The Immorality Engine

CHAPTER
19

“Tell me, what did Edwin Sykes do to incur your wrath? Was it the fact he stole from you? Or the matter of bringing unwanted attention to your strange little society?”

Newbury was seated opposite Enoch Graves at a large round table in a flag-stoned room on the lower level. The chamber was dressed in the manner of a mediaeval throne room, with huge tapestries covering the walls and iron candelabras bearing tall, white pillars of wax to either side of Graves’s elaborate chair. The table itself was a smooth, glossy mahogany, inlaid with intricate zodiacal symbols of ebony and gold. A wreath of stylised ivy encircled an impressive goblet at the centre of the design, which Newbury took to be a depiction of the Holy Grail.

Newbury grinned. Graves really was attempting to re-create his ideal of Camelot right there in London. Of course, he would be at its epicentre, sitting resplendent on his golden throne. Newbury thought he looked faintly ridiculous, dwarfed by his massive gleaming chair.

Behind Newbury two men stood guard, dressed in the matching grey suits and hats of the Bastion Society, each bearing swords and pistols. Another two had escorted Veronica to a holding cell, where Graves had assured him that she would remain unharmed, at least for the time being. Newbury supposed that would depend on how the following conversation went, and whether Graves would try to use Veronica’s well-being as a bargaining tool to get what he wanted.

He was concerned for Charles, though. He knew his friend could hold his own in a tussle, but if Graves really had sent men after him with explosives, the chief inspector would have found himself badly outmatched. If it was too late, if Charles was dead-Newbury shuddered at the very thought-then Graves would pay with his life. More than that, Newbury promised himself. He would pay with his very soul.

It was clear the premier didn’t yet want Newbury dead, however. If that had been his intention, he would have run the pair of them through with his sabre up in the hanging room while he’d had the chance. No, he wanted something else. Newbury wasn’t yet sure what it was, but he expected it wouldn’t be long before he found out.

Graves leaned forward in his throne, peering down at Newbury from across the table. “Sykes?” He laughed, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Sykes? No… Although I probably would have executed him sooner or later for the reasons you mention. We knew all about his little crime spree. It couldn’t have been anyone else-he was the expert handler of the spiders, the only one capable of using the machines for such precision work. To be honest with you, Newbury, the entire matter was beneath my concern. He’d ‘borrowed’ one of our machines, but we have many more. And he made sure that at least half of the proceeds from his late-night pursuits were added to the society’s coffers. No, I wouldn’t have killed him for that.”

“Then why?” Newbury ran a finger around the inside of his collar. He was sweating, and his hands were beginning to tremble. It had been a while since his last dose of laudanum, and he was starting to itch again with cravings.

“Because he took it upon himself to disregard my express orders. Because he removed one of the duplicates from the growth chamber and employed it for his own purposes, leaving it in a gutter on Shaftesbury Avenue to foil the police. It was a blasphemy against our beliefs, Newbury, and I considered it a sign of his moral inferiority. He simply had to die. So I had one of the men trail him and sabotage the machine. Sykes might have been an expert in handling the mechanical creatures, but he was never intelligent enough to understand what made them work.” Graves looked smug, as if the point of his story was to highlight his own superiority. “I’d have liked to have seen the expression on his face when it turned on him. Besides, he was never truly one of ours.”

Newbury looked puzzled. “Surely though, according to your philosophy, he’ll simply be born again? So what was the point in murdering him in such a fashion?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Graves replied. “And in the next life he will carry with him the lessons learned in this one. In truth, all we’ve done by ending this stage of his existence was to preserve the integrity of his soul. Next time he might make better choices.”

Newbury laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. He couldn’t quite believe what Graves was telling him: that he’d ordered a mechanical device to tear a hole through Sykes’s chest for the man’s own good. “That’s a terribly convenient theory of existence, Sir Enoch.”

Graves looked serious. “Attractive, isn’t it? I can see you’re enamoured by it, Newbury. We’ll come to that.”

Newbury ran a hand through his hair. He felt a little faint. He pressed on regardless. Graves was so egomaniacal that he seemed eager to answer Newbury’s questions. Newbury decided to take advantage of the fact, gaining as much information as he could while he had the chance. He knew it might prove invaluable later, and he’d long ago learned how to manipulate the arrogance of men such as Graves. His sort, Newbury had found, were always willing to impress people with their assumed intelligence, always looking for the validation of others. “So how does the duplication process work? I understand it has something to do with Lucien Fabian?” There, Newbury thought, let’s see what he makes of that.

