your word for it. We have no record of his likeness. Neither of us was in attendance at the crime scene."

  The attendant nodded. "Then please feel free to inspect the body for as long as you deem necessary. I shall return to my post and await news that you have finished." He stopped, glancing sharply at Newbury. "I hope you find what you are looking for."

  Newbury met the man's gaze. "Thank you." He turned to regard the body, waiting for the attendant's footsteps to disappear into the next room before looking up at Bainbridge, who was opening and closing his fist with impatience. He drove his cane down hard on the tiled floor. "Despicable fellow. Even after establishing my position he continued to question me regarding our visit. I have it in mind to speak with his superiors about his conduct."

  Newbury put a hand on his friend's arm. "It's late, Charles, and our visit is very irregular. Let us concentrate on the task at hand."

  Bainbridge nodded, clearly not placated. "On with it, then. Let's get this done with so we can get to dinner. This place always gives me the chills."

  Newbury reached over and rolled the white sheet down to the dead man's knees. It was evident almost immediately that Morgan had been a man of fortune; his black suit was perfectly tailored, probably Saville Row, and his hands were perfectly manicured and impeccably clean. His hair had clearly been worn short in a side parting, but now it had been disturbed, either in the struggle that preceded his death, or during the transportation of the body to the morgue. The man still wore a fine gold ring on his right hand and an expensive chain looped from his fob watch to his waistcoat pocket. Newbury glanced at Bainbridge. "So it wasn't a robbery, then."

  "No. Just like the others. The only difference here is that Morgan had more on him worth stealing."

  Newbury felt around in the man's pockets. They were practically empty. One held a handful of loose change whilst another held his wallet. To Newbury's dismay there was nothing inside that suggested Morgan's reasons for wanting to speak with him at the Orleans Club earlier that day; just a couple of business cards, some banker's notes and a grainy, sepia photograph of a woman, sitting on a wicker chair, smiling at the camera. He stuffed the wallet back into the pocket where he had found it.

  "Well, nothing so far to shed light on the airship disaster. Let's see if the manner of his death brings us any closer to an answer in the other matter, shall we?" Newbury edged around the table, examining the corpse in minute detail as he did so. He stopped beside the head, taking the chin between his thumb and forefinger and moving the head from side to side, as if he were trying to make Morgan shake his head. "The neck's not broken, but there's some pretty serious bruising around the throat. I'd wager it's a crushed windpipe. The assailant appears to have caught him with both hands and throttled the life out of him. Poor chap. It doesn't even look like he got a chance to fight back." He leaned closer, examining the bruised flesh around the throat. The skin was starting to take on a waxy pallor as rigor mortis set in. His brows furrowed in concentration.

  "What is it? Have you seen something?"

  Newbury stepped back from the mortuary table. He regarded his friend. "Take a look at the bruised areas around the throat."

  Bainbridge handed Newbury his cane and leaned heavily on the marble slab, lowering his face to examine the corpse more closely. "What am I looking for, man? I can see plenty of bruises. Looks to me like the chap was strangled, just as you said."

  "Indeed, but if you look a little closer you'll see what I'm interested in. There are tiny flecks of blue powder spotted about his throat. It shimmers if you shift slightly in the light."

  "My God, Newbury. I think you're on to something."

  Newbury smiled. "It's not much, but it
certainly suggests our killer may have a more corporeal explanation than we'd previously imagined."

  Bainbridge stepped away from the corpse. "So what's to be done?"

  Newbury circled the table again, finding the white sheet and folding it neatly back over the corpse. "Miss Hobbes and I will pay a visit to Morgan's gallery tomorrow and interview the staff. I need to establish what it was he was so keen to talk to me about. It may have been what got him killed, and if so, there's a definite link between the glowing policeman and the wreck of The Lady Armitage." Bainbridge nodded, listening intently. "I'd suggest that you have your men test this blue powder at first light. Let's see if they can't establish a manufacturer. That way we can run through their customer records and begin to narrow down the list of potential candidates for our killer."

