The Affinity Bridge: A Newbury & Hobbes Investigation E-Book

George Mann

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Welcome to the bizarre and dangerous world of Victorian London. Airships soar in the skies, whilst ground trains rumble through the streets. But beneath this shiny veneer of progress lurks a sinister side. Queen Victoria is kept alive by a primitive life-support system while her agents Sir Maurice Newbury and his assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes, do battle with enemies of the crown, both physical and supernatural...

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by George Mann

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Coming Soon from Titan Books

Also by George Mann and available from Titan Books

The Osiris Ritual: A Newbury & Hobbes Investigation (November 2015)

The Immorality Engine: A Newbury & Hobbes Investigation (March 2016)

The Executioner’s Heart: A Newbury & Hobbes Investigation (available now)

The Revenant Express: A Newbury & Hobbes Investigation (August 2016)

The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes

Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead

Sherlock Holmes: The Spirit Box

Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

Ghosts of Manhattan

Ghosts of War

Ghosts of Karnak (forthcoming)

Ghosts of Empire (forthcoming)

THE AFFINITY BRIDGE: A NEWBURY & HOBBES INVESTIGATION Print edition ISBN: 9781783298273 E-book edition ISBN: 9781783298280

Published by Titan Books A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd 144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: July 2015 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

George Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Copyright © 2008, 2015 George Mann.

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

FOR JAMES GEORGE ALEXANDER MANN

PROLOGUE

INDIA, JUNE 1901

The flies. Always the damn flies.

Coulthard slapped at the insects buzzing incessantly around his face and checked his rifle for the fifth time that hour. The heat was proving even more oppressive than usual, and the hair at the nape of his neck was damp with perspiration, his uniform tight and uncomfortable. The other two weren’t faring much better, either: Hargreaves was perched on a nearby rock, taking a long swig from his water bottle, and Taylor was pacing backwards and forwards, kicking miserably at the dirt. Only two days remained before the start of their return journey to England, and the lieutenant was still riding them hard, forcing them to go out on patrol in the stifling midday sun. Coulthard cursed under his breath. The man was an egomaniac.

From the craggy outcropping on which he stood, Coulthard could just make out the village they had trudged their way here from: a small collection of farms and ramshackle buildings that leaned awkwardly against each other like rows of uneasy siblings. Behind him, a line of trees marked the edge of the village boundaries, and to his left, a series of distant specks denoted a smattering of local farmworkers tending their crops in fields of leafy green. The place had an air of expectancy about it, like somehow it was holding its breath in anticipation of something yet to come.

Yawning, he turned to his companions, resting his rifle against a nearby rock. “So, what’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get back to London?” They’d had this conversation a hundred times in the last few weeks, and he already knew what Har-greaves was going to say. Still, it was a conversation that reminded them all of home, and as far as Coulthard was concerned, that was no bad thing.

Hargreaves looked up from his water bottle. He mirrored the other man’s smile. “The minute I step off that airship, I’m heading for a pint in the Fox and Hound. I’ve missed the sorry beggars that prop up the bar in there, and I’ve missed a good pint of English ale.” He chuckled at the memories. “After that, who knows? Maybe I’ll take the train out to Berkshire and spend some time on my parents’ farm.” He glanced over at Taylor, who was still kicking up clouds of dust with his feet, a preoccupied expression on his face. Hargreaves dabbed at the perspiration beading his forehead with the back of his sleeve and then leaned in conspiratorially. “Not sure about him, though.” He indicated the other man with his water bottle. “He’s not in a good way. Too wet behind the ears for the things he’s seen out here.” He lowered his voice even further. “May be the asylum for him, when we finally get him home. Poor sod.”

Coulthard let the comment pass without a response. They’d all been too wet behind the ears for the things they’d seen out here. India was a world apart from England, even with its thin veneer of Empire. He couldn’t wait to get home, to get away from the heat and the noise and the ever-present flies. He watched Taylor for a moment, pacing backwards and forwards like an animal trapped in a cage. Hargreaves was right, of course: India had clearly broken the man. He wasn’t sure if there was anything to be done for him now. But the asylum? Even the thought of it made him shudder. He’d visited an asylum once, back in Wandsworth, and the screaming of the inmates still rang out in his dreams sometimes, during the long nights when he lay there, trying not to think of all the terrible things he’d seen. If Taylor were headed for the asylum, what hope was there for the rest of them?