“Fabian?” Graves almost spat the name. “That pretentious upstart? Dear me, no. The duplication technology is the work of Dr. Warrander, our Chief Engineer. Fabian was a pupil of his, a long time ago. Warrander taught him everything he knows.”

Newbury suppressed his surprise. He had no reason to doubt Graves’s claim. He’d always wondered where Fabian had earned his stripes. As far as many people were concerned-Newbury included-Fabian had simply emerged fully formed, a medical man, an inventor, an engineer. He knew Fabian had been away at war and had experimented on wounded soldiers, finding ways to patch them up and send them back into battle, but that was about the sum of his knowledge of the man’s history. He wondered if Graves knew about the experiments with duplication that Fabian was conducting at the Grayling Institute with Amelia, and whether Fabian had also learned that from Warrander. Newbury suspected that was probably the case. It would be too much of a coincidence otherwise. Newbury waited to see if Graves would elaborate.

Graves smiled. “You’re wondering now why Fabian parted company with the Bastion Society. You’re a clever man, Newbury. You understand so much of what’s going on here.”

Newbury smiled, but ignored the pandering.

Graves shrugged at his lack of response. “Fabian had always wanted to push his work beyond the point where any of us felt comfortable. He never really accepted our beliefs, was more interested in the physical world than the spiritual one. When he went to the Queen and offered to find a way to preserve her life, he took a step too far. He was ejected from the society. By then he didn’t need us, or Warrander, anymore.” Graves folded his arms. “I must admit, Newbury, that we never even considered he might be successful. By then the Queen was already on her deathbed. Even Warrander believed he would fail.”

Inwardly, Newbury grinned. But Fabian didn’t fail. That must be what this whole business was all about. Fabian had found a way to extend the Queen’s existence, and Graves and his bizarre society considered that the greatest blasphemy of all. Fabian had offered the Queen longevity, binding her spirit to her decrepit body beyond the course of its natural life. To Graves, this was the ultimate anathema, the gravest of crimes. The result was that the Empire was being ruled by a woman whom Graves and his men believed should have died long before, an undead monarch whose very existence undermined their core beliefs.

So was it the Bastion Society that was planning to move against the Queen? Did they want her dead? Surely they didn’t have the means to storm the palace as Amelia had envisioned. Newbury needed to keep Graves talking until he found out. “I’m surprised you didn’t help Fabian to the grave, just like Sykes. It sounds as if he would have benefitted from the same sort of lesson.”

Graves clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “I knew you were one of us, Newbury! You’re quite right. We made an error of judgement allowing Fabian to go free. But we had other considerations at the time. He’d taken a position as the Queen’s personal physician. A role like that brings with it a certain level of protection, both physical and political.”

Newbury nodded. “You didn’t want to go up against the Queen.”

Graves frowned. “We didn’t have the means to go against the Queen. It wasn’t a matter of desire.”

So that was it, then. It had all been a matter of timing. They’d been preparing, and now they were almost ready to show their hand. “Surely you can’t want to depose the Empress? To murder a crippled old woman in her own palace?”

Graves laughed. “Oh, Newbury, such melodrama. She’d be dead anyway if it wasn’t for the machines keeping her alive. That’s no life. And she’s no innocent old woman, as well you know. I’m surprised to hear you rush to her defence. She’d hardly do the same for you.” Graves paused, leaning forward to look Newbury directly in the eye. “The Queen doubts you, Sir Maurice. I’m sure you’re already uncomfortably aware of that fact. She doubts your commitment and your integrity, to the extent that she deployed one of her best agents to spy on you, right under your very nose.”

Newbury clenched his jaw. The words hit home like a knife twisting in his gut. So even this indefatigable fool knew the truth about Veronica. He bit back his retort, holding his nerve but simmering with anger. He felt a bead of sweat forming under his hairline and shivered.

“Yes. Yes! I can see by the look on your face, Newbury, that you know I speak the truth. But it matters little. Soon enough the Queen will be gone and there will be a new monarch on the throne. One who is perhaps even less tolerant of your vices. Victoria’s era is ending, and with it, so will yours.” Graves reached up and removed his bowler hat, tossing it on the table and running a hand through his hair. “I’m going to offer you a choice, Newbury, and you should consider it very carefully. I know all about your work and your fascination with the occult. I know your habits and how you crave the Chinese weed. I know your methods and your personal affairs. I know everything there is to know about you.” He paused, giving his words time to sink in. “And still I do not doubt you like the Queen does. You are a remarkable man, Newbury. It doesn’t have to end there. When she falls, there is a place for you by my side, as one of us, as a member of the Bastion Society. Unlike the Queen, we understand you, Newbury. We can offer you salvation.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Will you join us?”

