The Affinity Bridge

Chapter Sixteen

It was mid-morning before Newbury rose, pulled on his dressing gown and made his way to the bathroom to begin his daily ablutions with his razor and flannel. The previous day had been a drain on him, both physically and mentally, and today he had chosen to lounge for a while in bed, reading a book. He was, of course, anxious to press on with the case, but by the same token was sure that Morgan's gallery could wait for a few hours whilst he ensured that he was fully recovered from the excesses of the laudanum. He had finally emerged around ten o'clock, enjoyed a leisurely feast of porridge, fruit and toast; and then, after opening his post, had taken a short constitutional stroll before hailing a cab and making his way to Kensington to call for Veronica. His mind felt sharp and alert, his body taut and wiry. His trip to the morgue with Bainbridge had proved enlightening, and he was sure they were getting closer to the heart of the mystery surrounding the wreck of The Lady Armitage, and also the Whitechapel strangulations and the glowing policeman. It was clear that the two investigations were linked, somehow, and he hoped that a visit to Morgan's gallery would help him to establish the nature of that link. It would take a day or two for the police to analyse the blue powder that he'd found on Morgan's corpse, but in the meantime he'd agreed with Bainbridge that he'd press on at the gallery, and that they would keep each other informed of their progress. The discovery of the powder had been playing on his mind since the previous evening, and he couldn't help wondering if he'd somehow missed the evidence on the first few bodies that he had inspected. Were there specks of the stuff on the collars or clothes of those other victims? He certainly didn't recall seeing anything around their throats, save for bruising and the obvious signs of a struggle, although he knew, by now, that it was too late to check. The bodies would have been interred in the local cemetery and he was loathe to start digging up graves on the off chance that he'd still be able to find evidence of a fine blue power on their clothes. In fact, in all likelihood, their clothes would have been burnt and their corpses dressed in their best suits before burial. He clacked his tongue. He supposed it may be that the killer was getting careless or arrogant, confident that no matter what trace he left of himself at the scene, the police would be unable to catch him. He may have taken care to remove all of the evidence at the scenes of the first few murders, but after weeks of continued activity with no sign that the police were on to him, he may have grown lazy. Newbury had seen that before; the mad gleam in the eye of the killer, the notion that he was somehow invincible and above the law. It wouldn't surprise him if the killer turned out to be totally insane.

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.

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.

"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.