The Immorality Engine (11 page)

Newbury, whom Veronica had been surprised to find waiting for her in the hotel lobby an hour earlier, fresh-faced and chipper, dropped into the other chair beside the fireplace and grinned up at her expectantly, as if waiting for her to say something interesting or profound. Instead, she shrugged noncommittally and moved around the other side of Bainbridge’s desk. She had deduced from this sudden alteration in Newbury’s attitude and appearance only one thing: that, in the time between dinner and breakfast, he had once again resorted to the oriental weed. He had clearly not imbibed enough of the dreadful poison to send him into one of his fugues, but certainly enough to take the edge off his withdrawal. She could think of no other explanation.

Perhaps, she thought, this was only to be expected. At least he had chosen not to while away the morning in some sordid opium den across town. He could have resorted to the little brown bottle of laudanum he kept on the mantelpiece, taking a small draught to ease the symptoms of his withdrawal. Scarbright would know the truth. Inwardly, she smiled. Perhaps Scarbright
was
Charles’s spy, after all. But if that were true, he was as much hers as the chief inspector’s.

Veronica glanced over the twin stacks of files on the chair. Each one had a different name scrawled on its brown paper wrapper:
Richard Mars, Nicholas Kyme, Stuart Douglas
—the list went on. There must have been thirty or forty of them. None of the names meant anything to her, and she supposed they might be unrelated to the case at hand. Bainbridge was the chief inspector, after all. He was probably considering a plethora of other cases. Yet it was clear from the empty brandy glass and the stubs of the two cigars that he had been here most of the night, and she decided that it really wasn’t much of a leap to assume he’d spent the time reading through the files.

Veronica looked at the notepad on the desk. The top page was covered in scrawl, along with a series of faint brown rings left behind by the bottom of the brandy glass. But scratched in capital letters across the centre of the page in heavy black ink were two words that jumped out at her almost immediately:
FABIAN = BASTION.

She looked over at Newbury, who was still grinning. “You see it?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “How did you—?”

“I glanced at his desk when we walked in. Force of habit. Interesting, isn’t it?”

“That there’s a connection between Dr. Fabian and the Bastion Society? Very. You think that’s what Sir Charles has uncovered?”

Newbury nodded. “I’d wager on it.” He gestured at Bainbridge’s vacant chair. “I imagine they’re all members of that illustrious set. He’s been looking for connections, for a way in. Sometimes you can’t beat good old-fashioned police work.”

Veronica came round from behind the desk to take the vacant seat opposite Newbury. “I suppose this means we’ll be paying a visit to the Grayling Institute?” She didn’t know how to feel about that.

Newbury looked thoughtful. “Let’s see what Charles has to say about it all.” He looked round at the sound of footsteps from the hallway outside. “Here he comes. You can ask him now.”

Bainbridge bustled into the room precisely on cue, a whirlwind of huffing and sighing and gesticulating limbs. He saw them sitting there and waved his cane pointedly at Newbury. “Ah, good. You’re here. Lots to discuss.” He glanced at his chair and the heaps of files, and then at Newbury and Veronica, shrugging despairingly at the lack of available places to sit. Instead, he lowered the end of his cane to the floor and leaned on it heavily, trying to catch his breath.

Newbury had a sly look on his face. “About Fabian and the Bastion Society, you mean?”

“How the devil did you know that?” Bainbridge’s moustache twitched with barely concealed frustration. “Do tell me I didn’t waste the entire night discovering something you already knew.”

Veronica got to her feet. “Don’t let him taunt you, Sir Charles. We’ve simply seen the note you’d written on your desk. What’s the connection? Is Dr. Fabian a member of the Bastion Society?”

Bainbridge shook his head. “He used to be. Had some sort of falling out with them, by all accounts. Graves, in particular. A disagreement of some kind. I wondered if it might give us a way in.”

“Good work, Charles! That’s exactly the sort of angle we’re looking for. I’m sure Fabian will be able to shed some light on Graves and what that lot are up to.”

Bainbridge was still trying to catch his breath. “There’s more. Last night. Another robbery.” He looked from one to the other of them. “Same as before. But this time there’s a body.”

