The Immorality Engine (24 page)

Bainbridge tried to speak but his mouth was gummed shut with blood. He swallowed and it stuck in his throat. For a minute he thought he was going to retch, but then he found his voice. “Scotland Yard,” he said. His words sounded slurred and unfamiliar, even to him.

“Scotland Yard?” the man echoed. “Yes, they’re on their way. We sent for them.”

Bainbridge shook his head. He tried to reach into his jacket pocket for his papers, but the lancing pain in his shoulder was too much to bear, and he fumbled ineffectually. “No,” he said, finally. “
I’m
from Scotland Yard. Charles … Bainbridge.” The last word was hissed out between clenched teeth.

The woman looked shocked and fearful, as if she wanted to help but didn’t know what to do. “We need to get you to the hospital,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the burning wreckage.

“No! Not the hospital,” Bainbridge exclaimed. He needed to get to Newbury, to warn him about Enoch Graves. And then to the Queen, and the palace. He must get to the palace. He swooned, and the world began to spin. Everything went black.

Bainbridge staggered and came to, his eyes blinking open again. He realised he’d been unconscious for only a second or two. The man in the overcoat held him upright as he sucked the cold, damp air into his lungs and finally righted himself.

“Sir, you need to get to a hospital. You’re badly hurt. Can you remember what happened?” said the woman, who was holding her trembling hands before her as if trying to keep him at bay. He realised he must have been a fearsome sight, bruised and battered from the fistfight, covered in blood and soot from the explosion.

“Of course I can remember what happened, Isobel!” he growled, swaying from side to side as his head swam. “Those damn vagabonds set upon me in my cab.”

“Isobel?” The woman looked utterly perplexed. She turned to the man. “I think he must have taken a blow to the head. Let’s see if we can get him out of this rain while we wait for the police. Under that awning over there.” She indicated a butcher’s shop across the street, the doorway of which was sheltered by a large tarpaulin.

“What? Now hang on a minute!” Bainbridge took a step forward and immediately regretted it. His shoulder exploded in pain, and lights swam before his eyes. He grimaced and relaxed into the man’s supporting grip, giving himself over to the strangers.

The man heaved Bainbridge’s good arm over his shoulders and supported him as they shakily walked across the street. Every step caused bursts of pain in his arm as the jagged lump of metal shifted with the motion. The rain felt cool against his face.

People had been spilling out into the street ever since the fight began, and now a significant crowd had gathered, civilians who had been dragged from their homes by the sound of the explosions, out in the pouring rain to stare in wonder at the scene of devastation in their usually quiet street. A few of them caught sight of Bainbridge, lumbering helplessly towards the shelter of the tarpaulin, and pointed him out to their neighbours, chattering and speculating about what might have occurred. Bainbridge paid them no heed.

A moment later he was slumped on the ground once again, his back to the shop door, trying to catch his breath. He willed the police carriages to hurry. His head kept nodding forward as he dipped in and out of consciousness, and the pain in his arm was a constant, sharp reminder of his predicament.

Minutes passed like hours. The man and the woman drifted away and others came. Bainbridge ignored them, hearing their tinny voices as if they were off somewhere in another room. It was all he could do to stay awake, to stay alive. He focused on Newbury, on Veronica, on the Queen. He needed to stay alive for them.

He didn’t know how long it was before the men from the Yard arrived. Their carriages rolled noisily out of the night, accompanied by a hissing, steam-powered ambulance, belching black fumes into the rain-lashed night. Bainbridge watched as men swarmed from the carriages to engulf the scene. Civilians were shepherded away from the flaming wreckage; others were taken aside for questioning. Someone standing over him—a man, he thought—called for assistance, and a group of three or four uniformed men came running over.

“Blimey! It’s the guv’nor!” one of them exclaimed. “Get the ambulance over here, now.”

The man dropped to his knees, gazing intently at Bainbridge. “He’s in a bad way.” He turned, looking over his shoulder. “Come along, hurry up!”

Bainbridge lifted his head and fixed the young constable with a defiant glare. “Newbury,” he croaked.

