George Mann - The Immorality Engine

“A man, Charles. He was here late last night, after the light rain. His stride was confident and purposeful, and his shoes were flat-soled size nines.” He eyed the chief inspector triumphantly. “What size shoes did the dead man wear? Sykes?”

Bainbridge smiled. It was clear he was relieved by Newbury’s sudden outburst of enthusiasm. Vindicated, too, she suspected, since it had been his idea to involve Newbury in the case. Although Veronica knew there was more to it than a simple desire to help Newbury find a reason to drag himself away from the opium dens, she also believed he was utterly perplexed by the mystery and in need of his friend’s assistance.

“Size nine,” Bainbridge conceded. There was a glint in his eye. “Take a look at the rear door, Newbury.”

Newbury was like a bloodhound that had suddenly got hold of a scent. He turned and made a beeline for the door. Veronica followed him, curious to see what he would do next.

The door itself was a heavy wooden affair, unmarked and unremarkable, and clearly designed to keep people out. It was at least an inch thick-she could see this because it was now standing ajar-and was lockable from the inside by virtue of a large dead lock and two thick iron bolts. It had been crafted from a dark hardwood, possibly mahogany.

Newbury was on his knees again. Veronica crouched low to see what he was looking at. He was running his hand around the inside edge of a large circular hole in the door, admiring the smooth, clean edges of the cut. The hole was about the size of a dinner plate and had been punched clear through the door. Through it she could make out a grille of iron bars-another lockable barrier between the rear yard and the shop beyond.

“Have you seen this, Charles?” Newbury beckoned the other man over without averting his gaze from the door. “Around the hole, here.” He traced his finger around the rim of the aperture. The door sported a series of eight smaller marks, nothing but faint indentations in the wood. They were evenly spaced around the outside of the larger, central hole.

Veronica looked at Bainbridge, who was standing over them, grinning. “Yes, I’ve seen it, Newbury. Perplexing, isn’t it?”

Newbury stood. “Perplexing, indeed!”

Veronica sighed. “Can someone please explain what the devil it is you’re talking about?”

Bainbridge laughed. “Yes, I’m sorry, my dear. Allow me to explain.” He leaned on his cane. “Edwin Sykes, whom we-until now-presumed to be responsible for a series of daring and elaborate burglaries all over the city, had a most ingenious method of entering a property.”

“Go on,” Veronica urged him.

“Well, he’d somehow managed to lay his hands on a mechanical device. We have only secondhand reports of what it looks like, but we’ve seen the results of its work.”

“The holes in the door?” Veronica suggested.

“Yes, but you’ll soon see there’s more to it than that.”

“So what is this thing, this device?”

Newbury stood, turning to smile at her. “It’s a spider,” he said.

“A spider?”

“Exactly that,” he continued. “A large mechanical spider. See those eight small markings in the wood around the central hole? We believe that’s how it fixes itself into place while it burrows out the main entry point. It’s a dead giveaway. I’ve never seen anything else like it.”

“But there’s a full-height metal grille behind that door. And what use is a hole like that? Are you saying that Sykes-or whoever was responsible-reached through that opening to pick the lock on the other side? And what about the dead bolts?” Veronica gave them both a dubious look.

“No, Miss Hobbes, that’s the clever part.” Bainbridge tugged at one corner of his moustache. “As we understand it, the spider does the lion’s share of the work. It’s a sort of automaton device, with limited intelligence. Once it’s cut the entry hole, it crawls inside and picks the locks. As many of them as are necessary to clear a path. All Sykes had to do was stand back and wait for his miraculous toy to grant him access, then stroll right in to the treasure inside.”

Veronica looked at the hole in the door with some admiration. “A remarkable device indeed.” She searched Bainbridge’s face. “Why did you never put Sykes away for his crimes?”

Bainbridge sighed. “There was always too much doubt. A watertight alibi. No evidence. We all suspected he was guilty, but had no way of proving it. We tried laying traps to catch him, but he was always wise to them. We investigated his financial situation, but the paper trail appeared authentic. Even searched his property once, but found nothing incriminating whatsoever.”

“So how did you know it was him?”

“Oh, he was guilty. I’m sure of it. Intuition, whatever. He was our man.”

Veronica smiled. She had come to trust Bainbridge’s instinct almost as if it were her own. “We’re all guilty of something, Sir Charles. Are you sure that Sykes was guilty of exactly what you’d pinned on him?”

Bainbridge glanced uneasily at Newbury. “I was… I was certain of it. But now… Well, you’ve both seen the body in the morgue. And then this-” He gestured to the door. “-well, it throws everything out of the window. Wait until you see inside.”

Newbury stepped forwards and grabbed the edge of the wooden door, swinging it open towards them and revealing the full extent of the metal grille inside. It was forged from heavy iron bars and filled the doorway completely, and it was also hanging open, the lock picked. “Well,” he said, still clearly riveted by the unfolding mystery, “After you.”

Bainbridge stepped up and pushed the grille aside. “If you’ll forgive me, Miss Hobbes-in this instance, I should rather observe safety than etiquette.”

Veronica strode forwards and bustled past him into the dark interior of the shop. “In that case, Sir Charles, I should absolutely go first.”

Bainbridge raised an eyebrow at Newbury, who patted his friend on the arm as he followed her inside. “No point arguing when she’s made up her mind, old man.”

“Less of the ‘old,’ you darn fool,” he said, with mock offense, but Veronica could hear the relief in his voice. They were working together again, just like old times.

Veronica heard the grille clang shut behind them. Bainbridge’s voice was disembodied in the darkness. “Just a moment… Ah, there!” The dull glow of a lantern filled the room, casting everything in a warm orange glow. It took her eyes a minute to adjust after the harsh sunlight.

“Open those shutters, will you, Charles? It’s awfully dark in here,” said Newbury.

“Sorry, Newbury. We’ll have to make do with lantern light. The shutters are locked and the darn keys are missing,” replied Bainbridge gruffly.

Veronica glanced around. The place seemed to be opulently furnished: polished glass display cases of various shapes and sizes made a maze of the layout, and large gilt-framed mirrors adorned the walls. A fine mahogany counter stood in one corner, out of the way, as if the owner was embarrassed to remind his customers that the establishment was, in fact, a shop, and that the items within were for sale. She wondered where the owner was. Probably down at the station filling out reams of paperwork.

Her first impression was that nothing appeared to be out of order. Unlike many of the other crime scenes she’d attended in her time, the place seemed untouched. None of the glass cases had been shattered for easy access to the jewels, no paperwork was scattered over the floor, no safe hanging open on the far wall.

Newbury had crossed to a low rectangular cabinet and was stooped over it, examining something on its surface. She went over to join him. The cabinet was entirely devoid of jewellery. All the display trays were still in situ, but there was not a precious stone or a gold band to be seen.