The Immorality Engine (29 page)

“Thank goodness you’re alright, Charles.” Bainbridge saw the shock in his friend’s expression, though he tried quickly to hide it.

Bainbridge coughed and tasted blood. He pulled a face. “I suppose these things are relative. I’m still alive.”

Newbury laughed. “You had me worried for a while. Scarbright was waiting with your message when I returned home. What exactly happened?”

Bainbridge lowered his voice, conscious of the other occupants of the room. None of them seemed to be paying him even the least bit of attention. “The Bastion Society, that’s what happened. They came after my hansom with some sort of portable cannon. Nearly blew me to Kingdom Come.” He paused, drawing ragged breath. “I gave them a run for their money, though. Not bad for an old-timer.” He smiled, and then immediately winced at a sharp tug of pain in his shoulder. “And you don’t have to hide your dismay, Newbury. I’m quite aware of how I look.”

Newbury frowned, concerned.

“You need to stay away from them, Newbury,” Bainbridge continued. “The Bastion Society, that is. They mean business. I should have realised after that attack on Miss Hobbes. Whatever you were planning to do to bait them, stop now. As soon as I’m able, I’m going to send the Yard in. Graves is going to have some very serious questions to answer.”

“It’s a little late for that, Charles. I’ve just come from Packworth House, where I spent the best part of a day incarcerated and awaiting execution. Things have escalated beyond all measure of sanity. They’re the ones behind the attack on the Queen, the intruder you told me about.” Newbury spoke with an urgency that Bainbridge had rarely heard in him. “You’re right about how serious they are. More serious than you could ever imagine. They’re—” He seemed to hesitate for a moment before going on. “—they’re planning to mount a full-blown assault on the palace.”

“Good God!” Bainbridge exclaimed. “Good God, Newbury. So they’re the ones behind it!” He sat forward, trying to ignore the pain.

Newbury nodded. “They’ve been secretly building an arsenal in the catacombs beneath Packworth House.”

Bainbridge could barely believe it. The gall of them … of that upstart Enoch Graves. Still, at least the Queen was ready for them. They’d be no match for the Queen’s Guard and the Royal Engineers Corps. “The Queen is preparing the palace as we speak, Newbury. Somehow, she seems to know it’s coming. She’s had the Royal Engineers fortify the grounds with all manner of artillery weapons, and she’s tripled the guard. I’ve posted a security detail from the Yard.”

Newbury nodded thoughtfully. “So the Queen knew about this?”

Bainbridge shrugged, and the gesture set off explosions of pain in his neck and shoulders. “She knew something was afoot. When I got to the palace yesterday, she’d already begun to make preparations. She claimed it was an obvious security measure, given the intruder, but I thought at the time that it was a little overzealous. She must have been warned, somehow. Or threatened. I’m certain she didn’t know who was behind it, however.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. He was so tired. “Now that we know, we can mount a preemptive attack. Get to them before they get to us, so to speak.”

Newbury shook his head. “It’s too late for that, Charles. They’re moving as we speak. We have a couple of hours at most.”

Bainbridge frowned. “A couple of hours? Then what are you doing here! Have you warned the Queen?”

Newbury gave him a curious look. “I’ve done my duty, Charles. But I’m no use to her there. There are others far more qualified to be at her side at a time like this. I’m an academic and a criminologist, not a military strategist.”

Bainbridge nodded. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’d better get over there right away.”

Newbury caught his arm. “You’ll do no such thing!”

“I—,” Bainbridge started, but Newbury held him firm.

“Charles, listen to me. I’ve sent word to the Queen. If she needs us, she’ll send for us. You need to stay in bed. There’s nothing more either of us can do. You’ll only wind up getting yourself killed.”

Bainbridge gave a frustrated sigh. Newbury was right. He’d be no use to anyone in his current condition. He might even be more of a liability. He relaxed, and Newbury released his grip.

It occurred to Bainbridge that Newbury had come alone. “Where’s Miss Hobbes?”

Newbury glanced absently out of the window. He seemed distracted. Perhaps the whole situation with the Bastion Society was playing more on his mind than he was letting on. “I left her at Chelsea. She has some things to take care of. She’s been through a lot in the last few days, Charles. Her sister is terribly unwell.”