“Murder?” Newbury leapt out of his chair to join the others.

“It would seem so,” Bainbridge continued, “although I’m not yet in full possession of the facts. I am led to believe that the profile is the same as the Regent Street job, however. It seems that Sykes’s mechanical spider was used to force an entry.”

Newbury frowned. “What time was this?”

“Late. Almost certainly in the small hours,” Bainbridge replied.

Newbury gave a cackle of delight.

“What is so darn amusing, Newbury? A man is dead and we have another robbery to contend with.” Bainbridge shifted uneasily. “And you have cuts all over your face. What have you been up to, man?”

Newbury grabbed for the bundled blanket he had placed on the floor by his chair. “This, Charles!” He allowed the blanket to unravel, spilling the components of the spider all over the floor in a shimmering cascade of brass. The tiny cogs and broken legs tinkled as they struck the polished floorboards, bouncing off in all directions. Veronica sighed. Newbury did like his needlessly dramatic flourishes.

Bainbridge poked at the debris with the end of his cane. “Look, is someone going to explain to me— Ah. Yes, I see.…” Veronica saw the realisation light up his face. He turned the remains of the machine’s carcass over so that it was the right way up. He studied Newbury’s face. “Is this what caused those cuts to your face?”

Newbury nodded.

“How interesting,” said Bainbridge. “It’s just as we’d imagined. About the size of a small terrier.”

“And a darn sight more intelligent, too. Tried to escape before I got it with the poker.”

“Came for you at the house, did it? Sykes must know we’re on to him.” Bainbridge fiddled with his moustache while he processed the information.

Veronica cleared her throat.

“Actually, Charles, it was Miss Hobbes’s apartment where the attack took place. And I have every reason to believe that Miss Hobbes herself was the target of the assassination attempt.” Newbury touched her arm, just for the briefest of moments. She wondered if he realised he’d done it.

“Good God! I take it you’re unhurt, Miss Hobbes?” There was real concern in Bainbridge’s voice.

“Just a few scratches, Sir Charles. Nothing to concern yourself with.” She tried to sound dismissive, even though the large gouge in her forearm had been causing her to wince in pain all morning.

“Excellent, excellent. Wouldn’t do to have you in the path of danger, Miss Hobbes. Not at all.” Bainbridge straightened his back, as though signifying that was an end to the matter.

Veronica rolled her eyes.

“I gather from your outburst, Newbury, that these events occurred earlier in the evening than our robbery and suspected murder?”

Newbury was animated again. “Indeed they did, Charles. Around eight. And that can only mean—”

“—there’s more than one spider,” Bainbridge finished.

“Precisely!” said Newbury.

Veronica sighed. “The more pertinent point, however, is that multiple spiders suggests multiple criminals. Perhaps Sykes was just one of a number of individuals all operating with the same equipment. Could he have been part of a criminal gang? A network of jewellery thieves?”

“You make an excellent point, Miss Hobbes.” Bainbridge pondered her words for a moment, and then shook his head. “And you might yet be right, but the evidence at the crime scenes was always—
is
always—the same: a man of about Sykes’s height, with the same shoe size and consistent habits. It seems unlikely that a criminal gang would go to the lengths of recruiting only men of the same height and shoe size and teaching them to behave according to identical patterns, though it’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”

“I wonder how many of the men named in those files would match that profile,” Newbury ventured.

“We may yet need to find out. But for now, I have a crime scene to attend to and another body to identify,” Bainbridge replied. “I’m heading there now. Can you come?”

Veronica looked to Newbury for his answer.

“Of course we’ll come. Lead on!” Newbury clapped his hand on Bainbridge’s shoulder. He lowered his voice. “And don’t think for a minute, old man, that I’m going to let you get away with planting your spy in my house. As soon as I can make other arrangements, I’ll be sending him back.”

“Quite right, too,” Bainbridge replied, grinning. “Damn good cook, though, isn’t he?”

“Sublime,” Newbury said, pushing the chief inspector out the door.

*   *   *

The scene of the second robbery was a residence. A house on Cromer Street, set back from the road, nestled behind a pretty garden brimming with evergreens and late spring blooms. Veronica filled her nostrils with the heady scents as the three investigators walked the path up to the big house.

