Newbury swallowed, then reached up and pulled at his ragged shirt, exposing a large expanse of his chest. It was streaked and matted with blood, but it was easy to see the sickle-shaped scar of white tissue just above his left nipple, even in the dim light. "I was bitten before." Veronica's eyes were wide with shock. "Years ago, in India. My family had purchased some land out there, just about the same time that I'd found myself enamoured with stories of the occult. When the opportunity arose to pay a visit, I jumped at the chance. I spent two years in Delhi, exploring the Indian myths, searching for truth in the ancient stories of their culture." He sucked in his breath as the cab rolled over the uneven cobbles, jostling him in his seat. "At around the same time a plague was spreading through the slums, a virus that turned people into shambling cannibals, forcing their skin to stop regenerating and blowing the blood vessels in their eyes."
He coughed, raising a hand to his mouth.
"The revenants." Veronica mopped his brew.
Newbury nodded. "The revenants. I was out visiting a temple in the hills when I was set upon by one of the detestable creatures. It bit me here on the chest, but] was young and quick-witted enough to be able to get away. I managed to find my way back to my family's rooms in Delhi, whereupon they immediately called for the doctor. The Indian physician told us that his research had shown that the virus incubated in the brain for eight days before massively altering the physiology of the victim."
"What happened?"
"They threw me in a cell and gave me nothing but bread and water to survive. For eight days I ran the most appalling fever, and then, on the eighth day, the fever broke and I began to recover. Soon after, the doctor sent me home. He told me I was one of only three people he knew who had survived the plague." He glanced from Veronica to Bainbridge. "I'm convinced that this is the same virus, spread here from India, and that, provided my wounds don't kill me first, I'll live to fight another day." He flexed his fingers, frowning at the pain in his shoulder.
Bainbridge nodded. "Of course you will, my man." He looked serious. "Of course you will." He patted Veronica on the shoulder reassuringly, and then looked up,, smiling. "We all know that the Fixer can perform miracles, don't we."
Newbury sighed. The cab trundled on towards Bloomsbury, and towards the mysterious surgeon who, Bainbridge assured them, would be able to make things right once more.
Chapter Twenty
The sun had risen by the time the cab pulled up outside the Bloomsbury home of the Fixer, reducing the fog to wispy trails of vapour that seemed to linger in the air like white tendrils. Newbury had passed out a short while after they had set out from Whitechapel, and Veronica had continued to tend to him, staunching his wounds and trying to limit his blood loss by continuing to use strips of his shirt as makeshift bandages. She was covered in blood herself, now, her skirt, blouse and hands sticky with the gritty residue. Bainbridge thought it was a credit to her that she seemed entirely unfazed by this development.
Newbury's breath was shallow, his skin had lost its colour and his eyes had sunk back in their sockets. Black bruises had emerged all over his exposed body where he had taken a severe battering from the revenants. Bainbridge hoped the Fixer really was able to work miracles. Newbury would need one if he were going to live.
Taking his cane, Bainbridge clambered to his feet and swung the carriage door open, glancing from side to side to see if anyone was watching. There were a few early risers going about their business, but the street was mostly deserted. He turned back to Veronica. "Stay here. I'll go and make arrangements."
She nodded silently and he ducked out of the cab, nodding at the driver as he mounted the step down to the road and made his way towards the entrance of the large house. The building was tall, with three storeys above ground and a basement below, which Bainbridge knew would be their destination today. The house stood at the end of a long terrace, and as Bainbridge mounted the steps up to the front door, he heard the engine of the cab chugging behind him and watched as the driver reversed the cab around the corner, parking it near the iron staircase that led down to the basement level.
He rapped loudly on the door with the end of his cane. There was a momentary pause, and then the door clicked open and a middle-aged man in a black suit appeared in the opening. "Ah, good morning, Sir Charles. Won't you come in?"
Bainbridge stepped over the threshold into the opulent foyer of the house. It was a grand building, worthy of royalty itself. The floor had been laid in a shimmering white marble and a huge staircase swept away towards the upper levels of the house. Panelled doors led off into other, private rooms. A chandelier hung from a perfect ceiling rosette, and a small table had everything arranged just so. The entire place smelled of freshly-cut flowers. The presentation was immaculate.
Bainbridge caught sight of himself in the large mirror hanging on the opposite wall, and shuddered. He looked terrible. Once he'd deposited Newbury with the Fixer, he'd see Miss Hobbes back to her lodgings and head home himself for a sleep and a long soak in the bath.
The manservant who had admitted him to the house-a stout man of around fifty, with a receding head of grey hair- looked Bainbridge up and down, as if trying to ascertain the reason for his visit. "Are you well, Sir Charles…?"
"Yes, yes, no time for all that, Rothford. I've got Sir Maurice Newbury in the cab back there, practically torn to pieces. He's in urgent need of the Fixer."
Rothford snapped to attention. "Quite right, sir. Better bring him around the side entrance, quick-sharp. I'll notify the master immediately. I believe you know the way?"
"I do."
"Then go, sir, and I'll make the necessary arrangements."
Bainbridge nodded. "Thank you, Rothford."
"I'll hear no word of it, sir." He clicked the door open again and ushered Bainbridge out.
Bainbridge hurried down the steps and round the corner to where the cab was still waiting, its engine burring noisily. Overhead, an airship swept low over the city, whipping his hair back from his face. He was glad he'd left his hat in the carriage earlier. He hopped up onto the step and spoke to the driver. "Keep an eye out, Barnes. Wouldn't do to have anyone see what we're up to."
The driver nodded. "Aye, sir. I'll give you the word when you're clear to make a move."
"Good man." He ducked into the carriage. Newbury was still unconscious. Bainbridge put a hand on Veronica's shoulder. "All will be well, Miss Hobbes. We've brought him to the right place. The Fixer will do his work, and Sir Maurice will be back on his feet in no time at all." He glanced down at the prone man. "Here, can you help me with his head whilst I lift him down?"
"Of course." Veronica moved to cradle Newbury's head as Bainbridge placed his cane on the opposite seat and moved to scoop his unconscious friend up into his arms. He staggered under the weight, trying to get his footing, and then was able to rest Newbury's head in the crook of his arm as he moved towards the open door. Gasping a little for breath, unused to the exertion, he called out to the driver.
"Barnes? Are we set?"
"Aye, sir. All clear."
Bainbridge stepped cautiously down onto the step beneath the carriage door, and then onto the street below. Without looking back, he approached the side of the house, mounting the first rung on an iron staircase that descended from street level down to the basement of the large house. His feet clanged loudly on the steps as he struggled to manoeuvre Newbury down the tight enclosure. Then, reaching the bottom of the flight of stairs, he used the edge of his boot to bang on the wooden door that awaited him there. A fraction of a second later the door swung open, revealing a dark space beyond, and Bainbridge, shifting so as not to strike Newbury's head against the doorframe, slipped quietly inside.