“Quite right, sir. Let’s get you out of here. They’ll put you right at the infirmary.”

It took all the strength he had left in his body, but Bainbridge thrust out his good arm and caught the constable by the sleeve. He bunched up the fabric in his fist and pulled the man closer. His voice was a dry rasp. “Listen to me. Find Maurice Newbury. Find him, and tell him I need to speak with him.”

The young bobby gave a terrified nod. “Yes, sir,” he said. But it was already too late. The chief inspector had once again slipped into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER

21

For a while, Veronica had thought the world was ending.

Newbury’s screams had brought the attention of the guards, who had peered in through the slit in the door, unsure what was happening inside the cell. One of them had bellowed at her to shut him up, threatening to come inside and put a bullet through his head. Veronica felt as helpless as she had ever felt, unable to quell the nightmares that were plaguing him, unsure if there was anything at all she could do to make him stop.

The poppy, it seemed, held him in a tighter, more excruciating grip than she had even dared to imagine, and now, hours without it, the weed was abandoning him, leaving him writhing in agony and confusion on the cell floor.

At first she had tried to hold him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and whispering to him that she was there for him, that she wouldn’t let him come to harm. But then he started to scream and scratch at the walls, and she’d been unable to hold him any longer.

The fever had brought with it all manner of dark hallucinations, and she had backed into a corner of the cell while he had writhed on the floor, banging his fists and fighting with demons that only he could see. He had scratched strange symbols into the dust on the ground, whispered arcane rites in languages she had never heard. And then he had screamed again, clutching at his belly as he seized, just like Amelia had seized when they were children. It had caused the memories to flood back, to overwhelm her. She’d found a piece of broken wood to wedge between his teeth and had held his head until the fitting had passed.

In his brief lucid moments he had begged her for a drop of laudanum, as if he thought she somehow had a bottle of the stuff on her person and was hiding it from him. He’d grown angry, then remorseful, and then seized again, his stomach muscles going into spasms, his fever burning through his mind as every cell in his body craved the sweet-smelling drug simultaneously.

If she’d had the laudanum, then, she would have given it to him, just to end his suffering and pain. Just to have Newbury back. But, of course, she had none, so instead she had been forced to go through it alongside him, forced to watch and listen and weep as the opium burned its way out of his system.

Finally, after five, six, seven hours—she was unable to tell, trapped in the endless night of the cell—the fever broke, and Newbury fell into a deep slumber on the cell floor.

At first, Veronica panicked that he had died. She had rushed to his side, feeling for his pulse, listening for his shallow breath. But he’d put up an admirable fight, and though weak, he was still alive.

Veronica had tried to sleep then, too, but she found she couldn’t rest. Her mind was racing, full of concern for Newbury, for Amelia. Full of concern for herself and what Graves might do. Would it all be for nothing? Had Newbury gone through all of that only to face execution at the hands of the Bastion Society? Were they both going to die? She wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to get them out of there alone, although if it came to it, she’d put up a damn good fight.

Finally she had fallen into a fitful sleep. When she woke, Newbury was sitting up, watching her from across the cell.

He looked dreadful. His eyes were sunken pits and his hair was matted with sweat and grime. But he smiled at her, and she knew that the worst of it was over.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, and she could sense the weight behind the words.

She nodded but didn’t speak.

“What time is it?”

“I have no idea,” Veronica said truthfully. “Sometime after dawn.” She was huddled against the opposite wall, her knees drawn up beneath her chin. She was cold, tired, and scared.

Newbury looked bewildered by this revelation. “We’ve been in here that long?”

She nodded again. “And all the while, Amelia’s been trapped in the Grayling Institute in terrible danger.” She banged her fist against the wall in frustration.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. There was nothing else he could say. It wasn’t his fault. She was grateful he didn’t offer platitudes or try to reassure her that everything was going to be all right. “Have they given any indication of what they’re planning for us?”

