The Affinity Bridge (24 page)

“Is any of this actually relevant?” Adam sat back in his chair, clearly put out by the conversation. “What difference does it make now? Mr. Morgan was murdered by the glowing policeman, and no talk of automatons and clerks is going to bring him back.”

Cynthia leaned across the table and took his hand. “Adam, everything is going to be alright.” The young man pushed his chair back petulantly and got to his feet, strolling pointedly from the room. Cynthia sighed, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to fade before speaking. “He’s young, and he’s taken it hard. He was fond of Mr. Morgan, and he’s worried about losing his earnings.”

She shrugged. “We all are.”

Veronica stood. “I can assure you that we’ll do everything we can to find the culprit. You’ve been very helpful. Now, if we can just take a quick look inside Mr. Morgan’s office, we’ll leave you to your mourning.”

Jake nodded. “The door’s open. Go ahead. I’m not sure you’ll find anything of use in there, mind you. The police have been through it once already.”

Veronica navigated her way around the table, and together, she and Newbury left the three remaining employees to their thoughts.

Jake’s words had proved more or less correct, and the two investigators had found nothing of real use in Morgan’s sparsely furnished office. The desk had been piled high with correspondence, but much of it had already been rifled through by the police and it consisted mostly of bills, receipts and speculative letters from artists, soliciting Morgan to exhibit their work. Veronica had managed to locate the receipt, and consequent refund slip, from Chapman and Villiers, and was appalled by the expense Morgan had gone to in acquiring the unit. It was no wonder he had complained bitterly when the thing began to malfunction; the device had cost him more than Veronica was paid in a year. She had passed the documents to Newbury, who had folded them carefully and slipped them into his pocket for later use.

As they strolled along the private driveway outside the gallery, Newbury’s disposition seemed to brighten. “Well, Miss Hobbes. Another interesting development, wouldn’t you say?”

Veronica smiled. “Absolutely. I believe I could now hazard a guess as to what it was that Morgan wished to talk to you about yesterday.”

“Indeed?”

“Well it sounds to me as if Morgan had cast-iron proof that the automaton units are not, as Monsieur Villiers had us believe, impervious to malfunction.”

“Precisely my thoughts, Miss Hobbes. It seems as though our friends from Battersea were a little economical with the truth.”

“To my mind that puts Chapman and Villiers themselves very much in the frame for Morgan’s murder. They certainly had a motive. It also suggests that the pilot of
The Lady Armitage
may indeed have been subject to a malfunction. Shall we pay them another visit this afternoon?”

Newbury shook his head. “No, my dear Miss Hobbes. It’s too soon for all that. We need more evidence before we can build a case against them. Motive on its own is not enough. Certainly, they had a lot to gain from Morgan’s death, but we still don’t know what the link to the Whitechapel case may be, if any. I don’t want to compromise either investigation by charging ahead prematurely. No, I suggest we part company for a short while.”

Veronica looked concerned.

Newbury laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to go charging off without you. I’m overdue a stop at the office and I’m anxious to see if there is news from Miss Coulthard. Are you free this evening?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then how would you like to accompany me to a soiree? The Hanbury-Whites are hosting a party at their house in St. John’s Wood and I was planning to attend.”

Veronica looked a little taken aback. “Thank you, Sir Maurice, I would be delighted to accompany you.” She smiled, fiddling with the buttons on her coat.

“Excellent. I will call for you in a cab around seven.”

“Just be sure that it’s one of the horse-drawn variety, and not one of those terrible modern contraptions. I can’t bear the noise and the smell.”

Newbury chuckled. “I most certainly will.”

They turned from the driveway onto the street, which was bustling with mid-afternoon traffic. Newbury paused. “Can I drop you now?”

Veronica shook her head. “No. I’m intent on a stroll. You go ahead.”

“Are you sure? It’s quite a walk back to Kensington.”

“Positive. I could do with the exercise.”

Newbury nodded, and Veronica watched as he hailed a cab, and, with a brief wave, disappeared inside. Then, wrapping her coat around her shoulders, she set off into the blustery afternoon, a wide grin on her face.

_{Chapter Seventeen}

The party was in full swing when, later that evening, Newbury and Veronica arrived in St. John’s Wood, climbing out of their cab to stand in the shadow of the enormous family home of the Hanbury-Whites. The moon was a bright disk in the sky, wreathed in wintry mist, and Veronica’s breath plumed in the frosty air. She turned on the spot, taking in the view.

Carriages and hansom cabs were arriving and departing in a constant stream, depositing guests on the gravelled driveway at the foot of a large flight of stone steps. Visitors dressed in their best finery flowed up these steps, disappearing into the grand entrance way as if it were the maw of some ancient, famished beast. Inside, silhouettes chattered to one another behind brightly lit windows, and the hubbub of voices was spilling out into the night, an undulating cacophony of pleasantries, compliments, vitriolic sleights and whispered asides. Butlers stood in the open doorway, greeting the guests and taking their coats as they made their way through to the party inside.

