George Mann: The Immorality Engine

They moved methodically from divan to divan, from chaise longue to chaise longue. The clientele formed a rich mix of cultures and classes. More than once Veronica thought she’d found Newbury, only to realise upon closer inspection that it was just another fallen gentleman, still trussed up in his formal attire, lounging decadently without a care in the world. She hated to think of Newbury in those terms, to identify him with these layabouts. She knew he was different, that he used the drug for other reasons, to open his mind, to allow himself to think. At least, that’s what he insisted, and what she wanted to believe. She knew Bainbridge was far less forgiving of Newbury’s vice, and suspected she was deceiving herself. But it was a little lie, and it enabled her to carry on.

Veronica finally found him stretched out on the floor amongst a heap of cushions, near the back of the large room, apparently unconscious. He was wearing his usual dark suit, but the collar was open, his necktie loose around his throat. A spent pipe was discarded by his left hand, and his flesh had assumed a deathly pallor. He looked thin and uncared for, with pursed lips and bruised eyes. His raven-coloured hair was unkempt and plastered to his forehead with perspiration, and his breathing was short and shallow. His right hand lay limp upon his chest.

Veronica suddenly couldn’t breathe. Her hands felt cold and clammy. She couldn’t bear to see him this way. She wanted to rush to his side, but she knew it would do neither of them any good. He looked ill. He looked… close to death.

Veronica took a moment to gather herself. Just as she was about to say something, Newbury licked his lips and spoke. “Go away, Charles.” He hadn’t opened his eyes, and his voice was a dry, rasping croak.

Bainbridge looked momentarily flustered. “How did you-?”

Newbury slowly peeled open his eyelids. His pupils were pinpricks in the semidarkness. “The cane, Charles. I knew it was you the moment you entered the room.”

Bainbridge glanced down at his cane, perplexed.

Newbury turned his head to regard Veronica. “And Miss Hobbes, too.” He closed his eyes again. “What the devil are you doing bringing a lady to a place like this?”

Bainbridge flushed. “Well, I…” He slammed the end of his cane down hard against the tiled floor. “Get up, you damn wastrel! Do you hear me? Get up! I have no time for your foolish games.”

Newbury grinned. His fingers twitched, but otherwise he didn’t move.

Veronica dropped to one knee beside him. She put her hand to his face. His cheek was damp and unshaven. “Maurice. We need your help.”

Newbury sighed. He turned towards her and opened his eyes. There was a gleam there that had been missing before. “Then, I suppose, Miss Hobbes, that’s a different matter altogether.” He shifted, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He glanced warily at Bainbridge, who was peering down at him with a disdainful expression. “What is it that’s so pressing, you had to come and find me here?”

Bainbridge reached down, cupped Newbury beneath the arm, and helped him to his feet. “If your brain’s not too addled to understand me, Newbury, I’ll tell you on the way.”

Contrary to Bainbridge’s assertion, the journey from Johnny Chang’s passed in awkward, embarrassed silence.

Bainbridge stared out of the carriage window, his face creased in a deep frown, watching the city roll by as the steam-powered hansom clattered noisily over the cobbled roads. He refused to look at Newbury, who was slumped on the opposite seat, his eyes lost in shadow, his chin resting forlornly on his chest. His hair was lank and he looked haggard. He smelled of stale sweat and tobacco smoke.

Veronica tried not to stare, instead shooting furtive glances in his direction. She found herself wishing she could hear his thoughts. It pained her to see him in such a sorry state. She wanted nothing more than to grab him, shake him, and slap him hard across the face, then hold him and tell him that everything was going to be well. But she couldn’t, for a thousand reasons. She could not promise him that. She did not know with any conviction that everything was going to be well.

Newbury’s addiction to the oriental weed had grown steadily more acute over recent months. It had begun with the occasional absence from the office. This in itself was not unusual for Newbury, who was often called away at short notice by the Queen, or found himself tied up in a case with Sir Charles and unable to meet his more prosaic commitments.

But the absences had grown more frequent, more erratic, and more keenly felt by others further abroad than the museum. Veronica had even been hauled before Her Majesty to give account of herself, to explain why Newbury had not attended the Court’s summons and why Veronica was failing in her duty to keep him from straying. The monarch had admonished her gravely and ordered her to bring the errant Newbury to heel.

Sir Charles, too, had called on her on more than one occasion, partly to express his concern for his absent friend and partly to solicit her input on certain cases, which was only too welcome a distraction. Veronica suspected that Sir Charles also felt some measure of responsibility for her in Newbury’s absence, as if she somehow needed protecting and it fell on him to take the place of his friend during this “temporary period of illness,” as he had begun to call it.

She supposed it was a form of illness: a malaise of the spirit, perhaps, and a sickness of the body. Newbury had come to rely on a drug he once told her was a tool, the means by which he achieved the clarity of thought that helped him to solve his cases. But his need had become a physical one, and his body craved the weed. It became so integral to his process-to his daily life-that he now found it impossible to operate without it. And if he knew what a detrimental effect it was having on his health, he refused to acknowledge it.

Sir Charles was wrong: this wasn’t a phase that was going to blow over. And no matter what she told herself, Newbury could not continue in such a fashion. She would have to intervene. But not for the reasons Her Majesty had impressed upon her: for Queen and country and the safety of the realm. She would do it for Newbury, because she loved him, and because she refused to stand by and watch him commit a slow and degrading suicide. He would have to learn to live without the drug. There was no other choice. The only problem, she admitted to herself, was the fact that she hadn’t the slightest idea how to begin.

So instead she joined the two men in their silence, each of them avoiding the only subject that was playing on their minds.

Soon enough, the hansom sputtered to a stop outside the police morgue, and the driver rapped loudly on the roof to inform them that they had reached their destination.

Bainbridge was up and out of the cab before Veronica had even had a chance to gather her thoughts. She heard him barking commands at the driver, which did little to dispel the sense of tension between them. She looked over at Newbury, who was still slouched over in his rumpled suit. “Sir Maurice. We have arrived.”

Slowly, groggily, Newbury raised his head. He glanced out of the window with bleary eyes. “Yes, indeed, Miss Hobbes.” His voice was little more than a dry croak. Veronica was beginning to wonder whether dragging him out of the opium den hadn’t been a huge mistake.

Then, as if digging deep into the reserves of his strength, Newbury pulled himself upright, groaning in protest, before beckoning for Veronica to exit the carriage ahead of him.

Outside, Charles was tapping his cane impatiently on the pavement. Veronica stepped down and took her place beside him, hoping that his simmering temper would soon abate. She didn’t want to find herself in the middle of another row.