“No,” she replied. “They’ve told me nothing. But I’ve been thinking about what you said, about Graves and the duplicates. About how you thought he was telling the truth that they were never actually alive.” She unfolded herself as she talked, curling her legs beneath her. Newbury listened intently from the other side of the cell. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, whether he was even in any fit mental state to understand what she was saying, but she needed to talk, to get it out.

“Go on,” he said, urging her to continue.

“If that’s true, then what Fabian is doing with Amelia is something entirely different. His technology creates living copies. He clearly doesn’t share the beliefs of the Bastion Society, so there has to be another reason, other than simply generating duplicates for ritual use.” Veronica cleared her throat. Her mouth was dry. There was no water in the cell, and despite having harangued the guards a number of times, none had been forthcoming.

“I came to the same conclusion myself. I imagine it’s to do with her clairvoyant abilities, that Fabian is using the duplicates to try to predict the future.” Newbury coughed into his cupped hands.

“No. I don’t think so.” Veronica rubbed her knees to try to get some warmth back into them. “I think there’s more to it than that. The Queen is obsessed with longevity. She’s desperate to extend her life and her reign. I think she’s tasked Fabian with finding a way to duplicate her, to create a new, healthy body so she can continue her legacy.”

Newbury sighed. “Ah, yes. The Queen. I forget, you know all about the Queen.”

“Well, I…” Veronica was momentarily taken aback by the sarcasm in his tone.

“Why did you keep it from me, Veronica? Why am I the only one you didn’t tell?” His voice was firm, controlled. There was no sign of the man who, only an hour or two earlier, had been scratching at the walls and howling in agony in the grip of opium withdrawal. He met her gaze, and she couldn’t help but see the accusation in his eyes. “For God’s sake, even Graves knows the truth about you!” His voice dropped, tinged with sorrow and confusion. “Why did you do it?”

Veronica’s heart was pounding in her chest. She felt sick, her stomach twisted into a tight knot. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. It was finally here. The conversation she’d played out in her mind so many times before. The conversation she’d always hoped to avoid but knew would come one day. She was shaking. She didn’t know what to say, how to explain. Why
had
she done it? Duty, she supposed. And fear.

She closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at him, didn’t want to see his reaction. “I did it because I thought if you knew, you’d shut me out. Because I didn’t want you to believe that I doubted you. Because I didn’t want to lose you, Maurice. I couldn’t bear to lose you. I…” She sobbed, hanging her head. She couldn’t say the words.

“I’ve known for months,” he said quietly, and the words were like an arrow through her heart. “Ever since that time in the cellar with Aubrey Knox. Since I followed you to the palace and saw you go inside. You should have told me, Veronica.” He paused, hanging his head. “You should have told me.”

“And what then, Maurice? What if I
had
told you? What difference would it have made?” She left the questions hanging. She felt conflicted, unsure of her own emotions. On the one hand she knew that her duplicity had most likely played a part in Newbury’s spiral into despondency and drug abuse, but on the other she knew that he was responsible for his own actions, and that there was little she could have done to prevent it. Part of her was furious with him, and another wanted only to gather him up in her arms and hold him. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she knew it wasn’t nearly enough.

For a moment Newbury didn’t respond. When he did, his voice was cracked with emotion. “You could have put a stop to it, Veronica. You could have told her you weren’t prepared to go on.”

Veronica shook her head. “No! I had no choice! You know what she’s like, Maurice. You never say no! No one ever says no to her! She would have reassigned me, and that would have been the end of it, of everything.” Veronica could hear the exasperation in her own voice. “She would have prevented me from seeing you, even if it meant I’d have to face the firing squad. She would have orchestrated someone else to spy on you instead, some puppet who really would have told her everything about you. And then where would we be? Where would either of us be?”

“So it was better that you spy on me than anyone else? Is that it?”

“I didn’t spy on you, Maurice! You have to believe me. I told her only as much as she needed to know. Just enough to keep her out of our lives. I’ve never betrayed you, not once.” She got to her feet and crossed the cell, kneeling before him. “I’d never betray you, Maurice.” She put her hand on his cheek. “Never.”