The Affinity Bridge (9 page)

Veronica raised her eyebrows.

“A story for another time, perhaps.” He stood, pulling on his gloves.

Veronica placed her cup back on the saucer. “One last question before we take our leave. May I ask why this crash is deemed so important to the Crown?”

Newbury paused for a moment, as if deciding how much he should disclose to this woman, who—despite her only having been in his employ for a matter of weeks—he was already beginning to trust with his life.

Veronica took his lengthy pause as a sign of his disapproval. She flushed red. “Oh, please forgive me! Have I overstepped the mark?” She stood, nearly knocking her cup and saucer over as she banged awkwardly against the edge of his desk.

Newbury waved her to sit down again. “No, not at all, Miss Hobbes. The truth of the matter is simple: I don’t know. I’ll admit I’m finding that question peculiarly frustrating. I can see no obvious connection between the affairs of the monarchy and the disaster that became of
The Lady Armitage,
Not only that, but the Whitechapel case is more definitely within my area of expertise.” He sighed. “Nevertheless, one must do one’s duty. And I must admit I’m rather intrigued by this whole automaton business.” He held the door open for Veronica and ushered her through.

Miss Coulthard was sitting at her desk, the nib of her pen scratching noisily as she attempted to transcribe one of Newbury’s recent academic papers for the museum archives. He shook his head as he collected his coat. “Miss Coulthard? Did you manage to have my letter sent to Scotland Yard as I instructed?”

“Yes, Sir Maurice. I sent it by cab as you requested.”

“Very good. Then I must ask you what you’re still doing here,

scratching out one of my illegible essays when you should be at home, awaiting news of your brother?” He smiled warmly.

“Well, sir, this document was supposed to be completed for filing yesterday. I was concerned about getting behind in my work.”

“Poppycock! Now, Miss Hobbes and I will be gone for the rest of the day, so I dare suggest you won’t be missed. Go on, be off with you. I shan’t take my own cab until I’m convinced you’re well away from this place.”

“Thank you, sir. I won’t forget your kindness.” She placed her pen carefully back in the drawer and fumbled with her papers.

A moment later, when Miss Coulthard had collected her belongings, the three of them left together, locking the door to the office behind them.

_{Chapter Seven}

Newbury looked out over the river. Ships and boats of all shapes and sizes drifted lazily along the shipping lanes, dipping gently with the ebb and flow of the water. It was busy, thick with the detritus of industry. It was noisy, too; horns blaring and gulls chattering over the constant clatter of horses’ hooves as they rolled over the bridge towards their destination. He caught sight of one ship to which the others were giving a wide berth. He studied it for a moment through the window. Large red crosses had been painted on the sides of the hull and the flag had been lowered to half-mast. He guessed it was a plague ship, carrying the corpses of the dead out to sea, where they would likely be dumped, unceremoniously, into the water. He knew from his discussions with Bainbridge that the corpses of plague victims had been turning up all over the city, particularly in the slums, where the people lived in squalor and the virus could easily spread from host to host. Stories of the ‘revenants’ were spreading, too, with the daily newspapers parroting the rumours heard on the streets and sensationalising the epidemic for the gleeful consumption of cockatoos such as Felicity Johnson. They were right to fear, though; before the virus killed its host it would completely unravel their humanity, transforming them into a monstrous killing machine. Their flesh would stop regenerating, their only thoughts becoming animalistic, feral; in short, they would be reduced to nothing but the basest of creatures, and with that loss of faculty they’d become almost unstoppable, feeling no pain, showing no awareness of wounds that would kill an average man. It was as if the virus, somehow, kept them alive through all of this, waiting for an unidentified biological trigger. Then, after a handful of days had passed, the virus would complete its work and turn their brains to sponge, dropping their spent, lifeless bodies by the side of the road. It was a bad way to go. He hoped, for Miss Coulthard’s sake, that she was wrong and that her brother had so far managed to evade infection. Everything he knew about the virus suggested if that if he
had
been infected, by now he’d either be dead in a gutter or else stalking the fog-shrouded streets by night, a mindless monster in search of food and blood.

