The Affinity Bridge (10 page)

“Imperative, you say, sir? Could I inquire as to what business you may have with my employer that could possibly be so urgent? If you’re looking to make a complaint about a recent journey then you can find the forms behind you on the table there.”

Newbury sighed. “I’m here on the business of the Crown. It is a delicate matter that I wish to discuss with Mr. Chapman in private. Of course, if you’d prefer me to air his private business out here…?”

The man’s entire demeanour changed. His face seemed to flush with colour and his pursed lips split into a wide smile. He swallowed, and parted his hands in a conciliatory gesture. The timbre of his voice became immediately more welcoming. “Of course, sir. I quite understand. Allow me to go and enquire as to whether Mr. Chapman is available. May I offer him your name?”

“Sir Maurice Newbury.”

“Please take a seat, Sir Maurice. I will only be a moment.”

Newbury watched as the clerk scuttled out from behind his desk and crossed the office, glancing once behind him to see if Newbury was watching. He climbed the stairs and disappeared from view, Veronica lowered herself into one of the chairs, smiling to herself. Newbury paced the office, obviously impatient.

A moment or two later the clerk appeared at the top of the stairs. He climbed down, his hands clasped behind his back, and approached Newbury tentatively, as one might approach a lion, “Mr., Chapman is in his office and would be only too delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir Maurice. I will show you up now.” He beckoned for them to follow. Newbury remembered to reclaim his hat before helping Veronica to her feet.

At the top of the stairs, three doors led into what Newbury supposed were private offices. The clerk hesitated before the middle one, clearing his throat. He rapped politely, three times, and then opened the door with a flourish, stepping to one side to allow them to enter.

“Your visitors, sir,”

Newbury followed Veronica into the room, his hat tucked carefully under his arm.

It was a large office, and ostentatiously furnished, cluttered with artwork and fine goods from all corners of the globe. Newbury glanced around, trying to get a measure of the place. An enormous marble fireplace dominated one wall, whilst above it, a portrait of the Queen looked mournfully down upon the visitors. A display case in one corner held relics from as far afield as Constantinople, Baghdad, Greece and Delhi; souvenirs,

Newbury supposed, from journeys undertaken in pursuit of business in those far-flung nations.

Chapman himself lounged in a large Chesterfield, smoking a cigarette. His hair was blonde and cut long around his shoulders, and he was dressed in his shirtsleeves and a black waistcoat. Newbury thought he had the look of a cat about him, languorously warming himself before the fire. He stood as Newbury entered the room and moved quickly to shake his hand. “Sir Maurice Newbury, I presume?”

“Indeed.” Newbury took his hand and shook it firmly. He stepped to one side. “Allow me to introduce my assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes.”

Chapman smiled and took her hand, holding it for just a moment longer than was necessary, before inclining his head politely. “Delighted, I’m sure.” He gestured at the clerk, who was still standing in the doorway. “Now, can my man Soames fetch you any refreshments? A brandy, perhaps?” He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Not too early for that, are we?” He looked baffled, as if he’d only just realised the time.

Newbury shook his head. “A pot of tea would be fine. Earl Grey, if you have it?”

Chapman nodded briskly and Soames disappeared again, clicking the door shut behind him. They heard his footsteps on the stairs as he made his way down to the office below.

Chapman beckoned for them to take a seat, folding himself back into his chair. He reclaimed his cigarette from the ashtray on the table and took a long, luxurious draw. It was clear to Newbury that the man didn’t give much thought to convention: his entire manner was at odds with his station, and his appearance marked him as something of a fop. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help feeling drawn to the man’s bohemian charm. He could see immediately that there was a cool intelligence lurking behind the darting, ice-blue eyes, and whilst he didn’t put much stock in the man’s taste in furnishings, he had to admit the fellow had an acute nose for business. Either that or he was spending his inheritance at a rate that would soon see him bankrupt or destitute. Chapman tapped his cigarette in the ashtray and regarded Newbury with a wistful smile. “So, Sir Maurice, I presume you are here regarding that terrible business with
The Lady Armitage}
⁹⁹
He looked suddenly serious. “A truly lamentable affair.”

Newbury nodded. “Yes. Have you visited the site of the wreckage yourself, Mr. Chapman?”

“No.” He paused to take another draw on his cigarette. “Unfortunately, I was previously engaged—a small matter to resolve with my banker—so I took the liberty of relying on my legal representative, Mr. Stokes.”

Newbury stiffened. “Yes, I spoke with Mr. Stokes for a brief while yesterday.”

Chapman smiled knowingly. “Terrible bore, isn’t he? Seems to be the way with these legal chaps. Dependable, though. I trust he gave you everything you required?”

