It was cool outside, grey clouds hanging low in the sky like oily smoke. In the courtyard a group of engineers were unloading a large structure from the back of a wagon. It looked like a huge iron cannon, but the rear end was attached to a large boxlike contraption with glass portholes on each side. The box-a generator, he assumed-contained a spinning coil that flickered with dancing blue electricity. It was clearly a weapon of some sort, but Bainbridge had no idea of its use or effect. He imagined it worked similarly to his cane-that, when triggered, it could be used to discharge massive bolts of electricity at the enemy.
Not that it mattered, of course. The palace would now be transformed into a fortress, at least until the case had been resolved, the dead intruder had been identified, and the agency behind the attack-if, indeed, the Queen was correct in her assertion-had been exposed and obliterated. Bainbridge had no doubt that the monarch would leave no stone unturned in her quest to root out the villains. She was, if nothing else, tenacious. And more than that, her desire for revenge was as boundless as her temper.
Bainbridge found the police carriage waiting for him by the main gate. He would head to Scotland Yard, gather his men, and brief them on the necessary actions. Then, if there was time, he would send a note to Newbury. It was only midmorning, and he was already feeling weary with the day.
CHAPTER
14
“Are you sure about this, Veronica?”
She looked at him blankly. “Would I be here if I weren’t?”
They were sitting in a hansom cab at the foot of the long gravel driveway that curled, snakelike, across the grounds of the Grayling Institute. Veronica peered out between the window drapes. The glass was filthy with spattered grime, but she had a reasonable view of the building. She’d never seen it before, and it was completely at odds with what she’d imagined. It was a large country mansion, a former Royal residence, built in the dying days of the seventeenth century and now given over to science, converted into the laboratories and workshops of Dr. Lucien Fabian.
The house was grand and imposing, but also had an old-world charm, like somewhere she remembered visiting when she was a child. It had been a bright summer’s day, and she had played on the lawn with Amelia while her parents drank pungent tea in the orangery with their hosts. Amelia had been stung by an insect, and Veronica held her hand while their mother, a cross expression on her face, pulled the stinger from her arm.
Veronica blinked away the unbidden memory. She wondered how Amelia was finding her new home. She supposed she was going to find out.
She glanced at Newbury. He was right to ask whether she was sure about what they were planning to do. Veronica was hesitant. Not only about their plan for her to steal into the building unannounced while Newbury was quizzing Dr. Fabian about his relationship to the Bastion Society, but also in the end result. Newbury wanted her to speak with Amelia to test the validity of his premonition, his deep-seated fear that something dreadful was going to happen.
Veronica, however, had been expressly forbidden from visiting her sister, told that it would be better to allow her to heal in isolation at the institute, without the distraction of familial concern. She did not want to disrupt Amelia’s recovery. She also feared the results of her conversation with her. There was a significant part of Veronica that didn’t want Amelia to confirm Newbury’s assertions, because that would mean they were about to face something potentially devastating, something that had made even Newbury skittish and afraid.
On the other hand, if Newbury was wrong and Amelia had seen nothing that coincided with his predictions, then what did that say about Newbury’s state of mind? That he might be putting undue stock in the supposed results of his occult experiments? That his mind was addled by months of drug abuse? Clearly, either way, Veronica would have a difficult situation on her hands. But she couldn’t very well back out now, and whatever Amelia told her, she needed to know. If Amelia’s dreams had revealed a looming danger, then Veronica needed to be aware so she could work to prevent it from happening.
Newbury leaned forward and took her hand. “Five minutes, Veronica. Five minutes, and then back to the cab. Do not hang around. Do not risk discovery. Get in and out of there as quickly as you can.”
Veronica raised her eyebrows and fixed Newbury with an impatient stare. “Sir Maurice, I shall be in and out before anyone knows I was even here. You do not need to lecture me on taking risks.”
“No,” said Newbury. “I don’t suppose I do.” He sat back, satisfied. “You will wait here for me while I talk to Dr. Fabian?”
“Of course.”
“Very well. I’m led to believe,” he said, “that there are a number of possible entrances in the rear of the property, French doors that lead to the patients’ rooms. If you make your way around the house beneath the cover of the trees, I’ll distract the servants at the main entrance.” He stood, straightening his jacket. “Good luck, Veronica.”
“Good luck to you, Sir Maurice.”
He swung the door open and stepped out into the bright sunlight. His feet crunched on the gravel. Taking a deep breath to prepare, Veronica followed him, keeping close to the cab. She dropped out onto the ground, circled quickly around the back of the cab, and disappeared behind the cover of the trees that lined the perimeter of the institute.
Unbeknownst to Veronica, a pair of cool blue eyes watched her progress from behind a porcelain mask as she darted from tree to tree, moving with practised ease, looking for an easy way into the building.
A balding butler in a black suit with watery, pale eyes, was waiting for Newbury in the doorway of the old manor house. Newbury smiled as he mounted the steps and the elderly man gave a brief unnecessary bow. “Good day to you, sir. My name is Carrs. Can I be of assistance?” He had a broad East End accent, although he was clearly doing his best to hide it.
Newbury tried to seem jovial, although he wasn’t feeling it. His stomach was clenched and he was sweating under his collar. The dose of laudanum he’d taken that morning was already starting to wear off, and he felt his cravings returning with a vengeance. “Thank you, Carrs. I was hoping to speak with Dr. Fabian. It is an urgent matter, the Queen’s business, and I seek his advice.”
Carrs inclined his head. “Very good, sir. If you would care to follow me, I will show you where to wait while I attempt to locate Dr. Fabian.”
Newbury realised as he ducked his head beneath the lintel of the old house how diminutive the old butler really was. He could barely have reached Newbury’s shoulder, and he walked with a slight stoop. Newbury wondered if he were another of Dr. Fabian’s waifs and strays, an old soldier, or agent, or serviceman of some kind who had been rehabilitated at the institute and then kept on in service in recognition of the debt that was owed to him by his country.
Newbury would have liked to imagine so. But the cynic in him wondered if it were simply that Dr. Fabian did not like to surround himself with people who were either younger or taller than he was. It wouldn’t have surprised Newbury to discover that was the case: Everything he knew of the good doctor, from both hearsay and his own brief encounter with the man, suggested Dr. Fabian had an ego large enough to match his reputation.
Newbury followed Carrs through a number of winding passageways that branched off from the reception hall until they came to a chamber that had been set out in the fashion of a drawing room. Dark oak panels lined the walls, and a portrait of a seventeenth-century cavalier, replete with plumed hat and close-cropped beard, hung upon the chimney breast. His face was intent and regal, and Newbury couldn’t help but feel the painting was somehow watching him.