  Bainbridge grinned. "Marvellous. Newbury, I knew you'd be of service to me when I knocked on your door this evening. Now," he took the other man by the shoulders and led him away from the mortuary slab, his cane clicking on the tiled floor as they walked, "what about that dinner you promised me? How about that little place you like by Kingsway?"

  —— Chapter Sixteen ——

  It was mid-morning before Newbury rose, pulled on his dressing gown and made his way to the bathroom to begin his daily ablutions with his razor and flannel. The previous day had been a drain on him, both physically and mentally, and today he had chosen to lounge for a while in bed, reading a book. He was, of course, anxious to press on with the case, but by the same token was sure that Morgan's gallery could wait for a few hours whilst he ensured that he was fully recovered from the excesses of the laudanum. He had finally emerged around ten o'clock, enjoyed a leisurely feast of porridge, fruit and toast; and then, after opening his post, had taken a short constitutional stroll before hailing a cab and making his way to Kensington to call for Veronica. His mind felt sharp and alert, his body taut and wiry. His trip to the morgue with Bainbridge had proved enlightening, and he was sure they were getting closer to the heart of the mystery surrounding the wreck of The Lady Armitage, and also the Whitechapel strangulations and the glowing policeman. It was clear that the two investigations were linked, somehow, and he hoped that a visit to Morgan's gallery would help him to establish the nature of that link. It would take a day or two for the police to analyse the blue powder that he'd found on Morgan's corpse, but in the meantime he'd agreed with Bainbridge that he'd press on at the gallery, and that they would keep each other informed of their progress. The discovery of the powder had been playing on his mind since the previous evening, and he couldn't help wondering if he'd somehow missed the evidence on the first few bodies that he had inspected. Were there specks of the stuff on the collars or clothes of those other victims? He certainly didn't recall seeing anything around their throats, save for bruising and the obvious signs of a struggle, although he knew, by now, that it was too late to check. The bodies would have been interred in the local cemetery and he was loathe to start digging up graves on the off chance that he'd still be able to find evidence of a fine blue power on their clothes. In fact, in all likelihood, their clothes would have been burnt and their corpses dressed in their best suits before burial. He clacked his tongue. He supposed it may be that the killer was getting careless or arrogant, confident that no matter what trace he left of himself at the scene, the police would be unable to catch him. He may have taken care to remove all of the evidence at the scenes of the first few murders, but after weeks of continued activity with no sign that the police were on to him, he may have grown lazy. Newbury had seen that before; the mad gleam in the eye of the killer, the notion that he was somehow invincible and above the law. It wouldn't surprise him if the killer turned out to be totally insane.

  On the other hand, of course, he'd inspected the other bodies in situ at the various murder scenes, in the dark and the fog, and it could be that he'd simply missed the evidence without the aid of the lamps and the clinical gleam of the morgue. So be it. He knew it was a waiting game now; waiting for the police laboratory to identify the powder, or else waiting for the killer to make his next move. He closed his eyes as the cab rumbled on towards Kensington, wondering which it would be.

  Veronica's apartment was on the ground floor of a large terraced house, built during the Georgian period, with tall sash windows and the brickwork rendered in smooth, white plaster. The fumes of the passing ground trains and steam-powered carriages had begun to stain the white walls up above, turning them a dirty grey, and Newbury knew that Veronica would disapprove most heartily of this development. He found a delicious irony in that. Veronica was such a forward-thinking woman, and put such great stock in the liberation of the fairer sex, but in other ways she had yet to accept the tide of progress that was currently washing through the Empire. Industry and technology were revolutionising the world, an unstoppable force as certain as life and death, and in Newbury's view the only option was to embrace it wholeheartedly, or else be left behind. He wasn't old enough yet to get stuck in his ways.

  When Newbury did finally rap on Veronica's door it was clear almost immediately that she had spent most of the morning awaiting his arrival. Moments after her housekeeper had come to the door, Veronica appeared in the hallway, dressed in a short grey jacket, white blouse and long grey skirt.

  Newbury smiled at her from the door. "Good morning, Miss Hobbes. I'll wait for you outside."

