The Affinity Bridge (43 page)

“Stop avoiding the subject, you terrible sister! You can’t tease me like this! You know it’s bad for my constitution.” Amelia beamed.

“Then what will I have to tell you about on my next visit? At least this way I can offer you something to look forward to.”

Amelia laughed. “I suppose that’s true, at least.” She put her hand on Veronica’s arm. “You must reassure me that you’re looking after yourself out there, though. It wouldn’t do for our parents to end up with
two
sick daughters, now would it?”

Veronica sighed. “All is well, Amelia. If you must knowI’ve had rather a thrilling adventure. And yes, you’re right. Sir Maurice
is
rather a hero, after all.” She laughed and looked out of the window, watching the trees blowing back and forth languorously in the breeze. “I’m not sure yet how I’ll be able to go back to my desk at the museum after the excitement of the last few days. It all feels a little mundane at the moment.”

Amelia smiled knowingly. “Oh, I suspect there’s more adventure to come, Veronica. You always were the headstrong one. I can’t imagine you’ll be behind that desk for long.”

Veronica sighed. The moment stretched into silence. She was just about to speak again when there was a gentle rap at the door, and both of them looked up to see Dr. Mason appear in the opening. “Ladies, I’m afraid it’s time Amelia took a rest. It pains me to hurry you but I think it best we get her settled before the other patients return from their exercise.”

Veronica smiled at Amelia sadly and then leaned over and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. She rose to her feet. “Take care, sister. I’ll return in a few days to see how you’re getting along.”

Amelia nodded. “Until then.”

Dr. Mason held the door open for Veronica as she left the day room without looking back, the stirrings of tears in the corners of her eyes.

The young man was still lounging idly on the wooden bench as Veronica made her way out of the asylum. She tried again to place him, but somehow his identity eluded her. She was convinced that she’d seen him before, in a different context. She took a few steps along the gravel path, and then, deciding that she’d be unable to let it rest, she turned back and accosted one of the nurses, who seemed both bemused by Veronica’s sudden appearance beside her and annoyed at having her train of thought interrupted whilst gossiping with one of her colleagues.

“Excuse me, nurse. Can you tell me: who is that man?” She spoke in hushed tones so as not to let him overhear her words, indicating him with a wave of her hand.

The nurse looked over her shoulder and shrugged. “I have no idea ma’am. None of us do. He was brought in last night after lights-out and the night nurse was told to find him temporary accommodation. We think he must have been involved in an accident of some sort. His wounds had been dressed like he’d been in an infirmary, but they must have turned him out when he couldn’t pay his bill. One of the locals found him by the side of the road and brought him in last night, figuring he wasn’t a drunk and may have been a patient who had somehow found his way out of the asylum. Seems he can’t remember his name or any of his family connections. Poor sod. He’ll be collected and taken to the public sanatorium later this afternoon.” She searched Veronica’s face for an answer. “Why do you ask?”

Veronica frowned. “For some reason he just looks familiar….” She stared at the man over the nurse’s shoulder, watching him as he gazed up at the sky, lost in a world of his own devising. Suddenly something seemed to click in her head. “Oh God! Jack! Jack Coulthard!” She ran towards him, realisation dawning behind her eyes. “You’re Jack Coulthard!”

The man turned to look at her, his eyes searching; confused and unsure how to take this outburst from a strange woman he had no idea whether he should know. “I am?”

“I believe so, yes.” She grinned, almost disbelieving the coincidence. “Your sister showed me your photograph. She’s waiting for you to come home.”

The nurse rushed over to Veronica. “You’re saying that you know this man?”

“I know his sister, yes. She’s been searching for him for a week. She’s beside herself with concern.” Veronica turned to face the nurse, who was looking as bemused as the patient. “Quickly, call for a cab immediately. We have to send for her now.”

The nurse nodded and disappeared under the archway to fetch assistance, her feet crunching noisily on the loose stones.

Veronica took a seat beside the young man on the bench, almost bursting with excitement. “Oh, Jack, your sister is going to be so delighted to discover you’re alive.”

The man returned her gaze, a bright smile lighting up his face. He looked lost, but hopeful.

Nearby, the other patients continued to circle the airing courts, indifferent to the fact that their newest arrival would, in just a matter of hours, finally be reunited with his loved ones.

_{Chapter Thirty}

Newbury leaned heavily on the mantelpiece and took a long draw on his pipe, watching the smoke curl in lazy circles in the still air of his Chelsea living room. He was wearing a long blue dressing gown and slippers, and was warming himself by the raging fire that Mrs. Bradshaw had built up for him earlier that evening. Across the room, Bainbridge sat easily in one of the Chesterfields, his cane propped by the door, a brandy clutched firmly in one hand, a cigar in the other. He observed Newbury through a pungent wreath of smoke.

