The Immorality Engine

CHAPTER
13

The palace was a hive of activity. Bainbridge watched through the window of the police carriage as they were ushered onto the grounds by a man wearing the bright red uniform of the Queen’s Guard. They came to a halt a moment later and six armed members of the guard quickly converged on the carriage, their weapons ready.

The young constable-whose name was Brown-moved to get up from his seat, but Bainbridge waved him down. “Thank you, Brown. I’ll see to things from here.” After peering out the window at the armed men awaiting them, Brown quickly decided to do exactly as he was told.

Bainbridge leaned on his cane as he stood, swinging the door open and hopping down from the carriage. It was cool outside, and the fresh breeze ruffled his hair. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said to the guardsmen, who were each watching him warily. Their faces were stern and expressionless. They were jumpy, he realised. The attack on the Queen must have really shaken them up. Bainbridge didn’t much like the idea of being surrounded by nervous men bearing rifles. “Sir Charles Bainbridge, Chief Inspector, Scotland Yard.” The men lowered their guns, visibly relaxing.

“Very good, sir,” the one nearest to him said. “We’ll take you in.”

Bainbridge fell into step with the soldiers as they marched across the palace forecourt. Whatever had gone on here, the Queen was evidently taking it very seriously indeed. This was no small matter of a thief trying his luck. Bainbridge could tell he was going to be here for a while.

Around them even more of the red-coated guardsmen-an army of them-were milling about, taking up position around the perimeter of the building. It was clear the Queen had already taken measures to increase security on the grounds. Bainbridge wouldn’t have been surprised if there were more on the way. An attempt on her life, the fact that someone had managed to get so close to her: Bainbridge knew that heads were going to roll. Whoever had been responsible for the security detail that morning was going to find himself on the sharp end of the Queen’s wrath.

Bainbridge looked up at the mighty edifice of the palace as they passed beneath the pillared portico. The curtains were all drawn as usual, blotting out the sunlight and keeping prying eyes at bay. He realised with a smile that this was probably the first time he had entered the building through the main entrance, rather than the more discreet doorway around the back that was the mainstay of all Her Majesty’s agents.

He kept his eyes peeled, looking for any clues as to what might have occurred there that morning. He had interrogated Brown on the journey over but the boy had known nothing of any consequence. It had soon become clear that any briefing was going to be delivered by Her Majesty herself. Nevertheless, Bainbridge liked to be prepared, and it wouldn’t do to go before the monarch without at least a few observations and questions at the ready.

The six guardsmen came to a halt in a line before the doorway, stock-still, their rifles tucked beneath their arms. They turned towards him as he passed them one by one, heading towards the gaping mouth of the palace and the uncertainty that lay within. He hesitated on the threshold. “My thanks,” he said to the uniformed men before ducking quickly inside.

The grand hallway on the other side of the door was cavernous and austere, like something lifted out of another era and dropped into place, right there in 1902. Bainbridge had no idea where to go. His only experience of the palace was in the secret tunnels and passageways that led him directly from the agent’s entrance all the way through to the audience chamber.

He glanced around and was thankful to see Sandford, the agent’s butler, waiting for him in the shadows of the immense staircase. “Sandford! Thank goodness. Can you tell me what the devil is going on?”

Sandford came forward to meet him. “Morning, Sir Charles. I imagine I know only as much as you. Somehow, someone got into the palace and made an attempt on Her Majesty’s life. I understand she is quite well and that the palace has been fully secured.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “-but I believe she is determined to root out the incompetent responsible for the breach in security and have his head from his shoulders.”

Bainbridge grinned. “I find myself unsurprised by your words, Sandford. Any more?”

“No, sir,” the aged butler replied. “I’m afraid that’s as much as I know.”

“Very well.” Bainbridge removed his overcoat and handed it to the other man. “Can you take me to her?”

Sandford smiled. “Yes. She’s waiting.”

