The Immorality Engine (34 page)

Graves himself had been found dead at the scene, knifed in the chest, his neck broken. Bainbridge hadn’t known what to make of that, but had settled on the notion that one of his own men must have turned on him in the chaos of the siege, or else one of Fabian’s people had finished him off before being killed himself. He’d decided not to devote too much effort to finding out; the very fact that Graves was dead was enough for him. Whether the man’s wild claims about rebirth and resurrection were true or not, he wouldn’t be troubling anyone else in Bainbridge’s lifetime.

Now, the chief inspector was engaged in weeding out all the Bastion Society’s connections, trying to discover who had supported them in their quest to destroy the monarchy. But he was finding their organisation had been built on smoke: every trail led to a dead end or a dead man, every address to a place that had never existed. He didn’t know what to make of it all, but he knew the threat had dissipated, for now at least. There would be more like them in time. His lot, he had learned from experience, was a never-ending battle against the enemies of the Crown.

He glanced over at Newbury, who was nursing his brandy and staring vacantly at the fireplace over Bainbridge’s shoulder. He looked better than he had in some time—aside from the scars on his face from where he’d fought the mechanical spider—but his eyes had taken on a haunted look. He didn’t know whether it was due to his longing for the weed, or something else entirely.

“You were right about the duplicates,” Bainbridge said, trying to provoke a reaction.

Newbury looked up. “What was that, Charles?” He sounded distracted.

“I said you were right about the duplicates. That business at the morgue, the things you said about Sykes. You were right. We found the room you’d told me about at Packworth House. All those corpses.” Bainbridge shuddered at the very thought of it. “Dreadful business.”

He’d walked into the room with Foulkes, and he knew the image of the dangling, eviscerated bodies would stay with him for the rest of his days. He couldn’t understand what had driven those men to commit such atrocities. A sickness of the mind, no doubt. Nothing else could explain it.

Newbury nodded. “It’s why they murdered Sykes. The real Sykes—the one you and I found at Cromer Street. He’d stolen his own duplicate and left it in a gutter on Shaftesbury Avenue, dressed in his old clothes. He was trying to trick us—to trick you—into thinking he was dead. He must have realised you were on to him.”

Bainbridge sighed. “It would have worked, too, if he hadn’t continued with the burglaries. I wonder why he did it.”

“One last job before disappearing, perhaps? Most likely it was just an addiction, a part of his life he couldn’t live without. Sometimes, Charles, a thing like that comes to define someone. They become so used to living their life in a certain way that, when the time comes for that way of life to end, they don’t know who they are anymore.” Newbury took a swig of his brandy. “Do you understand?”

“I think I do,” said Bainbridge. “I think I do.”

They were both silent for a minute.

“Do you ever doubt the Queen, Charles?” Newbury asked suddenly, before downing his brandy in one short gulp.

Bainbridge considered his answer for a long while. In the end, he nodded. “All the time, Newbury. All the time,” he said, swilling his brandy round in the bottom of his glass. “But I have faith that she acts for the good of the nation, and that’s enough. That keeps me sane.”

Newbury frowned. “I’m not so sure anymore. All that stuff with Ashford and Knox … I’m beginning to think it was just the tip of an iceberg. The closer I get to the truth, the more I see things I’d rather not.”

“Then stop looking,” said Bainbridge. “Victoria didn’t build this Empire without getting her hands dirty, Newbury. You must realise that. I’ve been working for her for twenty years, and I’ve seen enough of it in my time. I’m not as blind or as ignorant as you might think”—he offered Newbury a wry smile—“but you learn to live with it. You have to. You learn to accept that it’s a necessary part of what we do. We
all
have to get our hands dirty from time to time. The Queen is no exception.”

Newbury placed his empty glass on the tabletop. “I admire your ability to turn a blind eye, Charles. Really I do.”

Bainbridge took a deep breath. “Don’t be so bloody facetious, Newbury! You know what I mean.”

Newbury nodded. “I do. I’m sorry, Charles. I’m just not sure if I can live like that.”

Bainbridge sighed heavily. “Is there any other way? Do you really think there are people who don’t? I mean, aren’t we all part of something that, sometimes, we’d rather forget? That’s just part of being alive, learning to cope with the horror of it all.” He leaned forward, his hands on the table. “Better that than the alternative.”

