The Immorality Engine

CHAPTER

Newbury looked as if he were about to doze off in the armchair. If he did, Veronica decided, she would let him, then wake him after an hour or two and send him home in a hansom. It wasn’t as if she were overly concerned about scandal-if she were, she might have made different choices a long time ago. Allowing Newbury to get some rest here, at her apartment, away from the temptations and the chaos of Chelsea, well, it felt… right. Not the entire night, but a few hours. And besides, she’d promised Bainbridge she’d keep him busy for a while.

She was sitting opposite him, perched on the edge of the chaise longue, her teacup warming her hands. She watched Newbury’s chest rise and fall in a peaceful rhythm, his eyelids flutter open and closed. The only sounds were the tick-tock of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and the roar of the passing ground trains on Kensington High Street below.

Veronica stood and wandered over to the window, turning back the netting and gazing out across the city. In the distance an airship, low over the horizon, was drifting smoothly across the clear blue sky. It wouldn’t be long until the light began to fade.

She wondered how Bainbridge was getting on across town. Together, she knew, they could solve this. Compared to the things they had faced before-murderous automata, Revenants, rogue agents, serial killers, ghostly reincarnations-this was nothing. If they worked together, they could get Newbury back on track. It would be hard work, but they could do it.

Veronica consoled herself with the knowledge that their plan was already beginning to work-to some extent, at least, though it was clear that Newbury was beginning to suffer withdrawal symptoms: the tiredness, the sweating, the way his hand had trembled as he took his teacup from Mrs. Grant. She knew it was going to get worse. Much worse. This withdrawal was likely to cause more than the obvious physical symptoms. Newbury had come to rely on the drug, and eliminating that reliance would play havoc with his mind. Self-doubt, self-pity-all of this was to come. He honestly believed that the drug was what provided him with his insight, that without it, he’d be only a shadow of his former self. He saw it as a necessary evil, but it was time for that to stop.

Veronica turned her head and listened intently for a moment. Yes, she was right-she’d heard something clatter on the stairs. There it was again, that tap-tap-tap -the sound of metal repeatedly striking wood.

Intrigued, she crossed to the drawing room door. “Mrs. Grant, is that you?” she called out as she reached for the handle. She was just about to turn it when there was an almighty bang and the door shuddered in its frame. Veronica leapt back, unable to prevent herself from issuing a startled shout. Something scratched at the wooden panel.

Newbury was up and awake in seconds. He sprang out of the chair, dashing to her side, poised and ready for a fight. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m alright. I just-” She stopped midsentence as the door began to shake. The shaking was accompanied by a high-pitched whining sound, the sound of blades burrowing through wood at high speed.

“Get back,” Newbury warned her, and she did exactly as he said. He rushed over to the fireplace and grabbed a poker out of the grate. Then he ran back towards the door, standing ready, waiting for whatever it was on the other side to break through.

Veronica knew it must be the spider. It had to be. But did that mean Edwin Sykes was here, too, lurking somewhere in the background? And what had happened to Mrs. Grant?

“Here it comes!” Newbury bellowed as the wooden plug popped out of the door and a balled-up metal object came barrelling through. It hit the ground and rolled across the carpet, coming to rest upon the red Turkish rug in the centre of the room. Veronica moved swiftly to put a chair between herself and the strange mechanical monster.

Slowly, the thing unfurled, its eight spiky legs opening like a brass flower, before the leg joints inverted and raised its shining body off the ground. Four red lights glowed like multifaceted rubies at intervals around its circumference. The machine was the size of a small dog.

Veronica searched for something she could use to defend herself. There were more pokers in the grate, but the spider was now between her and the fireplace. It made a clicking sound, then scuttled away beneath the chair that Newbury had been dozing in.

“Where has it gone?” he asked as he cautiously crept farther into the room, wielding the poker like a spear.

“Careful, Maurice,” she said, lapsing into the familiar address. “It’s beneath that chair.”

Newbury dropped to one knee, trying to get a view beneath the seat. “I can’t see it there,” he said.

“We can’t have lost it!”