Bainbridge sighed, but kept his thoughts to himself. She was always waiting, he reflected, like the spider at the centre of a vast and intricate web.

He followed Sandford around behind the staircase, past rows of looming portraits and biblical scenes that adorned the walls. There, in a hidden recess, Sandford opened a door and ushered Bainbridge down a labyrinthine passageway in which seemingly innumerable doors led off into unseen and mysterious rooms elsewhere in the palace. They wound their way deeper into the bowels of the great house until, after a minute or so, Sandford stopped outside another unremarkable door and rapped loudly on the wooden panel.

There was no response. Sandford waited a moment longer and then pushed the door open, holding it for Bainbridge and gesturing for him to enter.

Bainbridge stepped into the audience chamber beyond, unable to contain his feelings of apprehension.

“You took your time, Sir Charles.” The Queen’s shrill, disembodied voice echoed around the murky darkness of the room. How did she do that? How could she see him in this perpetual half light she lived in? He didn’t know whether the lack of lighting was a result of her medical situation, or had more to do with the maintenance of her mystique: the enduring myth of the Queen, the enigmatic Empress. She had fostered that persona since the day that Dr. Fabian had installed her in the life-giving chair-unable, she said, to be seen or even portrayed in public in such a frail condition. Instead, she presented herself as the unknowable monarch, the omnipotent ruler at the heart of the British Empire, the all-powerful Queen.

Bainbridge had to hand it to her: she believed it, too. He wondered if she ever had the lights on when she wasn’t receiving visitors. He supposed he’d never know. He addressed the gloom, not knowing in which direction to face. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I was attending to a matter at the morgue, with Newbury.”

He heard her give a wet, rasping chuckle. “Ah, Newbury. So you managed to drag his carcass out of the opium dens.”

Bainbridge swallowed. So she knew. He thought he’d managed to keep that from her. “Yes… well… I needed his assistance with a particularly baffling case.”

Victoria laughed again. “Yes, we know all about your case, Sir Charles. The two identical bodies, the dead man committing crimes. No wonder you need Newbury’s assistance.”

Bainbridge moved towards the sound of her voice, trying to identify her location in the shadows. Victoria, wise to his movements, fell suddenly silent. Then, a second or two later, a light blinked on like a brilliant beacon in the darkness: the shutters of a paraffin lantern being opened.

Victoria was there, encapsulated in the warm globe of light cast out by the lantern. To Bainbridge, it looked as if she were somehow contained within a bubble, floating in an unfathomable ocean of black. And there was something else, too: another person, sitting in a wooden chair opposite her. He hesitated.

“Come forward, Sir Charles.”

He did as he was commanded. As he drew closer, the situation became suddenly clear. The man in the chair opposite the Queen was slumped in a death pose, the shaft of a steel bolt protruding rudely from his chest. His head was hanging loosely to one side, slack-jawed. He had been about thirty years of age, dark haired, smartly dressed in a navy blue suit. His flesh looked tanned and healthy in the orange glow of the lantern.

She looked up at Bainbridge, a wicked grin on her face. He could hear the preservative machines labouring as they fought to keep her alive.

“What happened, Your Majesty?” he said, leaning heavily on his cane.

“This man, this boy, found his way into our audience chamber uninvited. An attempt was made on our life. He tried to tamper with Dr. Fabian’s machines, to disconnect the hose that feeds our body its breath.” Victoria emitted a racking cough, and she spasmed momentarily before returning to normal. All the while, the machine continued to hiss and groan, her chest rising and falling in time with the bellows that operated her breathing.

“My god…,” said Bainbridge.

Victoria laughed. “Your concern does you credit, Sir Charles. But do not think for a moment that our confinement in this contraption is an indication of our weakness. We are quite capable of protecting ourself.”

Bainbridge glanced again at the body of the intruder, the bolt in the chest. The Queen had done that?

“We are not so naive as to believe that we do not have enemies, Sir Charles. This chair was constructed with a number of defense mechanisms and weapons that we can deploy if it becomes necessary. This man, and whomever he represents, clearly underestimated our abilities. They shall not be so foolish a second time.”