Repressing another shudder, Coulthard turned his attention back to Hargreaves. “Well, if luck be with me, my Ruth will be waiting at the airship port when we arrive.” He smiled at the thought of her. In another week, he’d be holding her in his arms, spinning her around in the pale winter sun. His heart felt as if it would burst in his chest. That was the thing that would keep him sane, the thing that he was out here fighting for: his life back in England, and the lives of everyone he loved.

Hargreaves smiled. He’d heard all of this before. He reached for his water bottle again, and Coulthard turned to survey the horizon once more.

There was a shuffling sound from behind him. At first, Coulthard assumed it was Taylor, still kicking awkwardly at the sun-baked soil with his boots. Then he became aware of a quiet whimpering sound, like that of a frightened animal, and he felt his hackles rise. He turned around slowly on the spot. His heart was hammering in his chest. What he saw was enough to send him running for the asylum himself.

The creature that was menacing Taylor was like something raised from the very depths of Hades itself. It was dressed in the torn rags of an Indian peasant, and may once have been human, but now looked more like a half-rotted corpse than like anything resembling a man. The creature’s skin was desiccated and peeling, its eyes bloodshot, its hair hanging in loose stringy strands around its face. Its teeth were bared in a rabid snarl, and it was bearing down on a terrified Taylor. Coulthard presumed that it had crept out from the cover of the nearby trees when they hadn’t been paying attention. Taylor was on his knees before it, using his arms to cover his face from the beast as if simply trying to will it out of existence.

Coulthard scrambled hurriedly for his rifle, fumbling as he tried to bring the barrel to bear on the horrifying creature. Hargreaves was already on his feet and rushing forwards, his sword drawn, ready to take a swing at the monster. Shaking, Coulthard tried to remind himself to breathe, to hold himself steady as he planted his feet and took aim. He let off a shot, jarring his shoulder with the sudden recoil. The creature staggered back for a moment, then surged forwards again in a frenzy, lashing out at Taylor, who had given himself over completely to his terror and seemed unable even to attempt to defend himself from the diabolical thing. Coulthard watched in shock as the creature raked its nails across Taylor’s face, digging its bony thumbs into his eye sockets and sending him spinning to the ground, his once-handsome face reduced to nothing but a bloody ruin. He gave a final wail before crumpling to the dirt, silent.

The creature turned its attention to Hargreaves. Blinded by rage after witnessing the fate of his fellow soldier, Hargreaves swung his blade at the lurching monster with all his might. It struck home, cleaving deep into the creature’s chest, biting through skin, muscle and bone, but it hardly seemed to slow the beast at all. To Coulthard’s amazement, it showed no signs of pain, or even distraction, as Hargreaves struggled to pull his weapon free from where it had wedged inside the creature’s shattered rib cage. Coulthard let off another shot, to no avail, and finally accepted the uselessness of the firearm and abandoned it to the ground instead drawing his sabre and rushing quickly to his fellow’s side.

Using his momentum to carry his blade forward, he speared the monster directly through the gut, driving his sword home until the hilt itself was buried deep inside the creature’s abdomen. He twisted it, trying desperately to slow the assault of the vile thing, to draw some sort of reaction from it. All the while, it continued to rage at Hargreaves, who had given up trying to pull his weapon free and was now pummelling the monster’s face with his fists as he endeavoured to wrestle free from its talonlike grip. A moment later, his movements turned to spasms when, unable to gain useful purchase on the creature, it pulled him close and tore his throat out with single wretched bite.

Coulthard, aghast, pulled his sabre free of the creature’s guts and aimed a blow at the arm that still held the limp body of his friend. The blade sliced clean through the arm, lopping off the limb at the elbow and dropping the dead Hargreaves to the dirt. Dark blood sprayed from the wound, but the monster itself seemed entirely unperturbed by its injury. Baring its teeth, it pounced on Coulthard, clamping its mouth on his forearm as the man struggled to bring his weapon up before him in defence. Howling in pain, Coulthard kicked at the creature, desperate to break free. He could smell the carrion-stench of the thing, see the feral hunger behind its darting inhuman eyes.

Acutely aware of the horrifying manner in which his friends had died, Coulthard’s instincts screamed at him to run. With a concerted effort, he grabbed a handful of the creature’s hair and wrenched his arm from its mouth, tearing skin away from bone as an enormous hunk of his flesh was rent away in the creature’s jaws. Almost swooning with the pain, Coulthard drove the blade of his sword through the monster’s chest and then turned and fled, his feet pounding the dry earth as his legs pumped as fast as they could, sending him careening down the side of the outcropping and onwards towards the village, his left arm dangling uselessly by his side.