“No, it’s just found a pla-” He was cut off by Veronica’s panicked scream as she saw the thing appear around the top of the armchair and launch itself through the air at Newbury. He swung round just in time to raise the poker and bat it away with a resounding clunk. He dropped the poker and cursed in pain as the spider, bouncing off the wall, fell to the floor, curled itself into a ball, and rolled beneath the sideboard.

Veronica dashed over to Newbury. “Are you alright?”

Newbury nodded, rubbing his hands. “Yes, I’m fine. I simply jarred my hands with the impact.”

“Do you think you got it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It hit the wall with quite a force. Where did it go?”

“Under there.” She pointed towards the sideboard.

“Stay back. I’ll take a look.” He recovered the poker and approached the sideboard warily.

“Can you hear anything?”

“No. Can you?”

“Nothing. It’s like it’s stopped moving.”

Newbury lowered himself to the ground, keeping the poker between himself and the sideboard at all times. He peered into the shadowy aperture. “I can see it,” he said, the relief evident in his voice. “It’s curled up into a ball and isn’t moving. I’d say that’s a good sign.” He looked up at Veronica, who was standing over him. “I’ll try to fish it out with the poker.”

Cautiously, Newbury extended his arm and used the end of the iron poker to prod the mechanical creature.

“I think we’re in the clear,” he said. “The lights have gone out and it’s not moving.”

Veronica watched, fascinated, as he slowly withdrew the poker. Balanced on the end of it, hooked by the now-rigid legs, was the spider thing, replete in all its brass glory.

Newbury dropped it on the floor a couple of feet from him and placed the poker on the carpet beside it. “Charles’s eyewitness reports don’t begin to do it justice,” he said with admiration. “Just look at it! What a remarkable device.”

Veronica eyed the thing warily. It was grotesque. She couldn’t understand why Newbury was so enamoured with it. Its bulbous body, its eight spiny legs, the bladelike protrusions embedded in its belly-it was a creature from a child’s nightmare, not something to be admired and fawned over as a technological marvel. It was clever, of course, but everything about it made her skin crawl, from its purpose to its appearance.

Perhaps, also, it was the way it had moved, scurrying around on the floor and then propelling itself through the air like a pouncing cat. If one were caught unawares, it would have proved absolutely deadly. She’d been fortuitous to have Newbury there when she needed him.

“What are we going to do with it?” she said, unsure of their options.

“Bag it up and take it to Charles. This is clear evidence that Sykes is still active. Or at least someone pretending to be Sykes, with access to all of his equipment.”

“Oh my God! Sykes! Mrs. Grant!” She ran to the door, flung it open, and hurtled down the stairs to the basement. “Mrs. Grant? Mrs. Grant?”

“Yes, miss? Whatever is the matter, miss?”

Veronica almost collapsed against the doorframe when she saw the elderly housekeeper standing in the kitchen, a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon in her hands, a look of concern writ large on her face.

Veronica heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, Mrs. Grant. I thought you might have been in trouble.”

Mrs. Grant’s face cracked into a wide smile. “Oh, miss, why ever would you imagine such a thing?”

The question was answered by a loud bang from upstairs, the sound of something-or someone-being knocked to the floorboards. Veronica hurtled back up the stairs, two at a time. She threw herself across the small landing, catching the doorframe and swinging herself into the drawing room.

Inside, Newbury was stumbling backwards towards the window, his hands up near his face, trying desperately to hold the spider thing at bay. Its legs were clawing at his head, and the flashing blades in its belly were whirring dangerously close to his face. It was attempting to burrow into him, just as it had burrowed through the wooden door.

Veronica scanned the floor for the poker. It was still lying where Newbury had left it. She grabbed for it, rushing over to him, and lashed out at the metal beast with all her might.

The poker rebounded painfully in her hands, but the shell of the machine seemed barely marked by the impact, and the blades continued to spin and burr. Newbury was bleeding from innumerable scratches caused by the sharp tips of the spider’s legs as it flayed and grappled with him, intent on finding enough purchase to pull itself in for the kill.

Newbury’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. “Help… me… get… it… off!”

