The Affinity Bridge

CHAPTER Fifteen





"Good God, Newbury. You look done for!"

Bainbridge had never been a man to keep his thoughts to himself.

"A rough night, Charles, followed by a long day. Think nothing of it." Newbury stood to greet his guest. "How the devil are you?"

"Troubled, if truth be told. Can't seem to shake this damn Whitechapel case. I'm starting to think you may have been on to something, you know, with all that 'glowing policeman' business." He dropped himself into a chair in Newbury's lounge, sighing, and Newbury took a seat opposite him. He knew Mrs. Bradshaw would already be organising drinks. He hadn't been expecting Bainbridge to call, but he wasn't disappointed by the development. His old friend offered good company, and he was in need of a distraction, to prevent him from pondering too long on the other events of the day.

"Well, I have no doubt Mrs. Bradshaw will be preparing a brandy. We can discuss it at our leisure before a warm fire. I only wish I could do more, but I'm up to my neck in this other affair."

"You're a good man, Newbury. But tell me, I've heard nothing further on the airship disaster. What news?"

"Little, I'm afraid to report. Her Majesty is anxious for a quick resolution, but the leads are few and far between. She's adamant there's foul play involved, but I admit I'm still unsure. I take it Foulkes hasn't turned up anything useful?"

Bainbridge shook his head. "Indeed not. He's a good man. Thorough. If there was anything to be found, he'd have turned it out by now. I'm afraid it's in your hands, Newbury. Ah, look..."

They turned to see Mrs. Bradshaw enter the room bearing two large glasses of brandy. Bainbridge took one from her, smiling, his bushy moustache quivering as he did so. "An asset to you, Newbury." He raised the glass to Mrs. Bradshaw. "I'm in dire need of a housekeeper like you, Mrs. Bradshaw. Many thanks." He took a long draw of the brandy, blinking as the alcohol assaulted his palate. Newbury sniffed at his glass and then placed it on the low table between them. He wasn't sure his damaged constitution was ready for it just yet. Mrs. Bradshaw quickly made herself scarce.

Newbury leaned back in his chair, making himself comfortable. The room was small and cosy, with three chairs, a roaring fire, a small bureau and a portrait on the wall showing his grandfather in his military attire. The man had fought in Afghanistan during the expansion of the Empire, and was in many ways responsible, if indirectly, for Newbury's fascination with the occult. John Newbury had died in action, and his small chest of belongings had been returned to the family back in London aboard an old steamer. Still only a boy, Newbury had wondered at the secret contents of the chest, which his father had kept locked and hidden under his bed. One day, when his father was away on business and his mother was receiving visitors in the rooms below, Newbury had taken the key from the drawer in the nightstand and crawled underneath his parent's bed, searching out the chest and unlocking the ornate clasp. The contents were to change his life forever.

Aside from the more typical paraphernalia of war—a pistol, a dagger, a medal—the chest contained three books of a kind young Newbury had never encountered before. The knowledge within them would send him spiralling into a world full of mystery, full of magic and creatures of the night, rituals and charms. They contained a secret history of the world, a catalogue of the occult, and a guide to all the bizarre, esoteric practices that demonstrated the thin line between life and death. For weeks Newbury would return to the chest underneath his parent's bed, digging out his grandfather's books and reading by candlelight, filling his head with wonders. He still had the books, now, safe in his study, reclaimed from his father's belongings after both of his parents had died. The chest had remained in place for another thirty years, undisturbed, and the day he had finally laid his mother to rest he had returned to the family home to collect it. By this time, of course, Newbury had assembled a vast library dedicated to the arcane, but these particular volumes he had never found again, and they now held pride of place in his collection. He wondered if they were the only three copies of the books that still existed, anywhere in the Empire.

Snapping out of his reverie, Newbury glanced at Bainbridge, who had downed the rest of his brandy and was watching him inquisitively. "Lost you for a moment, Newbury. Everything alright?"

"Yes. Yes, indeed. I was lost in thought. Apologies, old man." He clapped his hands together, demonstrating that Bainbridge had his full attention. "So tell me, what's troubling you about the Whitechapel case?"

Bainbridge stared at the empty glass in his fingers, turning it over so that it caught the light. "We're just getting nowhere, Newbury. More and more bodies are turning up, dumped all over the place, and we don't even have a suspect. The witnesses, such as they are, all report seeing a ghostly blue figure emerge from the fog, and then they damn well run for their lives. Who can blame them? Some report hearing the screams of the victims as they run, but that's about all we've got to go on. It's the same every time—the victim is strangled, apparently without motive, and none of their belongings are taken or disturbed. There is never any trace of the killer left on the scene, and we haven't been able to find anything that links the victims to one another either. I admit to being completely confounded by it all." He looked exasperated, and Newbury, taking pity on his old friend, got out of his chair and searched out a bottle of brandy from a small cabinet on the other side of the room. He placed it on the table in front of a thankful Bainbridge before dropping back into his seat.