“Quite,” said Bainbridge, unsure exactly how to respond. He’d stood before this chair a hundred times before, and never once had he considered that it might have a purpose other than the medical one for which it was created. That the Queen was harbouring deadly weapons. He wondered absently whether she had used them before.

“We suppose you are wondering why we had him propped in the chair in such a manner?”

He was, but he had decided it would be inappropriate to ask. It was not his place to question the Queen’s judgement, only to protect her and her subjects from harm.

Victoria took his silence as an affirmative. “It was so we could see his face, Sir Charles, to look upon the countenance of one who would have us dead.” She chuckled again. Her tone became suddenly serious. “Do you recognise him?”

Bainbridge studied the young man’s face more closely. “I fear I do not, Your Majesty.”

“Then make it your business to, Sir Charles. We are intent on understanding his motivation.”

Bainbridge nodded. “As you say, Your Majesty.” He tugged at his moustache nervously. “Do we know how he got in?”

Victoria gave a gesture that he took to be an approximation of a shrug. “We believe that is neither here nor there. Through a window, we are told, left open by a servant to air the room. We believe he must have obtained a schematic of the palace somehow, to have navigated through the warren of passageways and hidden doors to find us here.”

She looked from Bainbridge to the body in the chair. “But such matters are easily dealt with.” Her tone was now dismissive, as though she considered the whole affair to be nothing but a trivial part of her day, another of the challenges of presiding over an Empire. “We have doubled the guard and sent instruction to the Royal Engineers to post their war machines in the grounds of the palace. No one will enter without us knowing of it.” She paused. “We now fear, however, that whoever is responsible for the attack may escalate their offensive when they discover their initial strategy resulted in failure.”

Bainbridge could see the logic in her thinking, although the idea of an outright assault on Buckingham Palace seemed unimaginable to him. Nevertheless, more sentries, more soldiers, and more police would ensure that the palace could be protected, whatever the eventualities.

The real question was from whom. “So you don’t believe, Your Majesty, that he was a sole agent?” Bainbridge had heard many tales of the foolish individuals who had attempted to break into the palace over the years, usually in search of souvenirs or to try to force an audience with the Queen.

Victoria made a sound that was somewhere between a wet cough and a chuckle. “Look at him, Sir Charles. Young, handsome, wealthy. Why would a man in that position choose to break into Buckingham Palace and attempt to take the life of the monarch?” She stared up at him as though daring him to answer. “Someone got to this young man, filled his head with idealistic notions and a desire to change the world. Someone with far greater concerns than an impressionable young upstart. Someone who wants us dead.”

Bainbridge nodded slowly. “Were there any signs, any warnings? Any letters of protest?”

Victoria sighed. “Every day… thousands of them, from all across the Empire. It seems we cannot so much as stir without causing a ripple of discontent. These are difficult days, Sir Charles.”

Bainbridge had expected as much. He tried to hide his exasperation. “Are there any particular pressure groups of concern? Or perhaps one that has recently increased their activity or the frequency of their protests? Any political camps that have come to your attention?”

“Stop pussyfooting around the question!” Victoria snapped, and the sound of her voice echoed throughout the audience chamber. “If you’re asking us whether we have any notion as to who is behind this attack, then the answer is no. Or rather: no one in particular. We have long lost count of the number of enemies who would see us dead. They are manifold. It is a matter that no longer concerns us.” Her eyes narrowed. “It is your job, Sir Charles, to discover which of them is responsible for this insolence, so that we may smite them. Do you find that callous?”

Bainbridge had never enjoyed entering into these games with the Queen. He knew he could never win. “Not callous, Your Majesty. Just necessary.”

Victoria accepted his answer with a conciliatory gesture. “We fear we have nothing to go on, Sir Charles, other than this silent corpse.”

