by George Mann
Newbury looked at Veronica, bemused. "Well, my dear Miss Hobbes, you were certainly right about Chapman being in attendance here tonight, but it seems as if the problem has miraculously solved itself."
Veronica smiled. "Yes, you could say that, I suppose. But what do you make of it all? It strikes me that the unfortunate captive of those automatons may be a likely witness in our developing case."
Newbury nodded. "Yes, it certainly seems that way, doesn't it? I get the distinct impression that the poor gentleman may have had a similar experience to Mr. Morgan."
Veronica looked thoughtful. "Indeed. Do you think he's in danger of suffering the same fate? Should we go after them?"
Newbury shook his head. "No, I'll wager the man is in no danger, this evening at least." He took a long draw from his flute of champagne. "Even if Chapman is somehow connected to Morgan's death, this outcry was a little too public for anything to come of it now. The connection would be obvious to everyone. The automatons will take the man around the corner and he'll flee to his abode, angry and embarrassed. No doubt Chapman will take the opportunity to gloat to anyone who'll listen."
Veronica placed her empty glass on a sideboard behind her. One of the automatons immediately made a beeline over to reclaim it. "It is interesting, though, isn't it? I mean, after finding us in the other room watching the performance. It's almost like Chapman arranged for us to see this little charade. Did you notice how he made a point of catching your eye?"
"I did. I wonder what it is he's up to." Newbury was watching the crowd again as he talked. "Let's see if we can discover the Identity of Chapman's protagonist before the night is out. That way, we can pay him a visit in the morning."
Veronica nodded her agreement. "And now?"
"And now we have a party to attend." He smiled, holding out his arm. "I believe we were in the middle of doing a turn around the room. And you, my dear Miss Hobbes, look as though you Could use another drink."
Arm in arm, they rejoined the gathered crowd and searched out another glass of champagne, keeping a wary eye on the automatons as they tried to enjoy the rest of the party.
—— Chapter Eighteen ——
Newbury woke with a thick head and a dry mouth. He rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. Then, as if surfacing from a glassy pool of water, he suddenly became aware of the world outside of his own head. Someone was rapping insistently on the door to his bedchamber. He rolled onto his back, peeling back his eyelids. It was still dark; there was no light streaming in through the window, and he hadn't yet had sleep enough to banish the residue of the alcohol he had consumed the night before. Early morning, then. He sat up, running a hand through his hair.
"Sir Maurice? Are you there?" The rapping continued.
Newbury frowned. "Yes, Mrs. Bradshaw. I'm awake."
There was an audible sigh of relief from the other side of the door. "Very well, sir. Sir Charles is here to see you. I've asked him to wait in the living room. Shall I assure him that you will attend to him shortly? I understand that it is a matter of some importance."
Newbury pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He groped around in the semi-darkness for his pocket watch, finding it on the bedside table. He peered at it intently, trying to see the hands. It was just after five. It must be important, for Charles to be calling at this hour. "Please do, Mrs. Bradshaw. I'll be with him momentarily."
Mrs. Bradshaw's footsteps fell away from the door and Newbury slumped back into his pillows, rubbing his eyes. Then, sighing, he slipped from underneath the warm, woollen blankets of his bed and stood beside his dresser, shivering in the chill. He blinked a few times until his eyes had adjusted properly to the dim light, and then searched out his dressing gown, flung it around his shoulders, and shoved his feet into the slippers he kept underneath his bed. A moment later he was following behind Mrs. Bradshaw, squinting in the bright light of the gas lamps, as he made his way downstairs to meet his friend.
Bainbridge was pacing anxiously before the fireplace, which was dull and cold and full of nothing but ash at this early hour in the morning. He held a brandy in his hand, but appeared not to have taken a swig of it, as yet. He looked up when Newbury came into the room, his moustache bristling at the sight of his old friend, still dressed in his bedclothes and suffering from a mild hangover.
Newbury looked the other man up and down. "There's been another murder in Whitechapel."
Bainbridge looked astounded by this rather minor piece of deduction. "How did you...?"
Newbury smiled. "Why else would you be here at this hour, Charles?" He shrugged. "Your boots are still clean and you look like you've dressed hastily; your tie is askew and you've notched your belt on the wrong hole." Bainbridge looked down at his belt, and then shook his head in exasperation. "I take it you've only recently been made aware of the situation and have come to pick me up on your way over to the scene?"
Bainbridge nodded. "Indeed. As you say. So jolly well go and fetch up some clothes and make yourself presentable, man. I've already sent a cab for Miss Hobbes." He took a swig of his brandy and leaned heavily on the mantelpiece.
Newbury nodded, smiling, and then disappeared once again from the room.
