The Immorality Engine (2 page)

She stood motionless as a Chinese waiter shuffled past, his arms laden with teacups and dirty bowls. A hush had fallen over the patrons as they stared openly at her, a mix of puzzlement, lechery, and suspicion on their faces.

One of the waiters approached her. He was a small man with clipped black hair and a broad, toothy grin. “May I help you, madam, sir?” He gave a swift bow of his head to both Veronica and Bainbridge in turn, making sure to keep his eyes on them at all times.

Veronica was about to speak when Bainbridge bustled forwards and raised his cane in a threatening fashion. Veronica noticed the people around the edges of the room bristle in anticipation. “You can stop with all that
politeness
and smiling straightaway. I know what sort of place this is,” he barked, full of bluster and unnecessary confrontation. His moustache twitched, as if in disgust. “My name is Sir Charles Bainbridge of Scotland Yard and I’m making enquiries after a gentleman. I have reason to believe he … frequents this establishment.”

The waiter smiled, then shrugged in a placatory fashion. “I am sorry, sir. I do not understand of what you speak.” He motioned to the tables around them, to the vagabonds and thieves who were still eyeing the two interlopers warily. “As you can see, your friend is not here.” The waiter took a step back from Bainbridge and bowed his head again. “I am sorry I cannot be of service to you today.” It was clear this was intended as a dismissal.

Bainbridge practically snorted in fury. “Now, look here! This is wholly unsatisfactory. I demand to know where I may find Sir Maurice Newbury!”

The waiter’s face was impassive.

Veronica put her hand on Bainbridge’s arm. “Sir Charles. Please stop.”

Bainbridge gave her a scornful look, but seemed to visibly draw back from the smaller man, expelling a long sigh.

Taking matters into her own hands and refusing to let go of Bainbridge’s sleeve, Veronica pulled him on towards the rear of the premises, pushing past the waiter, and refusing to make eye contact with the three men who sat at a small table against the back wall, playing cards and smoking. One of them watched her with a wry smile, clearly enjoying the show. She saw him call off the two men beside him: larger, bulkier men—bodyguards, she presumed—who were both preparing to rise from their seats to challenge her. She wondered if this were the eponymous Johnny Chang. Whatever the case, he appeared to be granting her passage, but for what reason, she could only guess.

The waiter called out loudly behind them, but Veronica ignored him and stormed on. A heavy red curtain was draped over an open doorway in the rear wall. She supposed this was what separated the main tearoom from the less salubrious establishment in the back.

“Through here.” She led the Scotland Yard inspector through the curtain into the shadowy room beyond, still ignoring the effervescent protests of the waiter. The man seemed reluctant to give chase beyond the threshold of the tearoom, as if doing so would somehow take him from the safety of his own domain to somewhere much more dangerous and terrifying. A realm beyond the bustling world of teacups and cigarette smoke that he usually inhabited. A world filled with the ghosts of the living.

At least, that was how it seemed to Veronica as she passed beneath the velvet curtain and into the large, sumptuously decorated room beyond.

The lighting was dim, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. Heavy fabric drapes hung on the walls in reds and greens, and the windows had been covered with thick curtains. Little clusters of divans and chaises longues, each piled with colourful silk cushions, were placed carefully to form discrete, distinct areas for the patrons. The supine forms of innumerable men lay draped upon the furniture, drowning amongst the puddles of soft fabric. The air was thick with the sickly sweet aroma of the opium, but aside from the sounds spilling through from the tearoom, the place was shrouded in silence.

A Chinese man in red silk drifted amongst his vacuous-looking clientele, tending to their needs, refilling their pipes, and rearranging their cushions. The skirts of his cheongsam whispered across the tiled floor, giving Veronica the strange impression he was floating, a spirit made flesh. The notion was exaggerated by the curls of oily smoke that hung in the air like wraiths, rising from the still bodies like souls evacuating the dead.

Veronica coughed and put a hand to her mouth, choking on the thick vapours.

Bainbridge was looking around, his eyes wide. “The excess!” he exclaimed. “The decadence!” He shifted his weight onto his cane, as if weighed down by the simple fact of being in such a hedonistic place. “Can you see him?”

