The Immorality Engine

CHAPTER
27

Veronica was tired of the rain.

She was tired of the vicar and his inexorable preaching, and she was tired of all the subterfuge and lies. She was tired, too, of her parents, who had done nothing but patronise her since their arrival at the church, showing nothing in the way of real compassion or grief. Their youngest daughter was dead as far as they were concerned, and all they seemed able to display was relief. To Veronica it was the most appalling show of their inhumanity. In many ways, it demonstrated to her mind that they were no better than Fabian, or Enoch Graves, or even the Queen. She felt herself welling up in frustration, and she let the tears come. It was a cathartic release, and it helped create the illusion of reality, giving the paltry crowd the impression that her sister’s funeral was not the sham that she and Newbury knew it to be.

The intervening days had been trying. Veronica had been summoned to the palace to be informed by the Queen herself of her sister’s apparent death. She had displayed all the appropriate shock and grief at the news, and listened in appalled fascination to the Queen’s explanation of what had occurred at the Grayling Institute. But she’d barely been able to look at the monarch, and was thankful for the gloom in which the Queen lurked like a predatory spider. It kept Veronica from having to look upon the woman’s face, or see the sneer she imagined Victoria to be wearing as she lied about what had happened, and how sorry she was for Veronica’s loss.

Throughout the entire interview, the main thought she’d had running through her mind had been that the woman in front of her was going to die. The reign of Victoria would be coming to an end when her life-preserving machines failed without Fabian’s ministrations, and, Veronica thought, she deserved it. She deserved all of it. Victoria had earned Veronica’s distrust, her disrespect, and her scorn. She had played a fundamental part in Amelia’s misery, and for that, Veronica could never forgive her. She only hoped the woman’s death would come swiftly, and soon.

Veronica glanced over at Bainbridge, who stood by the edge of the grave, huddled against the rain and leaning on his cane, his legs wreathed in mist. She felt a pang of remorse at being unable to talk to him about what had really occurred, to tell him the truth about Amelia; at having to keep yet more secrets from someone she cared about. And that, also, was down to the Queen. But she knew Bainbridge wouldn’t understand. At least, not until he had seen the Queen for what she really was.

Bainbridge had been in Her Majesty’s service for nearly twenty years, through thick and thin, and Veronica simply didn’t think he could accept the truth. Earlier that year he’d been confronted by the reality of the Queen’s machinations when he’d discovered the truth about William Ashford, a former agent who had been rebuilt by Fabian to live a life of painful servitude to the Queen, and although it had damaged his confidence for a time, he had soon convinced himself that the Queen must have been working for the good of the country. Perhaps that’s what he had to believe to stop himself from going mad. Veronica didn’t think any less of him for that.

On the other hand, she found the entire matter much harder to stomach. She’d come to believe that the Queen acted only for the benefit of herself and her regime, and that she, Newbury, and Bainbridge, along with all the other agents, had been working only to forward those ends. If the Queen had a master plan, it didn’t involve a great deal of altruism.

Veronica watched the six pallbearers lower the coffin into the ground. She was still weeping, and the rain was thrashing her, soaking her clothes, and plastering her hair across her face. But she didn’t mind. She hoped, in some way, that the rain could wash away all the fear and tension and pain of the last few days. She wanted the rain to rinse away the doubts and the disgust she felt about killing a man, no matter who he was or what he had done. She wanted to bury all those feelings with this duplicate that everyone thought was Amelia, deep in the ground where no one would ever find it again.

She stepped forward, grabbing a handful of wet soil from the bank beside the open grave, and cast it into the hole. “Good-bye,” she said. She hoped that would be enough, but somehow she doubted it would be that easy.

Veronica caught sight of Newbury, smiling at her sadly. He looked smart in his formal black suit, even soaked through as he was. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this dreadful rain, Miss Hobbes.” Veronica nodded, and then Newbury stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her shoulders protectively. She folded into his embrace, putting any thoughts of scandalising her parents out of her mind. “Veronica. Come now, before you catch a chill. This place will do you no good.”

Veronica rested her head on his shoulder and allowed the tears to come. She wanted to exorcise the spirits, to leave them here in this graveyard so she didn’t have to carry them with her any longer when they left.

They stayed like that for a few moments, the rain pattering down against their shoulders. Then, without looking back, she allowed Newbury to lead her away to the waiting carriage. She climbed in, and Newbury stepped up and took a seat beside her, shaking out his hat and running a hand through his hair.

“Lead on, Driver,” he called, and she heard the snap of the whip. The carriage rocked and the horses crashed into motion, dragging the carriage out of its muddy trench and away into the torrential downpour.

Veronica turned to Newbury, dripping all over the seats. “Thank you,” she said, and then realised how horribly inadequate those words seemed for what she really wanted to say to this man. “You… I…” She didn’t know how to go on.

Newbury laughed and cupped her left cheek with his hand, wiping away a tear with his thumb. He didn’t have to say anything: His silence, and the look in his eyes, spoke volumes.

She leaned over and kissed him, pulling him close, the rainwater running down her face as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She wanted nothing more than to be with him, this man who had given everything for her. To be held in his arms, safe from the world and all its terrible tribulations. “What are we going to do, Maurice?” she said when they had parted.

Newbury met her gaze levelly. “I’ll get well, Veronica. I promise you that.”

She shook her head. “Not that. About the Queen; about Amelia and what happened.”

Newbury’s eyes drifted away from her face, gazing instead out of the window at the driving rain. “We can’t resign our commissions. She’d never allow it.” He sighed. It was clear he’d been considering this carefully. Veronica was relieved that he didn’t seem likely to back out, to try to justify their position and argue that they’d made a mistake. Until now, that had been her biggest fear. “I can’t see we have a great deal of choice. We have to carry on for now, at least. Until…” He trailed off.

Until she’s dead, Veronica finished, although she didn’t say the words aloud. They both knew the consequences of Fabian’s death. And she knew he was right: They really didn’t have a choice. The Queen was ruthless, and they would be branded traitors and hunted down if they so much as gave her the impression they doubted her motives.

“But can we ever trust her again?” she asked, genuinely unsure what she expected his response to be.

He shook his head. There was sadness and fear in his eyes. “No. I don’t believe we can.”

Veronica put her hand on his sleeve. “Then we’ll just have to trust each other,” she said, and she laid her head upon his chest, listening to the thumping of his heart as the carriage careened through the wet, cobbled streets towards Chelsea.