It was an imposing two-storey building, erected sometime in the preceding fifty years. It was not stately, but had a more homely appeal—clearly the dwelling of a large and well-to-do family, probably of a similar station to her own parents. The thought of them made her heart sink, so Veronica pushed the notion to one side.

No, this family was clearly different—they were interested in more than just status. She could tell from the large wooden playhouse that someone had built in the garden that whoever lived here showed an actual interest in their children. She hoped those children had been spared the horror of the corpse that Bainbridge had warned them waited at the foot of the stairs inside.

She was pleased to find, a moment later, that this was indeed the case. A bobby on the door explained that the family had been escorted from the premises first thing that morning, after one of the servants had discovered the body and alerted the police. That was a small mercy, at least.

Inspector Foulkes, who had secured the scene, was there to greet their little party when they stepped over the threshold and into the cavernous hallway inside. He looked as serious and professional as ever in his grey woollen suit and bowler hat. His full, black beard had grown since Veronica had last seen him, a few months earlier, and he was stroking it ponderously, as if trying to decide what his next move might be.

He looked up when he saw them approaching. “A fine mess we have here, I’m afraid,” he said with an exasperated tone, reaching out to shake hands with the men. “I’d recommend, Miss Hobbes, that you don’t come any closer, but I know from experience you’ll pay me no heed.” His sea green eyes flashed with amusement.

“Indeed not, Inspector,” she replied, secretly bracing herself for whatever horrors she might have to face. “I rarely pay anyone any heed. I find it’s the only way to form an opinion of my own.” She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but Newbury nudged her gently with his elbow, as if simultaneously joining in with her ribbing of the inspector and warning her to stand down.

Veronica tried to get a measure of the situation, taking in the scene. The hallway was spacious and central to the property, with extensive wings to the left and right and a grand staircase directly opposite the main entrance. Ornate banisters curled upwards in sweeping lines of gleaming hardwood. A few uniformed policemen were milling around, and a man in a brown suit—a doctor, she supposed—was standing over the corpse on the floor. For the time being, she averted her eyes. She wouldn’t look at it until she had to.

“Tell us what you’ve found,” Bainbridge asked Foulkes with little or no ceremony.

“It’s a baffling one, sir,” Foulkes said, lifting his bowler and scratching his head. “It seems the perpetrator came in through the back door. There’s a hole in one of the panels, about so big—” He made a gesture with his hands. “—that looks just like the hole we found up at Flitcroft and Sons over on Regent Street, and the scenes before that.”

“You think the same man is responsible?” asked Newbury.

“I’m not a betting man, Sir Maurice, but I’d put my life on it.” Foulkes seemed to consider this for a minute. “Only difference this time is the body. And it’s not a pretty sight. It seems that whatever miraculous device the burglar has been using to cut his way in can also be used as a weapon. And a pretty damn effective one at that.” He sniffed, as if demonstrating his disapproval of such visceral things. “As I see it, one of three things occurred: Either the burglar interrupted another man trying to steal the loot and finished him off, or he had a partner along with him and they fell out over the share of the proceeds. Only other explanation is that the miraculous device I was talking about suddenly turned on him, but that seems unlikely.”

“Have we been able to identify him yet?” Veronica realised she was about to get a look at what might have become of her or Newbury, had the incident in her apartment not turned out as well as it did.

“Not yet. He’s … well, let’s just say that identification is not an easy matter in this instance.” Foulkes screwed up his face in distaste, and Veronica gave an involuntary shudder.

Newbury was removing his jacket. He handed it to Charles. “Better take a look, then.” He edged past Foulkes, heading toward the doctor in the brown coat.

“I hope you haven’t had a big breakfast,” Foulkes called behind him. But he was not smiling. He took a step closer to Veronica and lowered his voice to a whisper. His breath smelled of peppermint. “Seriously, Miss Hobbes. I should consider giving this one a miss. I won’t think any less of you if you take my advice. If I’m truthful, I wish I hadn’t seen it myself.” He smiled kindly, and she knew he was only looking after her best interests—or at least what he considered to be her best interests.