Veronica shook her head. She moved slowly into the room, finally releasing her grip on Bainbridge’s arm, and wandering between the low divans and heaps of cushions in search of Newbury. She stepped over the splayed legs of a semiconscious Chinese man whose eyelids fluttered briefly but without interest as she passed by. She heard Bainbridge’s footsteps fall in behind her.

The attendant paid the two of them little heed as they went about their search, glancing up only once before continuing to drift between his patrons, unconcerned by their sudden appearance or the commotion they had caused at the front of the house. Veronica wondered absently whether he, too, was operating under the influence of the soporific drug.

They moved methodically from divan to divan, from chaise longue to chaise longue. The clientele formed a rich mix of cultures and classes. More than once Veronica thought she’d found Newbury, only to realise upon closer inspection that it was just another fallen gentleman, still trussed up in his formal attire, lounging decadently without a care in the world. She hated to think of Newbury in those terms, to identify him with these layabouts. She knew he was different, that he used the drug for other reasons, to open his mind, to allow himself to think. At least, that’s what he insisted, and what she wanted to believe. She knew Bainbridge was far less forgiving of Newbury’s vice, and suspected she was deceiving herself. But it was a little lie, and it enabled her to carry on.

Veronica finally found him stretched out on the floor amongst a heap of cushions, near the back of the large room, apparently unconscious. He was wearing his usual dark suit, but the collar was open, his necktie loose around his throat. A spent pipe was discarded by his left hand, and his flesh had assumed a deathly pallor. He looked thin and uncared for, with pursed lips and bruised eyes. His raven-coloured hair was unkempt and plastered to his forehead with perspiration, and his breathing was short and shallow. His right hand lay limp upon his chest.

Veronica suddenly couldn’t breathe. Her hands felt cold and clammy. She couldn’t bear to see him this way. She wanted to rush to his side, but she knew it would do neither of them any good. He looked ill. He looked … close to death.

Veronica took a moment to gather herself. Just as she was about to say something, Newbury licked his lips and spoke. “Go away, Charles.” He hadn’t opened his eyes, and his voice was a dry, rasping croak.

Bainbridge looked momentarily flustered. “How did you—?”

Newbury slowly peeled open his eyelids. His pupils were pinpricks in the semidarkness. “The cane, Charles. I knew it was you the moment you entered the room.”

Bainbridge glanced down at his cane, perplexed.

Newbury turned his head to regard Veronica. “And Miss Hobbes, too.” He closed his eyes again. “What the devil are you doing bringing a lady to a place like this?”

Bainbridge flushed. “Well, I…” He slammed the end of his cane down hard against the tiled floor. “Get up, you damn wastrel! Do you hear me? Get up! I have no time for your foolish games.”

Newbury grinned. His fingers twitched, but otherwise he didn’t move.

Veronica dropped to one knee beside him. She put her hand to his face. His cheek was damp and unshaven. “Maurice. We need your help.”

Newbury sighed. He turned towards her and opened his eyes. There was a gleam there that had been missing before. “Then, I suppose, Miss Hobbes, that’s a different matter altogether.” He shifted, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He glanced warily at Bainbridge, who was peering down at him with a disdainful expression. “What is it that’s so pressing, you had to come and find me here?”

Bainbridge reached down, cupped Newbury beneath the arm, and helped him to his feet. “If your brain’s not too addled to understand me, Newbury, I’ll tell you on the way.”

CHAPTER

3

Contrary to Bainbridge’s assertion, the journey from Johnny Chang’s passed in awkward, embarrassed silence.

Bainbridge stared out of the carriage window, his face creased in a deep frown, watching the city roll by as the steam-powered hansom clattered noisily over the cobbled roads. He refused to look at Newbury, who was slumped on the opposite seat, his eyes lost in shadow, his chin resting forlornly on his chest. His hair was lank and he looked haggard. He smelled of stale sweat and tobacco smoke.

