Veronica backed up to the doorway and then, realising she’d be unable to simply carry the cadaver through the narrow opening, dropped to her haunches, lying the body on the ground. She then sidestepped through the doorway into the corridor before dropping to her knees and dragging the corpse out behind her by its feet.
Seconds later she was running down the burning passageways again, the duplicate clutched to her, its head flopping about with her movements. All the while, explosives continued to rain down upon the building, shaking what was left of the structure to its very foundations.
She had no idea how long she’d been gone, but when she finally returned to Amelia’s room, tufts of her hair smoking and streaks of soot on her face, there was no sign of Newbury or her sister. Frowning, Veronica struggled over to the empty wheelchair and slid the cadaver from her grip, lowering it unceremoniously into the chair. Once there, she propped it up as best she could and stepped back, admiring her handiwork.
She supposed it wouldn’t fool someone who took the time to seriously examine the body, but anyone searching through the wreckage in a few days’ time would likely find a charred corpse that looked remarkably like her sister, sitting in the remains of a wheelchair a few feet from the corpse of Dr. Fabian.
It would do. It would have to do.
There was a momentary lull in the intensity of the bombardment and Veronica caught the sound of a man’s voice, carried in from somewhere just outside the shattered French doors. She stepped gingerly over Fabian’s body and approached the doors, peering out cautiously into the garden beyond.
Newbury was standing on the patio with Amelia draped in his arms. Before them, sitting astride a gleaming clockwork warhorse, was Enoch Graves. He was dressed like the others, with a neat bowler hat atop his head, a grey suit, and a breastplate of shining steel. He held the red-crossed flag of Saint George in one hand, fluttering in the breeze atop a gilded staff, as if declaring his intent to embrace the old ways of his mother country. The other hand he used to brandish a Gatling gun in Newbury’s direction. His voice was low enough that Veronica couldn’t discern his words, but she could tell from the glibness of his tone and his wry smile that he was gloating at Newbury. She knew immediately that he intended to let loose with the weapon as soon as he finished his speech.
There was nothing Newbury could do about it, either. With Amelia in his arms he had no chance of even attempting to tackle Graves, and any sudden moves would certainly result in death. At this range, the Gatling gun would shred both him and Amelia apart in seconds.
Veronica stepped back from view, careful not to crunch the fragments of broken glass beneath her feet and draw attention to herself. She felt her temper flare. How dare he!
She wasn’t about to let Graves ruin everything now.
Veronica hitched up her skirt, revealing her milky white thigh beneath her petticoat. There, held in a leather harness just above her right knee, was a long-bladed knife. She drew it slowly from its sheath and clutched it in her right fist, the blade pointed at the floor like a dagger.
Veronica took a deep breath and peered out again, quickly this time, trying to establish if there was anyone she’d need to deal with besides Graves. There didn’t appear to be. She ran through the sequence of possible events in her mind. It was going to be risky. One false move and Graves’s trigger finger would twitch and spray Newbury and Amelia with bullets. But she had to try-it was this or nothing.
Veronica ducked back into Amelia’s room, treading carefully so as not to inadvertently give herself away. She stayed low as she dashed through the door and along the passageway, trying not to breathe in the thick wreaths of cloying smoke.
The door to the neighbouring room was already on fire. Standing back, she used her heel to kick it open. It shuddered and swung back in the frame, dripping sparks. The fire hadn’t yet spread to the room beyond, but it was nevertheless a scene of violent devastation. The French doors had been shattered by a torrent of Gatling gun fire, which in turn had chewed up all the furniture inside the room as well as the occupant, one of Fabian’s patients, an old woman who was now sprawled facedown on the hearth, an arc of dripping blood decorating the wall above her.
Veronica averted her eyes from the dead woman’s back as she crept towards the garden.
As she’d anticipated, the doors here let out onto the patio behind where Graves’s warhorse was standing, stamping its foot in an impatient gesture reminiscent of its real, flesh-and-blood counterparts. All she had to do now was creep out through the broken doors, sneak up on Graves unseen and unheard, and jam the blade beneath his rib cage, through the small gap in his plate armour just behind the breastplate.
Graves, thankfully, was still orating down upon Newbury, who was in turn keeping him talking, prompting him with questions and encouraging him to elaborate. She imagined Newbury was anxiously anticipating her return, hopeful she’d be enough of a distraction to give him a chance to do something. Well, she’d certainly do that.
With the utmost care, Veronica wriggled out through the shattered remains of the French doors, finding her footing on the flagstones beyond. She glanced quickly in the other direction, reassuring herself that the coast was clear. Then, clutching the knife tightly in her fist, she padded forward towards the mechanical beast and its rider.
“This, Newbury, is only the beginning. We shall build England anew, return her to her former glories. We shall placate the infidel and the Empire shall once again cover the globe!” Graves was spouting his grand rhetoric, the words of a would-be dictator. The words that would be his undoing.
Veronica appraised the situation. She was going to have to jump to strike the blow; the saddle Graves sat on was above her shoulder, meaning he was higher still. To reach him she’d need to pull herself up, her arm extended, and ensure her aim was true. If she missed and struck the breastplate or back plate instead, everything would be over.
She manoeuvred herself carefully around the side of the horse. Thankfully, Graves seemed to be lost to the vagaries of his speech and didn’t appear to be paying attention to anything other than himself. As she drew closer, however, Newbury caught sight of her and his eyes involuntarily widened in surprise. Graves saw his reaction, too, and began to twist around in his saddle, breaking off from his sermon. “What-?”
But Veronica was too fast. She took two strides forward, grabbed hold of Graves’s leg for purchase, and propelled herself into the air, her right hand guiding the blade in an arc. She heard Graves call out in surprise and confusion, raising his arm in an attempt at defence, and then the knife hit home, glancing off the edge of the breastplate and burying itself deep in his side.
Graves screamed in agony and Veronica twisted the handle, thrusting up with all the power she had left in her body. Graves batted at her with his fist, but she continued to drive the blade deeper, twisting it and turning it to maximise the damage, ignoring the blows that were raining down on her back and shoulders.
A second later Newbury was at her side, grappling with the flailing man, trying to pin him in place. The flagstaff fell to the floor as Graves brought his other fist around in a powerful hook, striking Newbury hard across the face, but the knife had already done its work, and Graves didn’t have the strength in him to keep up the battle. Newbury, shaking his head to clear the effects of the blow, caught hold of Graves’s arm and hauled with all his might, dragging the man from the saddle. Veronica rushed to help him, and, a second later, pulled down by the weight of his own plate armour, Graves slipped from the mechanical horse and fell hard against the flagstones.