The wreckage was scattered across a wide area of parkland, isolated flames still licking in little, glowing puddles, where firemen had yet to extinguish the smaller pieces of debris that had come to rest in the area surrounding the main carcass of the downed ship. Hose carts circled the wreckage, whilst onlookers milled around a police cordon that had been established around the entire perimeter of the park. A tree was on fire on the far side of the site, and firemen were currently engaged in trying to bring it under control before the flames spread to the neighbouring evergreens.
The airship itself was now nothing but a burnt husk, its shattered substructure an exposed skeleton, stark against the surrounding parkland. It reminded Veronica of a beached whale she had once seen as a child, half-rotted in the sea air, its enormous ribcage exposed to the elements.
Newbury clambered down from the cab, choking on the thick smoke that lay heavy in the air all around them. The stench of the burnt vessel was almost unbearable. He turned to help Veronica down beside him, offering her a handkerchief to cover her face. She took it gratefully.
"What in God's name happened here?" Her voice was muffled from behind the small piece of linen that she held over her mouth and nose. Her eyes watered, stinging with the smoke.
"Airships such as this one get their lift from gasbags filled with hydrogen. The gas is highly flammable, and in a major impact such as this…" He shook his head. "Well, you can see the results for yourself. I've read about a handful of similar incidents. The most recent was in Bulgaria, I believe, where a pilot missed his berthing tether and instead lowered the ship onto the ground spike, ripping the gasbags open and engulfing the entire vessel in flame."
Veronica looked grave. "But all those passengers…" She was staring out over the chaotic scene before them, unsure what to make of it all. She drew her coat around herself, an unconscious gesture that belied her horror at the sight of the wreckage and the carnage it represented.
Newbury was lost for comforting words. He paused, and then looked around, straining to see over the bustling crowds of people. "Come on; let's see if Bainbridge is here yet."
Together, the two of them made their way around the cordon, looking for signs of the Chief Inspector. Newbury kept a hand on Veronica's arm as they pushed their way through the press of locals, who had turned out in droves to see the spectacle of the downed ship. Newbury supposed he couldn't blame them; for many it was a frightening near miss, with such a devastating explosion occurring so close to their homes. The vessel could have easily come down upon a row of terraced houses instead of the relative safety of the park. For others it was surely a unique opportunity to witness something that they would usually only read about in newspapers, a sensational spectacle to tell their grandchildren of in years to come. From a purely detached perspective-ignoring, for a moment, the human cost of the tragedy-history was unfolding before their eyes.
They pressed on, fighting against the swarm of people in an attempt to find someone who looked like they were in charge. Moments later, they found who they were looking for.
The police had set up a temporary base underneath a bandstand, just inside the cordon at the far end of the crash site. Wreaths of dark smoke still curled through the air, and here, the stench of the wreckage was even more intolerable than when they'd first arrived. Newbury tried not to imagine what was causing the diabolical smell. He made his way over to the cordon line and called to get the attention of one of the men stationed there.
"Hello? May I have some assistance here, please?"
Two men in suits, deep in conversation, looked around to eye the newcomer. One of them flicked his wrist to a uniformed officer and the man came plodding over to where Newbury and Veronica were standing.
"Yes?"
"I'm attempting to locate Sir Charles Bainbridge. Can you tell me; is he present at the site?"
"No, sir. I don't believe he is." The other man looked irritated, as if anxious to get back to his post.
"Ah. Well, in that case, is there anyone else I could talk to?" Newbury reached into his jacket pocket and produced his credentials, which he waved at the constable. The monogram of Queen Victoria was clearly visible on his papers. "My name is Sir Maurice Newbury and I'm here on the business of the Crown."
The constable stared at him, wide-eyed. "Of course, sir. If you'd like to come this way?" The officer lifted the cordon and both Newbury and Veronica dipped their heads to pass underneath the rope barrier. Veronica, straightening herself on the other side, made a point of repositioning her hat. Newbury supposed she was trying to keep herself busy, and keep her mind from wandering back to the horrors on the other side of the bandstand.
The two men in suits were still talking as the three of them approached. Veronica glanced around. She could see that the police were struggling to get the situation under control; they were few in number and the constables were barely managing to keep the onlookers back from the cordon. Meanwhile, higher-ranking officers attempted to coordinate the other emergency services and ensure that nothing was removed from the wreckage that would prove useful in uncovering the cause of the disaster. Veronica was sure that the investigation was already underway, but it seemed to her as if the police had their hands full just trying to stop the crash site from getting out of control.
The bobby who had led them over from the barrier made a point of clearing his throat, and the two men in suits ceased talking for a moment to take them in. The man on the left, dressed in pinstriped grey, with a full beard and dark green cravat, looked Newbury up and down discerningly. He seemed about to say something when the constable stepped in. "Sir, this gentleman is here on behalf of the Crown."
The man nodded, an unreadable expression on his face. "The Crown indeed. Well, we can certainly use all the help we can get. Abominable affair." His face cracked into a sad smile. He held out his hand. "Inspector Foulkes of Scotland Yard."
Newbury took his hand. "Maurice Newbury."
"Ah, Sir Maurice. Yes, Sir Charles has told me all about you. Glad you could make it." He put his hand on the shoulder of the man he'd been talking with when they arrived. "This is Mr. Stokes, representing the company that built and operated the airship in question."
Veronica noted that Stokes was harbouring a dark frown.
Newbury took his hand, inclining his head politely. "Mr. Stokes." He stepped back, allowing the others to see Veronica, who had been standing behind him in the shadow of the bandstand throughout the course of the exchange. "This is my assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes. She'll be aiding me in my inquiries. Please ensure you extend to her all the necessary courtesy and freedom she requires to properly execute her role."
Foulkes looked startled by this new development, but quickly spluttered his assent.
Newbury turned to the man named Stokes. "Mr. Stokes, I'd appreciate it if you could elaborate on some details for me. Have you any notion yet of what occurred to bring about this sorry situation?"
Stokes looked immediately uncomfortable. He was a short, lean man, shorter than both Newbury and Foulkes and only a few inches taller than Veronica. He wore a brown suit and white collar, with black shoes that, Veronica noted, were filthy with mud, grime and ash from the crash site. His moustache was trimmed to perfection and waxed at the ends, and his bushy eyebrows did much to accentuate his apparently permanent frown. He shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. "Alas, we're only just beginning to piece together the sequence of events that preceded this tragedy. There is nothing in the wreckage to indicate what may have happened onboard, and we can see no obvious reason why it should have plummeted out of the sky as dramatically as it did. Unfortunately, there are no survivors left to question, either."