The Affinity Bridge (23 page)

Newbury crossed the room, his heels clicking loudly on the marble floor. He stopped before the door on the right, turning towards Veronica. “Shall we take a wing each, Miss Hobbes?

off towards the gallery, their feet crunching on the loose gravel of the path as they walked.

Moments later, to their surprise, they found themselves joined in the courtyard by a burly-looking policeman who had apparently seen them coming and stepped out from the shadow of the doorway, where he must have been standing for some time. He nodded politely and cleared his throat. “The gallery is closed today, sir. I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.”

Newbury smiled. “On the contrary, my good man. We’re here on business.” He withdrew his arm from Veronica’s and fished around in his jacket pocket, before producing a small leather wallet filled with crisp, yellow documents. “Here, allow me to show you my papers.”

The policeman stepped forward and took the proffered papers from Newbury. He glanced over them, briefly, his eyes widening at the sight of Her Majesty’s seal and signature, before handing them back to the other man. There was a minor alteration in his posture. “Please forgive me, sir. How can I be of assistance?”

Newbury folded the wallet away into his pocket once again. “Thank you. We’re fully appraised of the situation regarding Mr. Morgan’s death. You need not divert your attentions away from your duties on our behalf, constable. Nevertheless, can you tell us if there have been any further developments since yesterday evening? Did any of your officers find anything of interest inside?” He nodded at the building, as if clarifying his question.

The policeman shook his head. “No, sir. Inspector Lewis spent much of yesterday interviewing the staff and searching the gallery for evidence, but there appears to be nothing out of order. It doesn’t seem likely that the victim was killed on the premises, and we’ve been unable to establish a motive for any other suspects, either. Much the same as the rest of those Whitechapel killings, if you ask me.” He glanced over his shoulder at the gallery. “We’re keeping an eye on the place all the same, mind you.”

Newbury frowned. “Would you mind if we took a look around? We won’t disturb anything, but I think it would aid our own investigation.”

The policeman stepped to one side to let them pass. “Be my guest. The staff all turned up for work today, too, so you’ll find most of them inside. Not sure what’s to become of them, really.”

“Yes, a sorry state of affairs.” Newbury led the way towards the gallery entrance, mounting the steps. “Thank you, constable.” He pushed on the door and stepped inside, Veronica following close behind him.

The foyer was a spacious room, with a small reception desk and two doors leading off to either side of the building. Newbury guessed these led to the two exhibition galleries he’d seen advertised in the papers, one featuring the work of a Frenchman, Gustave Loiseau, the other a British artist named Paul Maitland. The reception desk was unmanned, and the place was quiet. It was as if the building itself were in mourning for the loss of its patron.

Newbury crossed the room, his heels clicking loudly on the marble floor. He stopped before the door on the right, turning towards Veronica. “Shall we take a wing each, Miss Hobbes?

I’ve never been enamoured of the Impressionist school but I’m interested to see why this Frenchman has been causing such a stir throughout London.” He smiled. “If you happen across Morgan’s office, don’t touch anything. I think it’s best we tackle that together.”

He didn’t wait for Veronica to respond before disappearing through the open door, the sound of his footsteps ringing out into the cavernous space of the foyer.

Veronica waited until the sound of Newbury’s footfalls had diminished, and then turned in the other direction, heading towards the left wing of the gallery.

Passing through the doorway, she realised that the gallery itself was comprised of a series of interconnected rooms, each one featuring an array of paintings hung neatly on white walls. Many of the paintings were landscapes, and she recognised a number of them as views of the English countryside. The palette was subdued, but even so, against the stark white of the walls the colours leapt out at her like vibrant splashes of light. She supposed that was the point.

She toured the room, paying no real attention to the details in the paintings. She found the mood of the place serious and maudlin. There was nothing of Christopher Morgan in here; only the artist and the works he had chosen to display.

An archway led through to another room, longer this time, although the paintings continued in the same vein; trees and landscapes, the occasional building. There was no doubt in Veronica’s mind that the artist had great ability, but personally the pieces left her cold. She moved on, hoping to find evidence of people in the next room.

She was not disappointed. The exhibition appeared to terminate in this third and final chamber, and she could hear voices coming from behind a tall, panelled door that was marked with the word
Private
on a small brass plate. She approached the door and knocked loudly with the back of her hand. The chattering ceased. After a moment she heard footsteps approaching the door from the other side, and then it creaked open, its hinges protesting loudly, and a boyish face with ginger hair and startling blue eyes appeared at the opening.

“Yes?”

Veronica was a little taken aback by the man’s directness. “Oh. Good morning. I’m here with the Crown investigation, looking into the matter of Mr. Morgan’s unfortunate death. I’d appreciate it if I could come in and ask you a few questions?”