A few minutes later the two men took their leave of Newbury's Chelsea home and mounted the cab that Bainbridge had left waiting for them on the road outside. Its steam engine spluttered noisily as the driver gunned the controls and sent the vehicle careening into the cold, dark morning. Newbury, his head still groggy from the alcohol and lack of sleep, fell back into the seat inside. He had dressed hastily and still wore the shadow of a beard around his face and throat, but had more-or-less managed to make himself presentable. He looked up when Bainbridge tapped on the window with the end of his cane. "Not sure how much longer I can put up with this abominable weather, Newbury." He glanced out at the smoky, fog-filled streets as they rushed by. "This damnable fog makes our police work doubly hard. Gives these criminal types all the cover they need for sneaking around the city at all hours." He sounded weary.
Newbury nodded, but didn't speak. He watched the shapes of building flit past, hidden by the gossamer mist that seemed to soften the edges of everything, making the real world outside the cab seem insubstantial, otherworldly.
"Are you well, Maurice? You seem unusually quiet."
Newbury smiled. "Quite well, Charles. I attended the soiree at the Hanbury-White's last night. I fear I may have led Miss Hobbes rather astray; we indulged in one too many glasses of champagne amidst the merriment."
Bainbridge laughed heartily. "Then I shall conserve my sympathy for more worthy subjects! I take it there was much merriment to be had, in that case?"
Newbury grimaced. "A little. Most interesting, however, was the scene between a certain Mr. Musgrave of Islington and Joseph Chapman, of Chapman and Villiers Air Transportation Services."
"How so?"
"It appears Chapman sold Musgrave one of those automaton devices. It later malfunctioned and killed his best hound. The word from the society gossips is that Musgrave had been trying to claim compensation from the company and, having received no satisfactory response, took the opportunity to set upon Chapman in front of everyone at the party."
Bainbridge sat forward, resting on his cane. "So what happened?"
"Not a great deal, if truth be told. Chapman had Musgrave escorted from the party by two of his automatons and then made his own exit from the proceedings. We didn't see him again all night."
"How peculiar. Do you think it's relevant to your case?"
Newbury nodded. "Our case, Charles. You're forgetting Christopher Morgan. It transpires that the same situation is true of Morgan, although in his case it ended in a rather more grisly fashion. He'd also had an automaton malfunction at his gallery and had successfully negotiated a refund from Chapman. However, when he heard about The Lady Armitage he wrote to me asking to meet, intending to divulge his miserable experience with the device, and the rest you are already aware
of. He ended up dead and dumped in Whitechapel."
Bainbridge clenched and unclenched his fist. "So it seems like Chapman is involved in Morgan's death, and that he may be behind the airship disaster too. What of Musgrove? Do you think he's in danger?"
"That's just it. I can't see how he could be, not after the performance made by Chapman at the party last night. If he turned up dead now it would give us cause to pull Chapman in immediately. If he is guilty of Morgan's murder, I can't believe he'd be so insouciant about it."
Bainbridge took a moment to let that sink in. "But what about the other murders? They don't follow the same pattern as Morgan's. Do you still think Morgan's killer tried to use the existing spate of murders as a cover for his own crime?"
"That's what I'm trying to work out. We've got very little we can actually pin on Chapman yet, and if we move too soon we'll simply cause him to clam up. We need to build a solid case against him, if indeed he is responsible for Morgan's death. Whilst we've certainly established that the automaton device that was piloting The Lady Armitage could have caused the crash through malfunction, in truth we've got no real way of linking Chapman to Morgan's murder, as yet. It's a matter of time and patience." He shuffled in his seat, adjusting his collar.
"As to whether the other murders are connected, too, I still have my doubts. Perhaps we'll find out more at the scene we're about to attend. Did your men find out anything useful about the blue powder we found on Morgan's corpse, by the way?"
Bainbridge shook his head. "Not as yet. So far they haven't even been able to identify the powder itself, let alone the manufacturer, but they're aware of the importance of the matter. Some of them think it may have come over from China."
"Good. Make sure you tell me the minute you hear anything."
The men fell silent, both gazing out of the window at the sleepy city, both wishing they were still at home in their beds instead of rushing through the morning fog towards Whitechapel and another unhappy death.
After a few moments, Bainbridge looked up, catching Newbury's eye. "Oh, I received another invitation from Miss Felicity Johnson in yesterday's post, for a small gathering she's having on Tuesday evening. Did you find yourself invited to the same?"
Newbury tried to keep a serious face as he met the other man's eye. "I did not."
The two men faced each other across the cab. Bainbridge was first to give in, looking away in an attempt to stop himself from sniggering. By the time they reached the outskirts of Whitechapel the two men were roaring with laughter in the back of the cab, both of them finding the hilarity a welcome distraction from the more serious elements of their lives, and the knowledge that they were once again headed towards a scene of terror and death in one of the poorer parts of the city.
With a grinding of gears and a spluttering of the engine the cab rocked to a halt on the cobbled road alongside another, waiting vehicle. Bainbridge was first to jump out into the foggy morning, crossing the cobbles to the door of the other carriage. He rapped loudly before swinging the door open and stepping up into the cab. A moment later, as Newbury was arranging his hat by the curb side, he watched as Veronica emerged from the other vehicle, closely followed by the Chief Inspector.
Veronica crossed the street to stand beside him. "Good morning, sir. How are you?"