Veronica tried not to stare, instead shooting furtive glances in his direction. She found herself wishing she could hear his thoughts. It pained her to see him in such a sorry state. She wanted nothing more than to grab him, shake him, and slap him hard across the face, then hold him and tell him that everything was going to be well. But she couldn’t, for a thousand reasons. She could not promise him that. She did not know with any conviction that everything
was
going to be well.

Newbury’s addiction to the oriental weed had grown steadily more acute over recent months. It had begun with the occasional absence from the office. This in itself was not unusual for Newbury, who was often called away at short notice by the Queen, or found himself tied up in a case with Sir Charles and unable to meet his more prosaic commitments.

But the absences had grown more frequent, more erratic, and more keenly felt by others further abroad than the museum. Veronica had even been hauled before Her Majesty to give account of herself, to explain why Newbury had not attended the Court’s summons and why Veronica was failing in her duty to keep him from straying. The monarch had admonished her gravely and ordered her to bring the errant Newbury to heel.

Sir Charles, too, had called on her on more than one occasion, partly to express his concern for his absent friend and partly to solicit her input on certain cases, which was only too welcome a distraction. Veronica suspected that Sir Charles also felt some measure of responsibility for her in Newbury’s absence, as if she somehow needed protecting and it fell on him to take the place of his friend during this “temporary period of illness,” as he had begun to call it.

She supposed it
was
a form of illness: a malaise of the spirit, perhaps, and a sickness of the body. Newbury had come to rely on a drug he once told her was a tool, the means by which he achieved the clarity of thought that helped him to solve his cases. But his need had become a physical one, and his body craved the weed. It became so integral to his process—to his daily life—that he now found it impossible to operate without it. And if he knew what a detrimental effect it was having on his health, he refused to acknowledge it.

Sir Charles was wrong: this wasn’t a phase that was going to blow over. And no matter what she told herself, Newbury could not continue in such a fashion. She would have to intervene. But not for the reasons Her Majesty had impressed upon her: for Queen and country and the safety of the realm. She would do it for Newbury, because she loved him, and because she refused to stand by and watch him commit a slow and degrading suicide. He would have to learn to live without the drug. There was no other choice. The only problem, she admitted to herself, was the fact that she hadn’t the slightest idea how to begin.

So instead she joined the two men in their silence, each of them avoiding the only subject that was playing on their minds.

*   *   *

Soon enough, the hansom sputtered to a stop outside the police morgue, and the driver rapped loudly on the roof to inform them that they had reached their destination.

Bainbridge was up and out of the cab before Veronica had even had a chance to gather her thoughts. She heard him barking commands at the driver, which did little to dispel the sense of tension between them. She looked over at Newbury, who was still slouched over in his rumpled suit. “Sir Maurice. We have arrived.”

Slowly, groggily, Newbury raised his head. He glanced out of the window with bleary eyes. “Yes, indeed, Miss Hobbes.” His voice was little more than a dry croak. Veronica was beginning to wonder whether dragging him out of the opium den hadn’t been a huge mistake.

Then, as if digging deep into the reserves of his strength, Newbury pulled himself upright, groaning in protest, before beckoning for Veronica to exit the carriage ahead of him.

Outside, Charles was tapping his cane impatiently on the pavement. Veronica stepped down and took her place beside him, hoping that his simmering temper would soon abate. She didn’t want to find herself in the middle of another row.

Newbury emerged into the searing daylight a moment later, squinting up at the austere building behind her. A smile played momentarily on his lips. “The morgue?”

“Well, of course it’s the bloody morgue!” said Bainbridge, barely containing his frustration.

This appeared to pique Newbury’s interest. He raised one eyebrow, and Veronica caught another glimpse of the old gleam in his eyes. “What brings us to this most dreadful of places, dear Charles?”

“A body. What else would it be?” snapped Bainbridge in a condescending tone.

Veronica rolled her eyes. “I’m not sure this is helping, Sir Charles.…” It was clear to her that he was deeply concerned for his friend, but was far too reserved to be able to express it by any means other than frustration. Newbury would understand this, of course, but had always enjoyed baiting the older man. Recently, this combination had proved rather more explosive than was healthy for either of them.

Bainbridge sighed, relenting. “Yes. I need you to see this body, Newbury.”