Behind him, the unusual beast, still with the hilt of the sabre protruding rudely from its chest and the stump of its missing arm spouting ribbons of dark blood, turned and grabbed the hair of Taylor’s fresh cadaver and began to drag it slowly towards the cover of the trees.

CHAPTER 1

LONDON, NOVEMBER 1901

The room was full of ghosts.

Or so Felicity Johnson would have had him believe. Sir Maurice Newbury, weary from a day spent scouring the dusty stacks of the British Library, drummed his fingers on the table with a quiet impatience. The dinner party was not working out at all as he’d anticipated.

Around him, the other guests sat in a wide circle, spaced evenly around a large round table, their faces glowing in the dim light of the gas-lamps. Overturned tumblers, tarot cards, holly leaves and other assorted paraphernalia littered the table-top, and their host, her shrill voice piercing in the otherwise silent room, was attempting to raise the dead.

Newbury, decidedly unimpressed by the charade, glanced at the other guests around the table. Their faces were difficult to read in the half-light, but many of them appeared captivated by the performance of the woman as she waved her arms about her, wailing, her eyes shut tight, her body tensed; possessed, apparently, by some kind of unearthly spirit. She was currently engaged in babbling something about Meredith York’s dead brother, and the poor woman was entirely taken in, sobbing on her husband’s arm as if she truly believed she were receiving messages from beyond the grave.

Newbury shot a look at the man seated beside him and shrugged. Sir Charles Bainbridge was a Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard, a favoured agent of Queen Victoria herself and one of the most rational men in Newbury’s acquaintance. He didn’t think for a minute that his old friend would be taken in by any of this nonsense. He was older than Newbury, about ten years his senior, and was greying slightly around the temples. His moustache was bushy and full, and his eyes were bright, shining with mischief and the glassy patina of alcohol. Acknowledging the pained expression on his friend’s face, Bainbridge offered an amused smile, the flickering light casting his face in stark relief. Clearly, he was considerably more forgiving of the indulgences of their host. Newbury shook his head in exasperation.

A few moments later, Miss Johnson fell back into her chair with a gasp, her eyes suddenly flicking open, her hands raised to her mouth in affected shock. She turned to survey her guests. “Did I—?”

Meredith York nodded emphatically, and a moment later, when the gas-lamps were turned up and the room was once again cast in a warm orange glow, the small audience paid tribute to their host with a hearty round of applause. Newbury sat back in his chair, relieved that the spectacle was over. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling a sense of lethargy creeping over him. The other guests were already deep in conversation as he surveyed the scene with the air of someone ready to take their leave. He didn’t want to be drawn out on his opinions of the evening’s pursuit, lest he inadvertently cause offence. He patted his friend on the arm.

“Charles?” The other man turned to meet his gaze. Newbury stifled a yawn. “My lodgings beckon me. I’m intent on taking a stroll. Would you care to join me?”

Bainbridge allowed himself a brief chuckle at the other man’s expense. “That keen to get away, Newbury?” He shook his head in feigned disapproval, but his smile was barely concealed. “I had a feeling that you’d find this all rather objectionable. Come on, let’s bid our friends good night and take our leave.”

The two men stood together, and Felicity Johnson almost leapt out of her seat when she spotted them out of the corner of her eye. She briefly patted Meredith York on the back of the hand before turning to regard them. “Oh, gentlemen, must you go so soon?”

Newbury edged around the table and took her hand. “I am afraid that duty calls, my dear Miss Johnson. Both Charles and I have early appointments to keep in the morning. Thank you for a pleasant evening.” He paused, unsure how to go on. “It has been an … entertaining diversion.” He inclined his head politely and turned to reclaim his coat from the butler standing by the door. The woman’s face fell, and she stammered briefly before replying. “Always a pleasure, Sir Maurice.” She turned to Bainbridge, who was just collecting his cane from the hat stand in the hallway. “And you, Sir Charles. I do hope we will see you both again soon.” And with that, she returned her attention to the adoration of Meredith York and her other guests.

* * *

Outside, the pavement was covered in a layer of hoary frost. Newbury turned his collar up against the biting winter chill. The moon was full in the sky, the night was clear and people bustled along the street, their breaths making foggy clouds in the cold air. Newbury drew the crisp air deep into his lungs, obviously relieved to have escaped further embarrassment at the hands of Miss Johnson.

Bainbridge, his cane clicking rhythmically against the ground as he walked, turned to Newbury as they made their way back towards Piccadilly. “Really, Newbury, did you have to cut her so?”

“Oh, Charles, the woman’s a buffoon! She’s trifling with things she has no real concept of, making light of Mrs. York’s bereavement. Games like that are dangerous and hurtful.” He shook his head, sighing. “I did not aim to cause offence. I simply wanted to let her know that we were not taken in by her little merriment. You know as well as I do, there were no spirits present in that room.”

