Newbury was unmoved. "Foulkes?"
Stokes was obviously taken aback by Newbury's directness. "Urn, no. He's had to go off somewhere. Something about a fireman getting injured in the wreckage."
"Well, Mr. Stokes, perhaps you could make yourself useful for a moment? I have another question and it's very much in need of an answer."
The other man nodded, apprehensive now.
"What became of the ship's pilot? I've been down to the control room and there's no evidence of a body. Indeed, there's precious little evidence that a pilot was even onboard."
Stokes's complexion turned a ghostly shade of white. "The, um, the pilot is missing."
"Missing? How does a pilot go missing} Did he bail out before the crash?"
"Not exactly, Sir Maurice… If I can just…"
"Look, man, I'm in no mood for your ridiculous evasions now! Can you answer the question or not?"
Veronica put a hand on Newbury's arm in an effort to quell his rising temper. Stokes gave an audible sigh. "There is no way the pilot of that vessel could have bailed out before the crash."
"And why is that, Mr. Stokes?" This from Veronica, who had evidently decided to step in and calm the situation before things got out of hand.
"Because it wasn't a 'he'. It was an 'it.'" He rubbed his hands over his face in exasperation. "The pilot of The Lady Armitage was a clockwork automaton, designed by Mr. Villiers himself. They're remarkable units, capable of many basic and, indeed, higher functions. But they are not programmed to abandon their stations in an emergency. They're simply not capable of it."
Newbury looked incredulous. "An automaton piloting an airship! Why didn't you think to disclose this information before now? There's the probable cause for your disaster, Mr. Stokes! The unit clearly malfunctioned."
Stokes shook his head defensively. "Oh no, Sir Maurice. That's simply not possible. The automatons have been piloting airships for nearly six months now, and safety records have improved dramatically during that period. Up to eighty percent! The programme is fully approved. We have all the necessary paperwork back at the office. I assure you, sir, that it's a simple impossibility that the unit malfunctioned. It's physically not possible."
"So where is the unit now, Mr. Stokes?" Veronica smiled in a placatory fashion.
Stokes cleared his throat. He was clearly uncomfortable with the course of the entire conversation. "I'm afraid I have no idea. My report will state that the device was destroyed in the explosion. Now look," He waved a manifest in front of them. "I really have to be getting on. I'm expected to provide a full passenger register for the police before the day is out."
"Of course. We're sorry to have kept you." Veronica took Newbury's proffered arm and began to edge away. Then, as if just remembering something, she stopped and looked back. "Oh, and Mr. Stokes? Just one more thing before you go?"
"Yes?"
"Could you tell me why all of the passengers were confined to their seats, with loops of rope around their ankles?"
Stokes looked as if he were about to choke. "A simple safety precaution, Miss Hobbes. In case of emergency all passengers are required to insert their left foot into the safety brace underneath the seat in front. It stops people tumbling all over the craft if the pilot encounters dangerous turbulence whilst airborne."
Veronica nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Stokes, you've been most helpful."
She watched with Newbury as the little man scuttled away, keen to put distance between him and the ire of the moonlighting academics. The light was fading now, the sun low in the sky over the city. The crowds of people around the edges of the park had begun to thin and disperse.
"You understand, of course, that there's no feasible way in which the skeleton of a brass automaton could have been incinerated in that blaze? Especially when one considers that the majority of the human cadavers are still relatively intact." Newbury sounded contemplative now, rather than angry.
Veronica nodded. "My thoughts exactly."
"I'm beginning to think that Her Majesty's suspicions were correct. Something is definitely wrong here, and I'll wager it has its roots in the offices of Chapman and Villiers Air Transportation Services." He sighed, blinking to keep himself alert. "For now, though, I think it's time I retired to my lodgings. Can I drop you at home on my way, Miss Hobbes?"
She nodded, clearly exhausted. "Please do, Sir Maurice."
He held the cordon for her as they took their leave of the crash site and made their way to the nearest carriage.
The evening was still and cold as Newbury, attired only in a simple dressing gown, settled in his study before a roaring open fire. A book was open on his lap- Trelawny's History of Esoteric Societies of the Seventeenth Century -one of the many aged, leather-bound volumes that lined the walls around the room. Other shelves held more bizarre specimens; vials of chemical compounds; jars filled with preserved biological samples; a pentagram cast out of twenty-four carat gold; the bleached skull of a chimpanzee and much more besides. Paper files were stacked neatly in rows along one wall, containing reams of case notes, old academic papers, clippings and other assorted reference materials, collected during many long hours of research. The study was his private haven, the room he filled with all of the ephemera of his life. It was the one place where he could relax, where he felt free to become himself and where much of his actual deduction was carried out; over time, the study had become a place of revelation. He eased back in his armchair and turned the pages in his book.
Mrs. Bradshaw had retired for the evening after drawing him a bath and admonishing him enthusiastically for the state of his clothes. He smiled. She was forbidden from entering the study, but if she were to ever see its contents-not least the cluttered manner in which he liked to keep it-he wagered she'd flee his service at once. Not only that, but many of his files contained confidential information that needed to be kept away from prying eyes. He had no reason to doubt Mrs. Bradshaw's integrity, but he suspected the contents of his files would be enough to discredit the monarchy at least ten times over, and he feared what temptation could do to even the most loyal of people. For that reason, he kept the door to the room locked at all times, even when he was inside of it. He'd invited Bainbridge in once or twice, for he trusted him implicitly, and, after the events of the previous summer-during which they'd hunted a madman intent on inflicting an Ancient Egyptian plague on London-he knew the man had a stomach for the esoteric.
Tonight, however, he was happy for the solitude. He sat watching the dance of the flames for a while. He couldn't help thinking of the ruined, tortured faces of the corpses in the wreck of the airship that he'd seen that afternoon. Veronica had taken it badly, but so, in truth, had he. He'd seen innumerable corpses in his lifetime, of course, but in this instance it was a matter of scale; never before had he witnessed a scene quite as horrifying as this.
He reached for a small, brown bottle from the shelf behind his head. The label was peeling, but he knew well what it contained. He unscrewed the lid and poured a measure of the liquid into the half-full glass of claret that rested on the side table by his armchair. The laudanum would help him sleep, or so he told himself as he raised the glass to his lips and took a long drink. In the morning he would meet Veronica at the office and they would make their way to Battersea, to Chapman and Villiers's manufactory. There he hoped to find out more about the mysterious automatons and their creator, Mr. Pierre Villiers, an exiled Frenchman who-he had read-had been brought up on charges over a decade ago for experimenting on human wastrels in his Parisian laboratory. Still, that was for the morning. For tonight, he hoped, oblivion was near at hand. He drained his glass and sank back into the comfort of his Chesterfield, waiting for the laudanum to do its work.