"Well, I can see why you're grasping at straws." He smiled. "Miss Hobbes had an interesting notion a few days ago that the killer may not be the original 'glowing policeman' at all, but a new one, an example of the same phenomenon at work, involving different people entirely. Have there been any constables killed in recent months?"

Bainbridge looked thoughtful. "Not that I'm aware of. Although it's certainly worth double-checking. I'll have a man look into it tomorrow."

"Excellent. Other than that, have there been any changes at all in the pattern of the murders? Any minor detail that you haven't mentioned to me as yet?"

Bainbridge poured himself another drink. "Not as such, although the most recent body was different from the rest."

Newbury leaned forward, his interest piqued. "How so?"



"It was a gentleman. All of the victims so far have been paupers, down-and-outs. This chap was a member of a private club with connections to a number of well-respected families. He had no real business being in Whitechapel in the early hours of the morning. We're wondering if he was actually killed elsewhere and then moved across town to give the impression that he was just like all the other victims."

"What was his name?"



"Christopher Morgan. Owned an art gallery not far from here, I'm given to understand."

Newbury practically leapt out of his chair. "Charles! Morgan asked me to meet him this very afternoon! Now I know why he didn't keep his appointment. There has to be a connection. Look here..."

He sprang out of his seat and rushed to the pile of papers he'd left on the bureau. He rifled through them, discarding most of them on the floor in his haste. After a moment he put his hand on the envelope he'd received that afternoon, containing the letter from Morgan. He handed it to Bainbridge, who eyed it curiously.

"Go on. Open it, Charles!"



Bainbridge slipped the letter out of the envelope and cast his eye over it warily. He seemed to take a moment to let it sink in, then folded it neatly, put it back inside the envelope and placed it on the table beside his drink. "So Morgan had a secret about the airship disaster, and then he turned up dead at the hands of the glowing policeman on the same day he was supposed to meet with you to reveal it."

"Or at the hands of someone wanting us to believe it's the glowing policeman. He may well have been killed elsewhere and deposited at Whitechapel, just as you suggested."

"It can't be a coincidence."



"Only further investigation can help us to establish that, my dear man." Newbury was animated now, and he reached for his brandy, hoping it would help to steady his jangling nerves. "Charles, I need to see the body."

"Impossible."



"How so?"



"Because it's already been delivered to the morgue for a post-mortem examination. They'll be cutting him open at first light."

Newbury shook his head. "Then we go now. It's imperative that I get to examine the corpse. It could shed light on both of our cases."

Bainbridge nodded, although he was obviously reluctant to venture out again at this hour. He glanced at his fob watch. It was approaching seven o'clock. "What about dinner? Could we stop somewhere on the way?"

"Afterwards, Charles! This could be the breakthrough we've been waiting for. Let's not waste another second!"

Bainbridge downed the last of his brandy and stood to join Newbury at the door. "My private coach is downstairs. We'll take that directly to the morgue. They won't be happy to see us at this hour, but I'm sure we'll be able to talk them around. Shall I send for Miss Hobbes?"

Newbury thought for a moment. "Let's not. We'd only disturb her unduly. I can fill her in when we meet tomorrow morning."

Bainbridge nodded, and together they set out in search of clues.





The morgue was a cold and dreary place, in keeping, Newbury supposed, with its function as a repository of the dead. This was the place where murder victims or other suspicious deaths would be sent by Scotland Yard for closer examination, before the cadavers were forwarded to a funeral parlour and prepared for burial. Paupers, of course, tended to go directly from the table to a wooden box, and then into the ground, without the dignity of an elaborate service. The state did what it could, but as the politicians insisted on reminding everybody, it was not a charity.

Newbury looked the place up and down as Bainbridge spoke with the mortuary attendant, showing his credentials in an effort to solicit the man's help. The room had a clinical feel, with white tiled walls and floor, steel instruments set out carefully on wooden trolleys and a pair of marble slabs, empty and awaiting the freshly dead. Newbury shivered despite himself. The room reminded him of a bizarre underground station, with a curved roof and tiled archways leading to other rooms. The entire building seemed to echo with their footsteps, silent save for the voices of the other two men as they agreed, finally, that Newbury could examine the corpse of Christopher Morgan.