They stopped as a ground train trundled by, the huge steam engine roaring as the fireman stoked the flames, the carriages behind it bouncing along the cobbled road, their wooden wheels creaking under the strain. Newbury caught stuttering glimpses of the people inside the small carriages as they rushed by, snug inside their little booths, speeding on towards their destinations. The driver, on the other hand, was wrapped up warm against the elements, sitting atop the engine itself on a large dickey box, a huge steering wheel clasped between his gloved hands. They watched as it rattled away into the night, causing hansom cabs and more traditional horse-drawn carriages to divert from their paths. Newbury smiled. It was time for the past to make way for the future.

The two men crossed the road and continued on their way. Newbury decided it was time to change the subject. “So, tell me, Charles, any new developments in the case at hand?”

The other man sighed. “Not as such. Can’t seem to get past this ridiculous story about the glowing policeman. It’s making life very difficult for my constables. They keep being accosted out on their rounds. No one will answer their questions, and the men themselves don’t want to go out at night, lest they find themselves running into this damnable fellow. Superstitious prigs!”

Newbury looked suddenly serious. “Charles”—he patted the other man on the shoulder—“look who has his ire up now! Don’t be so swift to discount these stories, at least before we have any real evidence to the contrary.”

Bainbridge looked incredulous. “Heavens, Newbury, surely you’re not putting any stock in these ridiculous tales? They are clearly as much poppycock as Miss Johnson’s spirits!”

Newbury hesitated. “Look, Charles, I know I was dismissive of Miss Johnson, but I’ve spent the entire day scouring shelves in the British Library, looking for references to a glowing policeman, and I assure you, there is more to it than meets the eye.”

Bainbridge stopped in his tracks. He leaned on his cane. “How so?”

“There’s a case from about twelve years ago. A bobby who was murdered by a gang of petty thieves—found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know the sort of thing.” Bainbridge nodded. “Well, for a month after the body was interred, a ‘glowing bobby’ was seen looming out of the fog around the Whitechapel area, his pale skin shining an iridescent blue. One by one, the bodies of the thieves turned up, all strangled, all dumped in the same area of the city. Witnesses reported sightings of the dead constable, come back from the grave to seek revenge on his aggressors. After the last of the thieves turned up dead, the ‘glowing bobby’ was never seen again.” He paused. “Until now, that is. I pieced the story together from various newspaper reports.”

Bainbridge shrugged. “It was probably the other boys from the station, using the story as a cover to take revenge for the murder. They don’t take kindly to one of their own being put in the soil.”

Newbury nodded. “That may well be the case, but until we know more, I think we need to follow this line of inquiry. It may turn out to be nothing but poppycock, but we shouldn’t dismiss it until we’ve had the opportunity to investigate a little further first.”

“Very well.” Bainbridge covered his mouth with the back of his hand as he coughed. “Come on, let’s get out of this cold.”

Newbury sauntered along beside him. “Would you care to join me for a nightcap at the White Friar’s? They have a shockingly good brandy.”

Bainbridge was about to reply when a sudden powerful gust of wind knocked them both back a step, and the older man found himself clinging to his hat to ensure it wasn’t lost in the draught. He looked up. “Damn airships! I wish they wouldn’t fly them so low over the city.”

Newbury laughed, following his gaze. The underbelly of an immense vessel was scudding overhead, scintillating in the reflected light of the city and temporarily blotting out the moon, casting the two men in a dark shadow. The airship companies had been enjoying a period of rapid growth in recent months, with demand for air travel almost exceeding their capacity to build new vessels and clear space for berthing fields. The appearance of a sizeable ship such as this was becoming a frequent occurrence in the skies over London, as the Empire grew larger and an increasing number of people found profitable business abroad. With the haulage companies taking to the skies, too, there was no longer any need to relocate to foreign climes on a permanent basis, and many businessmen had taken the opportunity to set up subsidiary companies in India, America and the West Indies. Newbury himself had never travelled on one of the vessels, but he was certainly enamored with them, and watched in wonder as this one drifted lazily overhead, en route, he supposed, to a berthing field south of the city. He glanced back at Bainbridge, who had finally finished repositioning his hat. “Well? To the White Friar’s?”

Bainbridge shook his head. “Not tonight, old friend. You’ve given me much to think about, and I must say that that pudding of Miss Johnson’s is sitting rather heavily on me now. Don’t have quite the constitution I used to.”

