The Affinity Bridge (22 page)

On the other hand, of course, he’d inspected the other bodies
in situ
at the various murder scenes, in the dark and the fog, and it could be that he’d simply missed the evidence without the aid of the lamps and the clinical gleam of the morgue. So be it. He knew it was a waiting game now; waiting for the police laboratory to identify the powder, or else waiting for the killer to make his next move. He closed his eyes as the cab rumbled on towards Kensington, wondering which it would be.

Veronica’s apartment was on the ground floor of a large terraced house, built during the Georgian period, with tall sash windows and the brickwork rendered in smooth, white plaster. The fumes of the passing ground trains and steam-powered carriages had begun to stain the white walls up above, turning them a dirty grey, and Newbury knew that Veronica would disapprove most heartily of this development. He found
a
delicious irony in that. Veronica was such a forward-thinking woman, and put such great stock in the liberation of the fairer sex, but in other ways she had yet to accept the tide of progress that was currently washing through the Empire. Industry and technology were revolutionising the world, an unstoppable force as certain as life and death, and in Newbury’s view the only option was to embrace it wholeheartedly, or else be left behind. He wasn’t old enough yet to get stuck in his ways.

When Newbury did finally rap on Veronica’s door it was clear almost immediately that she had spent most of the morning awaiting his arrival. Moments after her housekeeper had come
to
the door, Veronica appeared in the hallway, dressed in a short grey jacket, white blouse and long grey skirt.

Newbury smiled at her from the door. “Good morning, Miss Hobbes. I’ll wait for you outside.”

He held the cab whilst she collected her belongings and put on a long woollen coat to protect her from the winter chill. The wind was bracing, and Newbury took the opportunity to seek shelter in her doorway whilst he waited. She joined him a moment later, smiled, and then climbed up into the cab without saying a word. Newbury, grinning, gave the driver instructions and clambered in behind her.

Settling in to his seat, he turned to regard her, only to find her watching him intently from across the cab. He removed his hat and placed it neatly on the seat beside him.

“You look well today, Sir Maurice. I’m delighted to see it.” She was wearing a kindly expression.

“Thank you, Miss Hobbes. I do believe that I am fully recovered. Please, let us speak no more of the incident,” he looked somewhat sheepishly at the floor, “if you can bear to forgive me my foolishness.”

Veronica blinked, looking from his face to the window and back again. “I see no reason to dwell on it, Sir Maurice.” She smiled, altering her tone. “What plans do you have for the day ahead?”

“Ah, well, yesterday evening brought with it developments of a sinister kind.”

Veronica leaned in, intrigued. “Go on.”

“After parting company with you here in Kensington, I returned directly to my lodgings, with plans to settle in for the evening, only to find Sir Charles call on me half-an-hour later for dinner. It was an entirely unexpected visit, but certainly not an unwelcome one, and I invited him in to join me. During the course of our conversation he inadvertently revealed the reason for Christopher Morgan’s non-appearance at the Orleans Club yesterday afternoon.”

“Which was?”

“The simple fact that he was dead.” Newbury allowed that to sink in for a moment. Veronica searched his face expectantly, waiting for him to continue. “Killed, apparently, by the glowing policeman.”

Veronica gasped. “Where? What happened?”

“We’re not sure. His body was discovered in Whitechapel like each of the others, but it seems doubtful that he would have been there of his own volition, especially in the early hours of the morning. I suspect he was murdered because of the secrets he held, and his body was moved to Whitechapel in an effort to disguise that fact.”

Veronica shook her head. “So are you suggesting the two investigations may be linked?”

Newbury shrugged. “Perhaps. I admit I have my reservations. Morgan’s death is not a perfect fit with the pattern of the other murders. For a start he was a gentleman, where the other victims were all paupers. I have no doubt that his death is in some way related to our investigation of
The Lady Armitage
disaster; it seems far too much of a coincidence that Morgan would write to me claiming to have evidence regarding the matter just a day before he died. I think the question is whether or not his death is truly related to the glowing policeman murders, or whether the circumstances of his death are just an elaborate cover adopted by someone attempting to throw us off the scent.” He scratched his chin. “I wish I’d had chance to talk with the man. Still, he may have left us a clue all the same.”

Veronica raised her eyebrows.

“I visited the morgue with Bainbridge last night to examine the body. We found specks of a strange blue powder around the throat and collar of the corpse.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning nothing, as yet. But it could be the method by which the killer is disguising himself as the glowing policeman, covering his face and hands in this iridescent powder. It would certainly fit the descriptions we’ve had from the various witness reports. Scotland Yard are running some tests in an attempt to identify the manufacturer of the powder.”

“So you’re convinced now that the glowing policeman is not of supernatural origin?”

Newbury shook his head. “I’m convinced
Morgan’s
killer is not of supernatural origin. We’ve seen no evidence of this powder on the other bodies from Whitechapel, so I’m reluctant to make any assumptions about whether or not they were killed by the same hand. We can’t rule out the idea, but neither can we jump to conclusions. Still, the powder gives us a lead, of sorts. Whether it aids us in simply resolving the mystery surrounding the airship crash, or whether it also leads us to the Whitechapel strangler, time will tell.” He smiled. “Whatever the case, I’m hoping we’ll find some further answers at Morgan’s art gallery today, or at least some more clues to point us in the right direction.”

Veronica nodded. “One thing is certain. There doesn’t appear to be a simple solution to any of this.” She shrugged, folding her hands on her lap.

Newbury smiled. “There rarely is, my dear Miss Hobbes. There rarely is.”

Newbury looked up, startled as the cab came to a sudden, juddering halt. He peered out of the window. The cab had come to rest before a large, red-brick building. It was a single storey structure, no bigger than a public bath house, with a sloping roof of grey slate tiles and an elaborate entrance porch in the classical style, with four large Corinthian columns and a series of low steps up to the door. Ivy formed a web-work across the fascia of the building, trimmed to accommodate the entrance way itself, and a small, pleasant garden gave the impression that both the gallery and grounds were kept in impeccable order. A small, sober-looking sign by the front gate read
The Christopher Morgan Gallery of Fine Art.

“Miss Hobbes. I do believe we’ve arrived.”

Veronica looked round. “Do you think there’ll be anyone here? Given the circumstances, I mean?”

“I have no idea. We shan’t let it stop us though. Come on.”

Newbury paid the fare and, having dismounted the cab, moved to stand beside the wrought iron gate, surveying the scene before him. The cab driver steered the horses around a large turning circle at the end of the driveway and guided them off towards the city once again, their hooves clacking on the cobbled road.

Newbury took a moment to enjoy the view of the building and its grounds. He noted that the flowerbeds were still bursting with colour, even at this late point in November. Overhead, pigeons cooed noisily as they wheeled in the sky, high above the bustle of the city. Veronica crossed the path to stand beside him. After a moment, he held out his arm for her and she took it appreciatively, locking her arm in his, and together they set 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 t he 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.