Veronica dropped the poker and grabbed at the spider’s legs, trying to prise them away from Newbury’s head. Two of them snapped back, the joints inverting so that the legs could stab at her hands and wrists. She pressed on, grabbing for more legs, ignoring the sharp pain that blossomed every time the machine managed to open up another gash in her forearms. Two more legs snapped back, directing their attacks towards her. Now she really was in trouble. She gave up on the legs and groped for the body instead, careful to keep her fingertips clear of the spinning blades. She felt the mechanisms within the machine humming, the clicking of the clockwork components inside: the mechanical brain.

She wrenched at it, tugging with all her might. To her surprise, it let go of Newbury and she stumbled backwards, tripping on the rug and sprawling onto her back. The thing squirmed in her grasp, manoeuvring itself about so that the body could pivot on the legs. She realised with horror that there was another set of blades on its back, and these were now extending towards her, spinning and howling with a startling ferocity. She tried to shout for Newbury, but she could hardly breathe.

Then she felt, more than saw, Newbury standing over her, casting her in his long shadow. He had a blanket in his hands from the chaise longue, and he threw it over the spider, bundling it up in the folds of the fabric to momentarily protect them from the blades. Then he grabbed the whole bundle and pulled it off Veronica, slamming it down hard on the floor. “Here! Grab the edge of the blanket!”

Veronica, gasping for breath, rolled onto her side and pinned the blanket to the floor. The spider was twisting and struggling in the folds of the thick fabric, its legs caught and unable to find purchase. She heard the sounds of the blades starting up again.

“It’s going to try to go down through the floor!” Newbury shouted. “Hold it still!”

He fished for the poker, just off to his left, keeping his side of the blanket pinned down with his other hand. Then, on his knees, he grabbed the poker with both hands, raised it above his head, and thrust it down, point first, into the writhing mass of fabric and metal.

The sound was tremendous. The poker speared the mechanical beast right through its body, the metal rod shearing through the brass plating, smashing through the delicate mechanisms inside it, and pinning it, still twitching, to the floorboards. Sparks spat and hissed, and the blanket began to smoulder. Then the whirring blades came to an abrupt halt.

Newbury fell back, exhausted. Still on his knees, he looked over at Veronica. “Are you hurt?”

She had finally managed to regain her breath after the fall. “No. Not really. But you… you’re bleeding.”

Newbury grinned. “Isn’t that always the way?” He collapsed against the arm of the chair behind him, laughing.

Newbury sat on the edge of the chaise longue while Veronica slowly and deliberately dabbed at the cuts on his face with a damp swab of cotton wool. There were scores of them, all over his forehead and cheeks, but Veronica had been relieved to find most of them superficial. One, above his right eye, was a nasty gash that continued to bleed profusely, but Newbury seemed unconcerned, preferring to focus instead on the small pile of mechanical remains on the Turkish rug.

“This rather alters things,” he said, trying to swat her away as she dabbed once again at the cut above his eye.

“I suppose it does. Attempted murder is a far cry from burglary.” She grabbed a fresh ball of cotton wool and dipped it in the bowl of warm water she had placed on a side table. She winced with the movement; she’d received a long gouge in her wrist during the course of the fight with the spider machine, and Newbury had already helped her to dress it.

Newbury’s eyes flicked back to her face. “Indeed. It begs the question of who exactly would be out to make such an attempt on my life. Either Sykes really is still out there, somehow, and knows I’m on to him, or someone else has control of his machine and is using it for their own increasingly nefarious purposes.”

Veronica stepped back, her hands on her hips. Sometimes she found it difficult to stomach the sheer arrogance of men. “I think that upon reflection, Sir Maurice, you will find the intended victim of any such assassination attempt was, in fact, me. This is my apartment, after all.”

Newbury grimaced, and she saw her words had immediately struck home. “You’re right. How truly inconsiderate of me,” he said. He reached over and took her hand, giving her a most curious look that she found difficult to read. There was concern in his eyes, but there was something else, too. Realisation? Recognition? Dismay? “Of course you’re right. The likelihood is that you, my dear, were the intended target of the mechanical beast. In many ways that makes my question even more of a pertinent one, and yet also profoundly more concerning.”

