The Immorality Engine (33 page)

Newbury put his arm around her shoulders. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Are you alright?”

She nodded. She had no time to think about what she had done. “Where’s Amelia?”

Newbury led her around the front of the clockwork stallion, which was waiting, motionless, as if somehow lost without its rider. Her sister was sitting on the edge of the lawn, watching her with panicked eyes. She looked incredibly pale in the dull afternoon light.

“Where did you go, Veronica?” she said urgently. “You left us!”

“I had to take care of something,” Veronica replied pointedly. She looked back at the Grayling Institute as the roof finally gave way, caving in on what remained of the building. Black smoke was billowing out of the windows, and hot ash filled the air like winter snow. The explosions had come to a stop. She wiped her face on her sleeve and realised the futility of the gesture when she saw how filthy her clothes were.

“We don’t have much time,” said Newbury, glancing nervously along the garden to where the rest of the mounted men would be waiting around the corner. “We have to find a way out of here before they find us.”

Veronica glanced at the crumpled body of Enoch Graves, and then at the mechanical warhorse over Newbury’s shoulder. “I think I know just the thing,” she said, unable to contain her smile.

Newbury followed her gaze and caught her meaning almost immediately. He returned her grin. “Come on!” he said, rushing to collect Amelia.

Together, Veronica and Newbury hoisted Amelia up into the saddle of the bizarre steed. It stirred to life beneath her, activated by the weight of a new mount. Its glass eyes blazed a deep crimson, and its internal mechanisms began to whirr and hum.

Newbury cupped his hands to create a step for Veronica, and she leapt up behind Amelia, allowing Newbury to pull himself up at the controls. He briefly fumbled with a brass lever, and then the machine kicked into motion, lurching forward and nearly sending them all sprawling to the ground.

“Hang on!” Newbury yelled back at her, before pressing a series of buttons hidden in the crease of the beast’s brass mane. Then they were off again, this time breaking into a steady gallop. Veronica held on to Amelia as Newbury guided the clockwork beast around the corner, reaching for the Gatling gun on the pivot by his left leg. He swung it up into position, depressing the trigger just as they burst out onto the driveway, showering the small army of mounted men with a vicious spray of bullets.

The projectiles pinged off their steel armour, but Veronica saw a number of them slump forward in their saddles, caught by the shower of metal cases, blood coursing from numerous impact wounds in their faces. A few of them managed to raise their weapons and return fire, but it was already too late. Newbury, Veronica, and Amelia charged away down the driveway on their stolen mount, leaving the crumbling, smoking pile of the Grayling Institute—and the now-leaderless warriors of the Bastion Society—far behind them.

CHAPTER

27

THREE DAYS LATER

Veronica was tired of the rain.

She was tired of the vicar and his inexorable preaching, and she was tired of all the subterfuge and lies. She was tired, too, of her parents, who had done nothing but patronise her since their arrival at the church, showing nothing in the way of real compassion or grief. Their youngest daughter was dead as far as they were concerned, and all they seemed able to display was relief. To Veronica it was the most appalling show of their inhumanity. In many ways, it demonstrated to her mind that they were no better than Fabian, or Enoch Graves, or even the Queen. She felt herself welling up in frustration, and she let the tears come. It was a cathartic release, and it helped create the illusion of reality, giving the paltry crowd the impression that her sister’s funeral was not the sham that she and Newbury knew it to be.

The intervening days had been trying. Veronica had been summoned to the palace to be informed by the Queen herself of her sister’s apparent death. She had displayed all the appropriate shock and grief at the news, and listened in appalled fascination to the Queen’s explanation of what had occurred at the Grayling Institute. But she’d barely been able to look at the monarch, and was thankful for the gloom in which the Queen lurked like a predatory spider. It kept Veronica from having to look upon the woman’s face, or see the sneer she imagined Victoria to be wearing as she lied about what had happened, and how sorry she was for Veronica’s loss.

