The house in Shoreditch had been everything that Newbury had been expecting: run down, dirty: a pile of red bricks leaning awkwardly against its neighbour for support. The cab ride had proved uneventful, and Miss Myers had been- able to tell them very little about Alfonso and the method by which he had caused her to disappear on stage. Her memory of the event was erratic and impressionistic, and all she kept telling Newbury and Veronica was that she was terribly confused, and remembered feeling as though she had somehow been squeezed into a box that was too smal to contain her. The next thing she remembered was being found by the two investigators in the street, with the vague recol ection that someone had pressed money into her hand and turned her out into the foggy street.
Newbury had waited in the cab whilst Veronica had shown Miss Myers to her door, and then they had set out for Kensington, so that Newbury could escort Veronica home to her rooms just off the High Street. With all this talk of missing girls, and the continuing threat of the revenants prowling the streets, Newbury was keen to ensure his assistant made it back to her home in safety. That, and the fact he was keen to discuss his impressions of the evening's events with her.
He glanced up at her, watching as the motion of the cab caused her to rock from side to side in her seat. "So, to answer your question, Miss Hobbes: I think our 'Mysterious Alfonso' was every bit of the wretch you anticipated him to be."
Veronica frowned. "So you believe him to be guilty, then?"
Newbury shrugged. "Al the evidence suggests not. The girl was found to be fine – if a little confused and disorientated by her experience – and he had provided her with the cab fare home as he suggested. But I do feel there is more to the man than meets the eye. I'd like to know what sort of trick he's using to pull off that disappearing act, and what's more, why it should leave the volunteer feeling so lost and unwel. I have a suspicion she was rendered unconscious, probably with some kind of chemical compound. It certainly bears more investigation."
Veronica nodded. "Indeed. I wonder if it is the process itself that is causing the girls to go missing. By that I mean – do they stumble out of there disorientated and with no memory of the preceding events, and then wind up getting themselves lost, or worse?"
Newbury looked thoughtful. "Or perhaps some of them are simply rendered unconscious during the process, and then don't wake up at al ? But we must also consider the possibility that Alfonso, or whatever his real name is, may not be to blame. There is always coincidence to consider."
Veronica raised an eyebrow in a parody of Newbury. "Mmmm. Coincidence indeed."
Newbury laughed. "Yes, you have me there, my dear Miss Hobbes." He glanced out of the window. Kensington loomed out of the fog. "Shall we talk further in the morning?"
Veronica nodded. "I'll wait for you at the office." The cab juddered to a halt as the driver reined in the horses. Veronica got to her feet. "Did Peterson have any thoughts on your mysterious screaming mummy, by the way?"
"Very few. He suggested it was probably some sort of elaborate punishment, that the poor chap was probably mummified alive for some terrible crime he'd committed. Other than that, the markings are unlike anything he's seen before."
Veronica smiled. "Well, I'm sure tomorrow will bring with it some fresh ideas." She clicked open the cab door and moved to step out.
"Oh, and Miss Hobbes?"
She turned to look over her shoulder, framed for a moment in the open doorway of the cab.
Newbury couldn't help but feel stirred by her beauty. He felt the impulse to reach out to her, but fought it back.
"Yes?"
"Assure me you won't place yourself in any unnecessary danger."
She nodded. "Good night, Sir Maurice."
"Good night, Miss Hobbes."
The door snicked shut behind her, and a moment later Newbury rocked back in his seat as the cab rolled away towards Chelsea, and home.
Chapter Six
Morning brought with it a laudanum fog that would have proved debilitating, if not for Mrs.
Bradshaw's revitalising breakfast of bacon, eggs and Earl Grey tea. Newbury, wrapped in his blue velvet dressing gown, sat heavily at the table, wincing at the sunlight that was streaming in through the dining room window. Outside, a frost had settled, clearing the fog, and people were already beginning to bustle along the streets, their carriages creaking loudly, their animals yapping and chirping, their steam engines firing noisily as they careened along in ground trains and other, stranger, steam-powered vehicles. The last two months had seen a proliferation of new devices: bizarre, single-person carriages that barrelled along at great speed, bowling everyone and everything over in their wake. They were smaller than a hansom, but far larger than a bicycle; squat, fat little things on four wooden wheels, into which the driver lowered himself, leaving his head and shoulders exposed to the elements. Newbury was a huge supporter of progress, but he didn't believe the city was ready for the coming transport revolution that these new devices seemed to foreshadow. Aside from that, they were damn ugly, and a nuisance, too. Perhaps Veronica was right, after all. Perhaps there was a very real need to slow things down, to stop the world from rushing too hastily towards the future. Or perhaps he was just feeling dour and hung-over.
He’d been taking more risks recently, with the laudanum, and he knew he was playing a dangerous game. He'd even visited an opium den, just over a week ago, a place at the back of a coffee house, known to its clientele as "Johnny Chang's". It was a nauseating place, full of Chinese sailors and fal en gentlemen, but the heady aroma of the opium and the promise of relief at the end of the pipe had proved too tempting, and he had allowed himself to wallow there for most of an afternoon, buried in a sea of silk cushions. Chasing the dragon was something new to him. Until that point a week ago, he had experimented only with laudanum, measuring it out into glasses of red wine and imbibing it in the comfort of his own home. But the ritual of the pipe was exotic, bewildering and, somehow, more appealing. He planned to purchase one of the devices for use in his apartments. He preferred to indulge himself in private.
Newbury understood that others could not appreciate his craving for the opiates, that both Charles and Veronica saw it as a weakness to be overcome. But to Newbury it was much more than that, more than just the need for a physiological intoxication. It helped him to think, to see the world from a different perspective. It was during his opium hazes that he often found the solution to a case, or made a connection where previously he had seen none. The drug allowed him to retreat into the crevices of his own mind, and what he found there was often illuminating. It lifted the shades of perception, opened his eyes to things that others would deem impossible. It enabled him to trust his instincts. Without the opium, he feared he would not be half the detective he was, and that troubled him beyond regard for his physical wel being. So he continued to indulge, keeping his practices hidden from the world. The opium was at the epicentre of a maelstrom of need and desire.
It was fuel for his mind, but poison for his body.
For a moment, Newbury considered going back to bed. He allowed himself to entertain that fantasy for a few minutes, knowing full well that it was never truly an option. He had to meet with Veronica for a start and besides, he was fully expecting to receive a summons to the palace to discuss the missing agent, "Caspian", and whether or not Her Majesty had any intention of pursuing the matter further.