Newbury smiled. “You’ll hear no argument from me.” He held out his hand, and the other man grasped it firmly. “Let me know if there are any further developments in the case. In the meantime, I bid you well and good night.” He turned and made off in the direction of the White Friar’s Club, gazing up at the sky in wonder at the vapour trails left in the wake of the passing airship.

CHAPTER 2

Newbury leaned back in his chair and, with a sigh, spread his morning copy of The Times out before him on the desk. After retiring from the White Friar’s Club the previous evening, he’d found he was unable to sleep. Nonetheless, with the coming of the dawn, he had risen, dressed and caught a cab across the city from his Chelsea lodgings to his office at the British Museum. He had little doubt that his housekeeper, Mrs. Bradshaw, would curse him colourfully in her delightful Scottish tones for failing—yet again—to inform her of his plans, but he also knew that she was growing used to his unpredictable comings-and-goings, even if she feigned exasperation to his face.

Outside, the sun was settling over the city, and the streets were gradually coming to life as people set about their daily business. Soon the museum would be bustling with his fellow academics and, not long after, with members of the public, come to gaze in awe and wonder at the treasures on display in the gaudy exhibits. Newbury had been an agent of the Queen for nearly four years, and whilst he was typically engaged in some case or other—whether helping Scotland Yard or left to his own devices—he continued to maintain a position at the museum all the same. He was an experienced anthropologist, with a particular speciality in the religion and supernatural practices of prehistoric human cultures, and he often found his academic work had resonance with his work in the field. At present, he was engaged in writing a paper on the ritualistic practices of the druidic tribes of Bronze Age Europe. He’d hardly found time to touch it for a week, however, what with the string of bizarre strangulations occurring around Whitechapel and his desire to aid his old friend, Bainbridge, in the hunt for the killer. Discovering that the culprit may have supernatural origins had only solidified his resolve to see the case through to the end, and what’s more, the revelation put the case firmly and directly into his specific area of expertise. Since briefing the Queen with a missive the previous day, any time he spent aiding Bainbridge with his investigations was now considered official business.

Newbury yawned. It was still early, and his secretary had yet to arrive at the office. He was anxious for a cup of tea. He regarded the newspaper before him, paying no real attention to the article he’d been trying to follow, which concerned a politician involved in some lurid financial scandal. He was dressed in a neat black suit, a white shirt and crimson cravat. His hair was dark—the very colour of night itself—and swept back from his face, and he was clean-shaven. His eyes were a startling emerald green. A casual observer would have placed him in his early thirties, but in truth, he was approaching his fortieth year. He looked up at the sound of someone bustling into the adjoining room and called out, “Good morning, Miss Coulthard. I’d like a pot of tea when you’re settled, please.” He returned, distractedly, to his reading.

A moment later, there was a brief rap at his door. He didn’t look up from his newspaper when the door itself swung open and someone crossed into the room. “Thank you, Miss Coulthard. I trust you are well?”

The woman cleared her throat. Newbury’s eyes flicked up from the print. “Oh, my dear Miss Hobbes. I do apologise.” He fumbled for a moment, unsure how to remedy his error. “I’m afraid I’m still getting used to the notion that another person will be sharing my office. Do come in.” He half stood behind his desk, embarrassment clearly written on his face, as his recently hired assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes, crossed the room and took a seat before him. She was pretty: brunette, in her early twenties, with a dainty but full figure, and dressed in a white blouse, grey jacket and matching skirt.

She smiled. “Please don’t apologise, Sir Maurice. It takes more than a little case of mistaken identity to offend me.”

Newbury returned her smile. “Very good. Let’s get you settled in, then, shall we? But first … I don’t suppose you’re at all handy with a kettle?”

* * *

An hour later, fortified by a constant supply of Earl Grey, the office had become a hive of activity. Newbury was working through his notes from the previous day, trying to make sense of the various newspaper reports and apparent sightings of the “glowing bobby” around Whitechapel. He was wearing a frown, lost in thought and deep concentration.

Veronica was hard at work, clearing the spare desk across the other side of the room, unpacking her small box of belongings and filing the many sheaves of abandoned notes she continued to find in drawers and random piles all around the office. She had placed her jacket over the back of her chair, rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and attacked the mess like it was some sort of villain in need of appeasing. Newbury was suitably impressed by her fastidiousness.

It was into this scene that a distraught Miss Coulthard came running, late, her hastily tied bun coming loose so that strands of her hair flapped around her face as she came to rest in the doorway, breathless. Both Newbury and Veronica looked up in concern.