“Do not concern yourself overly with me, Sir Maurice. I can quite ably look after myself.” She tried ineffectually to stifle her wry smile. “So what now?”

“First of all, we must ensure that both you and Mrs. Grant are safe. I insist you spend the night in a hotel. Then tomorrow we shall take the remains of this device to Charles, and together we can discuss our next move.”

“Very well,” Veronica said, fighting back the urge to disagree. She could see the sense in his words. An attempt had been made on her life, after all. “I’m sure Mrs. Grant will be only too happy to spend the night at her sister’s lodgings. I shall speak with her now. Perhaps if you could gather up the components of that… thing, we could take them back to Chelsea, where we know they will be secure?”

Newbury leaned over and plucked a ball of cotton wool from the side table, using it to wipe away the trickle of blood that was threatening to run into his eye. “An excellent plan, my dear Miss Hobbes.” He regarded the bloody swab in his hand. “My thanks to you. For being so… considerate.” He dropped the swab onto the table beside the others.

Veronica smiled. They both knew there was a deeper meaning imbued in those words. “No need. No need at all. I’m only glad you were here.”

Newbury nodded but didn’t respond.

“Right, then,” she said brightly. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Grant. It won’t take us long to throw some belongings in a case.”

But Newbury was already staring out the window, lost in thought. She left him there, pondering whatever it was that she couldn’t see, and set about making arrangements for the trip across town.

The streets stuttered by in quick succession, a series of flashing, half-seen images, turning the once-familiar city into nothing but a hazy blur. The light was failing now, and Veronica rested her head against the seat as the cab hurtled on, its steam engine roaring and hissing and spitting.

She’d seen Mrs. Grant off in a cab to her sister’s rooms a short while earlier, having told her there had been an intruder and that Sir Maurice wished to ensure that everything was secure. Before she left, Mrs. Grant had packed Veronica an overnight bag for the stay in the hotel, while Newbury had scooped up the remains of the spider device in what was left of the blanket. There were large gouges in the floorboards where the mechanical beast had tried to escape through the floor, proving, if nothing else, that the thing had possessed at least some sense of self-preservation. She wondered how intelligent it had really been, and who had created it. It sat now on the seat beside Newbury, a collection of shattered clockwork and electrical components, lifeless and wrapped in a ruined blanket. She shuddered as she thought about what might have happened if Newbury hadn’t been there when it attacked. If she’d been asleep… Well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Perhaps she’d been a little hard on Newbury back at the house. She supposed that was simply a sign of her frustration with him-of his inability to see what he was doing to himself.

Veronica glanced over to see him watching her intently from across the cab, his face half lost in shadow. He smiled when he saw her looking, and for a moment she could almost believe it was the old Newbury sitting there, from the time before the opium dens and the absenteeism, the strange premonitions and the mummified hands. More than anything, she wanted that Newbury back again. She missed him terribly.

They sat in silence, regarding each other in the semi-darkness. “I miss you, too,” he said softly, and she wondered if he had somehow managed to read her mind. She glanced out the window again, afraid to look into his eyes. Afraid to acknowledge the conversation.

Not now, Maurice. She almost hoped he could read her mind, then. Not yet. She didn’t want to have that conversation now, not in the back of a dirty steam-powered cab, not with this Newbury, this drug-addled shadow of the man she loved. There would be time for that later, when he was better.

She realised she was balling her hands into fists. All she’d wanted for so long was to clear the air between them, to talk about the Queen, the secrets, the undeclared affection between the two of them. And now that that moment was here, now that Newbury was finally giving her the opening to have that conversation, all she actually felt was frustration. Because she wasn’t ready. And neither, she knew, was he.

When she finally looked back at Newbury, he had shifted his position and was resting his head against the padded seat, his eyes closed, his breath shallow. They would be at Chelsea soon, back at his house on Cleveland Avenue. She breathed a sigh of relief. The moment had passed. She watched Newbury stirring fitfully as sleep tried to claim him, and she wondered what he would make of Bainbridge’s little bit of interfering.

“What in the name of Hell does Charles think he’s playing at!”

