The Immorality Engine

CHAPTER
24

“Madam, I am the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard!” Bainbridge folded his arms indignantly and leaned back against the headrest of his hospital bed.

The young nurse, dressed in a flowing black gown with a white apron, prim white cuffs, and a matching mob cap, offered him the severest of looks. “I’m sure you’re quite right, sir. But chief inspector or not, you’ve just had a rather large fragment of metal removed from your arm, and, if your story is to be believed”-she raised her eyebrows to indicate that she clearly thought it was not-“you’ve been threatened with explosives, beaten in a fistfight, and generally subjected to all manner of violent behaviour in the last few hours.” She put her hands on his shoulders, gripping him firmly and trying to force him back down into the pillows. “I really do think it’s best you get some rest.”

“Bah!” Bainbridge muttered before finally giving in and allowing the woman to win. He sank back into the downy pillows and she smiled triumphantly, drawing the sheets up over his legs. He knew she was right. He was in no fit state for anything but rest. His arm was strapped to his chest, and his eyes were both so swollen that he could barely prise them open. His hair was singed from the flames, and his legs, buttocks, and elbows smarted from all the tumbling around in the hansom and the scrabbling around on the cobbles. Not to mention the vicious beating he’d taken at the hands of the ruffians. He’d been unconscious for hours and his head was still pounding. He wanted to sink into warm oblivion once again, to sleep away all the aches and pains that plagued him. But he knew that wasn’t really possible. He had to get to Newbury, warn him about the Bastion Society, and tell him to go to the Queen.

The nurse had told him he’d been babbling Newbury’s name when they brought him in. He’d been dragged across town in the back of an uncomfortable ambulance and dumped directly onto an operating table, still delirious from the blows to his head and the loss of blood.

He didn’t recall much of what followed, other than a bout of excruciating pain as the surgeon pulled the shard of bomb casing from his shoulder, and the spray of blood that accompanied it. He had swooned after that, and when he’d come round, he’d been lying in a bed on the ward, his shoulder strapped and his body alive with cramping muscles.

The first thing he said after the nurse had fetched water was that he needed to speak with Sir Maurice Newbury. She told him he’d been saying the same thing since he’d arrived, and that they’d already sent for Newbury, and that he needed to rest. She’d been feeding him the same lines on a rotating basis ever since, which had been over three hours ago.

Now, Bainbridge was growing impatient, and while he knew intellectually that there was little he could do other than wait at the hospital for Newbury, he hated the feeling of impotence that waiting inspired within him. He wanted to get out of there, to hail a hansom and head across town to Chelsea. He wanted to find Miss Hobbes and ensure that the reason Newbury hadn’t come to find him wasn’t because he was idling somewhere in an opium den, chasing the dragon and throwing his life away. Most of all, however, he wanted to feel useful, and his inability to do so was the most galling thing of all.

Bainbridge banged his fist against the side of the bed in a show of frustration, and the nurse gave a squeal of fright and ran for the door. She almost collided with another man who was entering the ward at the same time. He laughed amicably and stepped to one side to allow her to pass. “I should have realised you’d be terrorising the nurses, Charles.”

Bainbridge turned his head at the sound of the familiar voice and tried to prop himself up on the bed, cursing as he struggled to support himself with only one functioning arm. “Newbury! Where the Hell have you been?”

Newbury strode quickly to Bainbridge’s bedside, helping his friend to sit up. “Here, Charles, allow me.”

Bainbridge gave Newbury an appraising look. He was dressed in a smart black suit with a freshly pressed white shirt, but he looked as if he’d dressed in a hurry. He hadn’t buttoned his jacket and he was still wearing the previous day’s stubble. He looked weary, but there was a glint in his eye that had been lacking for weeks, if not months. Perhaps he hadn’t reverted to the opium dens, then?

“Thank goodness you’re alright, Charles.” Bainbridge saw the shock in his friend’s expression, though he tried quickly to hide it.

Bainbridge coughed and tasted blood. He pulled a face. “I suppose these things are relative. I’m still alive.”

Newbury laughed. “You had me worried for a while. Scarbright was waiting with your message when I returned home. What exactly happened?”

Bainbridge lowered his voice, conscious of the other occupants of the room. None of them seemed to be paying him even the least bit of attention. “The Bastion Society, that’s what happened. They came after my hansom with some sort of portable cannon. Nearly blew me to Kingdom Come.” He paused, drawing ragged breath. “I gave them a run for their money, though. Not bad for an old-timer.” He smiled, and then immediately winced at a sharp tug of pain in his shoulder. “And you don’t have to hide your dismay, Newbury. I’m quite aware of how I look.”

Newbury frowned, concerned.

“You need to stay away from them, Newbury,” Bainbridge continued. “The Bastion Society, that is. They mean business. I should have realised after that attack on Miss Hobbes. Whatever you were planning to do to bait them, stop now. As soon as I’m able, I’m going to send the Yard in. Graves is going to have some very serious questions to answer.”