Newbury was on his feet immediately, worry etched on his face. “My dear Miss Coulthard, whatever is the matter?”

The woman cowered, as if afraid of what she had to say. Veronica offered her a heartfelt smile.

“Oh, sir, it’s my brother Jack. He disappeared yesterday, and we’ve every fear that he may have succumbed to that terrible plague.”

Newbury shuffled uneasily. “I understand your concern completely, Miss Coulthard. Look—” He indicated his visitor’s chair. “—come and take a seat for a while, and Miss Hobbes here will fetch you a hot cup of tea.” He glanced at Veronica apologetically, and she waved dismissively before hurrying off into the other room to organise another pot of tea.

Newbury put a hand on Miss Coulthard’s arm to reassure her. “Now, why don’t you tell me exactly what you know?”

The diminutive woman looked up at him, a pained expression on her face. “In truth, sir, there ain’t that much to tell. Jack went off to work yesterday morning as normal—to Fitchett and Browns, the lawyers—and never came back. We had a restless night, worrying what kind of a mess he’d got himself involved in, as he’s never been one to loiter before coming home of a night. My sister-in-law and I took ourselves down to the law offices first thing this morning, to enquire as to his whereabouts, and it seems he never even made it that far.” With this, she let out a racking sob, bringing her gloved hand up to her face to stifle her tears. “They had no idea where he was, or why he hadn’t shown up for work the previous day.”

Newbury sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “I’m sure we’ll find a suitable explanation, Miss Coulthard, if we apply ourselves. Now, tell me, what makes you think it’s the plague?” He looked up at the sound of the kettle whistling in the other room and caught sight of Veronica listening to their conversation from the doorway. He nodded approvingly and then returned his attention to the crying woman before him.

“There have been terrible things happening in our neighbourhood, sir, terrible things indeed. Revenants, they’re calling them. Victims of the plague, found staggering around in the fog of a night, like wild animals, baying for people’s blood. Bloodshot eyes, peeling skin—they’re like walking corpses, wandering around in the darkness, waiting for passers-by. The plague transforms them into mindless monsters.” She crossed herself to ward off the thought of the horrifying creatures.

Newbury nodded. “I’m well aware of the phenomenon, Miss Coulthard. It’s thought the plague was brought here from India, borne over by returning soldiers. It inspires a terrible brain fever and a degenerative state in the flesh. Was Jack bitten by one of these walking cadavers?”

“Not that we know of. Jack knows better than to loiter in the dark these recent months. But I fear he must have encountered one on his way to work that morning. The fog was thick around Brixton, and it may have been upon him before he had an opportunity to flee.”

Newbury shook his head. “Unlikely, Miss Coulthard. As I understand it, the victims of this plague find the light painful to their eyes and will avoid stepping out during the daylight hours unless desperate or provoked. Remember, they are driven by animal desires, and not those of a rational human being. Besides, anyone bitten by one of these creatures will incubate the illness for a number of days before showing any symptoms. If your brother was indeed harassed in the street, he would have likely retained his senses and sought medical assistance at a nearby hospital. I’m sure, therefore, that there must be another explanation as to his disappearance.”

Miss Coulthard was still shaking. “You really think so?”

Newbury smiled. “Indeed. There are many things that can keep a man away from his home for a night, Miss Coulthard, and whilst some are less savoury than others, I’m sure in this case, there’ll be a reasonable explanation.” He paused whilst Veronica placed a steaming cup of tea on the desk before Miss Coulthard. “Now, see yourself right with that cup of tea, and then take the rest of the day off. If there’s still no news tomorrow, come and see me again and we’ll file a missing-persons report with Scotland Yard.”

Miss Coulthard braved a smile. “Thank you, sir. It’s just … we’re all so on edge, what with the strange things that have been happening. Time was when we would have laughed it off. But with these revenants walking the streets …”

“I know, Miss Coulthard, I know. The plague has us all concerned for the well-being of our loved ones and friends. I promise I’ll keep my ear to the ground for any clues that may help you to locate your brother.” Newbury stood and edged around the desk. “You stay put for a moment, Miss Coulthard, whilst I have a few words with Miss Hobbes.” He crossed into the adjoining room, straightening his jacket and pulling the door shut behind him.

Veronica looked up. “What is it?”

“I’ll wager it has something to do with drinking or gambling, or both.” He shook his head.

“Is there anything we can do to help?”

“No. I’m convinced the situation will resolve itself. Another day or two, and the man will show up at his own door, hungry and not a little sheepish. Either that or they’ll find him in a cell across the other side of the city, too embarrassed at his own behaviour to tell his family where he’s been.”

