The Immorality Engine

CHAPTER
14

“Are you sure about this, Veronica?”

She looked at him blankly. “Would I be here if I weren’t?”

They were sitting in a hansom cab at the foot of the long gravel driveway that curled, snakelike, across the grounds of the Grayling Institute. Veronica peered out between the window drapes. The glass was filthy with spattered grime, but she had a reasonable view of the building. She’d never seen it before, and it was completely at odds with what she’d imagined. It was a large country mansion, a former Royal residence, built in the dying days of the seventeenth century and now given over to science, converted into the laboratories and workshops of Dr. Lucien Fabian.

The house was grand and imposing, but also had an old-world charm, like somewhere she remembered visiting when she was a child. It had been a bright summer’s day, and she had played on the lawn with Amelia while her parents drank pungent tea in the orangery with their hosts. Amelia had been stung by an insect, and Veronica held her hand while their mother, a cross expression on her face, pulled the stinger from her arm.

Veronica blinked away the unbidden memory. She wondered how Amelia was finding her new home. She supposed she was going to find out.

She glanced at Newbury. He was right to ask whether she was sure about what they were planning to do. Veronica was hesitant. Not only about their plan for her to steal into the building unannounced while Newbury was quizzing Dr. Fabian about his relationship to the Bastion Society, but also in the end result. Newbury wanted her to speak with Amelia to test the validity of his premonition, his deep-seated fear that something dreadful was going to happen.

Veronica, however, had been expressly forbidden from visiting her sister, told that it would be better to allow her to heal in isolation at the institute, without the distraction of familial concern. She did not want to disrupt Amelia’s recovery. She also feared the results of her conversation with her. There was a significant part of Veronica that didn’t want Amelia to confirm Newbury’s assertions, because that would mean they were about to face something potentially devastating, something that had made even Newbury skittish and afraid.

On the other hand, if Newbury was wrong and Amelia had seen nothing that coincided with his predictions, then what did that say about Newbury’s state of mind? That he might be putting undue stock in the supposed results of his occult experiments? That his mind was addled by months of drug abuse? Clearly, either way, Veronica would have a difficult situation on her hands. But she couldn’t very well back out now, and whatever Amelia told her, she needed to know. If Amelia’s dreams had revealed a looming danger, then Veronica needed to be aware so she could work to prevent it from happening.

Newbury leaned forward and took her hand. “Five minutes, Veronica. Five minutes, and then back to the cab. Do not hang around. Do not risk discovery. Get in and out of there as quickly as you can.”

Veronica raised her eyebrows and fixed Newbury with an impatient stare. “Sir Maurice, I shall be in and out before anyone knows I was even here. You do not need to lecture me on taking risks.”

“No,” said Newbury. “I don’t suppose I do.” He sat back, satisfied. “You will wait here for me while I talk to Dr. Fabian?”

“Of course.”

“Very well. I’m led to believe,” he said, “that there are a number of possible entrances in the rear of the property, French doors that lead to the patients’ rooms. If you make your way around the house beneath the cover of the trees, I’ll distract the servants at the main entrance.” He stood, straightening his jacket. “Good luck, Veronica.”

“Good luck to you, Sir Maurice.”

He swung the door open and stepped out into the bright sunlight. His feet crunched on the gravel. Taking a deep breath to prepare, Veronica followed him, keeping close to the cab. She dropped out onto the ground, circled quickly around the back of the cab, and disappeared behind the cover of the trees that lined the perimeter of the institute.

Unbeknownst to Veronica, a pair of cool blue eyes watched her progress from behind a porcelain mask as she darted from tree to tree, moving with practised ease, looking for an easy way into the building.

A balding butler in a black suit with watery, pale eyes, was waiting for Newbury in the doorway of the old manor house. Newbury smiled as he mounted the steps and the elderly man gave a brief unnecessary bow. “Good day to you, sir. My name is Carrs. Can I be of assistance?” He had a broad East End accent, although he was clearly doing his best to hide it.

Newbury tried to seem jovial, although he wasn’t feeling it. His stomach was clenched and he was sweating under his collar. The dose of laudanum he’d taken that morning was already starting to wear off, and he felt his cravings returning with a vengeance. “Thank you, Carrs. I was hoping to speak with Dr. Fabian. It is an urgent matter, the Queen’s business, and I seek his advice.”

Carrs inclined his head. “Very good, sir. If you would care to follow me, I will show you where to wait while I attempt to locate Dr. Fabian.”

Newbury realised as he ducked his head beneath the lintel of the old house how diminutive the old butler really was. He could barely have reached Newbury’s shoulder, and he walked with a slight stoop. Newbury wondered if he were another of Dr. Fabian’s waifs and strays, an old soldier, or agent, or serviceman of some kind who had been rehabilitated at the institute and then kept on in service in recognition of the debt that was owed to him by his country.