Newbury was tapping his foot impatiently, unable to allow himself to relax. He clearly wasn’t taking well to his period of convalescence.

Bainbridge sucked on the end of his cigar. “So, truthfully, how are you man? You seem irritable.”

Newbury laughed. “No, not irritable, Charles. Just anxious to get out of these rooms! I feel like I’ve been trapped in here for weeks, pacing backwards and forwards, waiting for something new to come along that I can sink my teeth into. My wounds are healing in a satisfactory fashion, and with any luck I’ll be fighting fit again in no time. I need something new to engage my mind. I fear I’ll be climbing the walls before long if something doesn’t come along soon.”

Bainbridge shook his head. “Newbury, you astound me! I’d have thought after your experiences this last week you’d be anxious to get some rest. I know I am!”

Newbury chuckled. “You know me, Charles. I never have been able to stand still for long.” He glanced at the end of his pipe, a frustrated look on his face, and then tapped out the spent tobacco on the mantelpiece, banging the vessel repeatedly against the palm of his left hand. He moved stiffly across the room, still wincing with the movement, and lowered himself into the armchair opposite Bainbridge. He searched out his leather tobacco pouch from amongst the debris on the coffee table, and began the process of refilling his bowl. “So tell me, Charles, what of Joseph Chapman?”

Bainbridge took a swig of his brandy, shuddering as the alcohol sent tickling fingers of warmth into his belly. He looked grave. “Chapman’s for the noose, and he knows it. His crimes were some of the most severe and inhumane I’ve yet encountered in my career, and in this city, that’s certainly saying something. What galls me, though, is the man’s consistently pompous attitude. He sits there during his interviews gloating about his crimes, about how clever he was to outwit us for so long. The man is a monster.”

Newbury struck a match, lit the bowl of his pipe and tossed the dead match into the fire with a brief glance over his shoulder. He puffed to kindle the flames before replying. “They often are, Charles. They often are. Shame about Villiers, though. He was an entirely singular man.”

Bainbridge pulled a face. “For the life of me, Newbury, I cannot understand where you developed such profound respect for the man.”

Newbury closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was studying the floor. “It’s complicated, Charles. Villiers was an evil man, but he was also incredibly accomplished. In fact, I’d go as far as saying he was a genius, in his own way. And with genius comes a certain amorality that is sometimes difficult to judge. Genius is, in many ways, akin to madness. Both states of mind demand a disconnection from reality, from the real, physical world, an ability to lose oneself in thought.” He shrugged. “There is no contesting the fact that Villiers’s crimes were of the most appalling variety, but I only wonder what may have come of it if his genius could have been harnessed for the good of the Empire, instead of being misapplied in such a terrible way….” He trailed off, lost in thought.

Bainbridge chewed on the end of his cigar. “Good riddance to him, is what I say. Chapman did us a favour when he removed the man from proceedings, and that’s all I have to say on the subject.” He paused. “Still, it’s good to see another case through to its resolution, isn’t it?”

“Hmmm?” Newbury returned from his reverie, his eyes darting to meet Bainbridge’s expectant face. “Oh, yes indeed. Although I hasten to add that there
is
still one small part of the mystery that perplexes me. I’ve yet to discover the reason why a Dutch nobleman was to be found onboard the wreckage of a passenger-class airship bound for Dublin.”

Bainbridge placed his glass on the table and leaned forward. “I may have something to help you with that, old man. The one good thing about Chapman’s boastful tirade is that we’ve been able to glean a few facts from his testimony. He claims
The Lady Armitage
had been engaged by a coterie of local noblemen, men who were keen to see as many revenants removed from the streets as possible, for use as a plague ship. Chapman had been using the automatons to round up the revenants like animals, forcing them onto the airships and shipping them off to Ireland, where his men were setting them loose in the countryside—if they didn’t dump them at sea during the course of the voyage. Not sure that explains how your Dutchman found himself involved in the matter, but it may help you get to the bottom of the mystery, eh?”

Newbury looked animated. “Indeed it does, Charles. Indeed it does!” He sprang out of his chair, clamped his pipe between his teeth and began pacing back and forth before the fire, all sense of his stiffness gone. The silence stretched. After a moment, he turned to Bainbridge, gesturing frantically with his hands. “Charles, allow me to ask you a question. Why should a visiting nobleman take to the streets of Whitechapel by evening, choosing to travel alone, without the protection of a Royal escort?”

Bainbridge frowned. “No reason at all, unless he had a taste for the wicked side of life, if you catch my meaning.” He coughed into his hand, embarrassed at the implication.

“Precisely! If the man had harboured a longing for visiting cheap whores whilst staying in the city, he would surely have slipped out of his lodgings unaccompanied, in an effort to keep his inappropriate activities under wraps. If the newspapers were to discover his secret, it would cause the palace a terrific scandal, and if any unscrupulous aides were made aware of it, they might have chosen to use the information against him at some point.”