Newbury regarded Graves coolly. “I will not,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Graves’s face fell. His extended hand curled into a fist, and he banged it angrily against the arm of his throne. “Then I fear, Sir Maurice, your time has come to its end. I will keep you alive only long enough to see the ruination of everything you hold dear. Victoria’s reign will crumble, and with it, you and Miss Hobbes. I’m only disappointed that you haven’t the intelligence to see what you’re dismissing so casually, Newbury. You would have shined among us. Your experiments could have flourished. You would have had access to secrets you can only begin to imagine, the undisclosed history of the world. But I can see now it was not to be.” He sighed. “Instead, your corpse will rot in the ground until your spirit is returned to the earth to make recompense for your inadequacies.” Graves snapped his fingers, and the two guards stepped forward. He addressed them haughtily. “Throw him in the cell with the girl,” he said, turning his cheek. “I do not wish to look upon him any longer.”

Newbury felt the guards’ hands grip his shoulders, and he stood, allowing himself to be led away. His captors led him out through a side door and along a dank passageway lit only by torches crackling in iron brackets affixed to the walls. As they walked, one guard before him, the other nudging him regularly from behind, the passageway sloped steadily down, slowly taking them beneath ground level. Other tunnels branched off at regular intervals, like rabbit warrens, and occasional wooden doors denoted access to hidden rooms. Here, the tunnel walls were undressed and roughly hewn, as though the whole network of catacombs and tunnels had been chiselled out of the bedrock after the house above had been built. Newbury assumed this was the work of the Bastion Society, using one of Warrander’s contraptions to carve out a secret haven beneath the city. He wondered how far down the tunnels went, and what else they were keeping down there.

As it transpired, he didn’t have the opportunity to find out. The two guards marched him around a bend in the main tunnel before coming to an abrupt stop in front of a heavy wooden door. One of them slid open a small panel in the door and peered inside. “Stay back,” he barked at the occupant, whom Newbury assumed to be Veronica. He was proved right a moment later when he was unceremoniously shoved inside with her, a sword at his back. The door slammed shut again, and he heard the key scrape in the lock.

Newbury glanced around. They were alone in near darkness, no light but what seeped in through the gap beneath the door. Newbury rushed over to Veronica, who was sitting huddled on the ground, her knees pulled up beneath her chin. “Veronica! Did they hurt you? Are you alright?”

She nodded and looked up at him. “I’m alright, Maurice. Is there any news of Sir Charles?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Let’s hope. He’s a resourceful old fellow.” He coughed.

“Did you get anywhere with Graves?”

Newbury dropped to the floor beside her, resting his back against the wall. It was uncomfortable and cold. He couldn’t stop shivering. “Yes. He asked me to join them.”

“He what?” Veronica was astounded. “I hope you told him you’d do no such thing!”

“Of course I did.” Newbury sighed. “But there’s more. They’re the ones behind the attack on the Queen. They’re gearing up for an assault on the palace.”

“My God,” Veronica said. “And have they got anything to do with what’s going on at the Grayling Institute?”

Newbury shook his head. “As far as I can ascertain, they know nothing about Fabian’s current… experiments. It seems that Fabian might have learned about the duplication technology from a man here, Warrander, and adapted it for use at the Grayling Institute. The Bastion Society isn’t interested in creating living copies of themselves; that would go against everything they believe in. But Fabian has no such qualms.”

Veronica bristled. “Then it’s down to the Queen. It has to be. She’s behind it, Newbury. I know she is.”

Newbury wanted to challenge her on that, wanted to ask her how she could be so sure, but he suddenly couldn’t speak. He was shaking. Sweat was trickling down his face. He ran his hands through his hair, loosened his collar. His skin was crawling, alive with sensation. “We have to get out of here,” he said.

Veronica turned to face him, concern in her eyes. “What’s the matter? What have they done to you?” She altered her position, kneeling before him, cupping his face in her hands. “Oh, Maurice,” she said, realising.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could muster. “I’m so sorry… the weed.”

He closed his eyes. Veronica clutched him to her, holding him gently as he shook. He longed for unconsciousness. More than anything, though, he longed for the brown bottle of laudanum with the peeling label he kept in his study, for the cosy oblivion it would bring.