Newbury would have liked to imagine so. But the cynic in him wondered if it were simply that Dr. Fabian did not like to surround himself with people who were either younger or taller than he was. It wouldn’t have surprised Newbury to discover that was the case: Everything he knew of the good doctor, from both hearsay and his own brief encounter with the man, suggested Dr. Fabian had an ego large enough to match his reputation.

Newbury followed Carrs through a number of winding passageways that branched off from the reception hall until they came to a chamber that had been set out in the fashion of a drawing room. Dark oak panels lined the walls, and a portrait of a seventeenth-century cavalier, replete with plumed hat and close-cropped beard, hung upon the chimney breast. His face was intent and regal, and Newbury couldn’t help but feel the painting was somehow watching him.

The room had a musty smell about it, of age and underuse. A bookcase on the far wall was filled with leather-bound books, their spines adorned with gilt titling in Latin, French, and Italian.

A jug of water was set out on a small occasional table beside the fireplace, alongside two glass goblets that looked like they might have belonged to the era of the house itself.

Carrs bade him to take a seat in an armchair, also arranged before the fireplace. Newbury lowered himself into it cautiously, feeling the brittle leather creak beneath his weight. Clearly, everything in the room was an antique. He wondered if it were reserved for visitors. It clearly didn’t receive a great deal of regular use.

Seeing that Newbury was settled, Carrs took his leave, promising that he would return shortly with news of Dr. Fabian.

Newbury leaned back in the chair. God, he was tired. He fought to prevent his eyelids from closing. Now was not the time to let his attention drift. He had a job to do, and with Charles tied up with the situation at the palace, he’d have to deal with the Sykes case on his own. Besides, he had seen the way in which Veronica had looked at him that morning, her eyes full of hope. It broke his heart that he had let her down, and more than once. But there was still, at the back of his mind, a nagging doubt regarding her motives. He didn’t doubt her affections were real, but his trust in her had been eroded by the realization that she was working secretly for the Queen.

For months now, he had observed her movements and he no longer had any doubt that she was reporting on him to the monarch. Just the thought of it was like a knife twisting in his gut. How could she? It was a betrayal of the worst kind. He could think of no way to justify it. He’d tried to think the best of Veronica, tried to reconcile it with himself by assuming she was doing it for the best reasons. But he could not. He could not fathom her reasons. And it hurt doubly so because he knew, deep down, that he was utterly in love with her.

Charles had told him that the Queen was worried that Newbury would be too easily drawn towards the darkness. She feared the allure of it would become too strong, that he would give in and choose the same path as his predecessor, Aubrey Knox, losing himself to the occult. Newbury knew that was poppycock. But he presumed that was the motivation behind Veronica’s betrayal.

So, unsure what else to do, he had retreated from her, hiding himself away in Johnny Chang’s and other, less salubrious establishments. He had toured the seedier side of London society and lost himself to its vices. He had ignored the summons from the palace, the note cards brought by courier and then later footmen from the palace rapping loudly on the door. He had turned them all away. Even Mrs. Bradshaw had gone. But Veronica had stayed. Throughout it all, she had stayed, a constant in his life.

Newbury only wished he did not doubt her reasons.

Veronica stood in the shade of a large oak tree, close to the old manor house. She had the trunk of the gnarly old tree between herself and the building, and she was confident she had not been seen as she’d skirted the building, sticking to the flowerbeds along the perimeter wall, ducking behind evergreen bushes and trees.

From where she was hiding, she could see the extensive gardens at the rear of the property, with their impressive topiary sculptures and water features. It seemed very serene, quite unlike the previous establishments in which Veronica’s parents had interred Amelia. In fact, she felt faintly ridiculous attempting to break in like this, and the thought had crossed her mind more than once that if she’d just decided to walk up to the front door and ask to see her sister, she could hardly be refused.

Newbury was right, though. She’d been warned to stay away-in the nicest possible way-and if she did turn up at the door, surely she would simply be reminded of this fact and asked to leave. And if she were actually lucky enough to talk her way into the institute, there was no way she would be granted any time alone with Amelia to talk candidly. She would be chaperoned by Dr. Fabian throughout her visit, with no liberty to talk frankly.

So… she had settled upon this. Breaking and entering. She supposed it wasn’t as if she hadn’t done it before, on more than one occasion. In fact, she was fairly experienced when it came to forcing an entry. Not that anyone other than the Queen was aware of it. Even Newbury only knew of a handful of occasions when she’d had to demonstrate such skills.

