Bainbridge nodded, a smile curling his lips. "I should say that will do the job."
"Indeed." Newbury returned to his seat with a satisfied sigh. He raised an empty glass. "Well, that's the end of it then." He sucked on his pipe, resting his head against the tall back of the Chesterfield.
Bainbridge shuffled awkwardly in his seat. "There is just one other thing I should mention, if you're not too opposed to hearing me out on something rather peculiar?"
Newbury peeled open his eyes, his interest piqued. "Go on.
"I'm sure you recall our conversations from a few days ago, regarding the potential origins of the glowing policeman?"
"Of course."
"At the time, before Morgan's death and the realisation that we were on the trail of a purely corporeal killer, you mentioned Miss Hobbes's supposition that the perpetrator could in fact have been a phantom killer akin to the one reported all those years ago. Another example of the same phenomena, you said, involving entirely different people."
Newbury sat forward in his chair and poured himself a brandy, listening intently to Bainbridge's account. "Quite so." He considered his friend, concern evident in his eyes. "What's troubling you, Charles?"
Bainbridge shook his head. "It's all rather embarrassing, really. I mean, I don't know what to think. You know I'm not a superstitious man."
"For Heaven's sake, Charles. Get to the point."
"You asked me if there had been any recent murders of police constables in the Whitechapel area, and at the time I couldn't say for certain. But I had the clerks check the records and it turns out there was a man, a Mister John Harris, who was done in with his own truncheon by a gang of youths, after he happened upon the miscreants roughing up a girl in an alleyway earlier that night. They got away with it, too, since a local shopkeeper provided an alibi. The word amongst the rest of the men was that the gang had applied a liberal amount of pressure to the shopkeeper and, fearing for the safety of his wife and daughter, he had willingly perjured himself to protect them."
Newbury took a swig of his brandy. "Let me guess. It turns out a number of these youths were amongst the victims of the glowing policeman, found strangled in the Whitechapel area, their personal effects still in situ on the bodies?"
Bainbridge smiled. "Close, Newbury. All of the youths were amongst the reported victims of the glowing policeman. I don't know what to make of it. It seems like too much of a coincidence to ignore."
Newbury laughed. "Ha! I'll wager coincidence has nothing to do with it!" He sank back in his chair. "Of course, there's no way of telling, now. It could have been coincidence, or it could have been the murdered man's colleagues taking the opportunity to seek revenge. But it would certainly explain why we didn't identify the residue of the blue powder on all of the victims. Revenge can drive people to do terrible things, Charles, terrible things indeed. Even, perhaps, to rise from the grave itself. Did I ever tell you of the Hambleton affair?"
"I don't believe so, no."
"Ah, well. I suspect that's a story for another occasion. Nevertheless, it serves to prove the point. There are things in this world-and beyond-for which the combined efforts of science and religion have yet to divine a suitable explanation. I have no doubt that, given time, they will." He heaved himself out of his chair, stretching his sore muscles. "But now, my friend, I must prevail upon you to forgive me. I feel the need to retire for the evening, to rest these damnable wounds in an effort to hasten my recovery and put an end to my captive misery." He sniffed.
"The guest room is yours if you want it."
Bainbridge rose to his feet and clasped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "No, I'll take my leave, dear boy." He smiled warmly. "Look after yourself, and keep an eye on that wayward assistant of yours. She'll be causing a scandal or two of her own if she doesn't check herself from time to time."
Newbury laughed heartily. "Indeed. She might at that."
Bainbridge downed the remainder of his brandy and crossed the room, collecting his coat and cane. "Well, Newbury. Until next time."
"Goodbye, Charles."
The Chief Inspector took his leave. Newbury waited until the sound of his footsteps had receded down the street. He banked the fire, making sure the embers were burning low, and turned out his pipe in the grate. Then, leaving the living room behind him, he climbed the stairs and passed along the hallway towards his bedchamber. He stopped outside the room and placed his hand on the doorknob. A little further along the landing, the door to his study was propped shut, still loose on its hinges following Veronica's dramatic entry a day or two earlier. He'd have to have it fixed in the next couple of days, once he'd regained the rest of his health.
Hesitantly, he withdrew his hand from the handle of his bedroom door and edged his way along the landing, his wounds itching where scabs had formed over the open cuts. He pushed his way through the unwieldy study door and propped it shut again behind him. He turned up the gas jet on the wall, causing a dim, radial glow to light the room. The room was just as he'd left it.
He crossed to the daybed and took a seat, eyeing the little brown bottle on the table in the corner. In the dim light he could just see the peeling label, the familiar liquid inside. There was also a half-drunk bottle of red wine on the table beside it, stoppered with a used cork. It had probably spoiled during the intervening days. He rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at the door sheepishly, knowing he should head for his bedchamber, and stood, edging towards the landing. Then, succumbing to his cravings instead, he crossed the room, collected the two bottles, and settled himself on the daybed, preparing for a night of cosy oblivion.
Chapter Thirty-One
Veronica glared at the pile of unsorted papers on her desk and sighed. The office was deathly quiet, lacking the banter she had become accustomed to, with only the constant tick-tock of the grandfather clock and the occasional sound of Miss Coulthard shuffling papers in the adjoining room punctuating the monotony.
She leaned back in her chair and glanced over at Newbury's empty desk, which had lain undisturbed since they were last in the office together the previous week. Correspondence had temporarily been forwarded to his Chelsea home whilst he spent time convalescing away from the museum, and the lack of his usual cheer lent the place a mournful air, as if it were missing something fundamental, the heart of it temporarily removed. The office itself had been restored to something approximating order, following Miss Coulthard's return to work and the removal of the automaton remains by Scotland Yard, who were keen to gather evidence for the case against Chapman. Not that they needed to worry, Veronica considered; she was certain that they would be able to uncover enough at the manufactory to send him to the gallows ten times over, especially when one took into consideration the testimonies of Sir Maurice and Sir Charles, both respected members of society and gentlemen to boot.