“It’s a little late for that, Charles. I’ve just come from Packworth House, where I spent the best part of a day incarcerated and awaiting execution. Things have escalated beyond all measure of sanity. They’re the ones behind the attack on the Queen, the intruder you told me about.” Newbury spoke with an urgency that Bainbridge had rarely heard in him. “You’re right about how serious they are. More serious than you could ever imagine. They’re-” He seemed to hesitate for a moment before going on. “-they’re planning to mount a full-blown assault on the palace.”

“Good God!” Bainbridge exclaimed. “Good God, Newbury. So they’re the ones behind it!” He sat forward, trying to ignore the pain.

Newbury nodded. “They’ve been secretly building an arsenal in the catacombs beneath Packworth House.”

Bainbridge could barely believe it. The gall of them… of that upstart Enoch Graves. Still, at least the Queen was ready for them. They’d be no match for the Queen’s Guard and the Royal Engineers Corps. “The Queen is preparing the palace as we speak, Newbury. Somehow, she seems to know it’s coming. She’s had the Royal Engineers fortify the grounds with all manner of artillery weapons, and she’s tripled the guard. I’ve posted a security detail from the Yard.”

Newbury nodded thoughtfully. “So the Queen knew about this?”

Bainbridge shrugged, and the gesture set off explosions of pain in his neck and shoulders. “She knew something was afoot. When I got to the palace yesterday, she’d already begun to make preparations. She claimed it was an obvious security measure, given the intruder, but I thought at the time that it was a little overzealous. She must have been warned, somehow. Or threatened. I’m certain she didn’t know who was behind it, however.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. He was so tired. “Now that we know, we can mount a preemptive attack. Get to them before they get to us, so to speak.”

Newbury shook his head. “It’s too late for that, Charles. They’re moving as we speak. We have a couple of hours at most.”

Bainbridge frowned. “A couple of hours? Then what are you doing here! Have you warned the Queen?”

Newbury gave him a curious look. “I’ve done my duty, Charles. But I’m no use to her there. There are others far more qualified to be at her side at a time like this. I’m an academic and a criminologist, not a military strategist.”

Bainbridge nodded. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’d better get over there right away.”

Newbury caught his arm. “You’ll do no such thing!”

“I-,” Bainbridge started, but Newbury held him firm.

“Charles, listen to me. I’ve sent word to the Queen. If she needs us, she’ll send for us. You need to stay in bed. There’s nothing more either of us can do. You’ll only wind up getting yourself killed.”

Bainbridge gave a frustrated sigh. Newbury was right. He’d be no use to anyone in his current condition. He might even be more of a liability. He relaxed, and Newbury released his grip.

It occurred to Bainbridge that Newbury had come alone. “Where’s Miss Hobbes?”

Newbury glanced absently out of the window. He seemed distracted. Perhaps the whole situation with the Bastion Society was playing more on his mind than he was letting on. “I left her at Chelsea. She has some things to take care of. She’s been through a lot in the last few days, Charles. Her sister is terribly unwell.”

Bainbridge tried to look sympathetic. “She’s at the Grayling Institute now, isn’t she? Fabian will take care of her. I know it.”

“Quite,” replied Newbury. “He’ll most definitely do that.”

Bainbridge wasn’t clear what Newbury was getting at, but his head was starting to swim. He used his good arm to steady himself against the side of the bed. His eyes wanted to close. He’d been fighting to stay awake, waiting for Newbury to come, waiting to warn him about the Bastion Society. Now that he had, all the fight had drained out of him. Newbury was right. The palace was protected, and neither of them would make a blind bit of difference.

“Look, Charles, I want you to get some rest. Miss Hobbes and I will take care of everything else. You need to recuperate.” Newbury leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Have you thought about the Fixer, Charles? I could make the necessary arrangements.”

Bainbridge shook his head. “No need,” he said. A trip to see the Fixer, the agent’s go-to man in case of medical emergencies, would be unnecessary. His wounds weren’t that severe. “I’m alright, Newbury. Just tired and a bit bruised around the edges.”

Newbury smiled warmly. “So be it.” He glanced over his shoulder at the door. “I’d better get back to Miss Hobbes, make sure she and Scarbright aren’t rearranging the furniture.”

Bainbridge chuckled. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said. He reached over and grabbed Newbury by the arm. He was overcome suddenly with concern: for his old friend, for the Queen, for everything he held dear. “It will be alright, Newbury. Tell me it’ll be alright.”

Newbury nodded. “It’ll be alright, Charles.”

“Good man.”

Bainbridge allowed Newbury to help lower him back down onto the pillows. His eyelids felt extraordinarily heavy.

“I’ll call tomorrow with news, Charles.”

“See that you do,” he managed to mumble, but unconsciousness was already beginning to steal over him. He listened to the sound of Newbury’s footsteps as his friend quit the ward, and then allowed himself to fall into a deep, welcome slumber.