“Do you think so?” Newbury asked quietly. “Better to survive at any cost? I’m starting to think that perhaps that’s the only thing that Enoch Graves got right.”

Bainbridge shook his head. “Now you’re just being maudlin.” He could tell Newbury needed some time to mull over what had happened. Pressing him any further would simply incite an argument. He wondered how much of it was a symptom of his friend’s abstention from the opiates—which, he had assured Bainbridge, he had maintained since his brutal, enforced withdrawal in the cell beneath Packworth House.

Newbury smiled. “Well, you have me there, Charles,” he said airily. He looked up, and Bainbridge twisted in his seat to see one of the wait staff making a beeline for their table. “Can I tempt you with something to eat, Charles?”

Bainbridge shook his head. “No, not tonight. I have an appointment with the Home Secretary for dinner.”

Newbury raised his hand to wave the waiter away. He turned back to Bainbridge. He was smiling, interested now. “The Home Secretary?”

Bainbridge smiled. “Yes. Something about a bureau he’s setting up. He’s asked for my advice.”

Newbury laughed. “Did you tell him how you felt about politics?”

Bainbridge chuckled. “I told him he could talk while I eat, and we’d see where that led us.” They both laughed heartily.

“Have you any notion of what it’s about, this bureau?”

“None at all,” Bainbridge replied. “Although I’d hazard a guess it has something to do with this Bastion business. No doubt the government have got the fear of God in them now, having seen the damage a small bunch of upstarts like Graves and his friends could wreak. They’re probably planning to send some sorry beggars on a wild goose chase, hunting down similar outfits all across the Empire. A fool’s errand, in my opinion. I’ll tell him as much over dinner.”

Newbury raised an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he said, but didn’t elaborate.

“I’ve been meaning to ask after Miss Hobbes. How is she holding up after the business with her sister?” Bainbridge tugged on his moustache. He’d seen Newbury leave with the poor girl after the funeral, and hadn’t heard anything of her since.

“As you’d expect,” Newbury said rather cryptically. “It’ll take her some time to get over the blow, Charles. She cared deeply for her sister, and the shock of what has happened … Well, she’ll need some time.”

Bainbridge nodded. “Absolutely right,” he said, glancing at his pocket watch. It was close to seven o’clock. “Good heavens!” he pronounced suddenly, standing up and nearly sending the table flying. “I’m supposed to be in Whitehall.” He bustled around, looking for his cane. “Lost all track of the time,” he muttered under his breath.

Newbury fell back in his chair, laughing.

“Yes, that’s right, you enjoy yourself at my expense, Newbury. You’re not the one who’s keeping the Home Secretary waiting!” He tried to sound scornful, but he couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice. It was good to see Newbury smile.

“Dinner tomorrow at Chelsea? Scarbright’s promised to cook his famous venison again.”

Bainbridge grinned. “How could I resist?” Then he offered Newbury a scornful look. “You’re not keeping him, you know. A temporary arrangement, that was all.”

Newbury laughed. “Whatever you say, Charles. Whatever you say.” He rose and took Bainbridge by the hand. “Now go on, go and find out what the Home Secretary is up to. I’m dying to know.”

Bainbridge gave a heartfelt “Bah!” before dashing for the exit, his coat still flapping over his arm. For the first time in a few months, he had the feeling that Newbury was going to be just fine without him.

CHAPTER

29

The rain was still pelting against the roof of the hansom, a constant, distracting patter that seemed to drown out the sound of Veronica’s thoughts as much as the creaking and groaning of the vehicle. It had been raining for days now, a relentless downpour that caused everything to take on a drab, grey appearance. Or perhaps, she mused, that was more a reflection of her mood than the effects of the weather.

Veronica stared out the window as they trundled down the narrow lane, bouncing and jolting over the uneven road, little more than a dirt track potted and rutted by years of use. The rain was like a veil drawn across the world. Through it she caught only glimpses of the village, as they passed by rows of squat terraced cottages, the central green, the public house. Veronica was now a few miles south of London in a small village called Malbury Cross, which she had first visited three or four months earlier while investigating the affair of a clockwork scarecrow that had taken to hunting the local people through the usually quiet streets.