The thought gave her a pang of sudden anxiety. She’d been thinking for some time about telling him the truth. Ever since their recent battle with Aubrey Knox, when she’d blurted out her understanding of the case and accidentally hinted at a deeper knowledge of the situation, and therefore also at her affiliation to the Queen. But she needed to remain focused. Now was not the time for thoughts such as those.

Veronica studied the rear of the Institute. There were a number of-six, she counted-French doors, at intervals along the back of the house. She presumed that Newbury was right and each set of doors must open out from one of the patients’ rooms onto the gardens. All she would have to do was find the room that contained Amelia, and then hopefully her sister would be able to let her in from the other side.

It sounded simple. But if anyone else happened to be in any of the other rooms looking out, then her cover would be blown and she’d be out in the open when the alarm was raised. It was far too much of a risk.

Instead, Veronica had settled on obtaining entry via a window. She had spotted her target almost as soon as she emerged from the foliage to take her place behind the ancient oak: a large sash that had been propped open and left, presumably, to allow the room on the other side to air. It wouldn’t be the most elegant of entrances, and from what she had been able to gather about the layout of the house, she was likely to end up in the scullery or kitchen, but it would do as well as any other. Provided, of course, there was no one waiting for her on the other side.

She was confident that, once inside, she’d be able to head in the other direction and find Amelia’s room. Admittedly, she was likely to have to try a few doors, and she still ran the risk of opening one on someone who was going to bring the house down screaming, but she favoured her chances this way more than the other.

Now it was a matter of timing. She’d been observing the window for a few minutes and had seen no one pass by inside. She knew, in the end, that she was just going to have to risk it. Rather than stand around thinking about it any longer and risk missing her chance, she simply leapt out from behind the cover of the tree and bolted toward the window. Her feet slipped on the damp grass as she hurtled across the lawn, and for a moment she thought she was going to go over, but then she was at the window with her leg up over the windowsill, and then she was standing, a bit disheveled, in the kitchens.

She glanced around quickly, trying to establish whether she needed to run, hide, or tackle someone with a rolling pin in order to ensure their silence. But the path was clear. The place was deserted. She allowed herself a short sigh of relief.

The kitchen smelled of beef broth and onions. Large vats of food were simmering on the range, the lids rattling on the pans as they built up a head of steam. Veronica realised she didn’t have long. Someone would be back shortly to check on the pots. That might also mean she’d have to find an alternative way out of the institute later.

There was only one other way in or out of the room, a door in the opposite wall. Veronica walked carefully around a large wooden table that was littered with kitchen implements and dusty with spilt flour, past the bubbling pans, and then hesitated on the threshold of the doorway. Someone’s footsteps were coming in her direction from the corridor outside. She listened carefully to try to ascertain how much time she had. Were they actually footsteps? They sounded more like a persistent rhythm of metal striking stone, accompanied by the wheeze and sigh of firing pistons. Was it some sort of security automaton, perhaps? No matter-they were definitely getting louder, which meant they were getting closer.

She glanced back at the kitchen. Was there anywhere she could hide? She supposed she could try to scramble into the dumbwaiter in the far corner, but other than that…

She’d have to run. Out into the corridor, take a left, and put as much distance between herself and whatever it was that was coming from the other direction. She just had to hope they were still far enough away that they wouldn’t see her.

Veronica closed her eyes, took a big gulp of air, and threw herself out into the passageway. She glanced quickly in both directions. To the right, the path was still clear. But the sound of the mechanical footsteps was growing ever closer, a steady, ominous clanking. To the left, the passage came almost immediately to a T. She ran over to it, hopeful that the coast would be clear. It was. But which direction to take? Where would Amelia’s room be located?

Thud, thud, thud. The footsteps were rounding the bend behind her. She had to commit. Right, then. She guessed that would lead her deeper into the house.

Veronica dashed along the passageway, her feet scuffing against the ancient flagstones. The walls and ceiling here were paneled in dark oak, giving everything an oppressive air. Roughly hewn wooden faces loomed down at her from above, their blank eyes judging her from their little nooks in the walls. She guessed they must have been there since the house had been built. She wondered what they must have witnessed in their time.

Another T-junction. Veronica groaned in frustration. Whichever direction she took now, she was heading farther away from the gardens and the rooms where she expected Amelia to be. But she had little choice. She couldn’t very well double back, not with that thing, whatever it was, blundering around the corridors behind her. She took the passageway on the right again, listening carefully for any signs of movement or voices from up ahead.

