As if reading his thoughts, Ashford took decisive action. Ploughing forward, he raised his arms and grabbed for Knox, ignoring the sharp downward swing of the other man's sword, which bit hard into the coil of tubing that stretched from Ashford's chest to the back of his skull. Blood and chemicals sprayed into the air, describing a wide arc, but Ashford paid them no heed. He chopped down hard at Knox's wrist, causing the doctor to lose his grip on the sabre. It spiralled away, clattering to the wooden boards, the weight of it causing it to slide across the uneven deck of the listing ship. Newbury watched it slip away into the water, disappearing into the murky depths of the Thames. Ashford was about to finish it.
Standing, Newbury held Veronica tightly to his chest as Ashford grasped hold of Knox, wrapping his huge, sinewy arms around the other man's chest and lifting him bodily into the air. Mechanical servos squealed as Ashford applied crushing pressure, his feet planted firmly on the deck, water lapping at his knees.
Knox wailed and spluttered, wheezing as the air was forced out of his lungs by his slowly collapsing ribcage. His legs kicked uselessly, his arms pinned to his sides, as his body was constricted by his former victim. His head turned, his eyes fixing on Newbury. Newbury could see the panic there, the desperation behind those eyes. His mouth opened and closed. He was mouthing something. Newbury stepped closer.
"Help.. me.." Knox gasped. But al Newbury could see were the faces of the dead girls in the cellar beneath the Archibald Theatre, Veronica's face as the bul et ripped through her shoulder, and Purefoy's disembowel ed corpse, spread out on the floor like an anatomical doll. He remained steadfast, unmoved by the doctor's plight. His jaw was set firm. There would be no redemption for this man. The hate burned within Newbury like a furnace. Knox was everything that Newbury was not. Charles was wrong. The similarities were superficial. Perhaps they were two extremes on the same scale, but they were poles apart. He needed to believe that.
Knox gave a spasm, his neck jerking back, blood spouting from his lips, his eyes rol ing back in his sockets, as, with one, last, sudden movement, Ashford squeezed the last of the life out of him The doctor's head lol ed to one side.
After a moment, Ashford released the corpse, which flopped like a child's toy to the deck of the boat and then slid, ungraciously, into the river. A moment later there was nothing but a few escaping air bubbles to mark the departure of Dr. Aubrey Knox.
The Methuselah shook violently as its engines began to fail. Ashford stood, watching the water for a moment, as if anxious to ensure that Knox would not suddenly resurface, and then turned and staggered towards Newbury. The pump in his chest was stil pushing fluid through the severed pipe, but it now become a pathetic trickle, dribbling down the side of Ashford's head. The man himself had begun to tremble. With great difficulty, he raised his feet above the sloshing water and jerked himself over to where Newbury was still cradling the unconscious Veronica to his chest. River water was now pouring into the open hatch by Newbury's feet, and he knew he had only minutes to get Veronica to safety.
Before he could reach Newbury, Ashford col apsed to his knees. The red lights of his eyes were flickering, unsteady and dim. Newbury realised that without the preserving chemicals his brain must have been drying out, starved of moisture and oxygen. He was near death. He looked up at Newbury, who met his gaze with a smile. "You did it, Ashford. You did it."
Ashford's ventilator was wheezing heavily, rasping as he dragged air into his artificial lungs. He seemed to be struggling to open his mouth. When he did, the tinny, metal ic sound of his voice lacked its usual bass timbre. "Thank Charles for me, Newbury." And then he convulsed, froze, and dropped to the sinking deck of the ship, the red lights of his eyes fading to a pinprick of light, and then disappearing to a steady black. His head dipped below the water line.
Newbury lurched into action. Veronica's breathing was shal ow. She'd lost a lot of blood, but the wound was clean, straight through. He only hoped he could get her to a surgeon in time.
Cautiously, he walked to the rear of the boat, his feet sloshing in the water. There was no way he could make the jump to the harbour, not with Veronica in his arms. He'd have to swim. He hoped Veronica could survive it. But there was no other option.
Cursing, he glanced up and down the quayside, looking for a means by which he could scale the harbour wall. His best option was to get to one of the other nearby boats, and from there, to safety.
Hesitantly, he lowered himself into a sitting position on the side of the ship and then pitched himself forward into the water, careful to buoy Veronica so that her head remained above the surface. It didn't seem that long since he was last in the Thames, since Veronica was dragging him from the bel y of a sinking airship, and he would have laughed aloud at the irony, had it not been for the gravity of his current situation.
Long, powerful strokes soon propelled him towards the nearest vesseclass="underline" a large, white yacht, bobbing on the water about a hundred yards from the sinking submersible. The owners were nowhere to be seen. It wasn't difficult for Newbury to haul himself and his precious cargo up the small ladder to the safety of the deck.
Shivering with cold, his head pounding from the earlier blows, he didn't wait to catch his breath.
Instead, he took a running jump over the smal gap to the dock, from where he knew he could carry Veronica to a hansom, and from there on, swiftly, to safety.
Chapter Twenty – Five
"So, what did Her Majesty have to say about it all?" Sir Charles Bainbridge took a large gulp from his glass of claret and leaned heavily on the dinner table, regarding Newbury. The two men had only recently finished their meal and Mrs. Bradshaw had yet to return to clear away the evening's debris.
Newbury shrugged. "Nothing, as yet. I'm seeing her tomorrow."
Bainbridge raised a knowing eyebrow. "Tomorrow? It's been, what, three days?"
"A day or two won't change anything, Charles. Her Majesty knows that." Newbury smiled.
Bainbridge sighed. "You'd do wel to remember that it's not our place to take the law into our own hands, Newbury. I mean, why didn't you cal me, man?" Bainbridge was adamant. "You went and put yourself, and Miss Hobbes, in great danger. I could have helped."
Newbury shook his head. "No, Charles. The Yard would have only got in the way. This was not an occasion for the police. It had to be handled differently. You must recognise that sometimes, we need to act outside the law."
"But Newbury, you're forgetting. I'm not only a policeman."
Newbury grinned, a twinkle in his eye. "You can take the man out of the Yard, Charles, but you can't take the Yard out of the man. You'd do well to remember that."
"Well, yes. Perhaps you're right." Bainbridge chuckled. "Dastardly affair, though. Do you believe that's the last we'l see of Aubrey Knox?"
Newbury's expression grew serious. He picked at the remnants of his pudding. "I believe so. I hope so. He looked quite dead when Ashford dropped him into the water."
"Quite.. quite. But they're saying they haven't been able to find the body, as yet."
"Charles, I'd be amazed if anyone could find anything in that dock, let alone a man's corpse. For all we know, it was caught up in the propeller of some passing steamship or other, dashed into a thousand pieces."
"Yes. I suppose you might have it, there." Bainbridge placed his glass on the table before him, and shifted position, leaning back in his chair. "But what about this.. Isis Ritual? What would have become of Knox if he'd managed to complete his machinations?"