  He held the cab whilst she collected her belongings and put on a long woollen coat to protect her from the winter chill. The wind was bracing, and Newbury took the opportunity to seek shelter in her doorway whilst he waited. She joined him a moment later, smiled, and then climbed up into the cab without saying a word. Newbury, grinning, gave the driver instructions and clambered in behind her.

  Settling in to his seat, he turned to regard her, only to find her watching him intently from across the cab. He removed his hat and placed it neatly on the seat beside him.

  "You look well today, Sir Maurice. I'm delighted to see it." She was wearing a kindly expression.

  "Thank you, Miss Hobbes. I do believe that I am fully recovered. Please, let us speak no more of the incident," he looked somewhat sheepishly at the floor, "if you can bear to forgive me my foolishness."

  Veronica blinked, looking from his face to the window and back again. "I see no reason to dwell on it, Sir Maurice." She smiled, altering her tone. "What plans do you have for the day ahead?"

  "Ah, well, yesterday evening brought with it developments of a sinister kind."

  Veronica leaned in, intrigued. "Go on."

  "After parting company with you here in Kensington, I returned directly to my lodgings, with plans to settle in for the evening, only to find Sir Charles call on me half-an-hour later for dinner. It was an entirely unexpected visit, but certainly not an unwelcome one, and I invited him in to join me. During the course of our conversation he inadvertently revealed the reason for Christopher Morgan's non-appearance at the Orleans Club yesterday afternoon."

  "Which was?"

  "The simple fact that he was dead." Newbury allowed that to sink in for a moment. Veronica searched his face expectantly, waiting for him to continue. "Killed, apparently, by the glowing policeman."

  Veronica gasped. "Where? What happened?"

  "We're not sure. His body was discovered in Whitechapel like each of the others, but it seems doubtful that he would have been there of his own volition, especially in the early hours of the morning. I suspect he was murdered because of the secrets he held, and his body was moved to Whitechapel in an effort to disguise that fact."

  Veronica shook her head. "So are you suggesting the two investigations may be linked?"

  Newbury shrugged. "Perhaps. I admit I have my reservations. Morgan's death is not a perfect fit with the pattern of the other murders. For a start he was a gentleman, where the other victims were all paupers. I have no doubt that his death is in some way related to our investigation of The Lady Armitage disaster; it seems far too much of a coincidence that Mor
gan would write to me claiming to have evidence regarding the matter just a day before he died. I think the question is whether or not his death is truly related to the glowing policeman murders, or whether the circumstances of his death are just an elaborate cover adopted by someone attempting to throw us off the scent." He scratched his chin. "I wish I'd had chance to talk with the man. Still, he may have left us a clue all the same."

  Veronica raised her eyebrows.

  "I visited the morgue with Bainbridge last night to examine the body. We found specks of a strange blue powder around the throat and collar of the corpse."

  "Meaning...?"

  "Meaning nothing, as yet. But it could be the method by which the killer is disguising himself as the glowing policeman, covering his face and hands in this iridescent powder. It would certainly fit the descriptions we've had from the various witness reports. Scotland Yard are running some tests in an attempt to identify the manufacturer of the powder."

  "So you're convinced now that the glowing policeman is not of supernatural origin?"

  Newbury shook his head. "I'm convinced Morgan's killer is not of supernatural origin. We've seen no evidence of this powder on the other bodies from Whitechapel, so I'm reluctant to make any assumptions about whether or not they were killed by the same hand. We can't rule out the idea, but neither can we jump to conclusions. Still, the powder gives us a lead, of sorts. Whether it aids us in simply resolving the mystery surrounding the airship crash, or whether it also leads us to the Whitechapel strangler, time will tell." He smiled. "Whatever the case, I'm hoping we'll find some further answers at Morgan's art gallery today, or at least some more clues to point us in the right direction."

  Veronica nodded. "One thing is certain. There doesn't appear to be a simple solution to any of this." She shrugged, folding her hands on her lap.

  Newbury smiled. "There rarely is, my dear Miss Hobbes. There rarely is."