Newbury grinned. “Isn’t that always the way?” He collapsed against the arm of the chair behind him, laughing.
Newbury sat on the edge of the chaise longue while Veronica slowly and deliberately dabbed at the cuts on his face with a damp swab of cotton wool. There were scores of them, all over his forehead and cheeks, but Veronica had been relieved to find most of them superficial. One, above his right eye, was a nasty gash that continued to bleed profusely, but Newbury seemed unconcerned, preferring to focus instead on the small pile of mechanical remains on the Turkish rug.
“This rather alters things,” he said, trying to swat her away as she dabbed once again at the cut above his eye.
“I suppose it does. Attempted murder is a far cry from burglary.” She grabbed a fresh ball of cotton wool and dipped it in the bowl of warm water she had placed on a side table. She winced with the movement; she’d received a long gouge in her wrist during the course of the fight with the spider machine, and Newbury had already helped her to dress it.
Newbury’s eyes flicked back to her face. “Indeed. It begs the question of who exactly would be out to make such an attempt on my life. Either Sykes really is still out there, somehow, and knows I’m on to him, or someone else has control of his machine and is using it for their own increasingly nefarious purposes.”
Veronica stepped back, her hands on her hips. Sometimes she found it difficult to stomach the sheer arrogance of men. “I think that upon reflection, Sir Maurice, you will find the intended victim of any such assassination attempt was, in fact, me. This is my apartment, after all.”
Newbury grimaced, and she saw her words had immediately struck home. “You’re right. How truly inconsiderate of me,” he said. He reached over and took her hand, giving her a most curious look that she found difficult to read. There was concern in his eyes, but there was something else, too. Realisation? Recognition? Dismay? “Of course you’re right. The likelihood is that you, my dear, were the intended target of the mechanical beast. In many ways that makes my question even more of a pertinent one, and yet also profoundly more concerning.”
“Do not concern yourself overly with me, Sir Maurice. I can quite ably look after myself.” She tried ineffectually to stifle her wry smile. “So what now?”
“First of all, we must ensure that both you and Mrs. Grant are safe. I insist you spend the night in a hotel. Then tomorrow we shall take the remains of this device to Charles, and together we can discuss our next move.”
“Very well,” Veronica said, fighting back the urge to disagree. She could see the sense in his words. An attempt had been made on her life, after all. “I’m sure Mrs. Grant will be only too happy to spend the night at her sister’s lodgings. I shall speak with her now. Perhaps if you could gather up the components of that… thing, we could take them back to Chelsea, where we know they will be secure?”
Newbury leaned over and plucked a ball of cotton wool from the side table, using it to wipe away the trickle of blood that was threatening to run into his eye. “An excellent plan, my dear Miss Hobbes.” He regarded the bloody swab in his hand. “My thanks to you. For being so… considerate.” He dropped the swab onto the table beside the others.
Veronica smiled. They both knew there was a deeper meaning imbued in those words. “No need. No need at all. I’m only glad you were here.”
Newbury nodded but didn’t respond.
“Right, then,” she said brightly. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Grant. It won’t take us long to throw some belongings in a case.”
But Newbury was already staring out the window, lost in thought. She left him there, pondering whatever it was that she couldn’t see, and set about making arrangements for the trip across town.
The streets stuttered by in quick succession, a series of flashing, half-seen images, turning the once-familiar city into nothing but a hazy blur. The light was failing now, and Veronica rested her head against the seat as the cab hurtled on, its steam engine roaring and hissing and spitting.
She’d seen Mrs. Grant off in a cab to her sister’s rooms a short while earlier, having told her there had been an intruder and that Sir Maurice wished to ensure that everything was secure. Before she left, Mrs. Grant had packed Veronica an overnight bag for the stay in the hotel, while Newbury had scooped up the remains of the spider device in what was left of the blanket. There were large gouges in the floorboards where the mechanical beast had tried to escape through the floor, proving, if nothing else, that the thing had possessed at least some sense of self-preservation. She wondered how intelligent it had really been, and who had created it. It sat now on the seat beside Newbury, a collection of shattered clockwork and electrical components, lifeless and wrapped in a ruined blanket. She shuddered as she thought about what might have happened if Newbury hadn’t been there when it attacked. If she’d been asleep… Well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Perhaps she’d been a little hard on Newbury back at the house. She supposed that was simply a sign of her frustration with him-of his inability to see what he was doing to himself.
Veronica glanced over to see him watching her intently from across the cab, his face half lost in shadow. He smiled when he saw her looking, and for a moment she could almost believe it was the old Newbury sitting there, from the time before the opium dens and the absenteeism, the strange premonitions and the mummified hands. More than anything, she wanted that Newbury back again. She missed him terribly.
They sat in silence, regarding each other in the semi-darkness. “I miss you, too,” he said softly, and she wondered if he had somehow managed to read her mind. She glanced out the window again, afraid to look into his eyes. Afraid to acknowledge the conversation.
Not now, Maurice. She almost hoped he could read her mind, then. Not yet. She didn’t want to have that conversation now, not in the back of a dirty steam-powered cab, not with this Newbury, this drug-addled shadow of the man she loved. There would be time for that later, when he was better.
She realised she was balling her hands into fists. All she’d wanted for so long was to clear the air between them, to talk about the Queen, the secrets, the undeclared affection between the two of them. And now that that moment was here, now that Newbury was finally giving her the opening to have that conversation, all she actually felt was frustration. Because she wasn’t ready. And neither, she knew, was he.
When she finally looked back at Newbury, he had shifted his position and was resting his head against the padded seat, his eyes closed, his breath shallow. They would be at Chelsea soon, back at his house on Cleveland Avenue. She breathed a sigh of relief. The moment had passed. She watched Newbury stirring fitfully as sleep tried to claim him, and she wondered what he would make of Bainbridge’s little bit of interfering.
“What in the name of Hell does Charles think he’s playing at!”
Newbury was storming about the drawing room, gesticulating in fury at the neat piles of papers and the clean surfaces where the stacks of dirty plates and cutlery used to be. “I mean he’s… he’s… he’s tidied up!” As if in protest, he swept a stack of recent newspapers from the coffee table onto the floor, where they spread, rumpled, across the carpet.
Veronica tried not to laugh. She had warned Charles that Newbury would react like this. It wasn’t so much that he liked to wallow in his clutter-more that he had a system for finding things, albeit a bizarre and disorganised one, and anybody who disrupted that system was likely to fall afoul of his temper.
Nevertheless, she’d agreed with Charles that it was the only course of action available to them, given the circumstances.