When the time had come to find a bolt-hole for Amelia, it seemed as good a place as any. It was out of the way, and—clockwork scarecrows aside—seemed quiet and tranquil, just the sort of place for someone to repair to while they convalesced, away from prying eyes.

Veronica heard a bird squawk loudly nearby and looked out the window, but could see nothing beyond the blur of raindrops striking the pane. The hansom ploughed on across the slick, waterlogged ground, and Veronica sighed and rocked back in her seat, feeling drained.

It had been a gruelling week, culminating in Amelia’s counterfeit funeral, and the consequences of all that had happened were only now beginning to dawn on her. Fabian was dead, the Bastion Society was in tatters, and the Queen … Well, she supposed Victoria’s days were coming to an end.

Most important, however, was the fact that she still had Amelia, and the burden of her sister’s care was now Veronica’s to carry alone. Newbury would help—of course he would—but it was unfair of her to expect any more than that of him. He’d already done so much, given up so much of himself to come to her aid. Now, it was down to her.

The hansom drew to an abrupt halt before a small thatched cottage. It was a pretty, picturesque little building, detached and at the far end of the village. It sat squat in the centre of an extensive, mature garden. Rose and holly bushes bordered an uneven flagstone path up to the front door, and smoke curled like grey ghosts from twin chimney pots. It looked inviting, even in the pouring rain.

Veronica grabbed her umbrella from the seat beside her and climbed out of the cab, dipping her head against the pounding rain while she struggled to put her umbrella up. It offered little protection against the onslaught, and within moments her skirt was plastered to her legs, soaked through to the skin. She felt sorry for the driver, who was hunkered down on the dickie box beneath a thick woollen overcoat and a black cap. He looked like a drowned rat. She paid him his fare, plus a few extra coins in an effort to compensate him for the long drive and the inclement weather. He nodded in gratitude, water dripping from his chin, and took the reins, cajoling the horses into action. The beasts’ breath made steaming clouds in the air.

Veronica turned and fumbled with the latch on the front gate, eventually having to balance the umbrella under one arm as she simultaneously opened the latch and hefted the gate itself to force it open. The hinges squealed, and the rain stung her eyes as she ran up the path towards the cottage, leaving the gate hanging open behind her.

Veronica rapped on the door and then tried the handle. It was bolted from the inside. She waited on the step, pressing herself as close to the building as possible in search of any semblance of shelter the overhanging thatch might offer.

A few moments later she heard footsteps and the sound of the bolt scraping in its brackets. She heaved a sigh of relief in anticipation of the coming reprieve from the downpour. Hot tea and a towel were, at that moment, the two things she desired most in the world.

The door cracked open and a suspicious-looking face peered out at her through the gap. When the woman saw it was Veronica, she flung the door wide open and beckoned her quickly inside.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Leeson, was a short, rotund lady in her late forties, with a kindly manner and a prim and proper accent that suggested she had once seen better days. She wore her platinum grey hair scraped back in a bun so severe that the resulting facial expression was one of permanent shock. She had an authoritarian air about her that gave Veronica the impression that she may once have been employed as a governess or schoolmistress.

Today, however, Mrs. Leeson looked heartily relieved to see Veronica at the door. “Oh, do come in, Miss Veronica, out of that rain.” She took Veronica’s umbrella and busied herself shaking it out before helping Veronica off with her coat. Veronica stood in the hall, trying not to drip on the sea green carpet.

“I’ll pop the kettle on, miss, while you make yourself comfortable. Miss Amelia is in the drawing room.” Her face grew momentarily more serious and she leaned in conspiratorially. “I fear the seizures have been growing steadily worse, Miss Veronica. Very frequent and very violent. I know you warned me in advance, Miss Veronica, but I didn’t expect anything like this.”

Veronica smiled. “I understand, Mrs. Leeson. I’m speaking with a doctor tomorrow. Someone who will be able to help. He’ll prescribe some medication and I’m sure that will make all the difference.” She’d made an appointment to see Dr. Mason at the hospital in Wandsworth. She hadn’t yet decided how she was going to broach the subject with him, but she knew he’d find a way to help. She was considering telling him she needed the medicine for herself, that she’d begun to have seizures similar to those suffered by her late sister, but the thought of lying to such a good man tied knots in her stomach.