Bainbridge tried to look sympathetic. “She’s at the Grayling Institute now, isn’t she? Fabian will take care of her. I know it.”

“Quite,” replied Newbury. “He’ll most definitely do that.”

Bainbridge wasn’t clear what Newbury was getting at, but his head was starting to swim. He used his good arm to steady himself against the side of the bed. His eyes wanted to close. He’d been fighting to stay awake, waiting for Newbury to come, waiting to warn him about the Bastion Society. Now that he had, all the fight had drained out of him. Newbury was right. The palace was protected, and neither of them would make a blind bit of difference.

“Look, Charles, I want you to get some rest. Miss Hobbes and I will take care of everything else. You need to recuperate.” Newbury leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Have you thought about the Fixer, Charles? I could make the necessary arrangements.”

Bainbridge shook his head. “No need,” he said. A trip to see the Fixer, the agent’s go-to man in case of medical emergencies, would be unnecessary. His wounds weren’t that severe. “I’m alright, Newbury. Just tired and a bit bruised around the edges.”

Newbury smiled warmly. “So be it.” He glanced over his shoulder at the door. “I’d better get back to Miss Hobbes, make sure she and Scarbright aren’t rearranging the furniture.”

Bainbridge chuckled. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said. He reached over and grabbed Newbury by the arm. He was overcome suddenly with concern: for his old friend, for the Queen, for everything he held dear. “It will be alright, Newbury. Tell me it’ll be alright.”

Newbury nodded. “It’ll be alright, Charles.”

“Good man.”

Bainbridge allowed Newbury to help lower him back down onto the pillows. His eyelids felt extraordinarily heavy.

“I’ll call tomorrow with news, Charles.”

“See that you do,” he managed to mumble, but unconsciousness was already beginning to steal over him. He listened to the sound of Newbury’s footsteps as his friend quit the ward, and then allowed himself to fall into a deep, welcome slumber.

CHAPTER

25

Veronica crouched low behind a large rhododendron bush and peered out at the immense grey edifice of the Grayling Institute. Everything was eerily still. The sky was studded with brooding grey clouds, bearing the promise of rain. To Veronica they seemed like an omen, a threat of the storm still to come. It wasn’t just her, either: the birds in the branches overhead weren’t chirping, and the servants inside the house had appeared at the windows a number of times, looking out at the sky as if waiting impatiently for the coming rain.

Veronica realised she was holding her breath in anticipation, and reminded herself to exhale. She’d been in the same position for over half an hour and her toes were beginning to feel numb. The air was cold and damp. Close by, Newbury was kneeling in the flower bed, watching the driveway with an intense, unwavering gaze. She glanced at him and felt a surge of affection for the man.

After fleeing Packworth House they had abandoned the exoskeleton in an alleyway and hailed a steam-powered cab to take them swiftly to Chelsea. Once there, Newbury held a fleeting conference with Scarbright before changing his suit and rushing out to visit Charles. Veronica had feared he would also take measures to inform the palace about the Bastion Society. She’d been scared that he’d choose duty over any obligation he felt towards her, and scared of what that might mean for Amelia. She’d worried she might never be able to face him again if he made the wrong choice.

When he returned a short while later, he’d been pensive. He’d informed her that Bainbridge was alive and recovering in a police infirmary and that they would leave for the Grayling Institute in fifteen minutes’ time. He’d told her she should gather anything she thought might prove useful, and pointed her at the hidden rack of weapons he kept in his study.

At that, Veronica breathed a sigh of relief. Newbury had clearly made his decision. There had been no discussion, no debate. At no point did he offer her any insight into his thoughts. But he had chosen
her
over the Queen, and that told her everything she needed to know. More than that, though, it meant he believed her about the Queen’s duplicity. It confirmed her fear that there was something terribly amiss at the palace, because if there were not, Newbury would never have allowed the attack on the Grayling Institute to go ahead.

The consequences of such thoughts were too dreadful, too all-encompassing for her to give voice to at the time. But now, waiting in silence for the Bastion Society to make their move, it was all she could think about.

En route, Newbury had told her in hushed tones about the Queen’s foreknowledge of the attack and how she’d already begun to fortify the palace. Veronica didn’t see any way she could be so sure of an attack without knowing about Amelia’s visions, which was the final evidence she needed that the Queen had played a part in what had happened to Amelia at the Grayling Institute. Clearly, Newbury felt the same way.

