Newbury pitied Ashford, then, not for what had become of him, but rather for the impact it had had on his life; left out in the cold, Ashford was separated from his wife and children by only a thin pane of glass. But that pane of glass represented a yawning chasm, a barrier that Ashford was forever unable to cross. It must have been torture, to stand watching his wife and children and be prevented from reaching out for them, from holding them, from being a husband and a father to them. But Newbury knew that, to those children, their father was dead, and this thing would stand before them only as a monster, a creature drawn from their darkest nightmares. Ashford knew it too. He had spared them that horror.
The former agent turned to regard the joyful scene inside the house. Newbury was unable to read any emotion on his grim visage, but he was now sure that, somewhere, it stil resided deep inside the man. "Thank you, Newbury." Ashford's voice chimed out in-his grating, metallic tone. "I will do the right thing."
Newbury gave a curt nod, and then turned, making his way along the short path towards the waiting carriage, leaving Ashford alone to contemplate his nightmare. Just as he reached the railing, however, Newbury heard Ashford cal out behind him. "Newbury." A brief pause. "Methuselah."
Newbury turned, a quizzical expression on his face, but Ashford had already gone, melted away into the foggy morning.
Newbury coughed, absently, as he helped Miss Hobbes to dismount from the hansom a short while later at the London Docks. The sun had done its work and burned away much of the morning fog, transforming it into thin wreaths of mist that still clung, determinedly, to the masts of the innumerable vessels that cluttered the harbour. The docks were teeming with boats of al shapes and sizes, from steamships, to yachts, to schooners, and the quayside, in turn, was bustling with life.
Veronica wrinkled her nose. The docks had a distinctive aroma that was all their own. Laughing, Newbury paid the cabbie his fare and sent him on his way. He held his arm out for Veronica. "I suggest, my dear Miss Hobbes, that we begin with the major shipping lines. See if we can't discover the intended destination of the doctor."
The offices of the shipping companies were, as one, small and pokey; dimly lit, and without substantial furnishings. The Crown investigators were forced to wait in line whilst merchants, businessmen and explorers all arranged passage to a vast array of destinations, exotic locales from China to the Continent, from India to Africa, booking berths on the large steamers that were due to sail that week. Hours passed, and innumerable interviews with office clerks – who were each so alike that Newbury considered they could have been stamped out of the same mould – yielded nothing. There was no trail. No person matching Knox's name or description had booked passage on a vessel sailing that day, or indeed any day that week. Newbury, frustrated, feared they had already lost Knox, that perhaps his assumption back at Purefoy's apartment had been incorrect, or worse, that Knox had fooled him, leaving a false trail to throw him off the scent. Had the ace of cups meant something else entirely? He was wracked with doubt.
Together, Newbury and Veronica agreed to walk the quayside in search of inspiration. Newbury was not hopeful that he would find it. That sense of impending chaos was stil bearing down on him, still growing in force and magnitude. He had the notion that he was at the centre of a vast maelstrom, standing in the eye of the storm, looking out as everything went to pieces around him.
Purefoy was dead, and Knox was free. Perhaps he needed help from Charles after all.
They strolled along the water's edge, avoiding crates of stinking fish; fine silks from the East, spices, tobacco and any number of other goods being unloaded from the vessels that had moored along the quayside. Newbury scanned the faces in the crowds as they walked, until those faces became nothing but an indistinct human blur. So many people. If Knox had come here, Newbury understood why he had chosen the place. It would be easy to lose oneself amongst this vast cornucopia of nationalities and noise. Easy to adopt a false identity or to slip down a side street, or even to stow away aboard one of the great ships that towered over the harbour like behemoths in the morning light.
His only clue, now, was that last, cryptic word that Ashford had muttered to him, before he'd slipped away into the darkness. Methuselah. Newbury turned it over and over in his mind.
Methuselah. He knew the relevance of the word, the implication. He had studied the biblical texts as a schoolboy. It was clearly a reference to Knox, to Knox's plans. Methuselah was a watchword for longevity. He was the son of Enoch, who had lived for countless years in the early days of the Christian myth, his life supernaturally extended by the will of God. Newbury was not a religious man, and did not consider the Bible as literal truth, yet he knew there were more things in this world than those he could see, hear or touch, had even witnessed them himself on occasion. The supernatural realm was hidden only by a thin veil. Or so experience suggested. The line between science and the occult was thin and intangible. "Methuselah." He mouthed the word, speaking it aloud, trying to wring the meaning from it. He had come to a stop before a small, makeshift stall, behind which a burly man was selling cockles by the jar.
Veronica, who had been staring out across the water, turned when she heard him speak.
"Methuselah?"
Newbury nodded. "Yes, yes." He sighed. "The last word that Ashford spoke to me before we parted company."
Veronica's eyes widened. "Methuselah.. Ashford said that to you?"
"Indeed. Clearly he was referring to Knox."
"Yes! Sir Maurice, I believe he was. But look!" He followed the line of her finger towards a small boat, bobbing gently with the lap of the water against the harbour wall. It was a bizarre craft, a submersible, capable, Newbury assumed, of spending extended periods beneath the water. It had the look of a small ironclad about it: all metal plates and reinforced glass portholes, with a tall funnel that would remain above water when the vessel dived, providing a source of air for the inhabitants.
There was a wooden deck, surrounded by a short rail, and a sealable hatch for climbing down into the habitable space below. An extendable periscope jutted rudely from the deck. Submersibles such as this were rare, and Newbury had only seen one or two of them in his lifetime. Presently, this one sat afloat in the harbour, sandwiched between two larger boats, and was tied to a mooring post on the quayside nearby. On the side of the vessel, in smal, black letters was the legend: METHUSELAH.
Newbury turned to Veronica. "You don't think.."
Veronica nodded. "It makes sense. It must be Knox's ship."
Newbury couldn't prevent himself from grinning. "So that's how he intends to get away.
Underwater. Come on!" He ran along the harbour edge, careful not to trip or lose his footing.
Veronica followed close on his heels.
The prow of the vessel was around three feet from the edge of the harbour. Murky river water sloshed in the space between. Glancing back over his shoulder to ensure Veronica was still following behind, Newbury readied himself and then sprang from the edge of the harbour towards the small deck of the Methuselah. He landed with a dul thud. Turning, he held his arms out towards Veronica, wil ing her to jump. "Come on! That bang may have alerted him. We need to move quickly."