by George Mann
Veronica looked concerned.
Newbury laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not about to go charging off without you. I'm overdue a stop at the office and I'm anxious to see if there is news from Miss Coulthard. Are you free this evening?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then how would you like to accompany me to a soiree? The Hanbury-Whites are hosting a party at their house in St. John's Wood and I was planning to attend."
Veronica looked a little taken aback. "Thank you, Sir Maurice, I would be delighted to accompany you." She smiled, fiddling with the buttons on her coat.
"Excellent. I will call for you in a cab around seven."
"Just be sure that it's one of the horse-drawn variety, and not one of those terrible modern contraptions. I can't bear the noise and the smell."
Newbury chuckled. "I most certainly will."
They turned from the driveway onto the street, which was bustling with mid-afternoon traffic. Newbury paused. "Can I drop you now?"
Veronica shook her head. "No. I'm intent on a stroll. You go ahead."
"Are you sure? It's quite a walk back to Kensington."
"Positive. I could do with the exercise."
Newbury nodded, and Veronica watched as he hailed a cab, and, with a brief wave, disappeared inside. Then, wrapping her coat around her shoulders, she set off into the blustery afternoon, a wide grin on her face.
—— Chapter Seventeen ——
The party was in full swing when, later that evening, Newbury and Veronica arrived in St. John's Wood, climbing out of their cab to stand in the shadow of the enormous family home of the Hanbury-Whites. The moon was a bright disk in the sky, wreathed in wintry mist, and Veronica’s breath plumed in the frosty air. She turned on the spot, taking in the view.
Carriages and hansom cabs were arriving and departing in a constant stream, depositing guests on the gravelled driveway at the foot of a large flight of stone steps. Visitors dressed in their best finery flowed up these steps, disappearing into the grand entrance way as if it were the maw of some ancient, famished beast. Inside, silhouettes chattered to one another behind brightly lit windows, and the hubbub of voices was spilling out into the night, an undulating cacophony of pleasantries, compliments, vitriolic sleights and whispered asides. Butlers stood in the open doorway, greeting the guests and taking their coats as they made their way through to the party inside.
The house was magnificent. Built about a hundred years before, it had all the wonderful proportions of Georgian architecture that she had come to adore, the same that had inspired her to take the lodgings she now kept in Kensington; tall sash windows, a glorious front porch, a squat, rectangular shape. It lacked the ostentation of the more recent buildings that had been springing up all over London, and she approved wholeheartedly. She couldn't wait to see inside. Years ago, her parents had introduced her to London society and she had visited a great many of the grand houses in the city, but with the news of Amelia's illness they had spent the last year in solitude, retreating from the social scene, and the effect had been to leave Veronica without a means to engage with it herself. She was grateful to Newbury for the opportunity to join him this evening, and for giving her the chance to wear something other than the functional attire she often found herself donning for the office. Worse, her recent activities in the field—clambering through the wreckage of burnt-out airships or visiting manufactories on the other side of the river—had left her feeling less than ladylike. Tonight, she'd decided, as she looked herself over in the cheval glass at her apartment, she would redress that balance. She turned to Newbury, who was standing alongside her. "Thank you for bringing me here."
He smiled warmly. "You're welcome, my dear." He was wearing a smart, black evening suit; formal, but with a forgiving cut. Around his throat he wore a perfectly knotted bow tie, and a top hat balanced precariously on one side of his head. He looked the perfect picture of a gentleman. He turned to look Veronica up and down, now that he had an opportunity to regard her properly in the light of the street lamps. She was dressed in an immaculate, flowing gown of yellow silk. It had a low neck line, exposing the soft, pink flesh of her throat and chest. The bodice was fitted, with skirts that flowed all the way to the floor and skimmed the ground as she walked. The ensemble was finished with a single string of opalescent pearls and a pair of matching earrings. Her hair was tied up in an elaborate coiffure.
"Miss Hobbes, I must add that you look wonderful this evening." Newbury, attempting to hide his embarrassment, offered his arm, and together they climbed the steps towards the bustle of the house.
