The Affinity Bridge (14 page)

Newbury laughed. “Indeed not, Miss Hobbes. That would never do.”

He continued to chuckle as the cab rolled on towards Chelsea, and home.

_{Chapter Ten}

Newbury had visited Buckingham Palace on numerous occasions over the last few years, yet the grandeur of the place never failed to take his breath away. He was awed by the spectacle of it; looming out of the grey, fog-shrouded morning, its towering facade was an imposing sight, a symbol of Her Majesty’s might rendered in stone for the entire world to see.

He glanced up at the pillars that stood, sentry-like, over the main entrance. To either side of these were vast rows of windows, hiding all the secrets of the Empire behind their heavy curtains of red and gold. In the driveway, stable hands were exercising the horses, and a line of impressive carriages stood ready by the main gates. Newbury wondered if some sort of state function were being planned, or else if foreign dignitaries were expected to pay a visit later that day. He knew Her Majesty would not be impressed by either of those eventualities.

Nodding at the guard, who shivered as he opened the gate for Newbury to pass through, he made his way around the rear of the immense building, making haste for the private entrance that was situated near the servant’s quarters, out of sight from prying eyes. He braced himself against the chill. The morning had brought with it a crisp frost, and the sun was yet to break through the dense cloud of fog that had settled on the city during the night. It was still early, but Newbury knew he was expected. It didn’t do to keep Her Majesty waiting.

He approached the familiar oak door, glancing quickly from side to side to ensure that he wasn’t being watched, and rapped gently with the brass knocker. After a moment a small panel slid open and a pair of eyes appeared.

Newbury cleared his throat. “Morning, Sandford. It’s Newbury here.”

The panel slid shut again and a few seconds later the door swung open, revealing a small foyer inside. The room was brightly lit with gas lamps and, Newbury was pleased to see, the roaring flames of a fire. Sandford, the butler who oversaw this small, secret area of the palace, ushered Newbury inside, clicking the door shut behind him. He held his arm out for Newbury’s coat and hat. Newbury removed the garments and passed them to the butler, offering his thanks. The man was aged, now; in his seventies, with a shock of white hair and liver spots speckling his face and hands. He looked impeccable in his suit, however, and Newbury had the utmost respect for the man. He had stayed in service out of an unerring sense of duty to the Crown, and Newbury had often wondered if he had once been an agent of the Queen himself, back in the early days of the Empire. He certainly had a few tricks up his sleeve.

Sandford draped Newbury’s coat on the stand in the corner and returned to his favourite position beside the fire. Newbury was rubbing his hands, attempting to soak up the warmth of the flames.

“Warm yourself there for a moment, sir. Her Majesty is expecting you in the throne room, but I dare say she’ll wait a moment longer whilst you make yourself presentable.” He winked at Newbury, and they both smiled. Newbury had received no official summons from the Palace, but he knew from experience that Her Majesty would be expecting a report on his findings at the crash site, as well as his consequent investigations. In fact, given the nature of the case, he was surprised that he hadn’t received a summons before now.

Newbury straightened his suit. “Well, Sandford, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

Sandford nodded, offering him an appraising look. “That you are, sir.” He turned about on his heel, more deftly than his appearance would give him credit for. “I’ll walk you there now, sir.” They left the comfort of the fire behind them, exiting the foyer by a side door and out into a small passage that Newbury had walked along many times before. It snaked its way through the bowels of the palace, a secret route between the throne room and Sandford’s little waiting area at the back of the great house. The corridor had been built for a different purpose, Newbury believed—an escape route from the throne room should the monarch ever find herself threatened and in need of escape. Now, though, it was primarily used to bring Her Majesty’s agents into the palace for private audiences, concealing them from the rest of the household, who, Newbury doubted, were even aware that the passageway existed. Of course, it depended entirely on one’s point of view. Newbury couldn’t help but think that the secret corridor also prevented Her Majesty’s agents from soaking up too much of what was going on elsewhere in the palace. Victoria was a monarch who liked to play her cards very close to her chest indeed.

Newbury couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering as the two of them strolled along the passageway. The walls were lined with austere portraits of long-dead kings and queens, the figureheads who had helped to shape the nation in times past. Victoria herself was notably absent from the gallery, and Newbury wondered if that would be the first role of any new incumbent to the throne; to hang a portrait of this most powerful ruler in its rightful place, at the head of the gallery of her predecessors. Not that the Queen showed any real signs of abdication or debilitating illness; the marvellous machines of Dr. Fabian took care of that. He was a scientific genius without precedent, and Newbury was only grateful that he was loyal to the Crown and not, as others with pettier minds might have been in his position, hungry for power in his own right. He’d only met the man once, fleetingly, but he knew at some point he was likely to meet him again. Most agents of the Crown found occasion to visit Dr. Fabian at least once or twice during the course of their career.

