The Affinity Bridge (20 page)

Evelyn leaned forward, clutching her empty teacup to her knee. “Do you think Sir Maurice might decide to become a member of the Orleans Club? I’m sure the other gentlemen would make him most welcome, and I’d love to introduce you to Juliana.”

Isabella cut in before Veronica had chance to answer. “Juliana is Evelyn’s elder sister. She recently married an industrialist named Greene. She has pretensions of becoming a novelist.”

“Really?”

Evelyn looked uncomfortable. “Actually, I believe she’s really rather good. She gives Margaret Oliphant a run for her money, anyway.” She patted the book beside her on the chair, and smiled.

Veronica tried to look engaged by the idea. “I’m sure that she’s very talented indeed, Miss Blackwood.” She placed her cup and saucer on the table. There was a rap at the door. The three women looked up to see Newbury framed in the doorway.

“Miss Hobbes. I’m sorry to disturb your conversation, but I believe our business here is done.”

Veronica tried to hide the relief on her face. As she stood, Isabella leaned in and whispered surreptitiously. “You’re right dear, he’s terribly dashing.”

Veronica smiled knowingly and turned to face both of the ladies. “Good afternoon, ladies. It’s been a pleasure.”

Evelyn glanced from Newbury to Veronica. “You must come and see us again, Miss Hobbes. Sir Maurice, do say you’ll bring her again.”

Newbury coughed to cover his laughter. “All in good time, I’m sure.”

Evelyn smiled triumphantly. “That’s settled then. Next time Juliana may be here. I am sure she’d be delighted to tell you about her writing.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” And with that Veronica turned on her heel and joined Newbury in the hallway, before the two of them took their leave of the Orleans Club and headed out into the cold afternoon.

“So, how did you find Morgan?”

They were waiting for a cab by the side of the road. The fog had settled even lower during the time they had passed inside the Orleans Club, and the street seemed deserted, wreathed in a thick smog. Veronica was standing close to Newbury, partly in an effort to fight off the penetrating chill, but partly for the comfort of having him nearby. The fog made her uncomfortable these days, what with all the talk of ‘revenants’ and glowing policemen. She had resolved to spend as little time out in it as possible, for the time being, at least.

“I’m afraid I didn’t find Morgan at all. He didn’t keep our appointment. Either he was detained elsewhere, or simply decided that his information wasn’t so inflammatory after all.”

Veronica frowned. “That sounds unlikely, especially after hearing about him from the ladies inside the club.”

Newbury chuckled. “Yes, you did seem to ingratiate yourself with them rather.”

Veronica sighed. “I admit that I find that sort of woman most difficult to engage. I think it was their sheer desperation at seeing another female face that led them to embrace me so quickly.”

Newbury shrugged. “Did they reveal anything useful, other than recommendations for the latest romance novel or the usual society gossip?”

“Not as such. Although they did go on at length about Morgan, ensuring me he was an excellent fellow, a perfect gentleman and a ‘pillar of their community’. Doesn’t sound to me like the sort of chap not to keep his appointments.”

“Indeed.” Newbury paused at the sound of horse’s hooves. He stepped into the road for a moment, catching the attention of a cab driver. He came back to stand beside Veronica as the cab drew up before them, coming to rest beside the curb. “Well, it’s been a difficult day for us both, Miss Hobbes, and I suspect, with the dark drawing in, that it’s a little too late to go searching for Morgan now. What do you say that I drop you at home and we set out again first thing tomorrow morning for Morgan’s gallery? We shouldn’t allow the trail to go cold, no matter how tenuous it actually is.”

Veronica nodded her assent. After the day she’d had, she’d be glad for a hot bath and an early night. “Will you be alright, Sir Maurice?”

He caught the meaning behind her words as he opened the door of the cab for her. “I’ll be fine, Miss Hobbes. Absolutely fine.”

“In that case I think it is an excellent plan. I’m sure we could both do with the rest.”

They mounted the cab and gave the driver directions. Then, falling into a casual silence, each of them watching the fog roll by the windows of the cab, they set out for Kensington, and home.

_{Chapter Fifteen}

“Good God, Newbury. You look done for!”

Bainbridge had never been a man to keep his thoughts to himself.

“A rough night, Charles, followed by a long day. Think nothing of it.” Newbury stood to greet his guest. “How the devil are you?”

“Troubled, if truth be told. Can’t seem to shake this damn Whitechapel case. I’m starting to think you may have been on to something, you know, with all that ‘glowing policeman’ business.” He dropped himself into a chair in Newbury’s lounge, sighing, and Newbury took a seat opposite him. He knew Mrs. Bradshaw would already be organising drinks. He hadn’t been expecting Bainbridge to call, but he wasn’t disappointed by the development. His old friend offered good company, and he was in need of a distraction, to prevent him from pondering too long on the other events of the day.