Inside, it was immediately clear to Veronica that the party was very much the zenith of London society that evening. I very where she looked, she saw faces she recognised, as well as ten others she did not. The place was bustling with ambassadors, politicians and gentlemen, not to mention their multitudes of wives and daughters. She stood for a moment on the threshold of a large room, arm-in-arm with Newbury, and together they surveyed the scene. Brass automatons weaved through the press of people, elegantly sidestepping the little conversational clusters t hat had formed, bearing trays full of drinks and food. Veronica watched as one made a lap of the room, its glassy, spinning ryes shimmering in the reflected light of the gas lamps, the porthole in its chest revealing the crackling blue of the electrical charge generated by its winding mechanism. For all the stories she'd heard that day about the unit that had malfunctioned at Morgan's art gallery, she was still impressed by the machines and the smooth manner in which they seemed to integrate with the party and its revellers. She watched people snatching drinks from the trays as the automatons brushed past them, hardly pausing in their conversations to consider the miraculous nature of the devices that were wandering amongst them, pandering to their every need. There were at least ten of the devices waiting on the guests, and Veronica couldn't help wondering at the expense the Hanbury-Whites must have gone to in having them there. She had seen the price of an individual unit that morning and could only suppose that the automatons were there on loan, and did not actually belong to the household itself—that would surely be too much.
She leaned in towards Newbury, keeping her voice low. His hair smelled faintly of lavender. "I admit to feeling a little nervous in the presence of so many automatons. After hearing the stories this morning at the gallery, I mean."
Newbury nodded, acknowledging her concern, but it was clear he was feeling playful. "My dear Miss Hobbes, it's not the automatons you should be worried about. They may be dressed in their best finery, but I assure you, half of the men in this room are more dangerous than those devices could ever be." He smiled. "Come on, keep your wits about you and we'll do a lap."
He led her in a circuit of the room, nodding politely at the other guests as they passed each one in turn. Newbury was clearly an established figure amongst the society crowd, and was greeted innumerable times by men that Veronica did not recognise: men wearing ancient, wispy beards; men dressed in immaculate military attire; men who gave the impression of being nothing but ridiculous fops. In turn Newbury was polite, but did not allow himself to be drawn into conversation, having just the right air about him of a man who needed to be somewhere else and could not stop to pass time in idle chitchat. After making a circuit of about half of the large room, they paused momentarily by the fireplace and were approached by one of the automatons. Newbury claimed two flutes of champagne from the proffered tray, passing one to Veronica. The automaton paused, cocking its head to regard them. For a moment it remained there, eerily still. The moment stretched. Veronica thought she could hear the sound of its mechanisms whirring away inside, but then it turned away and moved on, drifting towards another small gathering of guests who looked as if they were in need of more refreshment. Veronica shivered, and took a long draw from her glass.
After passing a few words with a man named Dr. Russ, who had seemed rather engaging and had complimented Veronica enthusiastically on her dress, patting Newbury on the shoulder like an
old friend, the two of them exited the room through a second door, winding their way further into the enormous house. They walked along a short hallway filled with the billowing smoke of cigarettes, dodging the crowd which had spilled out from the other rooms, and coming to a set of double doors, behind which more chattering voices could be heard.
"I believe this should be worth seeing, Miss Hobbes." Newbury, grinning, pushed on the doors and they swung open, revealing a large chamber filled with row-upon-row of wooden chairs, arranged to accommodate a large piano and two stools in the corner of the room. Music stands had been set up, and sheets of notation had already been placed in situ. Many of the seats in the room had already been taken, but there were a few empty rows near the very front of the chamber. The guests were mostly engaged in talking amongst themselves, but a number of t hem looked up as the newcomers entered the room.
Newbury cleared his throat. "Come on, let's find somewhere to sit. I'm told the performance will be a real eye opener."
Smiling, Veronica allowed herself to be led.
Newbury, nodding and greeting the other members of the assembled audience as they shuffled along the central aisle, located two chairs in the very front row and indicated that Veronica should take a seat. She lowered herself carefully into the chair, ensuring that her skirt did not crumple too severely beneath her. Newbury took his place beside her, first taking a printed order of play from the pile on a nearby table. He flicked through it quickly, and then placed it on his lap, folding his hands over it. He turned to Veronica, his voice lowered. "Looks like they're starting with Elgar. Could be worse." He grinned.