Everything seemed to be quiet. It was a far cry from the asylum at Wandsworth, where Amelia had previously been a patient. When she visited there Veronica would regularly hear the wailing of the other inmates, the cries of the insane, the harrowing calls for help issued by people too sick to understand their own conditions. By contrast, the Grayling Institute appeared to retain the trappings of a fine country home, a manor house fit for nobility. It was an odd sort of place, and given Dr. Fabian’s reputation as a master engineer, the idea of him living and working there felt entirely incongruous to Veronica. She had expected more modern surroundings: laboratories, workshops, that sort of thing. Or perhaps something clean and clinical, like a hospital. But not this.

Veronica pressed on. Soon she had lost track of the winding passageways and had given up on trying to remember how to backtrack. Instead she simply followed her instinct, delving deeper into the large house and trying any number of doors, all painted a glossy white and securely locked. It wasn’t long before she had shaken off the sound of the footsteps. The whole building seemed as if it were practically deserted. She hadn’t seen a living soul since her rather impressive entrance through the window: no patients, no nurses, no servants. She cursed herself, assuming that somewhere, in her haste, she had taken a wrong turn and had wandered into a disused part of the building.

She was just about to turn back and start trying to retrace her steps when she heard a noise from up ahead and started. It had sounded like a muffled scream. She felt the hairs on the nape of her neck prickle as they stood on end. The noise had seemed chillingly familiar. Had it been Amelia? Surely not.

Cautiously Veronica picked her way along the corridor. Up ahead, it turned abruptly to the right. Veronica followed it, unsure what she expected to find. Ever since arriving at the institute, she’d been filled with a growing sense of unease, and now, upon hearing that awful scream, she suspected that something was terribly amiss.

The passageway terminated in a door. She crept up to it, straining to hear any sounds from the other side. Silence. She leaned closer, wondering what use anyone could have for a room this far removed from the main part of the building. The scream couldn’t have come from anywhere else. She pressed her ear against the cold wood.

Inside, she heard the muffled sounds of an animal, a low, plaintive keening, as if the creature making the sound had been in pain for some time but had now given up all hope of attention or relief.

Was Dr. Fabian involved in some sort of vivisection experiments? It wouldn’t surprise her if he tested his medical machines on apes or dogs or other mammals, and it would make sense to lock them away here where the patients couldn’t accidentally happen upon them. Nevertheless, Veronica couldn’t suppress the nagging doubt that Dr. Fabian was up to something more nefarious. She didn’t really know the man, and she had put her faith in him to heal her sister, but for some reason she had a horrible, hollow feeling in her gut, a sense of impending dread. Something about the Grayling Institute just didn’t feel right.

Veronica tried to laugh at herself, to remind herself that her sister was the clairvoyant one, that she was probably just being paranoid. But what if Newbury were right? The dreadful thing he had predicted during his occult experiments-what could it be? Was it something to do with Amelia? She supposed there was only one way to find out.

Veronica was just about to reach for the handle when something screeched loudly on the other side of the door. She jumped back in fright with a sharp intake of breath. She felt her heart race in her chest. The sound had set her teeth on edge. What on Earth was going on behind the door? She gave herself a moment to steady her nerves before pressing on.

Tentatively, she grabbed for the brass knob and gave it a sharp twist. The door swung open. It was dark on the other side, so she couldn’t see much of the room beyond, but the smell was horrendous. The air was thick with the cloying scent of faeces and perspiration, and other things she couldn’t-or didn’t want to-identify.

Definitely animals, then, she thought, debating whether to bother searching for her handkerchief to cover her face. Absently, she remembered leaving it at the morgue.

She stepped farther into the room, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. She could sense motion somewhere nearby. Something was turning in the darkness, something large that disturbed the air currents in the room, a machine of some sort. She could hear it whirring slowly in the darkness along with a low murmur of some sort. She walked forward and immediately got the sense that she was in a large open space, a hall or ballroom at the centre of the old manor house.

Veronica felt the wall behind her and managed to put her hand on a wall-mounted gas lamp. She felt for the knob and turned it up, spilling some light into the otherwise gloomy room. Then, turning around to see what the room contained, she emitted a scream of a sort louder than she had ever issued before.

All thoughts of secrecy or subterfuge went from her mind. She rushed forward, but then skidded to a halt, not knowing which way to look, which way to run. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She thought she was going to vomit. She realised she was whimpering with shock and anger and sheer, unadulterated fear.

The room contained at least twenty Amelias.

Everywhere she looked, there were more of them, each identical to her sister in every way: pale skinned, painfully thin, raven dark hair. They were barely dressed, covered only in thin cotton nightgowns. Each of them was lashed up to a different machine or torture device.

Veronica stared at the contraption at the centre of the room. It was a large disc, a circular platform fixed upon a pedestal, and it was spinning, round and round and round. Upon the disc, her sister-one of the many-was strapped down, electrodes trailing from her temples. Strange occult symbols had been daubed onto the surface of the disc, and Veronica realised with horror that her sister’s duplicate had been arranged in the form of a pentagram, her arms, legs, and head forming the five points of the star. She was babbling, too, spouting prophecies and visions of the future. They all were. Veronica realised that the murmur she heard was an incessant litany of words and phrases, snatches of things seen out of time, predictions of the horrifying things to come.

