Newbury nodded. “Very well, Charles. Hurry. And give Her Majesty my regards.”
Bainbridge turned and ran after the young constable, abandoning the use of his cane as he dashed headlong towards the waiting carriage.
Veronica watched him go, then turned to face Newbury, who was looking down at the two dead men with a thoughtful expression. “You want to know, don’t you?”
“What?” He didn’t look up.
“How he did it. How he copied himself like that.”
Newbury chuckled, but didn’t take his eyes off the bodies. “At this moment, Miss Hobbes, more than anything else in the world.”
Veronica grinned. This was what she’d been waiting for. All the dead bodies, all the waiting around in the morgue, the arguments, the shouting. All of it had been worth it for this. She watched him as he carefully lifted the shrouds, one after the other, and covered the corpses.
Newbury- her Newbury-was back.
CHAPTER
12
Amelia woke, and she knew she was dying.
She felt as if she were floating, surrounded by stark, inky blackness. Her body was numb and unmoving. Everything was still, silent.
Slowly, sensation began to return. Her head was throbbing, her heart fluttering in her chest. She was rasping for breath, dragging the air down into her lungs. And what was that? A gritty, metallic taste in her mouth. Adrenaline? Blood?
Yes, blood. She must have bitten her tongue.
Amelia tried to steady her breathing. She was on her back. Beneath her she felt the softness of her mattress and bedding. She wanted to shrink into it, to wrap herself in it like a cocoon, to be subsumed by it and retreat into unconsciousness. She longed for a place where she didn’t have to think about the things she had seen, where she could escape from the world and all its horrors, from the thoughts of her own impending death and the absolute futility of fighting it.
But she could feel herself coming round, the world slowly drawing into focus. It was like surfacing from a pool of water, muffled sounds beginning to make some sort of disjointed, disordered sense.
Someone was holding her hand, speaking to her. She could make out nothing of the words: just heard the low, monotonous voice, talking ceaselessly.
She tried to open her eyes but her eyelids felt as if they were gummed shut. Her mind was suddenly filled with a cascade of stuttering images, terrifying, confusing images: fire and smoke; the whole world spinning, twirling, dancing-a constant, repeating revolution, turning again and again. Dizziness followed by screaming followed by exquisite pain. She imagined this was how most people would describe Hell.
Amelia knew she had seen her own death. She had seen the walls caving in around her, heard the deafening noise of exploding masonry, the crack of splintering stone. She had seen the world ending all around her and her own inability to get away.
And then silence. Nothing but profound, infinite silence and the smooth porcelain face of Mr. Calverton looming over her, his darting blue eyes hovering menacingly above her face.
She opened her mouth to scream, but choked on the blood that had pooled at the back of her throat. She tried to sit up, but found herself rooted to the spot. She gasped and struggled, and then felt steadying hands on her shoulders, keeping her still, keeping her safe.
It was then that she realised the voice she was hearing belonged to Dr. Fabian, and his words slowly resolved into something meaningful. “Try to breathe, Amelia. Deep breaths.” The concern was evident in his voice. “There, now.” He patted her hand. “There, you’re coming round.”
Amelia’s eyes blinked open. She searched the room in panic. No sign of Mr. Calverton, and the walls were not caving in. No fire, either. Not yet. Only the smiling, worried face of Dr. Fabian, leaning over her, studying her intently.
She took a moment to collect herself, to get her bearings. She was lying on her bed, in her room at the Grayling Institute, still wrapped in her nightdress. Her hands were trembling.
“You’ve had another episode, Amelia,” Dr. Fabian went on. “I believe it must have been induced by the intensity of the treatment. It’s the first one you’ve suffered in some time. Can you speak?”
Amelia swallowed. The sensation was like broken glass in her throat. “Water?” she croaked.
“Yes, my dear. Well done. Can you sit up?”
Amelia propped herself up on the pillow while Dr. Fabian reached for the jug on the nightstand and poured her a small glass of water. He handed it to her and she sipped it gratefully. “I think the worst of it has passed,” she said. She felt her heart rate slowly returning to normal, but her nerves were still jangling and her head continued to pound. She felt utterly exhausted.
Dr. Fabian leaned back in his chair, causing the old wood to creak in protest. He pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose with his index finger: that nervous gesture again. “It’s my fault, Amelia. I’m sorry. I pushed you too far, too quickly. I should have been more patient. But we were making such progress-”
“No,” she said. “Stop that. You’re doing everything you can. We’ve come so far. We can’t give up now.”
“No, my dear. There’s no chance of that. I couldn’t give up on you now.” Dr. Fabian folded one leg across the other. He regarded her coolly. “Do you remember your dreams, Amelia? Can you recall what you saw?”
“No,” she lied. And then worried that she’d responded too quickly. She couldn’t face it yet, couldn’t bring herself to talk about it. Saying it out loud made it real, and all she wanted to do was forget. “That is,” she continued, “nothing that makes any sense.”
Dr. Fabian nodded slowly. He regarded her with interest. She wondered whether he believed her or not. “Well then, I think, my dear, you should sleep. Your body needs to recover from the trauma of the episode. The seizure was exceptionally violent.” He turned his head and she saw two bloody lines on his cheek where her nails had obviously raked his flesh.
“Oh… I’m…”
“No need to apologise, Amelia. You were not in control of your faculties. Rest now for a few hours. I’ll send Mr. Calverton to wake you in time to get ready for dinner.”
Amelia nodded, although the idea of food was utterly nauseating. She downed the rest of her water, swilling it around her mouth to wash away the residue of the blood. Her tongue felt thick and swollen in her mouth. She handed the empty glass to Dr. Fabian, who rose from his chair and returned it to its place on the bedside table.
Amelia watched him leave the room, carefully pulling the door shut and locking it behind him. She curled up on the bed, bringing her knees up under her chin. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was fire and spinning and screaming. She felt the tears come then, a huge upwelling of emotion. She buried her face in the pillows to muffle the sound, and her body was racked with sobs.
So this was it. This was how her life would end, here, in the Grayling Institute. Even Dr. Fabian and his “engine of life” could not save her. She had seen it in her dreams. And her dreams, she knew from experience, always spoke the truth.
CHAPTER
13
The palace was a hive of activity. Bainbridge watched through the window of the police carriage as they were ushered onto the grounds by a man wearing the bright red uniform of the Queen’s Guard. They came to a halt a moment later and six armed members of the guard quickly converged on the carriage, their weapons ready.
The young constable-whose name was Brown-moved to get up from his seat, but Bainbridge waved him down. “Thank you, Brown. I’ll see to things from here.” After peering out the window at the armed men awaiting them, Brown quickly decided to do exactly as he was told.
Bainbridge leaned on his cane as he stood, swinging the door open and hopping down from the carriage. It was cool outside, and the fresh breeze ruffled his hair. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said to the guardsmen, who were each watching him warily. Their faces were stern and expressionless. They were jumpy, he realised. The attack on the Queen must have really shaken them up. Bainbridge didn’t much like the idea of being surrounded by nervous men bearing rifles. “Sir Charles Bainbridge, Chief Inspector, Scotland Yard.” The men lowered their guns, visibly relaxing.