Bainbridge gave a curt nod and extended his hand, which Graves accepted. “You’ve been most helpful, Sir Enoch. Thank you very much for your time.”
Graves nodded. “Smith will show you out.” He called across the saloon. “Smith!”
The young man came dashing over. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, and was clearly a member of the waiting staff. “These people were just leaving, Smith.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” He beckoned for them to follow as he led them down the hallway to the exit. Veronica glanced back at Graves as she passed through the lobby doors and saw him staring after her, his jaw set firm; his eyes hard, cold, and full of menace.
“Pompous, lying idiot!” Bainbridge announced brassily, almost as soon as they were out of earshot of the front door. “It’s clear he knows far more about what’s going on than he’s prepared to reveal.”
Newbury nodded his assent. “Agreed. What with the testimony of the butler and Graves’s obvious shock at our news, I’d almost be prepared to wager that Edwin Sykes was in attendance at the party last night. Or at least someone who looked very much like him.”
“But Sykes is dead, Newbury. We’ve all seen his corpse laid out on a slab across town. There’s no mistaking it. So how could he be both in the morgue and at the party? And, if we’re to believe our own eyes, he was at Flitcroft and Sons, too, emptying the jewellery cases!” Bainbridge looked utterly flummoxed. “At least two places at once!”
Newbury leaned against a nearby lamppost. He looked tired. “It’s clear to me, old man, that our eyes are somehow deceiving us. Someone is playing a very clever game, and we’ve found ourselves right in the middle of it. And after that performance from the premier, I have no doubt whatsoever that it’s somehow tied up with Enoch Graves and the strange, chivalrous world of the Bastion Society.”
Bainbridge gave a hearty sigh. “The thing is, Newbury, what the devil are we going to do about it? It’s not as if we can just go barging in there and start causing a scene. We don’t have any grounds to search the place, even though we have reason to believe that Graves is lying to us.”
Newbury grinned, a wicked, knowing grin. “There are ways and means, my dear Charles. Ways and means.”
Bainbridge shook his head, but he was smiling. “Just remember, Newbury, I’m a police inspector. I work within the law.”
“And I, Charles, am an academic and a philosopher. What harm could I possibly do?”
Veronica gave him a wry look. “I think, Sir Charles, we’d be best advised to treat that as a rhetorical question.”
Newbury laughed, but she saw he caught her meaning.
“Well, Newbury,” Bainbridge said, “I fear I have some business to attend to. Would you mind escorting Miss Hobbes back to Kensington?”
Newbury caught her eye. He was expecting her to protest. When she didn’t, he smiled graciously. “I’d be only too pleased.”
“Excellent. In that case, I’ll call for you tomorrow after breakfast. Let’s see if we can’t devise a means to shake these Bastion fellows up a little. You, too, Miss Hobbes.” Bainbridge gave her a knowing look.
“Until tomorrow, then, Sir Charles,” she said to his retreating back.
Veronica waited until Bainbridge was a way up the road before she crossed to Newbury and took his arm in her own. He didn’t look at all well. “I suspect,” she said brightly, “that Mrs. Grant will be delighted to see you. It’s been a while, and she’s been sitting on that stock of Earl Grey you had her buy. I think it would be best if you allowed her to make you a pot.”
Newbury gave a tired chuckle. “Miss Hobbes, you do have a particular way with words.”
CHAPTER
Newbury looked as if he were about to doze off in the armchair. If he did, Veronica decided, she would let him, then wake him after an hour or two and send him home in a hansom. It wasn’t as if she were overly concerned about scandal-if she were, she might have made different choices a long time ago. Allowing Newbury to get some rest here, at her apartment, away from the temptations and the chaos of Chelsea, well, it felt… right. Not the entire night, but a few hours. And besides, she’d promised Bainbridge she’d keep him busy for a while.
She was sitting opposite him, perched on the edge of the chaise longue, her teacup warming her hands. She watched Newbury’s chest rise and fall in a peaceful rhythm, his eyelids flutter open and closed. The only sounds were the tick-tock of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and the roar of the passing ground trains on Kensington High Street below.
Veronica stood and wandered over to the window, turning back the netting and gazing out across the city. In the distance an airship, low over the horizon, was drifting smoothly across the clear blue sky. It wouldn’t be long until the light began to fade.
She wondered how Bainbridge was getting on across town. Together, she knew, they could solve this. Compared to the things they had faced before-murderous automata, Revenants, rogue agents, serial killers, ghostly reincarnations-this was nothing. If they worked together, they could get Newbury back on track. It would be hard work, but they could do it.
Veronica consoled herself with the knowledge that their plan was already beginning to work-to some extent, at least, though it was clear that Newbury was beginning to suffer withdrawal symptoms: the tiredness, the sweating, the way his hand had trembled as he took his teacup from Mrs. Grant. She knew it was going to get worse. Much worse. This withdrawal was likely to cause more than the obvious physical symptoms. Newbury had come to rely on the drug, and eliminating that reliance would play havoc with his mind. Self-doubt, self-pity-all of this was to come. He honestly believed that the drug was what provided him with his insight, that without it, he’d be only a shadow of his former self. He saw it as a necessary evil, but it was time for that to stop.
Veronica turned her head and listened intently for a moment. Yes, she was right-she’d heard something clatter on the stairs. There it was again, that tap-tap-tap -the sound of metal repeatedly striking wood.
Intrigued, she crossed to the drawing room door. “Mrs. Grant, is that you?” she called out as she reached for the handle. She was just about to turn it when there was an almighty bang and the door shuddered in its frame. Veronica leapt back, unable to prevent herself from issuing a startled shout. Something scratched at the wooden panel.
Newbury was up and awake in seconds. He sprang out of the chair, dashing to her side, poised and ready for a fight. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, I’m alright. I just-” She stopped midsentence as the door began to shake. The shaking was accompanied by a high-pitched whining sound, the sound of blades burrowing through wood at high speed.
“Get back,” Newbury warned her, and she did exactly as he said. He rushed over to the fireplace and grabbed a poker out of the grate. Then he ran back towards the door, standing ready, waiting for whatever it was on the other side to break through.
Veronica knew it must be the spider. It had to be. But did that mean Edwin Sykes was here, too, lurking somewhere in the background? And what had happened to Mrs. Grant?
“Here it comes!” Newbury bellowed as the wooden plug popped out of the door and a balled-up metal object came barrelling through. It hit the ground and rolled across the carpet, coming to rest upon the red Turkish rug in the centre of the room. Veronica moved swiftly to put a chair between herself and the strange mechanical monster.
Slowly, the thing unfurled, its eight spiky legs opening like a brass flower, before the leg joints inverted and raised its shining body off the ground. Four red lights glowed like multifaceted rubies at intervals around its circumference. The machine was the size of a small dog.