To Veronica’s left, another of the duplicates was strapped into a chair, her hair lank and dripping, hanging before her wretched face. This one turned and looked up at Veronica with eyes that were sunken and bruised, imploring her to do something. Others sat on the cold tiles of the floor, rocking back and forth, scratching things into the floor with their bare fingernails, etching out the scenes they were seeing in their minds. Yet another lay dead on a table in the corner, stark white and unmoving. One of them rushed at Veronica, its hands held out before it as if to throttle her. Veronica wailed in confusion and distress and the meek creature-a shadow of her sister-fled to the back of the room, to the shadowy recesses where Veronica could hear scores of them gathered, gibbering and whispering to one another.

Weeping openly, Veronica moved towards the machine at the centre of the room. She didn’t know what she was going to do. She wanted to stop the spinning. But the Amelia on the disc glared up at her, snapping its teeth like a feral animal and growling. Its eyes were full of malice and confusion. This was not her sister. This was… something evil. Something inhuman. Something created.

Whatever Dr. Fabian was doing here, she had to put an end to it. She had to save Amelia from this, get her away from this horrible place… if it wasn’t already too late. How had she allowed this to happen? What had she done? She was the one who had pushed Newbury to talk to the Queen, to have Amelia moved here. She was the one who had put her faith in the Queen and her physician.

But there was no doubt in Veronica’s mind. Dr. Fabian was the one responsible, and she would ensure he paid dearly for his crimes.

“Cracking walls and fire and pain… so much pain. Brass engines of destruction will tear down the world, and the man with the white face shall come out of the darkness.”

Veronica looked down at the doppelganger strapped to the machine. It had Amelia’s voice, but it was raw and broken, and it was coming from inside a monster.

“The one who sits in the chair. She is the key. She is the nightmare at the eye of the storm.”

Veronica realised with dawning terror that the duplicates were speaking in unison. Each and every one, chanting the words of the prophecy. It was too much. She had to get out of there, had to find Newbury, to find Amelia. The real Amelia.

Veronica turned to flee, but stumbled when she saw someone hovering in the doorway. The man with the white face!

Her path was blocked. The thing that was watching her had to be another of Fabian’s sick creations. He was a man, of sorts, dressed in an evening jacket and white shirt, with white gloves and a featureless porcelain mask where his face should have been. From the waist down he was entirely a machine, legs driven by pistons in his mechanical thighs.

Veronica realised that this must have been the thing that had followed her here through the passageways of the old house. The strange creature cocked its head silently to one side, as if considering what to do next. Then it came lumbering towards her, its blue eyes blank and staring.

Veronica saw her opportunity. She could move faster than this strange man-machine. She backed away, drawing it farther into the room, biding her time. Then, just when it seemed as if she had nowhere else to go, she turned and bolted for the door.

She felt the thing’s fingers brush her collar as she squeezed past it, but she was driven on by fear and her desire to get away, to find Amelia and get her to safety. She darted out into the passageway, flinging herself around the corner, and then on into the depths of the house. She was still weeping, tears streaming down her cheeks, blurring her vision. She didn’t know what to do. She had to find Newbury. But Newbury was with Fabian.

Veronica blundered around another corner, banging her arm painfully against the wooden panels. She just needed to get out of there. Out and back to the cab. Newbury would help her after that. He would. She knew he would. Newbury wouldn’t let it go on any longer.

Veronica ran on, away from the man with the white face, and away from the dreadful room. She prayed that she was right, that Newbury would help her save her sister. He was, after all, the only hope she had.

Newbury turned at the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside the door. Carrs had returned, escorting Dr. Lucien Fabian, that old master of invention, the Queen’s personal physician. The man who had ensured Her Majesty’s survival and, indirectly, Newbury’s own.

Newbury rose to greet the doctor as he entered the room.

“Sir Maurice Newbury! Now, here’s a surprise. It must be, what, four years since you last had reason to pay me a visit?”

Newbury nodded. “Yes.” The date was emblazoned on his mind. He’d come to Fabian in the aftermath of the events at Fairview House and the death of his previous assistant, Templeton Black. He’d hoped Fabian would be able to help, to do something miraculous, to somehow restore the young man to life. But Newbury’s actions had been motivated by his grief, and of course, Fabian had only been able to turn him away. “Yes, it’s been a while.”