Veronica shook her head. It was clear Newbury was enjoying himself, but not, as far as she could tell, for the same reasons as the other guests. He did not seem to want to engage with the society crowd, at least any more than he deemed necessary. Instead, Veronica got the distinct impression that he was toying with them, laughing at their self-congratulatory attitudes and, whilst she did not believe he actually thought himself above his peers, it seemed as if he were remaining purposefully aloof from them. It was an interesting side to his character, and one that she had not expected to see.
Veronica heard the doors swing open behind her and a hush descend on the room. She glanced over her shoulder, almost gasping out loud at the sight she saw. A man in his fifties, with greying hair and a slight limp in his left leg, was leading two automatons into the room. They walked with the typical mechanical gait of the others of their kind, but were each dressed in a neat black suit and tie, and one was clutching a violin and bow firmly between its padded brass fingers. She tracked them as they strode down the central aisle between the rows of chairs, taking up their positions in the corner. The automaton holding the violin took a seat on a stool before the music stand and readied itself, tucking the instrument neatly underneath its chin. The other lowered itself into place before the piano, its brass feet clicking as it found the pedals, its fingers resting silently on the ivory keys. The man who had entered the room with them took his place beside the piano, paused, and seemed to steady himself with a deep lungful of air. He looked around the room, ensuring that the audience was prepared, and then turned back to the two automatons. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he cued them to begin their performance.
Newbury glanced at Veronica, a smile on his face.
The violin stirred. Veronica settled back into her seat, watching intently. The automaton drew the bow back and forth across the strings with an expert touch, and she found she was holding her breath, not wanting to exhale lest she somehow shatter the magic of the moment. She closed her eyes, allowing the music to wash over her. It was deeply affecting, and delivered with incredible precision. The piano joined in then, the other automaton timing its performance so that it seamlessly segued along with its companion at the violin. The music soared, both arresting and beautiful, and Veronica could barely believe that it was being delivered so perfectly by two inhuman devices, designed, so she had thought, for simple labour and not for complex tasks such as this. Waiting on guests was one thing— even maintaining an airship in flight—but delivering a piece of music with such skill and power made her think twice about the nature of these brass machines. She'd assumed the automatons lacked any real sense or emotion, lacked the sentience of living things, being simply machines that could be programmed with punch cards to imitate human behaviour, rather than having any awareness of self, or of how their behaviour would impact others. Judging by the skill with which they handled their instruments, however, she began to doubt that assumption. She'd always maintained that music was more than just the sum of its parts; not so much a technical skill in isolation, but an emotional one, too, an art form that blended passion with ability. She was astounded by the quality of the automatons' performance, and moved by it as well. She glanced around the room, trying to get a measure of the audience's response. Like her, many others in the room were entirely engaged with the performance. Newbury had closed his eyes and seemed lulled by the melody. She twisted in her seat, looking back towards the double doors by which they had entered the chamber. To her surprise, Joseph Chapman was standing there, his hands clasped behind his back, looking uncomfortable in his formal attire. He seemed to be staring directly at her. Veronica blinked, and then looked away. She tried to focus on the performance, but had the bizarre sense that Chapman's eyes were burning holes in the back of her head. Her face flushed. She glanced back. Chapman was still staring over at her, his face blank, showing no sign of emotion. Feeling uncomfortable, she looked away, nudging Newbury with her elbow. Surprised, he turned to face her, his eyes questioning.
She whispered, and pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. "Chapman."
Newbury strained in his seat, searching the back of the room for the man. After a moment, with no success, he glanced back at Veronica, shaking his head. Unnerved, she leaned on the back of her chair, trying to see what had become of the industrialist. The woman in the chair behind her made a 'tutting' sound and shifted obviously in her seat, making her displeasure with the fidgeting Veronica clearly evident. Veronica sank back into her chair, frustrated. Newbury placed his hand on hers in a placating gesture. A few moments later the automatons finished their first piece and both Newbury and Veronica joined in with the enthusiastic applause. Then, when the moment seemed appropriate, Newbury stood, held his hand out for Veronica, and lifted her out of her chair. As politely as possible, the two of them slipped away from the scene, making their way out of the room to silent glares from the other members of the audience. Veronica heard the music starting up again as the door fell shut behind them.