“Well, I have no doubt Mrs. Bradshaw will be preparing a brandy. We can discuss it at our leisure before a warm fire. I only wish I could do more, but I’m up to my neck in this other affair.”

“You’re a good man, Newbury. But tell me, I’ve heard nothing further on the airship disaster. What news?”

“Little, I’m afraid to report. Her Majesty is anxious for a quick resolution, but the leads are few and far between. She’s adamant there’s foul play involved, but I admit I’m still unsure. I take it Foulkes hasn’t turned up anything useful?”

Bainbridge shook his head. “Indeed not. He’s a good man. Thorough. If there was anything to be found, he’d have turned it out by now. I’m afraid it’s in your hands, Newbury. Ah, look…”

They turned to see Mrs. Bradshaw enter the room bearing two large glasses of brandy. Bainbridge took one from her, smiling, his bushy moustache quivering as he did so. “An asset to you, Newbury.” He raised the glass to Mrs. Bradshaw. “I’m in dire need of a housekeeper like you, Mrs. Bradshaw. Many thanks.” He took a long draw of the brandy, blinking as the alcohol assaulted his palate. Newbury sniffed at his glass and then placed it on the low table between them. He wasn’t sure his damaged constitution was ready for it just yet. Mrs. Bradshaw quickly made herself scarce.

Newbury leaned back in his chair, making himself comfortable. The room was small and cosy, with three chairs, a roaring fire, a small bureau and a portrait on the wall showing his grandfather in his military attire. The man had fought in Afghanistan during the expansion of the Empire, and was in many ways responsible, if indirectly, for Newbury’s fascination with the occult. John Newbury had died in action, and his small chest of belongings had been returned to the family back in London aboard an old steamer. Still only a boy, Newbury had wondered at the secret contents of the chest, which his father had kept locked and hidden under his bed. One day, when his father was away on business and his mother was receiving visitors in the rooms below, Newbury had taken the key from the drawer in the nightstand and crawled underneath his parent’s bed, searching out the chest and unlocking the ornate clasp. The contents were to change his life forever.

Aside from the more typical paraphernalia of war—a pistol, a dagger, a medal—the chest contained three books of a kind young Newbury had never encountered before. The knowledge within them would send him spiralling into a world full of mystery, full of magic and creatures of the night, rituals and charms. They contained a secret history of the world, a catalogue of the occult, and a guide to all the bizarre, esoteric practices that demonstrated the thin line between life and death. For weeks Newbury would return to the chest underneath his parent’s bed, digging out his grandfather’s books and reading by candlelight, filling his head with wonders. He still had the books, now, safe in his study, reclaimed from his father’s belongings after both of his parents had died. The chest had remained in place for another thirty years, undisturbed, and the day he had finally laid his mother to rest he had returned to the family home to collect it. By this time, of course, Newbury had assembled a vast library dedicated to the arcane, but these particular volumes he had never found again, and they now held pride of place in his collection. He wondered if they were the only three copies of the books that still existed, anywhere in the Empire.

Snapping out of his reverie, Newbury glanced at Bainbridge, who had downed the rest of his brandy and was watching him inquisitively. “Lost you for a moment, Newbury. Everything alright?”

“Yes. Yes, indeed. I was lost in thought. Apologies, old man.” He clapped his hands together, demonstrating that Bainbridge had his full attention. “So tell me, what’s troubling you about the Whitechapel case?”

Bainbridge stared at the empty glass in his fingers, turning it over so that it caught the light. “We’re just getting nowhere, Newbury. More and more bodies are turning up, dumped all over the place, and we don’t even have a suspect. The witnesses, such as they are, all report seeing a ghostly blue figure emerge from the fog, and then they damn well run for their lives. Who can blame them? Some report hearing the screams of the victims as they run, but that’s about all we’ve got to go on. It’s the same every time—the victim is strangled, apparently without motive, and none of their belongings are taken or disturbed. There is never any trace of the killer left on the scene, and we haven’t been able to find anything that links the victims to one another either. I admit to being completely confounded by it all.” He looked exasperated, and Newbury, taking pity on his old friend, got out of his chair and searched out a bottle of brandy from a small cabinet on the other side of the room. He placed it on the table in front of a thankful Bainbridge before dropping back into his seat.

“Well, I can see why you’re grasping at straws.” He smiled. “Miss Hobbes had an interesting notion a few days ago that the killer may not be the original ‘glowing policeman’ at all, but a new one, an example of the same phenomenon at work, involving different people entirely. Have there been any constables killed in recent months?”

Bainbridge looked thoughtful. “Not that I’m aware of. Although it’s certainly worth double-checking. I’ll have a man look into it tomorrow.”

“Excellent. Other than that, have there been any changes at all in the pattern of the murders? Any minor detail that you haven’t mentioned to me as yet?”

Bainbridge poured himself another drink. “Not as such, although the most recent body was different from the rest.”