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."
Veronica smiled. "Let's just hope it proves useful in bringing the killer to justice, Sir Charles."
"Indeed. Indeed."
Newbury docked his hat to his old friend. "Charles, we'll take our leave. Watch your back out here, won't you, and remember to call by the office this afternoon for a talk. I'm sure we can start moving forward in this matter, hopefully before another sorry individual loses his life."
"Thank you, Newbury. Your assistance is most appreciated."
"Say no more." And with that, Newbury and Veronica turned on their heels and disappeared into the fog-laden morning in search of a cab.
"I liked your trick with the constable back there." Newbury was in a much more talkative mood, now that the two of them had managed to hail a hansom cab and were on their way back to the museum. Veronica was relieved that, this time, they'd been able to settle on a more traditional vehicle, pulled by horses instead of the more temperamental steam engine they had suffered before. She regarded Newbury from across the carriage.
"I've always believed that it's worth keeping one's ear to the ground, finding out what people are saying. Invariably, in my experience, that's where one may find the truth, or at least the kernel of the truth that has given rise to the tall tales."
Newbury nodded in agreement. "An admirable tactic, and one that I'm convinced will bear fruit. But consider this…" He paused for dramatic effect, "What if, in this instance, the tall tales were actually based on fact?"
Veronica's eyes betrayed her incredulity. "Come now, sir, you're not suggesting the glowing policeman is the real source of these murders?"
"Indeed not, although at this stage I'm loath to rule anything out. What I'm getting at is the notion that the stories could have been inspired by past events, occurrences from many years ago that have left a residual, latent fear amongst the folk of this particular district."
"You've found something, haven't you, in your studies? Some reference that sheds light on what's going on at the moment?"
"A reference that may shed light on what's going on at the moment. In truth it may also turn out to be entirely unrelated, although I find that difficult to believe, given the nature of the murders and the circumstances surrounding the deaths. I've already mentioned it to Bainbridge, but he puts no stock in the idea."
Veronica leaned forward in the carriage. "Do tell."
Newbury smiled. He was beginning to believe he'd made the right choice in hiring Veronica as his new assistant. "About twelve years ago there was a disturbing case in the Whitechapel area, in which a gang of petty thieves were discovered breaking into a house. Instead of fleeing the scene, they turned on the policeman who had found them, and viciously beat him to death. The thieves were never brought to justice, but for a month after the policeman's body was interred, a 'glowing bobby' was sighted around the streets, walking his beat and searching out his murderers, one after the other."
"What happened?"
"They all turned up dead. Strangled, just like the victims we've seen in the last couple of weeks. Such was his vengeance, it was said, that the murdered policeman had actually risen from the grave to seek revenge on his killers. Once they were all dead, the 'glowing bobby' disappeared, never to be seen again."
A ground train rattled by their cab, startling the horses and causing them to whinny noisily and pull up by the side of the road. The driver shouted down his apologies and waited for the other vehicle to pass before coercing the animals back out into the road.
Veronica sat back in her seat. "The parallels are uncanny."
"Indeed. But there are holes. Why would the spirit return now, after all this time? Did it ever really exist, or was it just a cover used by the dead man's colleagues to track down and dispose of his killers? What, if any, are the connections between the victims? I can't see a good reason for the spirit of the dead policeman to be taking these innocent lives, both men and women. I'm not convinced the profile actually fits."
"But you are convinced that it is possible? Have any other policeman been murdered in the area lately? Could it be the same phenomenon, but a different set of people involved?"
Newbury straightened his back. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "My dear Veronica, what splendid deduction! We'll get Bainbridge looking into it first thing this afternoon. I've been so wrapped up in trying to draw parallels between the two cases that I'd overlooked this most obvious of angles."
By this time their cab was approaching Bloomsbury and the British Museum could be seen, through the window, an epic, monolithic structure rising out of the grey afternoon. Newbury took his watch out of his pocket and examined its face. He glanced at Veronica. "I don't know about you, but I'm feeling rather peckish. Spot of lunch?"
Veronica grinned. "Sir Maurice, I'm famished."
With Miss Coulthard gone for the day, the office was silent when they returned from lunch, with just the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner to break the monotony. The two rooms were connected by an interior door, the main office being a fairly large, open space with Miss Coulthard's desk placed centrally to face the door. The walls were decorated with an array of spectacular artefacts, ranging from mediaeval weaponry to a glass display cabinet filled with smaller antiquities from Egypt, Greece and Rome. A small stove had been fitted in the far corner, and a series of bookcases were overflowing with ageing, dusty tomes.
Newbury had just finished arranging his hat on the hatstand when Veronica, who had already gone through to the side room where their desks were located, reappeared in the doorway brandishing an envelope.
"It's got the Royal seal on it. Someone must have delivered it whilst we were out." She handed it to Newbury. He opened it immediately, dropping the envelope to the floor.
"It's from the Queen." He unfolded the letter and began to read.
To our faithful servant,
It is requested you abandon all current activity and proceed immediately to Finsbury Park. An airship has crashed this morning in suspicious circumstances and one suspects foul play. Early reports suggest no survivors.
Full report expected in due course.
This is a matter of grave importance to the Crown.
Victoria R.
Newbury folded the note in half and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Veronica eyed him quizzically. He reached for his hat.
"We're off the murder investigation. At least temporarily." Veronica looked somewhat disappointed by the news. Newbury continued. "There's been an airship crash in Finsbury Park. I'm afraid we're going out again." He pushed his arm into the sleeve of his long, black overcoat and headed for the door. "Come on, I'll explain on the way."
Chapter Four
From over two hundred yards away it was clear that the airship crash was a disaster of phenomenal proportions. Black smoke spiralled through the sky in a dark, liquid trail, a smudge across the landscape, clearly denoting the point of impact and consequent explosion. The heavy fog was starting to lift now, but the scene it uncovered had Newbury wishing it had stayed put.