The hallway was still bustling with guests. Newbury leaned in closer and spoke into her ear. "Are you alright?"
Veronica shrugged. "Yes. Just a little unnerved. It wasn't a friendly look he gave me. He seemed somehow...sinister. It was as if he were trying to threaten me in some way."
Newbury frowned. "Are you sure it was Chapman that you saw?"
Veronica nodded. "Certain."
Newbury straightened his back. "Well in that case, let's see if we can't find out where he's hiding now." He took Veronica by t he arm and they made their way back towards the main thrust of the party, passing a gaggle of squawking women in the hallway as they did so. Newbury cringed as the ladies seemed to grow momentarily silent, whispering to one another conspiratorially as they brushed by. Veronica wondered what inane secrets they were sharing at Newbury and Veronica's expense. The giggling resumed again almost as soon as Newbury and Veronica had reached the other end of the hall.
The party had swelled in the few minutes they'd been away from the main reception room, with more and more guests arriving and others yet to drift away from the main hubbub and further into the bowels of the great house. The room was hot and bustling with people. The automatons waited patiently in the wings, surveying the crowd, ready to step forward at any time to offer the guests more refreshment. Newbury strained to see over the heads of the nearby dignitaries. After a
moment he stopped craning his neck and leaned in to whisper to Veronica. "No sign of Chapman in here. At least that I can see from the doorway. Shall we do another lap and try to get a better look?"
Veronica nodded. "I'd feel better about it if we did. At least that way I'd know I'm not imagining things."
Newbury smiled. "I'm sure that's not the case. We don't have to confront him about it, but we can certainly try to keep an eye on him, if indeed he's here. Come on."
They edged into the room, taking two further flutes of champagne from the tray proffered by the automaton near the door, and began the process of slowly weaving their way through the crowd, working clockwise around the edges of the room. Veronica held on tightly to Newbury's arm as they manoeuvred through the press of guests, keeping their eyes peeled for any sign of the industrialist. It wasn't long before they'd circled back as far as the main entrance. Finding a little more breathing space there, they decided to take a moment to pause. Guests were still arriving as they stood with their backs to the door, surveying the room. Newbury sipped at his drink, regarding the little huddles of people nearby. "Perhaps he left?"
"Or perhaps he's watching us from elsewhere in the room?" Veronica shivered at the thought.
Newbury frowned. He looked as if he were just about to reply when he stopped suddenly and turned away at the sound of shouting from the other side of the room. A hush descended on the party like a thick blanket, smothering the chatter. It was difficult to make out what was being said, but a man was clearly engaged in directing a torrent of abuse at another man whom he felt had somehow done him a disservice.
"...and another thing, sir! Your company's literature clearly states that in circumstances such as this, full recompense is assured. Yet I continue to find no such recompense is forthcoming! A damnable business, and you, sir, are a damnable man!"
Newbury raised his eyebrow at Veronica. Neither of them could see anything through the gathered throng. There was a wave of gasping sounds, and then the crowd suddenly parted as two automatons, their trays now abandoned, moved forward, thru brass feet clicking on the marble floor, a middle-aged gentleman in a black suit between them. The automatons each held one of the man's shoulders as they forcibly marched him Inwards the exit. The man was squirming, clearly in discomfort, and the spinning eyes of the automatons glinted in the low light, their features frozen, unmoveable. Behind them, Joseph Chapman stood with his hands on his hips, a wry smile on his face. He glanced at Newbury, and then nodded politely, his eyes flicking away to watch as his two brass guardians escorted the other man from the building. Then, as the guests all looked upon the scene with a kind of horrified fascination, he set off after his clockwork devices, exiting the party through the main entrance. Outside, the sound of the man's protests trailed away down the street. The party took only a moment to recover, and then the hubbub began in earnest once again, the society gossips quickly moving to engage one another with talk of the scandal.