Newbury gripped the arms of his chair. "God damn it, Charles! That's ridiculous. How can she equate me with a man like that? I have a mind to head back there now, to have it out of her myself!"
Bainbridge slammed his drink down on his desk with a bang. "Don't be a fool, Newbury! Didn't you hear what I said?
It's precisely that sort of behaviour that Her Majesty is trying to avoid." He stood, looking down at his friend. "Newbury, we've been friends for a long time. Listen to me when I tell you this. Stay away from this. It'll do you no good. Ashford is dead, Knox is lost, and you, my friend, are one of the finest men I know. It wouldn't do to mix yourself up in this business. The Queen has nothing to fear.
I've told her that myself. She's simply trying to protect you."
Newbury looked up at Bainbridge, resignation in his eyes. "I'm afraid it's not that simple, Charles. Ashford isn't dead, at least not in the way you think he is."
"What?"
"The Queen told me herself, just this morning. It's all starting to make a horrible sort of sense.
After what happened at the docks – after they found Ashford's shredded remains -Dr. Fabian took the body to his laboratory and rebuilt him. He's still alive, but he's barely human. Her Majesty said he is a blunt instrument' and 'no longer a man in the way that I'd understand it'. He's been living undercover in St. Petersburg for five years. Now, for some reason, he's gone rogue. He's probably somewhere in London as we speak. Her Majesty thinks he's returned to wreak vengeance, that he's probably half mad. She's charged me with bringing him in."
Bainbridge flushed red. He looked flustered. "My God.." He grabbed for his glass and downed the rest of his brandy in one long gulp. "It seems that I don't know everything, after all."
"I'm beginning to think it's an epidemic." Newbury took a pul on his own brandy. "Do you think he's come looking for Knox?"
"Perhaps. I don't know. Knox hasn't been heard of for years. 'There could be other reasons."
"Such as?"
Bainbridge shrugged. "Al I know is that the Ashford I knew would never go rogue. Not without a damn good reason. Perhaps he's on to something. Perhaps he's following a trail. Or perhaps he really has lost his mind."
Newbury nodded, slowly. "Perhaps. Being half-dead for five years, trapped in Russia without his family. No one could blame him." He placed his empty tumbler on the edge of Bainbridge's mahogany desk. "Wil you help me, Charles? I don't even know where to begin."
The Chief Inspector looked pained. "Newbury.. I can't. I have no time. I'm about to head out to the scene of a murder. A high-profile one, too. A lord has been found dead in his home. I need to attend to it before I can think of anything else."
Newbury smiled. "Of course. Can I ask – what are the circumstances?"
"It's all rather rum. Lord Henry Winthrop, found dead in his drawing room at Albion House. He held an extravagant soiree on Tuesday evening, something to do with a mummy unrol ing. He'd just returned from an expedition to Egypt. It looks like a bungled robbery, according to the chaps on the scene. The burglar may have been disturbed by Winthrop: there's not a great deal missing. We're wondering if someone scoped the place out during the party and tried to come back the next day."
Newbury was already on his feet. "Charles! I was there. Two nights ago, at the party. I spoke to Winthrop. My God.."
"What! Then you could be of use to me on the scene. Can you talk me through what happened there?"
"Of course. I may even be able to point you to a suspect. There was a heated exchange at the party between Winthrop and a man named Blake. Wilfred Blake. He left under a heavy cloud."
"Good man! Come on, grab your coat. The carriage should be ready and waiting. Once we've got this nasty business out of the way I can help you with Ashford, assuming that he doesn't show his hand in the meantime." Bainbridge strode over to the coat stand in the corner and col ected his overcoat, gloves and cane. Newbury fol owed suit. He couldn't help but wonder if, somehow, Winthrop's death would prove to be connected to the mystery surrounding the screaming mummy.
But it was not enough of a distraction to quell the rising feeling of disquiet that gripped him, tightly, in the chest, every time he considered Bainbridge's words: "The Queen is worried.. even the very best of men are fallible."
He knew that feeling only too well himself.
Together, the two men set out for Albion House.
Chapter Eight
Veronica stood on the gravel path at the foot of the sanatorium building and tried to will herself to smile. It was mid-morning, and the journey to Wandsworth had been fraught with chaos. The progress of her hansom had been arrested at the scene of a terrible accident, in which a small, steam-powered vehicle had exploded, sprinkling the driver in a bloody mess across a residential square, leaving debris scattered over the road and frightened horses bolting in every conceivable direction. Many cabs, including her own, had been dragged halfway across the neighbourhood, and Veronica would not have been surprised to learn that these errant vehicles themselves had been the cause of further accidents. Thankfully, her driver had been quick to get his spooked horses under control, and had soon arranged for a swift detour to avoid the inevitable delays that awaited them in the other direction.
In truth, however, Veronica knew it was not this that had leftt her feeling so dejected. Sir Maurice had failed to make their appointment once again that morning, and whilst she knew that she shouldn't blame him – wrapped up as he was in the whole "screaming mummy" affair – she couldn't help but feel a little slighted that he should choose to spend his time worrying about a musty old corpse rather than aiding her with a serious investigation.
Then, of course, there was Amelia. Last time she had visited her younger sister, a week earlier, Veronica had found the experience almost unbearable. Amelia was growing weaker and frailer with every passing day. It was as if her sporadic seizures were somehow draining the life out of her, stealing her vitality, as if she was suffering from some kind of wasting disease that was slowly dragging her towards death. Veronica couldn't bear to stand by and watch that happen. She cared for Amelia too much.
She stared up at the building. It looked foreboding, deserted. The airing courts were empty, and a thick, rolling mist lay heavy on the gardens. The clock tower disappeared into the milky sky above the entrance. She couldn't put it off any longer. Sighing, Veronica walked decisively towards the sanatorium, her boots crunching noisily on the loose gravel.
Inside, the reception area was a remarkable counterpoint to the misty solitude of the sanatorium grounds. Here, there were signs of life in plenitude. A nurse sat behind the reception desk, a vacant expression on her face; a doctor strolled purposefully along the corridor, his shoes clicking on the tiled floor; the sounds of patients in their rooms, suffering from any number of terrible mental afflictions. Veronica always felt disconcerted by the sounds of the inmates. Their keening, shouting, wailing and babbling was a constant background noise, disturbing and inescapable. It left her feeling edgy, as if she was surrounded by fear, and it was this, if nothing else, that made her wish that Amelia could be found a more salubrious environment in which to heal. She was certain that her sister's surroundings were adding to her slow decline. Veronica blamed her parents for that, for washing their hands of the "embarrassment". They had insisted on having her committed. What she needed was love, and to be treated like a real person, not someone who needed to be hidden away from society, or else a puzzle that was proving difficult to solve.