Fabian waved Carrs away, instructing him to fetch tea, and then gestured for Newbury to return to his seat, dropping into the chair opposite him. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose with his left index finger. “How’s that shoulder, Sir Maurice? I understand the Fixer made good use of my medical machinery when he put you back together last winter. During that whole Lady Armitage scandal, wasn’t it?”

Newbury smiled. It had not yet been a year since that first case with Veronica, but already it felt like a lifetime ago. “I’m very well, thank you, Dr. Fabian,” he replied. “The Fixer did a superb job, not least because of the equipment he had at his disposal. Aside from a few scars and the occasional twinge, the shoulder is as good as new.”

“Wonderful news!” Fabian clapped his hands together with a wide grin. “Most excellent news.” Newbury couldn’t tell if Fabian was pleased that the Fixer had successfully mended his shoulder, or because it was his machines that had made the operation possible. “It was an interesting case,” the doctor continued. “I was saddened by what became of Villiers. He might have proved useful. I examined one of those ‘affinity bridges’ in the aftermath of the events. A quite remarkable device.”

Newbury frowned. This was news to him. He’d understood the devices had all been destroyed. “Do you still have it?” Newbury asked pointedly.

Fabian shrugged. “Yes. It’s in the archive. Her Majesty thought I might be able to learn something from it. I believe it was your assistant, Miss Hobbes, who helped us to obtain one.”

Newbury stifled a gasp. Layers upon layers, he realised. Betrayal upon betrayal. He didn’t know what to make of it all.

“So.” Fabian ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I gather there must be a reason for your visit? Another case?”

Newbury attempted to order his thoughts. He was still trying to work out when Veronica could have found time to procure the affinity bridge, or had the means to do it. She was resourceful, if nothing else. “Yes, indeed. I’m hoping you can help to shed some light on it.”

“I am at your disposal, Sir Maurice. I shall do what I can.” Fabian smirked. Did he already know what Newbury was about to ask? That knowing look suggested that he did. Or perhaps it was simply arrogance, a sign that he was enjoying being asked for help.

“Thank you. I would be obliged if you could enlighten me as to the nature of your relationship with Sir Enoch Graves and the Bastion Society.”

Fabian’s jaw clenched. He visibly stiffened, then took a deep breath.

So he hadn’t expected the question after all. That was an interesting fact in itself. Newbury watched him attempt to regain his composure.

It took a moment, but nevertheless, Newbury was impressed with the way in which Fabian calmed himself. He leaned back in his chair, the smile returning to his lips. “Ah, so you finally managed to catch up with Graves. How interesting. I wondered how long it would take.” Fabian laughed.

Newbury gave him a confused look. “What exactly has Graves been up to that should have brought him to my attention?”

Fabian frowned. “Well, it’s your sort of thing, isn’t it?” he said. “All that occult business. Secret societies, black magic, resurrection… an unhealthy pursuit of the supernatural. That sort of thing.”

“And that’s what Graves and the others are up to?” It suddenly dawned on Newbury that if what Fabian was saying were true, the case had just become a lot more serious… and potentially a lot more dangerous.

Fabian looked perplexed. “You tell me, Sir Maurice. Isn’t that why you’re here?” He seemed reluctant to elaborate all of a sudden, as if he feared he might incriminate himself if he revealed any more.

“I’m here because there’s been a murder,” Newbury stated. “And we have reason to believe there is a connection to the Bastion Society.”

Fabian nodded. “I don’t doubt it. I would imagine Graves has been connected to any number of miserable deaths over the years.” He paused, eyeing Newbury, as if weighing him up. “Have you worked out what they’re up to, Sir Maurice?”

Newbury chose to leave the question unanswered.

“I see not,” Fabian continued. “Well, allow me to enlighten you a little. The Bastion Society is more than simply another gentleman’s club. It’s an ideal. A way of life.”

“An ideal?” Newbury said.

“Yes. Its members must swear to uphold the glory of England. They believe it is their duty to preserve the English way of life. They believe the English race to be morally, intellectually, and physically superior.”

Newbury raised his eyebrows.

“Oh yes, Sir Maurice. This is the stuff they don’t publish in their charter. They’re extremists, and they are highly political. They have people in the government, and they count judges, barristers, policemen, and soldiers amongst their members.” Fabian smiled, folding his arms behind his back as he talked. “They have a chivalric code by which they all abide. It’s like something out of the Dark Ages. A medieval code of honour. They consider themselves to be the knights of the modern world, and they go forth for the glory of England. And Graves sits at the centre of it all, dreaming of Camelot.”

“And you, Dr. Fabian. You were part of all of this, too?” Newbury wondered how much of this was Fabian’s bitterness talking. He’d have to dig a little further to discover the truth about why the doctor was ejected from their ranks.