The house was magnificent. Built about a hundred years before, it had all the wonderful proportions of Georgian architecture that she had come to adore, the same that had inspired her to take the lodgings she now kept in Kensington; tall sash windows, a glorious front porch, a squat, rectangular shape. It lacked the ostentation of the more recent buildings that had been springing up all over London, and she approved wholeheartedly. She couldn’t wait to see inside. Years ago, her parents had introduced her to London society and she had visited a great many of the grand houses in the city, but with the news of Amelia’s illness they had spent the last year in solitude, retreating from the social scene, and the effect had been to leave Veronica without a means to engage with it herself. She was grateful to Newbury for the opportunity to join him this evening, and for giving her the chance to wear something other than the functional attire she often found herself donning for the office. Worse, her recent activities in the field—clambering through the wreckage of burnt-out airships or visiting manufactories on the other side of the river—had left her feeling less than ladylike. Tonight, she’d decided, as she looked herself over in the cheval glass at her apartment, she would redress that balance. She turned to Newbury, who was standing alongside her. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He smiled warmly. “You’re welcome, my dear.” He was wearing a smart, black evening suit; formal, but with a forgiving cut. Around his throat he wore a perfectly knotted bow tie, and a top hat balanced precariously on one side of his head. He looked the perfect picture of a gentleman. He turned to look Veronica up and down, now that he had an opportunity to regard her properly in the light of the street lamps. She was dressed in an immaculate, flowing gown of yellow silk. It had a low neck line, exposing the soft, pink flesh of her throat and chest. The bodice was fitted, with skirts that flowed all the way to the floor and skimmed the ground as she walked. The ensemble was finished with a single string of opalescent pearls and a pair of matching earrings. Her hair was tied up in an elaborate coiffure.

“Miss Hobbes, I must add that you look wonderful this evening.” Newbury, attempting to hide his embarrassment,
offered
his arm, and together they climbed the steps towards the bustle of the house.

Inside, it was immediately clear to Veronica that the party was very much the zenith of London society that evening. I very where she looked, she saw faces she recognised, as well as ten others she did not. The place was bustling with ambassadors, politicians and gentlemen, not to mention their multitudes of wives and daughters. She stood for a moment on the threshold
of
a large room, arm-in-arm with Newbury, and together they surveyed the scene. Brass automatons weaved through the press
of
people, elegantly sidestepping the little conversational clusters t hat had formed, bearing trays full of drinks and food. Veronica watched as one made a lap of the room, its glassy, spinning ryes shimmering in the reflected light of the gas lamps, the porthole in its chest revealing the crackling blue of the electrical
charge
generated by its winding mechanism. For all the stories she’d heard that day about the unit that had malfunctioned at Morgan’s art gallery, she was still impressed by the machines and the smooth manner in which they seemed to integrate with the party and its revellers. She watched people snatching drinks from the trays as the automatons brushed past them, hardly pausing in their conversations to consider the miraculous nature of the devices that were wandering amongst them, pandering to their every need. There were at least ten of the devices waiting on the guests, and Veronica couldn’t help wondering at the expense the Hanbury-Whites must have gone to in having them there. She had seen the price of an individual unit that morning and could only suppose that the automatons were there on loan, and did not actually belong to the household itself—that would surely be too much.

She leaned in towards Newbury, keeping her voice low. His hair smelled faintly of lavender. “I admit to feeling a little nervous in the presence of so many automatons. After hearing the stories this morning at the gallery, I mean.”

Newbury nodded, acknowledging her concern, but it was clear he was feeling playful. “My dear Miss Hobbes, it’s not the automatons you should be worried about. They may be dressed in their best finery, but I assure you, half of the men in this room are more dangerous than those devices could ever be.” He smiled. “Come on, keep your wits about you and we’ll do a lap.”

He led her in a circuit of the room, nodding politely at the other guests as they passed each one in turn. Newbury was clearly an established figure amongst the society crowd, and was greeted innumerable times by men that Veronica did not recognise: men wearing ancient, wispy beards; men dressed in immaculate military attire; men who gave the impression of being nothing but ridiculous fops. In turn Newbury was polite, but did not allow himself to be drawn into conversation, having just the right air about him of a man who needed to be somewhere else and could not stop to pass time in idle chitchat. After making a circuit of about half of the large room, they paused momentarily by the fireplace and were approached by one of the automatons. Newbury claimed two flutes of champagne from the proffered tray, passing one to Veronica. The automaton paused, cocking its head to regard them. For a moment it remained there, eerily still. The moment stretched. Veronica thought she could hear the sound of its mechanisms whirring away inside, but then it turned away and moved on, drifting towards another small gathering of guests who looked as if they were in need of more refreshment. Veronica shivered, and took a long draw from her glass.