“Your Majesty has had someone go through his pockets?” Bainbridge ventured.

The monarch inclined her head. “Quite empty. Quite empty of anything useful. No papers, no wallet, no maps or instructions. No keys. Nothing. Whoever had prepared the young man prepared him well for his endeavor, and knew only too well the consequences of any mistake. We wonder if the young man himself was equally aware of his chances.”

Bainbridge stared at the corpse, attempting to read it much as Newbury would have. But it was no good-he couldn’t do it. He didn’t work like Newbury, wasn’t wired that way. Bainbridge worked on instinct, and it had seen him through twenty years of policing. He relied on his gut. And his gut was telling him Victoria was right, that the man was a messenger of some sort, a warning. This was the first wave of the attack. The Queen was sensible to fear the worst. “Whatever the case, Your Majesty, the consequences will be grave indeed when we discover who is responsible.”

“Be sure of it,” she replied, and Bainbridge was in no doubt as to the veracity of her words.

“I shall post a detail from Scotland Yard, Your Majesty, here at the palace. My men can work with the guard to coordinate security.” Bainbridge wanted to be ready if the enemy-whoever that enemy was-decided to strike again.

“As you deem necessary,” she said in a tone that suggested she thought the point of little consequence.

“And I shall have the body removed for identification purposes. I will get to the bottom of this matter, Your Majesty, I assure you.”

Victoria cackled once more, and the look on her face said everything that needed to be said: that his very future depended upon it. “Leave the body for a while,” she said, smoothing the front of her skirts. “We wish to look upon it some more.”

Bainbridge felt a hollow sensation growing in the pit of his stomach. He shifted uneasily on the spot. He didn’t even know where to begin with the investigation. If the body really was devoid of any clues, then he had almost nothing to go on. Newbury was tied up with Sykes. There was no way he’d be able to pull Newbury away from the Sykes case without the whole thing unravelling. And Newbury hadn’t been quite himself for a few months now.

Bainbridge hadn’t felt this lost since his early days at Scotland Yard, when he’d been hauled up before Lord Roth and berated for losing an important piece of evidence during an investigation. Little did either of them know that the Queen’s agents were the ones who had stolen it, and Bainbridge spent a week on the beat for his “incompetence.” Later, he discovered the truth, but by then Lord Roth had already received his comeuppance from the Queen, and Bainbridge had accepted a position as an agent himself.

He gave a short bow and the Queen shifted in her chair, dismissing him casually and returning to looking into the face of the man she had killed just a few hours earlier.

Bainbridge quit the audience chamber with a heavy heart. Newbury and Miss Hobbes would have to continue with the Sykes case without him, at least for the time being. He had no choice in the matter. An attempt on the Queen’s life meant… well… Other than the outbreak of war, he could think of nothing more serious with which to occupy his time.

It was cool outside, grey clouds hanging low in the sky like oily smoke. In the courtyard a group of engineers were unloading a large structure from the back of a wagon. It looked like a huge iron cannon, but the rear end was attached to a large boxlike contraption with glass portholes on each side. The box-a generator, he assumed-contained a spinning coil that flickered with dancing blue electricity. It was clearly a weapon of some sort, but Bainbridge had no idea of its use or effect. He imagined it worked similarly to his cane-that, when triggered, it could be used to discharge massive bolts of electricity at the enemy.

Not that it mattered, of course. The palace would now be transformed into a fortress, at least until the case had been resolved, the dead intruder had been identified, and the agency behind the attack-if, indeed, the Queen was correct in her assertion-had been exposed and obliterated. Bainbridge had no doubt that the monarch would leave no stone unturned in her quest to root out the villains. She was, if nothing else, tenacious. And more than that, her desire for revenge was as boundless as her temper.

Bainbridge found the police carriage waiting for him by the main gate. He would head to Scotland Yard, gather his men, and brief them on the necessary actions. Then, if there was time, he would send a note to Newbury. It was only midmorning, and he was already feeling weary with the day.