Newbury knew that he needed to lose himself in the crowds, before people began to identify him to the authorities and it became too difficult to fade out of sight. He didn't have the time nor the inclination to answer the raft of irrelevant questions that would be put to him before he was able to prove his identity or all in the aid of Sir Charles. He clasped the reporter on the shoulder.
"Right, Purefoy. Let's get out of here."
They set off, forcing their way through the press of people. Newbury had a determined look on his face as he tried to ignore the flashes of pain from his sore limbs.
Mounting the stairs, they soon found their way out of the Underground station, passing the wreckage of the tricycle, which was now swarming with police constables and transport officials in neat, black suits. They were holding back the crowd of onlookers who had gathered around the wreckage, and talking to witnesses in hushed tones. Newbury recognised the woman who had helped him to his feet after the crash, and turned away, surreptitiously shielding his face from view.
Above the station, the street was dark and foreboding. Shapes hulked in the thick miasma, causing them to take on new roles; an avenue of trees became a row of forlorn soldiers standing to attention; a solitary flower-seller became an ethereal ghost, haunting the abandoned streets in search of fellow spirits. Newbury drew his jacket closer around himself, coughing a little on the syrupy vapour. He turned to the young reporter, who was loitering anxiously beside him, awaiting instruction. "Purefoy. I need you to fetch the police. Go directly to Scotland Yard and tell them that Sir Maurice Newbury has sent you to speak with Sir Charles Bainbridge. Charles is a good man. Fill him in. Give him al the details of what has occurred here this evening, and then have him send his men round to Arbury House. They need to secure Blake's apartment."
Purefoy smiled. "Of course." He hesitated for a moment. "Surely you're not going after Ashford again?"
Newbury grinned. He took his pocket watch from his jacket pocket and held it for a moment in the palm of his hand, studying the elaborate face. It was approaching seven o'clock. "Me? No, I have an appointment with a beautiful young woman."
Purefoy laughed. "Then may I suggest, Sir Maurice, that you first of all find an opportunity to change your attire."
Newbury glanced down to see that his suit was now torn and filthy, spattered with mud, grit and oil. His green eyes twinkled. "I think, my young friend, you make an excellent point."
Purefoy's advice, however, whilst perceptive, proved not to be timely. Newbury knew that if he were to take a cab to Chelsea he would miss his appointment at Kensington with Miss Hobbes. He was not prepared to leave her waiting for him once again. So instead, bedraggled as he was, Newbury had seen Purefoy into a cab, before hailing his own hansom and instructing the driver to ferry him directly to Miss Hobbes's apartments. She'd seen him in worse states than this, after all.
The hansom clattered on through the effluvium-laden streets towards Kensington. The fog had descended swiftly, and looked set to entrench. Newbury watched through the window as figures flitted past, ghostly shapes in the hazy yel ow-grey, like spirits attempting to escape the miasma of the afterlife. Every building, every corner, the mouth of every alleyway; suddenly, in the sickly whitewash, they became the haunt of otherworldly things. Newbury imagined shapes in the fog, just as he had since he'd been a boy. Only these were no longer the lucid imaginings of a child. Newbury knew that out there, in the pale darkness, there were real monsters, both human and otherwise. He had the scars to prove it.
Newbury sighed, and leaned back against the soft leather of the seat. He hoped the fog would lift. If not, he was sure that Mrs. Bradshaw's respiratory condition would return. It had affected her badly throughout the winter months, and he was concerned for her wel being. Besides, he knew he couldn't live without the woman. She was a miracle. Unfazed, undaunted, she catered to his every whim. And she approved of Miss Hobbes. She hadn't stated it explicitly, but her affection for Veronica was clear for all to see. If nothing else, it gave Newbury hope for the future.
Newbury glanced again at his pocket watch. It was now ten past the hour. He imagined Veronica in her Kensington rooms, sat before the fire, awaiting his arrival. He suspected that, even now, she would be cursing him, in her own gentle way, for his tardiness. He would attend to her directly, and hoped to take a moment to relax a little before going on. He needed a brandy. He needed more than a brandy, but for now, a dose of alcohol would help to quell his burning desire for the poppy.
Tonight, he would give himself over to his assistant, enjoy the pleasure of her company and attend to the details of her own case, regarding the missing girls and the magician. After a drink and a wash, they would repair to another carriage, take the short journey to his Chelsea lodgings – where he would change into his evening wear – and together they would enjoy a fine meal at a restaurant on the Strand. He needed that.
Newbury's mind was still a whirlwind, as he considered the Ashford affair. He didn't fancy Purefoy for the crimes, and was now more resolute than ever that he should take the young man under his wing. He'd arranged to call for the reporter in the morning, with Miss Hobbes in tow. In the meantime, Newbury hoped that Charles wasn't being too hard on the young man.
He must have dozed off in the back of the cab, for what seemed like only a moment later, he was awoken by the brisk knock of the driver on the roof of the cab. He rubbed blearily at his eyes and sat forward, glancing out of the window. The hansom had come to rest outside Miss Hobbes's apartment. Newbury clambered out of the cab, paid the driver, and realised for the first time that he must have lost his hat somewhere during the excitement of the afternoon. Shrugging, he followed the path to the house and rapped loudly three times on Veronica's front door. Moments later he heard footsteps creaking on the loose floorboards of the hal. The door creaked open, enough for the slightest sliver of light, and the eye of Mrs. Grant, Veronica's housekeeper, appeared in the opening. It took a moment for her to recognise Newbury in such a dishevel ed state. When she did, the door was flung open widely and she was ushering him in, offering him platitudes.
"Oh my poor dear. Come on in. You look like you could use a pot of that Earl Grey you're always asking for. I keep some out the back for when you call."
Newbury smiled. Mrs. Grant was typically the most stoic of housekeepers, rarely finding the occasion to even smile or raise her eyes to greet Miss Hobbes's visitors. Something about the state of his apparel that evening had moved her, however. Either that, or there was already something more significant amiss. He smiled warmly. "Now, Mrs. Grant, fear not. I am quite well, really. But I am running rather late for an appointment with Miss Hobbes, who I gather had plans to meet me here this evening. Will I find her in the sitting room?"
Mrs. Grant frowned. She placed her hands on her hips, shaking her head in an exaggerated fashion. "Indeed not, Sir Maurice. Indeed not. Miss Hobbes has yet to return from the museum. I had hoped, upon seeing you, that you would be in a position to put my mind at rest regarding her good health." She looked him up and down once again. "I expected her over two hours ago, but I fear there has been no word."
Newbury nodded, thoughtful. "Hmmm. Well, I should not presume to fear too heartily, Mrs.
Grant. It's not a long time to be missing. Perhaps she has simply been delayed in this dastardly weather."