Throughout the entire interview, the main thought she’d had running through her mind had been that the woman in front of her was going to die. The reign of Victoria would be coming to an end when her life-preserving machines failed without Fabian’s ministrations, and, Veronica thought, she deserved it. She deserved all of it. Victoria had earned Veronica’s distrust, her disrespect, and her scorn. She had played a fundamental part in Amelia’s misery, and for that, Veronica could never forgive her. She only hoped the woman’s death would come swiftly, and soon.

Veronica glanced over at Bainbridge, who stood by the edge of the grave, huddled against the rain and leaning on his cane, his legs wreathed in mist. She felt a pang of remorse at being unable to talk to him about what had really occurred, to tell him the truth about Amelia; at having to keep yet more secrets from someone she cared about. And that, also, was down to the Queen. But she knew Bainbridge wouldn’t understand. At least, not until he had seen the Queen for what she really was.

Bainbridge had been in Her Majesty’s service for nearly twenty years, through thick and thin, and Veronica simply didn’t think he could accept the truth. Earlier that year he’d been confronted by the reality of the Queen’s machinations when he’d discovered the truth about William Ashford, a former agent who had been rebuilt by Fabian to live a life of painful servitude to the Queen, and although it had damaged his confidence for a time, he had soon convinced himself that the Queen must have been working for the good of the country. Perhaps that’s what he had to believe to stop himself from going mad. Veronica didn’t think any less of him for that.

On the other hand, she found the entire matter much harder to stomach. She’d come to believe that the Queen acted only for the benefit of herself and her regime, and that she, Newbury, and Bainbridge, along with all the other agents, had been working only to forward those ends. If the Queen had a master plan, it didn’t involve a great deal of altruism.

Veronica watched the six pallbearers lower the coffin into the ground. She was still weeping, and the rain was thrashing her, soaking her clothes, and plastering her hair across her face. But she didn’t mind. She hoped, in some way, that the rain could wash away all the fear and tension and pain of the last few days. She wanted the rain to rinse away the doubts and the disgust she felt about killing a man, no matter who he was or what he had done. She wanted to bury all those feelings with this duplicate that everyone thought was Amelia, deep in the ground where no one would ever find it again.

She stepped forward, grabbing a handful of wet soil from the bank beside the open grave, and cast it into the hole. “Good-bye,” she said. She hoped that would be enough, but somehow she doubted it would be that easy.

Veronica caught sight of Newbury, smiling at her sadly. He looked smart in his formal black suit, even soaked through as he was. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this dreadful rain, Miss Hobbes.” Veronica nodded, and then Newbury stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her shoulders protectively. She folded into his embrace, putting any thoughts of scandalising her parents out of her mind. “Veronica. Come now, before you catch a chill. This place will do you no good.”

Veronica rested her head on his shoulder and allowed the tears to come. She wanted to exorcise the spirits, to leave them here in this graveyard so she didn’t have to carry them with her any longer when they left.

They stayed like that for a few moments, the rain pattering down against their shoulders. Then, without looking back, she allowed Newbury to lead her away to the waiting carriage. She climbed in, and Newbury stepped up and took a seat beside her, shaking out his hat and running a hand through his hair.

“Lead on, Driver,” he called, and she heard the snap of the whip. The carriage rocked and the horses crashed into motion, dragging the carriage out of its muddy trench and away into the torrential downpour.

Veronica turned to Newbury, dripping all over the seats. “Thank you,” she said, and then realised how horribly inadequate those words seemed for what she really wanted to say to this man. “You … I…” She didn’t know how to go on.

Newbury laughed and cupped her left cheek with his hand, wiping away a tear with his thumb. He didn’t have to say anything: His silence, and the look in his eyes, spoke volumes.

She leaned over and kissed him, pulling him close, the rainwater running down her face as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She wanted nothing more than to be with him, this man who had given everything for her. To be held in his arms, safe from the world and all its terrible tribulations. “What are we going to do, Maurice?” she said when they had parted.

Newbury met her gaze levelly. “I’ll get well, Veronica. I promise you that.”

She shook her head. “Not that. About the Queen; about Amelia and what happened.”

