"I can see you've got a sharp sense about you, Miss Hobbes. You're absolutely right, of course. But equally I trust you will not damn the technology before we have carried out the due investigative process."
"Agreed. Even if Mr. Stokes is an odious wretch who did nothing but cloud my opinion of his organisation."
"Indeed. If we're lucky we'll have no further dealings with the man today."
Veronica sipped her tea thoughtfully. "So, what of the Whitechapel murders? Have you thought any further on the mystery of the glowing policeman?"
Newbury shook his head, slowly. "Alas, I've had to forego that particular case, for the time being, anyway. If we get to the bottom of this airship issue quickly enough, I'll see what I can do to help. Otherwise, I'll just have to point Charles in the right direction and hope he can get to the bottom of it himself. He's got plenty of good men at his disposal, and if the case does turn out to have a supernatural origin, it won't be the first time he's come up against that sort of thing and won."
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
From the Chelsea Bridge the airship works were clearly visible in the morning light as a series of immense, red-brick hangers, squat beside the shimmering Thames, fumes rising like smoke signals from a row of tall, broad chimneys. Steam hissed from outlet pipes in great, white plumes, whilst water gushed back into the river in a deluge of brown sludge. Huge airships were tethered to the roofs of the hangers, reminiscent of a row of children's balloons, bobbing languorously in the breeze.
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.