It was Newbury’s turn to smile. “In a manner of speaking. Nevertheless, I thought it wise to pay you a visit this afternoon, in an effort to get a better understanding of your operation, and to see for myself these automatons that Stokes mentioned.”

Chapman’s eyes seemed to light up. “Ah, the automatons. Villiers’s prized creations. They are impressive machines, Sir Maurice, if you have not yet seen one?”

Newbury glanced at Veronica. “Indeed not. I would certainly welcome a demonstration.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” He reached over and crumpled his cigarette in the ashtray. “And you, Miss Hobbes. I’m sure you’d find the machines equally as impressive.”

“I’m sure I would, Mr. Chapman.”

Newbury looked up at the sound of rapping on the door, and then Soames entered, bearing their tea on a large platter. He crossed the room and placed it on the table before them. Chapman watched him turn and leave, waiting until the last moment to call after him. “Thank you, Soames.”

Newbury scratched his chin absently. “So, Mr. Chapman, Mr. Stokes mentioned yesterday that one of these remarkable new automatons was behind the controls of
The Lady Armitage
when she went down?” Veronica studied the other man’s face, watching for a reaction.

He remained impassive. “Quite possible. I believe around half of the fleet is now piloted by the machines. We even have a Royal charter. Remarkable, really, when you come to think of it.”

“Quite.” Newbury paused. “Mr. Chapman, I’m not sure if you’re aware of all of the circumstances surrounding the disaster yesterday morning?”

Chapman looked puzzled. “Mr. Stokes provided me with a thorough report of his findings. I also spoke with Inspector Foulkes of Scotland Yard. I’d imagine myself to be in full possession of the facts.”

“Did Mr. Stokes’s report make reference to the fact that the pilot of the vessel appeared to be missing from the wreckage?”

Chapman fished around in his waistcoat pocket, searching out his silver cigarette case. He flicked it open and withdrew one of the small white sticks, then offered the case around to the others. When they didn’t accept he slipped it back into his pocket and struck a match with a loud rasp. Smoke billowed around his face as he regarded Newbury. “He made mention of the fact that the unit in question had been destroyed in the impact.”

Newbury met his gaze. “I find that very difficult to believe, Mr. Chapman. I understand the skeletal frames of these automatons are constructed out of brass?”

“Correct.”

“Then why were their no remnants of the unit in evidence anywhere onboard the ship? Both Miss Hobbes and I toured the wreckage and I can assure you, there was nothing to be found.”

Chapman poured the tea, his face thoughtful. “Well, if Mr. Stokes’s assertions are correct, the unit may have burnt up in the fires that followed the crash.”

Newbury sipped from his teacup. “Come now, Mr. Chapman. We both know that the heat in that wreckage would never have reached a temperature enough to incinerate brass. There has to be another explanation.”

Chapman shrugged apologetically. “Perhaps it survived the incident and clambered out of the wreckage, wandering away into the park?”

“The police are certainly following that line of inquiry. Tell me, do you have any notion what may have gone wrong with the unit to cause it to lose control of the vessel, Mr. Chapman?”

Chapman shook his head. “As I understand it, Sir Maurice, the automaton was not responsible for the crash. We’ve had an impeccable safety record throughout the fleet since the implementation of these machines. I find it far more probable that, regrettably, there was a mechanical fault with the vessel itself.”

“So you put no stock in the notion that the automaton unit may have malfunctioned?”

“I do not. Although in truth you’d have to ask Villiers. He’s the man who invented the things; he should be able to give you a better idea of their functions and limitations.” He shrugged.

Veronica placed her empty teacup on the table. “So, Mr. Chapman, where would we find Mr. Villiers?”

Chapman smiled. “He’ll be in his workshop behind the mechanical works. I can take you there, if you like, by way of the airship manufactory?” He stood, not waiting for a reply. “What do you say? A quick tour of the facility?”

Both Newbury and Veronica rose from their seats. Veronica met Newbury’s eye. “Mr. Chapman, I think that would be an excellent idea.”

_{Chapter Eight}

The hanger was cold and Veronica hugged her jacket to herself, wishing she’d thought to bring a shawl or a more substantial overcoat along with her that morning. Her breath fogged in the air before her face. She tried to avoid shivering.

They were standing on a steel walkway above the main factory floor, where the enormous shell of an airship gondola was currently under construction. It sat upon a large wooden pallet, squat in the centre of the massive room, scaffolds running over its surface like the strands of a vast spider’s web, ensnaring the bowels of the partly-erected ship. Men buzzed around the skeleton of the vessel like worker ants, swarming up the sides of the scaffolds to place glass panes into the wooden window frames and pass doors, seats and other furnishings through to the workmen inside. Tools clattered loudly and men shouted to each other above the noise.