A shadow passed overhead, and Newbury looked up to see the dark underbel y of an airship sweeping low over the city, a rope ladder trailing, forgotten, off the port side. He watched it drift lazily across the sky, the growl of its engines a gravelly counterpoint to the sharp, biting howl of the wind. He dropped his eyes to the road ahead and stopped, with a start.
The hooded figure was standing by the corner of the road, about a hundred feet away, regarding him steadily, its face hidden beneath the wide, shadowy cowl of its cloak. The black fabric trailed in the wind, billowing up around its legs. Beneath the hood, from somewhere within the pool of darkness that hid the person's face, a small, round, bluish light flickered like blinking eye. It was a menacing sight, and caused Newbury to give an involuntary shudder. There was little else that Newbury, could discern from this distance, other than that the man -for, given the figure's size and bulk, it had to be a man – was wearing black leather boots and matching gloves. It had to be Ashford
Newbury broke into a run, charging towards the solitary figure, his head bowed against the driving wind. The man remained stationary, watching, silently, as Newbury dashed towards him.
Newbury had no idea what to expect, no notion of what he was letting himself in for. In his present state he knew he wouldn't be able to put up much resistance if Ashford was angling for a fight, but he couldn't turn down the opportunity to tackle the rogue agent and get the whole matter quickly resolved.
Gasping, he flung himself forward as if to grapple the hooded figure, only to see him side-step around the corner at the last moment. Newbury caught hold of the wall, stopping himself from pitching over. He heaved against the brickwork, pulling himself around the corner after Ashford as if to continue the chase, but, bizarrely, the other man was gone.
Newbury, dumbfounded, glanced from side to side, looking for the means by which Ashford had made his escape. There were no obvious al eyways or doorways he could have dashed into, no ladders or vehicles by which he could have effected his disappearance. Just a series of dreary shop-fronts and red-brick walls. He looked up. The sky was a leaden canopy overhead, but there was no sign of Ashford atop the nearby buildings, either. He hadn't somehow managed to scale the wall.
The man had simply vanished.
Panting, slowed by the opiate in his veins, Newbury fell back against the wall, attempting to catch his breath. There was a foul stench in the air, a rancid, carrion tang that made him splutter in disgust. Bile rose in his throat. The smell was immediately familiar, and there was no mistaking it.
The man in the hooded cloak had most definitely been his quarry.
Newbury looked around, frustrated. Was everyone now able to simply disappear at will? Or was Ashford just fleet of foot, and Newbury, in his disorientated, half-delusional state, simply didn't have enough of a grip on the situation to be able to keep up with him? One thing was certain, though.
Ashford was either teasing him, or was trying to tell him something.
Either way, the end result would be the same. Next time they met, Newbury would be ready.
Sighing, he pushed himself away from the wall and checked his pocket watch again. He was late for Charles. He looked along the street. A hansom cab was trundling slowly in his direction. He stepped out in the road and waved his arm to hail it over. He needed to get to the White Friar's Club before Charles gave up on him. They had much to discuss.
Chapter Eleven
You're late." Bainbridge's bushy grey moustache twitched as Newbury approached his table, a severe look on his face. "It's only by the good grace of Foster that I managed to get in at all." He indicated the butler on the door, who was standing by the door jamb, an implacable look on his face.
"I'm not a member here, you know. I wish you'd had the foresight to -"
"Not now, Charles."
Bainbridge frowned. "What do you mean, not now? What the devil have you been up to, man?"
He lowered his voice so as, not to be overheard. "Indulging in that blasted vice of yours, judging by the look of you. It's a despicable business, Newbury. You look terrible." He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, studying Newbury's face as he awaited a response.
Newbury waved his arm and dropped into a chair opposite his friend. There was resignation in his voice. "As I said – not now, Charles." He looked up and caught the attention of one of the waiters, who stepped forward, smiling, to take an order of drinks. "Usual, please, Williams." He glanced at Bainbridge's empty glass. "And whatever Sir Charles is drinking."
The waiter offered a polite nod of his head. "As you wish, sir." He retreated to the bar to place their order.
The White Friar's was a gentlemen's club on Arundel Street, and a second home for Newbury, who often visited the place to conduct meetings, dine with associates or friends and to otherwise escape the oppressive pressures of his life as an agent of the Crown. The club itself was a haven for literary types: writers, artists and intellectuals, and frequently Newbury left the establishment feeling invigorated, as much due to the stimulating conversation as the fine selection of brandy. The dining room, in which he had found Charles, was a smallish room, panelled in dark oak and furnished with a smattering of round tables, which were each large enough to accommodate five or six people at a time. A fire roared in the grate on the far side of the room, causing shadows to dance haphazardly over every surface like mischievous pixies, and the murmur of conversation from the adjoining lounge was a constant background hum. The room was fil ed with the pleasant scent of roasting meat, wafting through from the kitchen.
It was quiet that evening, however, and aside from Charles and himself, there were only two other diners making use of the room, huddled over a table in the corner, deep in the midst of some deep, philosophical debate. Or so Newbury liked to imagine. Other than this, a small army of waiters and servants kept a watchful eye on the patrons, keen to cater to their every whim.
Newbury ran a hand over his face. He looked at Bainbridge from beneath hooded eyelids. He was coming down from his opium high. "You can save the lecture for another day, Charles. I apologise for my tardiness."
Bainbridge leaned across the table towards him, toying with his fork. "Newbury." His voice was firm. "You're the only friend I have left in this Godforsaken city. I won't lose you, not to something so ridiculous as that dreadful Eastern weed."
Newbury smiled, a sad, knowing smile. He stared at the fire. When, a moment later, he looked back at Bainbridge, he didn't meet the other man's eye. "What are you drinking?"
Bainbridge sighed. "A tolerably good Cognac. But my bel y is in dire need of sustenance. Let's order some ruddy food."
Newbury grinned. "Yes, in a minute. I need to talk to you first."
Bainbridge looked concerned. "What's happened, Newbury?"
Newbury unfolded his napkin and, placing it on his knee, looked up at his friend. "Don't be alarmed, Charles. I need some more information regarding William Ashford, is all. I've been wondering: what became of his family after he died?"
Bainbridge shrugged. "They were moved. To a house near Cheapside. Dreadful place. It was one of the worst things I've ever had to do, Newbury, tel ing that woman her husband had been kil ed, and then, to compound it, that she and her family were being uprooted as a consequence. She broke down on my shoulder. Begged me to let her keep the house. But I had my orders." He fingered the rim of his empty glass. "Now, to learn that it was all a lie. Well, it casts things in a different light, doesn't it?"
Newbury furrowed his brow. He'd rarely seen Bainbridge in such a reflective mood. "I'm sure those things were done for the right reasons, Charles. It's been five years." He paused to accept his brandy from the waiter. "Do you think Ashford will go looking for them?"