Newbury’s eyes drifted away from her face, gazing instead out of the window at the driving rain. “We can’t resign our commissions. She’d never allow it.” He sighed. It was clear he’d been considering this carefully. Veronica was relieved that he didn’t seem likely to back out, to try to justify their position and argue that they’d made a mistake. Until now, that had been her biggest fear. “I can’t see we have a great deal of choice. We have to carry on for now, at least. Until…” He trailed off.

Until she’s dead,
Veronica finished, although she didn’t say the words aloud. They both knew the consequences of Fabian’s death. And she knew he was right: They really didn’t have a choice. The Queen was ruthless, and they would be branded traitors and hunted down if they so much as gave her the impression they doubted her motives.

“But can we ever trust her again?” she asked, genuinely unsure what she expected his response to be.

He shook his head. There was sadness and fear in his eyes. “No. I don’t believe we can.”

Veronica put her hand on his sleeve. “Then we’ll just have to trust each other,” she said, and she laid her head upon his chest, listening to the thumping of his heart as the carriage careened through the wet, cobbled streets towards Chelsea.

CHAPTER

28

“So the intruder at the palace was nothing but a diversion, a red herring? A means of making us look in the other direction?” Bainbridge shook his head in disbelief. “It seems Graves was more conniving than even I gave him credit for.” He tugged at his moustache thoughtfully. “But how did the Queen know about the attack? That’s what puzzles me. And why was she so sure it was going to be the palace?”

Newbury shrugged. “I suppose we’ll never know.”

They were sitting in a quiet booth at the Whitefriars Club, Newbury’s regular haunt, a place typically frequented by literati, poets, artists, and other associated vagabonds. The type, Bainbridge considered, who were loose with other people’s money and even looser with their own morals. Or at least, that was how he saw it. Newbury seemed blind to the fact, and—as far as Bainbridge could see—actually seemed to
like
being surrounded by these people. In deference to his friend, he went along with it. And besides, the food was really rather good—and as Newbury had stated on more than one occasion—they did keep a shockingly good brandy.

Tonight, however, the place was relatively quiet, with only a few others milling about, drinking, smoking, and talking to one another in hushed tones. The general atmosphere was subdued, and Bainbridge wondered if it had something to do with the news of what had occurred in recent days. Sensationalist stories had appeared in many of the newspapers, holding forth with all manner of fabrications and lies. They were claiming that the Bastion Society had been a terrorist organisation opposed to medical progress and that they had laid siege to the Grayling Institute in protest against the new methods being pioneered there by Dr. Lucien Fabian. He supposed there was some measure of truth in that, judging by what Newbury had uncovered, but their motives had been somewhat inaccurately portrayed.

Still, he mused, at least the stories helped obscure the truth, which—to him, at least—was infinitely more distressing. That the Bastion Society had wanted to destroy the Queen, all the while claiming they were doing it for the good of the Empire, made little sense to him. The monarch was the glue that bound the Empire together. To destroy her would be to remove the very heart of the Empire itself, all that was great about England. He rather thought the whole affair had more to do with Enoch Graves and his delusions of grandeur than any sense of assumed duty or righteousness he may have laid claim to. He was as power mad as the rest of them, all the other madmen and criminals he and Newbury had come up against in their time. The difference was, he’d had money and influence. That was all.

Bainbridge took a long pull on his brandy and winced as his shoulder flared with pain. It was still strapped beneath his jacket, and he’d been grateful these last few days for the use of his cane, which he’d recovered from the police morgue after it was pulled from the belly of the dead man who’d attacked him. He still hadn’t discovered the man’s name, but he knew it was likely to be buried in one of the files on his desk, associated somehow with the Bastion Society.

He’d spent the last two days poring over those files again, looking for any details that might aid him in his investigation. Not that there was much left to do. The former members of the Bastion Society were all dead, to a man, hounded, caught, and executed by the Queen’s agents, rooted out as terrorists and smote down. All but one: a man named Warrander, who had been found dead in his apartment, having slashed his own wrists in the bathtub. The whole thing had evidently proved too much for him.