Fabian waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. “Perhaps. At least, I went along with their little games for a while.”

“And what was in it for you?” Newbury ventured.

Fabian grinned. “Funding,” he said, “for my… projects. This was before I was granted the honour of serving Her Majesty. Understand that the type of experimentation and invention I am involved in, the scientific endeavours in which I engage myself, are a costly business. I needed patronage, and Enoch Graves had the means to grant it to me. The Bastion Society is very free with its wealth.”

Newbury didn’t like the sound of where this was heading. “Why should a society of political idealists be funding the work of a highly regarded scientific engineer such as yourself?”

“As I said, Sir Maurice, the Bastion Society is more than just a gentleman’s club. Their rituals are ancient and arcane. They believe in the permanence of the spirit and the transient nature of life, the idea that the spirit transcends the flesh and is reincarnated in a new physical form at the point of death. A very Eastern philosophy at its core. Graves could never see the irony in that.” He chuckled. “To answer your question: I provided them with the means by which to carry out their more bizarre rituals. Particularly the ones pertaining to karmic debt.”

“A death cult?” Newbury said.

“No, not quite,” Fabian corrected. “Their belief is that each physical body is simply a vessel, a chapter in the life of a soul. They argue that an individual’s life, therefore, should not be extended beyond its natural means. That it causes an imbalance if the soul remains shackled to the body for too long. Graves, for example, truly believes he is the reincarnation of an ancient chivalric warrior.”

“I understand,” said Newbury. He could see now why Fabian’s work had put him at odds with Graves and his cronies. Fabian had saved the Queen from almost certain death by installing her in her life-giving chair. Graves would never have tolerated such an outrageous flaunting of the society’s beliefs.

“I see that you do, Sir Maurice. It is an admission of my weakness that I was only ever party to their strange beliefs when it provided me with a fully stocked laboratory. I don’t generally associate myself with cults of that sort.”

Newbury couldn’t help but wonder what sort of cults Fabian did, then, associate himself with.

“Tell me a little about this murder case, Sir Maurice. I may be able to help in some small way.”

“A notorious jewel thief, Edwin Sykes, who it later transpired was a member of the Bastion Society, was found dead in the gutter a few days ago. That, in itself, wouldn’t really be enough to concern me, but when Sykes then continued to commit felonies, it piqued my interest.”

“Go on,” Fabian said, clearly engaged.

“This morning I attended the scene of another burglary. But this time there was a body, a murder victim. And it soon became clear that the corpse was none other than Edwin Sykes. The second body was identical in almost every way to the first. Even now, we have two near-identical corpses in the police morgue.”

“Fascinating,” said Fabian. “How was he killed?”

“It seems as if he was attacked by his own mechanical automaton, a spiderlike machine that he used to force entry onto the premises.”

Fabian laughed out loud at this and sat forward in his chair. “Ha! About the size of a small dog? That’s one of mine. One of the first things I built for Graves. I was never quite sure what he wanted it for, but I tried not to ask too many questions in those days.”

“How many of them did you make, Dr. Fabian?” Newbury asked.

“Of the spider? Oh, just the one.” He paused to push his glasses up his nose once again. “Have you seen it? Was it still operational? It was a difficult machine to handle. It would have taken someone months, if not longer, to master.”

Newbury nodded. If Fabian had created only one, who had made the others? “Yes, I’ve seen it. I’ve also seen what it can do to a man. He had a hole as large as a dinner plate through his chest.”

Fabian grimaced. “Well, I can’t say I ever encountered Edwin Sykes at the clubhouse. I fear that I can shed little light on your mystery. Two bodies, you say? That’s quite extraordinary. Twin brothers, do you think?”

Newbury decided to keep his cards close to his chest. He still didn’t know how much he could trust Fabian. Or anyone else, for that matter. “Quite possibly. The birth records suggest otherwise.”

Fabian shrugged. His tone was dismissive. “You never can rely too heavily on that sort of thing.”

“No, I suppose not.” Newbury looked up as Carrs bustled through the door carrying a large silver tray. He realised that signified the end of their discussion on the Bastion Society. He wondered how Veronica was getting on elsewhere in the building. Hopefully she’d be out by now, back in the hansom waiting for him.

Fabian rose from his seat and took the tray from Carrs. “Ah, tea. Let me pour you a cup, Sir Maurice, and I’ll give you a progress report on young Amelia Hobbes’s recovery. I’m sure her sister would like to know how she’s getting on.”

“Thank you,” said Newbury. “I’m sure you’re right.” But in the back of his mind he was already plotting how he could gain entrance to the Bastion Society and find out more about exactly what they were up to.

In the meantime, Veronica, distraught, had fled to the coach. She’d done so almost in a daze, knowing only that she needed to put some distance between herself and the foul things she had seen inside the building, the… things that looked and sounded in every way like her sister.