Newbury arched one eyebrow. "Capital. And you, my dear Miss Hobbes?"
"Perfectly well, thank you, Sir Maurice." Veronica smiled brightly. Newbury grinned. She gave no impression that her alcohol consumption the previous evening had affected her in any way.
Bainbridge approached them bearing three small oil lanterns, his cane tucked neatly underneath his left arm. He handed one of the lanterns to each of them, and then fiddled with the shutters on his own until the light was emanating in a warm halo all around it. It reflected back in the fog, giving it a strange, fuzzy glow, as if he were clutching a ball of light itself and not a lantern at all. He turned to the others. "Right. Turn these up like mine so we can keep an eye on each other as we walk. This blasted fog is so thick this morning that we run the risk of losing each other if we don't stick together." He looked from Veronica to Newbury and back again. "It wouldn't do to be losing either of you in the fog out here. We don't know what else might be lurking around the corner." His face was steely, determined. "I've told one of the cabs to get on its way, whilst the other waits for us here. We'll make our way to the scene of the murder, take a look to see if there's anything new to be deduced, and then be on our way, as quickly as we can. No use hanging around out here when there's a couple of men already in attendance by the body." He took his cane from under his arm. "Come on. One of them is waiting to show us the way." He set off, hugging the edge of the curb as he walked, in an effort to stay on track in the blinding fog. He was joined a moment later by a uniformed bobby who had been waiting around the other side of the cab. Newbury and Veronica followed behind them, their lanterns held up in the gloaming.
It was only a matter of minutes before Bainbridge's lantern came to a halt and Newbury and Veronica sidled up beside him. A scene resolved out of the fog. The confluence of three buildings and the cover of an arched alleyway had created a barrier of sorts against the thick smog. It still lay heavy in yellow, wispy strands, but with the light of the three lanterns, plus the one held by the other uniformed constable already in attendance, Newbury was able to ascertain the key elements of the scene.
A body lay on the cobbles a few feet away from where he was standing. Moisture from the fog had caused the skin to take on a damp sheen, and the waxy complexion suggested that the corpse had been in situ for some time before being discovered. That was only to be expected, Newbury supposed, given the visibility out there that morning. The neck of the corpse had been violently twisted and was laying at odds to the rest of the body. Clearly the neck had been snapped before the body was dropped to the floor. The man himself was undeniably a pauper, aged around thirty years old and wearing a scruffy beard and long, straggly hair.
Bainbridge moved off to talk with the other policeman, who was standing with his back to the wall a few feet away from the corpse, looking nervous and cold. Newbury caught snippets of the conversation as they talked: Bainbridge questioned him in detail about the circumstances of the death, how the alarm was raised, who found the body, which of the men was first on the scene. It was a thorough interview and, whilst it didn't appear to yield any further clues, it ensured they weren't making any assumptions before examining the corpse. The two constables did not mention the glowing policeman to Bainbridge, and it seemed as if there were no reliable witnesses to call on. Newbury waited for Bainbridge to return, his cane clicking on the cobbles.
"I'll take a look at the corpse, if you've no objection, Charles?"
"Of course not. That's why you're here, isn't it?" Newbury could tell that the other man was feeling the pressure.
Veronica stepped forward. "What can I do to help, Sir Maurice?"
"If you can stomach it, can you go through his pockets whilst I examine the wounds?"
"Of course." She circled around the body and dropped to one knee, setting about the task of emptying the dead man's pockets and searching out his wallet beneath the layers of dirty wool.
Newbury leaned in towards the body. He loosened the man's collar and examined the soft flesh around the throat. It was badly bruised and broken. He took the man's head by the chin and moved it from side to side. Then, mumbling something to himself, he took up the man's left hand an examined the fingernails. The hands were filthy, but it was clear he'd been in a fight. The knuckles were bloodied and there was some sort of residue under the fingernails where he had scratched his attacker during the fight.
By this time Veronica had located the man's wallet and had moved to one side to examine the contents. Newbury looked up at Bainbridge, who was leaning over him impatiently, his lantern dangling over Newbury's head. "Found anything?"
"Indeed. Just give me a moment to confirm my suspicions." Newbury rested the man's
lifeless hand upon his chest, and searched around in his own pockets for his penknife. "Here, hold that light steady for me, Charles." He beckoned the other man closer. Taking up the dead man's hand again, Newbury unclipped the blade of his penknife and ran the point of it underneath the fingernail. He then returned the hand to its place beside the victim and lifted the blade to the light, examining the residue he had scraped free. "Ah. Just as I thought."
"What is it, man?" Bainbridge was frowning, unclear as to what it was exactly that Newbury had found.
Newbury rose to his feet. "Here, give me the light and take a look at the man's throat. I think you'll see something of great interest around the larynx."
Bainbridge placed his cane on the ground beside the corpse and leaned in. "The what?"
"The Adam's apple."
Bainbridge took a moment to look over the body. Then, without saying another word, he pushed himself up to stand beside Newbury. "Blue powder."