Newbury closed his eyes for a moment, lulled by the motion of the cab. He imagined that Her Majesty would be growing impatient with the crisis by now, keen for the virus to burn itself out in the poorer districts of the city. She probably had a hundred scientists searching for a vaccination. If no solution were found soon, he had no doubt that she would place a cordon around the slums in an effort to slow the spread of the disease. Everyone was anxious, fearful of what might happen if the plague truly managed to get a grip on the city. Some projections suggested that up to fifty percent of the population could succumb to the illness: if not killed by the virus itself, then taken by one of the rampaging monsters it created. He suspected that it would be some time yet before the issue came to a head, and that the worst was probably still to come.

He looked up. Veronica sat in silence on the other side of the cab, lost in thought. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap, her face turned to the opposite window. She was wearing a powder blue jacket and white blouse, with matching culottes. He admired her modern sensibilities. Indeed, he admired much about her. Searching around for another distraction, he chose not to disturb her reverie. Instead, he unfolded his morning copy of
The Times
on his knee and inspected the day’s headlines. Unsurprisingly, the editor had chosen to dedicate the front page to a huge article about
The Lady Armitage
disaster. The headline read
Airship Crashes in Finsbury Park: Sabotage suspected, upwards of fifty dead
. Newbury shook his head. Sabotage suspected? He wondered if Stokes had been feeding ideas to the press. He certainly wouldn’t put it past the man. He hoped to find the company’s directors a little less repellent but was expecting to be disappointed. In his experience, like invariably attracted like, and any associates of Mr. Stokes would either have to maintain a will of iron or an ego as enormous as that of Stokes himself.

He settled back in his seat, flicking through the pages of newsprint on his knee. He was still feeling delicate from the excesses of the laudanum, and silently chastised himself for giving in to his cravings. Miss Hobbes was astute, and his late arrival at the office and less-than-savoury appearance that morning had not gone unnoticed. He resolved to represent himself better in future.

The driver tapped loudly on the top of the cab and both Newbury and Veronica looked up in surprise, dragged away from their thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Is this the place you’re looking for, sir?”

He glanced out of the window. The cab had come to rest outside a small office building appended to a much larger complex of industrial hangers and factories. A sign above the door read:
Chapman & Villiers Air Transportation Services.

“Yes, thank you driver, this is the place.” He sighed, and caught Veronica’s eye, folding his newspaper under his arm as he did so. “Are you ready, my dear?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well then, after you.” He watched her clamber down from the cab to the street below. He had a feeling that today, one way or another, some of the missing pieces of the mystery would begin clicking into place.

The offices of Chapman and Villiers were an austere affair, housed within a separate structure that was divorced from the factory proper by a large courtyard and an elaborate set of cast iron gates. Clearly the proprietors were intent on maintaining a strict distance between their visiting clientele and the factory workers, who, Newbury guessed, would likely have a separate entrance somewhere around the rear of the complex. It appeared, from the signs evident in the windows, that the office not only dealt with the company’s commercial affairs but also served as a travel agency, of sorts, selling passage on its fleet of charter vessels to locations all over the globe, from Prussia to China, Jersey to Hong Kong. Newbury toyed with his gloves for a moment. “Well, Miss Hobbes, I do hope you have your detective’s cap on?”

In reply, she stepped forward and pulled the office door open before her. It groaned loudly on its hinges. “Of course. After you, Sir Maurice.”

He shook his head, taking the door from her and ushering her inside. “Come now, Miss Hobbes, let’s do things properly.”

The main reception area was as sobering in appearance as one expected after taking in the view of the building from the outside; the walls were hung with a dark, burgundy covering that seemed to soak up all of the light, and a scattering of chairs were situated beside low coffee tables and tall, leafy plants. A set of short stairs led up to another, unseen level. A clerk sat in one corner with his back to them, talking to a customer in hushed tones about purchasing transport to the Far East.

Their attention was most immediately drawn, however, to the man behind a mahogany desk in the centre of the room, his fingers forming a perfect pyramid before him on the polished surface, his pale face belying his apparent displeasure at receiving customers so close to lunch. When he spoke, his voice was thin and nasal. “Can I help you?”

Newbury strode up to the desk and placed his hat down beside a sheaf of paper files. The clerk looked at the item as if it were a horse’s head, his disdain clearly evident.

“I’m here to see Mr. Chapman.”

The clerk made a show of looking in his ledger. “Are you sure, sir? I have no meetings scheduled for Mr. Chapman today. He really is a very busy man.” He shut his ledger as if that were simply the end of the matter. “Perhaps you’d care to make an appointment?”

“I’m afraid you don’t seem to understand. It’s imperative I speak with Mr., Chapman today.” Newbury glowered at the man behind the desk.