Newbury was storming about the drawing room, gesticulating in fury at the neat piles of papers and the clean surfaces where the stacks of dirty plates and cutlery used to be. “I mean he’s… he’s… he’s tidied up!” As if in protest, he swept a stack of recent newspapers from the coffee table onto the floor, where they spread, rumpled, across the carpet.

Veronica tried not to laugh. She had warned Charles that Newbury would react like this. It wasn’t so much that he liked to wallow in his clutter-more that he had a system for finding things, albeit a bizarre and disorganised one, and anybody who disrupted that system was likely to fall afoul of his temper.

Nevertheless, she’d agreed with Charles that it was the only course of action available to them, given the circumstances.

“Who is that man, anyway? Charles’s bloody spy?” He glared accusingly at her. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

Veronica leaned against the back of an armchair and fixed him with her sternest look. “Really, Sir Maurice, is there any need for that sort of talk? Sir Charles assures me that Scarbright is as reliable as they come. He’s been vetted by the palace, for a start. He knows all about your work. And your… current situation. He’s here to help.” She sighed. “Besides, it’s only a temporary measure, until you can persuade Mrs. Bradshaw to return.”

Newbury stooped and began gathering up the landslide of newspapers, his forehead creased in a heavy frown. “She’s not coming back, Veronica. I’m sure of that much.”

Veronica crossed the room to help him. She dropped to her knees. “Well, then. Wouldn’t it be best to accept Sir Charles’s gesture in the spirit in which it was intended? Let’s face facts, Maurice: You’re a mess.” She caught herself, wondering whether she’d overstepped the mark. But Newbury seemed to be listening to her, so she continued. “See how it goes. Give it a few days. You have to admit, you could do with a hand around here, from someone who’s already aware of your eccentricities.”

“Eccentricities, eh?” He tried to glower at her disapprovingly but his eyes told a different story. He was amused by her sudden frankness.

“And besides,” she went on, “I understand he’s a most remarkable cook.”

Veronica nearly jumped at the sound of someone clearing his throat behind her.

“So I’m told, Miss Hobbes, although I’ll leave it to Sir Maurice to be the right and proper judge of that.” Both Newbury and Veronica looked up with surprise to see that Scarbright had returned from the kitchen during their brief conversation, bearing a tray filled with teacups and saucers. He set it down on the sideboard. “Earl Grey?”

He was a smart, tall man in his mid-forties, dressed in an immaculate black suit with a bow tie and the white gloves of a professional butler. His hair was dark and swept back from his forehead, turning to mottled grey at the temples. He was wearing a moustache that curled upwards spectacularly at its tips. The result of this, Veronica thought, was that he looked as if he were permanently wearing a smile.

Newbury clambered to his feet, looking flustered. “Yes. Thank you, Scarbright. Most welcome.”

“Very good, sir.” He set about preparing two cups. “I thought venison for dinner, sir, prepared with creamed potatoes and greens. If that suits?”

“Um, yes, that suits very well. My thanks to you,” Newbury managed to stutter out in reply. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Excellent news, sir. I shall endeavour to have it with you shortly. Your tea.” Scarbright handed the cup and saucer to Newbury before turning to Veronica. “Miss Hobbes. Shall you dine here before repairing to your hotel?”

Veronica smiled and shook her head. “I fear I must first secure myself a room in a suitable establishment.”

Scarbright gave an ever-so-slight smile of satisfaction. There was a gleam in his eye. “I took the liberty, miss, of making the arrangements on your behalf. A driver will be waiting to escort you to the Albert Hotel shortly after dinner.” He offered them both a bow. “I fear I must now retreat to the kitchen. I urge you to ring if you have need of me.”

“Very good, Scarbright,” said Veronica, crossing the room to retrieve her tea.

Newbury watched Scarbright leave the room with a stunned look. When the door had shut behind the butler, he turned to Veronica. “Very well.”

“Yes?” she ventured.

“He can stay. For now. But I’ll be having words with Charles in the morning.”

Veronica could hardly contain her laughter as she collapsed into one of the chesterfields to drink her tea.