The man’s face fell. “More questions?” He opened the door lo its full extent, and stepped aside to allow Veronica through. “We spent a good deal of yesterday talking to the police. Do we really need to go over it all again?”

Veronica glanced around the room. This was obviously the staff and office area behind the scenes of the main gallery. Three other people were seated at a large table, two men and a woman, all watching her with interest as she took in her surroundings. There were two other doors exiting the room, both marked with brass plaques similar to the one on the door she had just come through. One read
Storeroom
, whilst the other read
Mr.
C
Morgan, Esq., Proprietor.

She turned to regard the man with red hair. “I’m afraid so, although we’ll do our best to keep it to a minimum. She glanced at the other expectant faces around the table. “My name is Miss Veronica Hobbes. May I take a seat for a few moments whilst we wait for my companion?”

There was a brief pause, and then the woman stood. “Please do, Miss Hobbes. We know you’re here to help.” She frowned at the red-headed man before indicating a chair. Veronica accepted it gratefully. The woman returned to her seat, as did the redheaded man, who plopped himself down opposite Veronica, scowling. The woman continued. “I’m Cynthia. This is Jake.” She pointed to the man on her left, a slight, rakish looking chap in a grey suit, who nodded in acknowledgement. “This is Stephen,” she said next, this time indicating the man on her right, who gave the impression of being a labourer of some sort, dressed in a waistcoat and shirt and with a swarthy look about him. “And this,” she said, shaking her head and pointing at the red-headed man, “this is Adam.”

Veronica tried her best to give a sympathetic smile. “I suspect things are a little up in the air for you all at the moment.” She directed her question at the woman. “Did you all know Mr. Morgan very well?”

Cynthia nodded. “As well as anyone knows their employer. He was a good man, Miss Hobbes, and he didn’t deserve what happened to him.” She glanced at Jake, who picked up the conversation.

“We’d all heard stories about this glowing policeman, read the reports in the newspapers about the killings in Whitechapel, but none of us can understand how Mr. Morgan got involved
in
all that business. He never mentioned it to any of us. It’s just senseless.”

“And now no one seems to know what will happen to the gallery. Mr. Morgan’s son is in Africa and his wife died last year of pneumonia. We’re waiting for the solicitor to tell us whether we’re out on the street or not.” Adam shook his head.

“Tell me, had Mr. Morgan exhibited any unusual behaviour
in
the last few weeks? Have there been any strange occurrences at the gallery?”

They heard a noise and looked around as one to see Newbury standing in the doorway. He’d obviously been listening to the conversation for a few moments.

Veronica turned back to the others. “This is Sir Maurice. He
is
responsible for our investigation.”

Cynthia shrugged, looking from Veronica to Newbury. “No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Unless you count that automaton device that Mr. Morgan brought back to the gallery a few weeks ago?” The man called Stephen spoke in a quiet, unassuming voice that seemed somewhat at odds with his swarthy, manly appearance.

Newbury paced into the room, resting his hands on the back of an empty chair. “Go on.”

The man looked at the tabletop as he talked, clearly nervous. “Well, Mr. Morgan bought one of those new automaton men
I
few weeks ago, and brought it back to the gallery to serve drinks during the private viewings. He wanted it to be a talking point amongst the guests.”

Veronica leaned closer to hear. “And what happened?”

Stephen glanced at her. “After a few days it started to behave erratically. It failed to carry out Mr. Morgan’s instructions and began shambling around the place like it had lost its balance. It started to emit strange sounds, high pitched whistles and such like.” He toyed with his fingers. “Then, on the following day, it attacked Mansfield, the desk clerk, when he came in to look at the books. Mr. Morgan and I had to prise it off of him and lock it in the storeroom until the manufacturers could come and collect it. It made a hell of a racket in there.”

“Was anybody hurt?”

“Just cuts and bruises. But Mr. Morgan was hopping mad. He sent a telegram to the company he’d bought it from. He refused to have a replacement. Said the things were dangerous and should be banned.”

Newbury stood back from the table. “Do you know the name of this manufacturer?”

Stephen met his gaze. “I do, sir. Chapman and Villiers. I remember it clear as day.”

Newbury walked over to the door marked
Storeroom. “Is
this where you imprisoned it?”

“Yes.”

He opened the door and glanced inside. Veronica craned her neck to see. The contents of the cupboard were exactly as one would expect: a mop and pail, a broom, a shelf full of cleaning products. The inside of the door, however, was marked with a series of long gouges, scratches where the automaton had clearly tried to break its way out of the cupboard, raking its brass fingers across the wood. Newbury caught Veronica’s eye. He closed the door.