Presently, their feet scuffing the deep pile of the carpet, they came to rest before a door. The corridor ended abruptly here, and Newbury knew that the vast chamber of the throne room awaited him on the other side.

Sandford knocked boldly on the door, straightening his tie.

“Come.” The command from within was direct, pointed.

The butler reached for the handle and clicked the lock, allowing the door to swing open into the room. All Newbury could see inside was darkness.

“Sir Maurice Newbury, Your Majesty.” Sandford shuffled out of the way to allow Newbury to pass, and then pulled the door shut behind him. Newbury heard the sound of the butler’s feet rustling on the carpet as he slipped away, heading for his rooms and the relative warmth of his fire. He stepped forward in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Heavy curtains were drawn across all of the windows, casting the place in dark shadow. The only light in the entire room was a gas lamp flickering in one corner, a tiny flame adrift on a sea of darkness. He had the sense of standing in a cavernous space, but only being able to see a few feet in front of him. He could hear the sound of Dr. Fabian’s machines, wheezing and sighing as they rasped at the air, their bellows clicking as they rose and fell in the darkness.

Finally, Victoria spoke.

“Ah, my faithful servant. What news do you bring?” Her voice cut through the darkness like ice, sending a shiver up and down his spine. He turned towards the sound, and bowed.

“Majesty.” He paused. “Precious little news, I fear.” He sighed, deciding how to go on. “I attended the scene of the airship disaster, as requested, and discovered certain…irregularities.”

“Go on.”

“The body of the pilot was missing from the wreckage, and the passengers, or what remained of them, had all been tied into their seats. There were no survivors at the scene. I later discovered that the vessel had in fact been piloted by a clockwork automaton developed by the airship’s operators, Chapman and Villiers Air Transportation Services.” He paused, weighing his next words carefully. The wheezing sound continued, steadily, in the darkness. “Yesterday I visited the manufactory of the aforementioned business and saw one of these automaton units being demonstrated. I have no reason to believe the pilot of
The Lady Armitage
could have malfunctioned at the controls. The cause of the disaster remains unclear.”

There was a creaking sound as Victoria wheeled forward in her chair, emerging from the shadows into the dim glow of the gas lamp. Newbury fought the urge to gasp at her appearance. He had seen her before, of course, but the sheer extent of Dr. Fabian’s work was a Constant source of shock and amazement. The Queen was lashed into her wheelchair; her legs bound together, her arms free and resting on the wooden handles that enabled her to rotate the wheels of the contraption. Two enormous tubes protruded from her chest, just underneath her breasts, folding around beneath her arms to connect to the large tanks of air that were mounted on the back of the chair. Bellows were affixed to the sides of the contraption and groaned noisily as they laboured with the pressure, forcing air from the tanks in and out of her collapsed lungs. Her chest rose and fell in time with the machine. A drip fed a strange, pinkish liquid into her bloodstream via a catheter in her arm and a bag suspended on a brass frame over her head.

She regarded Newbury with a steely expression. “Newbury.” Her voice was full of gravitas. “We must impress on you the critical nature of this assignment. It is a matter of some importance to the Crown. We expect you to do your duty and identify the source of the disaster. Foul play remains a distinct possibility.” Her mouth was a tight line, her face old and tired. Nevertheless, her eyes shone with a brilliant gleam that, even in the semi-darkness, gave evidence of the fact that her mind was still as sharp as her tongue.

Newbury was unsure how to respond. “Of course, Your Majesty. I will endeavour not to disappoint in this matter.” He shuffled awkwardly. “If it’s not impertinent to ask…may I know the origin of your suspicion of foul play? It may prove useful in identifying the next course of action.”

Victoria moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Very well. A member of the Dutch Royal Family—a cousin of this household, no less—has been missing in London for some days. Intelligence from other sources suggested he may have been onboard
The Lady Armitage
when she went down. This morning the mortuary confirmed his body had been identified in the wreckage.” She hesitated before going on. “We need not impress on you the severity of this situation, Newbury. One suspects that sabotage of the vessel may have been an attempt to discredit this house. Worse, we fear the means of that sabotage may in some way be related to your…field of experience. We have given our word to the boy’s mother that we shall provide a reasonable explanation for the disaster. You must find an answer, and quickly. What with all this business in Whitechapel and the plague spreading through the slums, your expertise is needed elsewhere. Scotland Yard are floundering without your aid. Hurry to it, Newbury. Bring us the answers we need.”

Newbury bowed his head. “I will press on with all haste and due diligence, Your Majesty.”

“Go then, and report back to us soon.”

He turned to leave.

“Oh, and Newbury, how is that new assistant of yours working out? A woman, isn’t she?”

He smiled. “Miss Hobbes? Yes, delightful, Your Majesty.

And full of spark. She’ll be a great asset to us, in time.”