Now, however, she regretted fleeing the scene. She stood, and then sat again, squeezing her hands together in anguish as she tried to decide what to do. Should she go storming back in there and demand to see Newbury? Should she remain out here in the hansom and wait for him to return? Should she leave, taking the cab to find Sir Charles so they could return later in force?

She stood again, reached for the door, and then returned to her seat in the stillness of the cab. The horses stamped their feet on the gravel, sensitive to her nervousness. The driver had already been well tipped by Newbury to turn a blind eye to anything out of the ordinary, so she knew she wasn’t going to be disturbed, no matter how much she paced around or banged her fist against the door in anguish.

Veronica stepped over to the window and drew back the curtain once again. He was still there, that bizarre, nightmarish creature with the white face, staring out at her from inside the doorway of the house. His freakish appearance had startled her in the house, and now she didn’t know what to think. Was he a man or a machine? His blank, staring eyes were definitely those of a human being, but parts of his body-including both legs-were evidently mechanical. And why was he wearing the mask? Was he another patient, or one of the staff? More to the point, why hadn’t he raised the alarm? And why was he watching her now from the doorway?

These and other questions were buzzing around inside her head. But she couldn’t think straight. All she wanted to do was scream. She simply couldn’t shake the horrifying image of Amelia’s face, crying out in the darkness as she spun on that strange wheel, electrodes trailing from her temples. Or the dark, bruised eyes that stared up at her from the chair in which that other Amelia had been lashed, or the pale look of the dead one on the table.

Then there was the sound… the muttering, the murmuring, the garbled insights into what was yet to come. She had talked about the horrors in the darkness, the impending storm of death and destruction. She had whispered about machines that walk like men, and a siege that would bring about the end.

Veronica reached for the door. What was she doing, waiting here in the cab? She had to get back inside! She had to get Amelia out of that horrible place. Whatever Dr. Fabian was doing, it was evil, unspeakable. Somehow he was copying her. Duplicating her so he could torture those pitiful copies, lashing them to strange machines to induce seizures so that they might predict the future. She wondered if the Queen knew about it. Or even if the Queen was behind it.

Veronica had to find the real Amelia, who was clearly in danger. What if she were being tortured, too? Unsure what she was going to do, other than storm back inside the institute and demand to see her sister, she flung the door of the cab open-and found Newbury standing there on the gravel driveway, staring up at her in surprise.

“Veronica? Are you quite well?”

Veronica didn’t know how to respond. Exhausted, confused, and incandescent with rage, she fell out of the cab and collapsed into his arms, beating her fists against his chest in barely contained rage. He held her while she wept on his shoulder, allowing the worst of it to pass.

Then, gently, he prised her away, holding her by the shoulders so that he could look into her eyes. “Was it that bad?”

Veronica could hardly speak. She wanted him to see what she had seen. She knew that words could never describe the horror of it. “Worse than you can possibly imagine.”

Newbury clutched her to him once again. He stroked the back of her head. “I’m so sorry I asked you to go through with it, Veronica.”

“No!” she shouted emphatically. “No. Don’t you dare apologise. If it wasn’t for you, I would have stayed away, just like they wanted me to.”

Newbury tried to coerce her back into the hansom. “Come on. Let’s get out of here, and you can tell me all about it.”

Veronica stepped back from him, blocking the way into the cab. “We can’t go,” she implored him. “We can’t leave her here. You don’t understand.”

Newbury put his hand on her arm. His voice was low and firm. “Veronica? Veronica. Look at me. We’re being watched. We need to leave now. I promise you we will get to the bottom of this. We’ll do what’s best for Amelia. But right now, we have to go.”

Veronica looked over his shoulder. The man-thing was still hovering in the doorway, watching them with his strange, unblinking stare. But now she saw that Dr. Fabian was also watching them intently from the window of the house. She wanted to rush over and confront him about what he had done. But instead, drained of energy and unsure what best to do, she allowed herself to be bundled back into the cab. Newbury jumped in on the other side and slammed the door, then rapped loudly on the wooden frame to inform the cabbie they were ready to leave.

Veronica heard the crack of a whip. Then, horses neighing in protest, the hansom juddered and rocked into motion, sending a spray of gravel into the air as they shot off into the hazy afternoon.

Veronica looked back through the window, watching the Grayling Institute recede into the distance. She felt nauseated, hollow. She felt like she had abandoned Amelia to a fate worse than death.

She resolved then that she would do everything in her power to save her sister from Fabian and that horrible, porcelain-faced monster. Amelia would be free of them and the doctor would pay for his atrocities, whatever it took, whatever the consequences.