The mortuary attendant—a tall, lean man, freshly shaven, with his blonde hair swept back in a widow's peak and a pale complexion that suggested he spent the majority of his time indoors—led them through one of the open archways and into an adjoining chamber, where one of the slabs was covered by a white sheet. With a serious look in his eye, the attendant drew back the cover and allowed them to gaze upon the cadaver that had once been Christopher Morgan.

"Is this the man you're looking for?" His voice was nasal and thin.

Bainbridge was starting to get impatient with the man. "We'll have to take your word for it. We have no record of his likeness. Neither of us was in attendance at the crime scene."

The attendant nodded. "Then please feel free to inspect the body for as long as you deem necessary. I shall return to my post and await news that you have finished." He stopped, glancing sharply at Newbury. "I hope you find what you are looking for."

Newbury met the man's gaze. "Thank you." He turned to regard the body, waiting for the attendant's footsteps to disappear into the next room before looking up at Bainbridge, who was opening and closing his fist with impatience. He drove his cane down hard on the tiled floor. "Despicable fellow. Even after establishing my position he continued to question me regarding our visit. I have it in mind to speak with his superiors about his conduct."

Newbury put a hand on his friend's arm. "It's late, Charles, and our visit is very irregular. Let us concentrate on the task at hand."

Bainbridge nodded, clearly not placated. "On with it, then. Let's get this done with so we can get to dinner. This place always gives me the chills."

Newbury reached over and rolled the white sheet down to the dead man's knees. It was evident almost immediately that Morgan had been a man of fortune; his black suit was perfectly tailored, probably Saville Row, and his hands were perfectly manicured and impeccably clean. His hair had clearly been worn short in a side parting, but now it had been disturbed, either in the struggle that preceded his death, or during the transportation of the body to the morgue. The man still wore a fine gold ring on his right hand and an expensive chain looped from his fob watch to his waistcoat pocket. Newbury glanced at Bainbridge. "So it wasn't a robbery, then."

"No. Just like the others. The only difference here is that Morgan had more on him worth stealing."

Newbury felt around in the man's pockets. They were practically empty. One held a handful of loose change whilst another held his wallet. To Newbury's dismay there was nothing inside that suggested Morgan's reasons for wanting to speak with him at the Orleans Club earlier that day; just a couple of business cards, some banker's notes and a grainy, sepia photograph of a woman, sitting on a wicker chair, smiling at the camera. He stuffed the wallet back into the pocket where he had found it.

"Well, nothing so far to shed light on the airship disaster. Let's see if the manner of his death brings us any closer to an answer in the other matter, shall we?" Newbury edged around the table, examining the corpse in minute detail as he did so. He stopped beside the head, taking the chin between his thumb and forefinger and moving the head from side to side, as if he were trying to make Morgan shake his head. "The neck's not broken, but there's some pretty serious bruising around the throat. I'd wager it's a crushed windpipe. The assailant appears to have caught him with both hands and throttled the life out of him. Poor chap. It doesn't even look like he got a chance to fight back." He leaned closer, examining the bruised flesh around the throat. The skin was starting to take on a waxy pallor as rigor mortis set in. His brows furrowed in concentration.

"What is it? Have you seen something?"



Newbury stepped back from the mortuary table. He regarded his friend. "Take a look at the bruised areas around the throat."

Bainbridge handed Newbury his cane and leaned heavily on the marble slab, lowering his face to examine the corpse more closely. "What am I looking for, man? I can see plenty of bruises. Looks to me like the chap was strangled, just as you said."

"Indeed, but if you look a little closer you'll see what I'm interested in. There are tiny flecks of blue powder spotted about his throat. It shimmers if you shift slightly in the light."

"My God, Newbury. I think you're on to something."

Newbury smiled. "It's not much, but it certainly suggests our killer may have a more corporeal explanation than we'd previously imagined."

Bainbridge stepped away from the corpse. "So what's to be done?"

Newbury circled the table again, finding the white sheet and folding it neatly back over the corpse. "Miss Hobbes and I will pay a visit to Morgan's gallery tomorrow and interview the staff. I need to establish what it was he was so keen to talk to me about. It may have been what got him killed, and if so, there's a definite link between the glowing policeman and the wreck of The Lady Armitage." Bainbridge nodded, listening intently. "I'd suggest that you have your men test this blue powder at first light. Let's see if they can't establish a manufacturer. That way we can run through their customer records and begin to narrow down the list of potential candidates for our killer."

Bainbridge grinned. "Marvellous. Newbury, I knew you'd be of service to me when I knocked on your door this evening. Now," he took the other man by the shoulders and led him away from the mortuary slab, his cane clicking on the tiled floor as they walked, "what about that dinner you promised me? How about that little place you like by Kingsway?"