There was a rap at the outer door to the office. Veronica glanced quizzically at Newbury before crossing the room and allowing the door to swing open, revealing a messenger standing in the hallway, a small card clasped in his right hand.

“Message for Sir Maurice Newbury, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I’ll see that he gets it.” She took the card from the young boy and turned to Newbury, who had sidled up behind her, his interest piqued. He took the card from her and turned it over in his hand.

“It’s from Bainbridge.” His face had taken on a grim aspect. He looked up at Veronica. “Get your coat. There’s been another murder.”

CHAPTER 3

The cab clattered noisily over the cobbled street as its pistons churned furiously and the driver swore at the mechanism in a half-hearted attempt to make it run faster. In the back, Newbury and Veronica sat in silence, jolted by the speed at which the vehicle rumbled towards its destination and by the unevenness of the road. At the front, the driver sat upon his dickey box, pulling levers to direct the angle of the wheels as the steam-powered pistons fired with noisy abandon and the cab bounced along on steel wheels softened with rims of polished hardwood. Veronica couldn’t help thinking that, whilst it might have taken them a few minutes longer, a traditional horse-drawn carriage may have offered them a more comfortable alternative to the loud, dirty transport within which they now sat. Newbury, on the other hand, was a keen supporter of progress, and whilst even the driver seemed to be having difficulty keeping the contraption under control, Newbury appeared to be relishing every moment of their tumultuous journey.

Outside, the fog was still thick and cloying, a yellow tubercular cloud that sat heavy over the city, a shroud over the populace and a haven for the creeping things of the dark. Veronica watched through the window, seeing only the impression of grandiose buildings looming out of the smog, or the occasional vehicle flitting by on the road, its passengers hidden behind darkened windows or wreaths of smokey fog. Gas-lamps flickered in the damp air, a network of disembodied halos that lined the edges of the streets. Underlit carriages rode on a carpet of rolling fog. It was mid-morning, but it seemed to Veronica as if the day had somehow stalled, the sunlight replaced by a remarkable twilight that appeared to have descended all across the city. She looked up, presuming that the regular slew of airships that filled the skies these days had been grounded temporarily by the impenetrable weather, or else they had risen up above the smog to where the skies were clear and free of city air. She glanced at Newbury, but his face seemed suddenly serious. She folded her hands on her lap and waited.

Presently, as they raced towards Whitechapel and the scene of the murder, the fog became gradually less dense and the buildings closed in, the streets becoming narrower, the towering mansions and sweeping terraces of Bloomsbury giving way to less monumental structures and more factories, breakers’ yards and public houses. Whitechapel was not the sort of place that Veronica would visit by choice. It was one of the seedier locales of the city, a refuge of beggars, criminals and whores. She shivered when she considered what they might find there. Pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, Veronica drew the curtain across the window inside the cab, and Newbury raised an eyebrow in her direction, evidently interested to know what had spooked her. She pretended not to notice.

A short while later, the cab juddered to a halt and the driver clambered down from his perch and opened the door for the two passengers. The engine was still running, and outside, the noise of it was even more intense. It sounded like some great industrial machine, churning out clouds of steam and soot into the already bleak morning.

Newbury made good on the fare and no sooner had he climbed down from the carriage than Bainbridge was at his side, leaning on his cane, his overcoat pulled tight around his wiry frame. He looked like he’d been here for a while already.

“Ah, good, Newbury. We can press on.” He paused for a moment at the sight of Veronica, unsure how to go on. He inclined his head politely. “Good morning, Miss Hobbes.”

He turned to Newbury. “Can I have a word?”

Newbury smiled. “Indeed.” They moved to one side.

“My dear fellow, do you think it’s a good idea to bring a lady to a scene such as this? She could find it terribly alarming.”

Newbury chuckled. “Charles, I may have known the girl for only a few weeks myself, but already I know better than to exclude her.” He smiled. “Trust me, Miss Hobbes can look after herself.”

Charles shook his head, as if dismayed at what the modern world was coming to. “So be it.” He sighed. “Come on, this way.”

He led them on to where the body was lying, sprawled out on the cobbles like a broken doll, its neck contorted into an awkward posture, the face a picture of anguish and pain. Surrounding the scene were three constables, their hands clasped firmly behind their backs, each of them keeping a wary eye on the surrounding fog and what it may or may not be hiding from view.

“Any witnesses?”

“No.”

