George Mann - The Immorality Engine

Bainbridge nodded. “Absolutely right,” he said, glancing at his pocket watch. It was close to seven o’clock. “Good heavens!” he pronounced suddenly, standing up and nearly sending the table flying. “I’m supposed to be in Whitehall.” He bustled around, looking for his cane. “Lost all track of the time,” he muttered under his breath.

Newbury fell back in his chair, laughing.

“Yes, that’s right, you enjoy yourself at my expense, Newbury. You’re not the one who’s keeping the Home Secretary waiting!” He tried to sound scornful, but he couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice. It was good to see Newbury smile.

“Dinner tomorrow at Chelsea? Scarbright’s promised to cook his famous venison again.”

Bainbridge grinned. “How could I resist?” Then he offered Newbury a scornful look. “You’re not keeping him, you know. A temporary arrangement, that was all.”

Newbury laughed. “Whatever you say, Charles. Whatever you say.” He rose and took Bainbridge by the hand. “Now go on, go and find out what the Home Secretary is up to. I’m dying to know.”

Bainbridge gave a heartfelt “Bah!” before dashing for the exit, his coat still flapping over his arm. For the first time in a few months, he had the feeling that Newbury was going to be just fine without him.

The rain was still pelting against the roof of the hansom, a constant, distracting patter that seemed to drown out the sound of Veronica’s thoughts as much as the creaking and groaning of the vehicle. It had been raining for days now, a relentless downpour that caused everything to take on a drab, grey appearance. Or perhaps, she mused, that was more a reflection of her mood than the effects of the weather.

Veronica stared out the window as they trundled down the narrow lane, bouncing and jolting over the uneven road, little more than a dirt track potted and rutted by years of use. The rain was like a veil drawn across the world. Through it she caught only glimpses of the village, as they passed by rows of squat terraced cottages, the central green, the public house. Veronica was now a few miles south of London in a small village called Malbury Cross, which she had first visited three or four months earlier while investigating the affair of a clockwork scarecrow that had taken to hunting the local people through the usually quiet streets.

When the time had come to find a bolt-hole for Amelia, it seemed as good a place as any. It was out of the way, and-clockwork scarecrows aside-seemed quiet and tranquil, just the sort of place for someone to repair to while they convalesced, away from prying eyes.

Veronica heard a bird squawk loudly nearby and looked out the window, but could see nothing beyond the blur of raindrops striking the pane. The hansom ploughed on across the slick, waterlogged ground, and Veronica sighed and rocked back in her seat, feeling drained.

It had been a gruelling week, culminating in Amelia’s counterfeit funeral, and the consequences of all that had happened were only now beginning to dawn on her. Fabian was dead, the Bastion Society was in tatters, and the Queen… Well, she supposed Victoria’s days were coming to an end.

Most important, however, was the fact that she still had Amelia, and the burden of her sister’s care was now Veronica’s to carry alone. Newbury would help-of course he would-but it was unfair of her to expect any more than that of him. He’d already done so much, given up so much of himself to come to her aid. Now, it was down to her.

The hansom drew to an abrupt halt before a small thatched cottage. It was a pretty, picturesque little building, detached and at the far end of the village. It sat squat in the centre of an extensive, mature garden. Rose and holly bushes bordered an uneven flagstone path up to the front door, and smoke curled like grey ghosts from twin chimney pots. It looked inviting, even in the pouring rain.

Veronica grabbed her umbrella from the seat beside her and climbed out of the cab, dipping her head against the pounding rain while she struggled to put her umbrella up. It offered little protection against the onslaught, and within moments her skirt was plastered to her legs, soaked through to the skin. She felt sorry for the driver, who was hunkered down on the dickie box beneath a thick woollen overcoat and a black cap. He looked like a drowned rat. She paid him his fare, plus a few extra coins in an effort to compensate him for the long drive and the inclement weather. He nodded in gratitude, water dripping from his chin, and took the reins, cajoling the horses into action. The beasts’ breath made steaming clouds in the air.

Veronica turned and fumbled with the latch on the front gate, eventually having to balance the umbrella under one arm as she simultaneously opened the latch and hefted the gate itself to force it open. The hinges squealed, and the rain stung her eyes as she ran up the path towards the cottage, leaving the gate hanging open behind her.

Veronica rapped on the door and then tried the handle. It was bolted from the inside. She waited on the step, pressing herself as close to the building as possible in search of any semblance of shelter the overhanging thatch might offer.

A few moments later she heard footsteps and the sound of the bolt scraping in its brackets. She heaved a sigh of relief in anticipation of the coming reprieve from the downpour. Hot tea and a towel were, at that moment, the two things she desired most in the world.

The door cracked open and a suspicious-looking face peered out at her through the gap. When the woman saw it was Veronica, she flung the door wide open and beckoned her quickly inside.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Leeson, was a short, rotund lady in her late forties, with a kindly manner and a prim and proper accent that suggested she had once seen better days. She wore her platinum grey hair scraped back in a bun so severe that the resulting facial expression was one of permanent shock. She had an authoritarian air about her that gave Veronica the impression that she may once have been employed as a governess or schoolmistress.

Today, however, Mrs. Leeson looked heartily relieved to see Veronica at the door. “Oh, do come in, Miss Veronica, out of that rain.” She took Veronica’s umbrella and busied herself shaking it out before helping Veronica off with her coat. Veronica stood in the hall, trying not to drip on the sea green carpet.

“I’ll pop the kettle on, miss, while you make yourself comfortable. Miss Amelia is in the drawing room.” Her face grew momentarily more serious and she leaned in conspiratorially. “I fear the seizures have been growing steadily worse, Miss Veronica. Very frequent and very violent. I know you warned me in advance, Miss Veronica, but I didn’t expect anything like this.”

Veronica smiled. “I understand, Mrs. Leeson. I’m speaking with a doctor tomorrow. Someone who will be able to help. He’ll prescribe some medication and I’m sure that will make all the difference.” She’d made an appointment to see Dr. Mason at the hospital in Wandsworth. She hadn’t yet decided how she was going to broach the subject with him, but she knew he’d find a way to help. She was considering telling him she needed the medicine for herself, that she’d begun to have seizures similar to those suffered by her late sister, but the thought of lying to such a good man tied knots in her stomach.

Either way, her words seemed to appease the housekeeper, who smiled and nodded appreciatively. “Excellent news indeed, Miss Veronica. I knew you’d have the situation in hand.” She clapped her hands together. “Right. I’ll fetch the tea. And a towel, too, I’d imagine, judging by the amount by which you’re dripping on the carpet!”