Veronica wondered what he had told Bainbridge, whether he’d disclosed any of this to his old friend. She suspected not. For all of his compassion and brilliance, Bainbridge would never have understood. He was too long in the tooth, too much in admiration of the Queen. He was a good man, and he was unwaveringly loyal. That was both his greatest strength and, on this occasion, his weakness. Whatever happened next, she hoped Bainbridge would never discover the truth that Newbury had knowingly put the Queen in danger. It would be enough to tear the two of them apart.

A shrill, high-pitched whistle, as if from an overhead missile, broke the silence. Veronica cursed softly beneath her breath for allowing herself to get distracted. The attack was starting. She couldn’t see the missile, but the sound seemed to originate from somewhere just outside the grounds of the estate, beyond the gates at the end of the driveway.

Newbury glanced at her in warning. Seconds later, the lone projectile hit the roof of the building with a thunderous explosion that sent splintered roof tiles spraying into the air in all directions. Veronica ducked involuntarily. When she looked up a moment later, there was a gaping hole in the roof where the detonation had punched through to the attic space below. Yellow flames licked hungrily around the edges of the hole.

Before anyone inside the house had time to react, a dozen more bombs impacted, splashing against the building with a blinding glare. Suddenly the whole scene was a vision of perfect chaos. The sound of the explosions was like a hundred thunderclaps detonating at once, like the sky itself was being rent apart and all of Heaven and Hell was descending on the Earth. Veronica covered her ears with her hands.

A huge chunk of masonry, blown clear from the building in the fiery shower, thudded into the ground just a few feet from where Veronica and Newbury were hiding. It was all she could do not to cry out in shock as the ground trembled beneath her and she was showered with tiny fragments of stone and ash. She glanced up at the house. Part of the first floor had already collapsed, and the roof was now entirely ablaze. All the windows at the front of the property had blown out, and broken glass was spread across the courtyard as far as she could see.

She turned at the sound of a hundred mechanical hooves striking the gravel, and gasped at the dozens of men charging along the driveway on shining brass horses. Cogs and gears groaned under the strain as the clockwork beasts reared and charged, bearing their riders into battle. The men themselves were resplendent in the grey suits and bowler hats of the Bastion Society, but wore shining steel breastplates over their jackets, along with arm braces and leg guards.

The sight would almost have seemed comical, if it were not for the huge Gatling guns that hung off the sides of the mounts, burring and spitting a hail of destruction upon the house and its occupants. Many of the men also carried swords, which they held aloft as they charged, screaming bloody murder as they rode towards their target.

Behind this sea of brass and flesh, five of the armoured exoskeleton suits lumbered slowly, relentlessly, towards the house, their claws opening and closing in readiness. They planned to pound the building to dust and gravel, she realised, to leave no part of it standing. They would destroy everything in their path, ensuring all of Fabian’s work—whether it was a living subject or a folio of notes detailing his treatment of his patients—was destroyed.

And all the while, bombs continued to drop from the sky likes hellish, fiery rain, creating a firestorm the likes of which she’d never seen.

Veronica saw movement in the doorway of the institute. She leapt to her feet, disregarding her cover. The figure emerging from the doorway was Amelia.

Veronica watched her sister rush out, barefoot, beneath the portico, charging headlong for the stone steps. She was dressed only in a flowing white nightgown, her hair a stark, raven black, trailing behind her as she ran. Veronica looked on in horrified slow motion as one of the mounted men yanked hard on the reins of his mechanical beast, pulling it round so that he could swing his Gatling gun around on its pivot. The weapon sang with a menacing whine as it spat hot lead at its target, and Veronica screamed as she watched her sister’s white gown blossom with scores of bright, crimson petals where the bullets struck home.

Veronica tried to run, but Newbury was there, grabbing her around the waist, dragging her back beneath the cover of the trees, kicking and screaming. He forced his hand over her mouth to keep her from shouting, and she twisted and writhed in an effort to get free, all the while keeping her eyes locked on the body of her dead sister. She didn’t want to believe what had happened; couldn’t acknowledge it was over.