Newbury knelt closer to examine the body. The man was dressed in pauper’s clothes, dirty from the workhouse, with black filings underneath the fingernails. He was clean-shaven and appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Newbury turned him over gently, examining the soft flesh around the throat, probing with his gloved fingers. He looked up at Bainbridge, who was standing over them, watching intently. “The neck’s been broken, but the cause of death is definitely strangulation. Look at these marks here, here and here.” He indicated with his hand. “This bruising suggests the victim was grabbed forcefully around the throat and struggled somewhat before finally being despatched. There’s nothing of the perpetrator left at the scene, but it certainly matches the profile of the other killings.”

Veronica cleared her throat. “Has he been robbed?”

Both of the men turned to look at her in surprise. “Good question, Miss Hobbes. Let me check.” Newbury fished around in the dead man’s pockets for a moment before withdrawing a small leather wallet from inside the man’s waistcoat. He opened it up. Inside was a smattering of low-denomination coins.

“He had little enough about him, but whoever—or whatever—killed him clearly wasn’t interested in making a profit.”

Bainbridge tapped his cane thoughtfully against the cobbles. “So what did they have to gain?” The frustration was clearly evident in his voice. “Are they just killing people for the hell of it?”

Newbury stood, handing the wallet to Bainbridge. “No, I doubt that very much. There has to be a motive here somewhere. We just can’t see what it is, as yet.”

“Well, I hope one of us starts seeing it soon. This is the seventh victim this month. Things are getting out of hand. I’m going before Her Majesty this afternoon, and currently, all I have to tell her is that the body count keeps getting higher!”

Newbury looked pained for his friend. “Look, I’m making some progress with my research that could suggest a couple of avenues for your men to investigate. Why don’t you call on me later at the office and I can talk you through it? Right now, I think it best that you get that cadaver moved to the local morgue and have the surgeon begin the post-mortem directly. A body lying around in the fog might be too much of a temptation for these ‘revenant’ creatures to bear.” He glanced around at the nearest constable, who was shuffling uncomfortably on the spot.

Bainbridge shrugged. “Yes, yes, you’re quite right.” He turned to the constable on his left, waving his cane. “You, man. Go and organise some transport to get this body moved.” The other man hesitated, as if he were about to protest. Bainbridge was having none of it. “Well, go on, then!” The constable scuttled off into the fog. Bainbridge turned back to Newbury and Veronica. “I’d better go with them, make sure the surgeon gets the correct instructions. Can you find your own way back?”

Veronica nodded. “Of course we can, Sir Charles. But first, would you object terribly if I put a few questions to your men?” She moved over to stand beside Newbury.

Bainbridge looked confused, but assented readily. “No, no, my dear. Anything at all, if you think it may prove useful in helping to solve the case.”

Veronica nodded appreciatively and then stepped around the body and approached one of the remaining two constables.

“Good morning, ma’am.” He looked vaguely uncomfortable at the thought of being questioned by a woman.

“Good morning, Constable …?”

“Pratt, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Constable Pratt. I’m in need of some assistance. You see, my colleagues over there are labouring under the impression that I’m fully up to date with all the minutiae of this murder enquiry, but, as I’m relatively new to the job, I seem to be missing some of the pertinent facts. I was hoping you could help me out of my predicament?”

“Certainly, ma’am. Where would you like me to begin?”

Veronica affected ignorance. “Well, we could start with the victims. How many are there now?”

Pratt hesitated before going on. “Well, ma’am, there are seven official victims, all of them strangled to death and abandoned in the street, just like this one. All from the same area of the city.”

“Official victims?”

“Yes, ma’am. Folk around here are saying there’s actually around three times that number, if not more. Sometimes the families come and move the bodies before the police happen upon them, other times the corpses are stripped and robbed and end up floating down the river.”

“And what of witnesses?”

“People aren’t too forthcoming, ma’am. They’re attributing these killings to a phantom, the glowing policeman. Talk like that makes them clam up good and proper when a man in uniform comes knocking on their door. Not only that, but people are scared to come out at night. On one hand, they’re worried about the murderer; on the other, about the revenants that are walking the streets at night, hiding in the gutters like animals. Places like this, they ain’t safe, ma’am. People keep themselves to themselves.”

Veronica smiled. “So do you think this is the work of the glowing policeman, Constable Pratt?”

“I’m not qualified to say, ma’am. But I do know folk who claim they’ve seen him out here, wandering around in the fog, his face and hands glowing with ghostly blue light whilst he waits for his next victim.”

“Thank you, Constable. Most useful.” She made her way back to where Newbury and Bainbridge were standing, a wry smile on her face. “It sounds as if these bodies may be just the tip of the iceberg.”

Bainbridge nodded, obviously impressed. “You continue to confound me, Miss Hobbes.”