The Affinity Bridge

CHAPTER Eighteen





Newbury woke with a thick head and a dry mouth. He rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. Then, as if surfacing from a glassy pool of water, he suddenly became aware of the world outside of his own head. Someone was rapping insistently on the door to his bedchamber. He rolled onto his back, peeling back his eyelids. It was still dark; there was no light streaming in through the window, and he hadn't yet had sleep enough to banish the residue of the alcohol he had consumed the night before. Early morning, then. He sat up, running a hand through his hair.

"Sir Maurice? Are you there?" The rapping continued.



Newbury frowned. "Yes, Mrs. Bradshaw. I'm awake."



There was an audible sigh of relief from the other side of the door. "Very well, sir. Sir Charles is here to see you. I've asked him to wait in the living room. Shall I assure him that you will attend to him shortly? I understand that it is a matter of some importance."

Newbury pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He groped around in the semi-darkness for his pocket watch, finding it on the bedside table. He peered at it intently, trying to see the hands. It was just after five. It must be important, for Charles to be calling at this hour. "Please do, Mrs. Bradshaw. I'll be with him momentarily."

Mrs. Bradshaw's footsteps fell away from the door and Newbury slumped back into his pillows, rubbing his eyes. Then, sighing, he slipped from underneath the warm, woollen blankets of his bed and stood beside his dresser, shivering in the chill. He blinked a few times until his eyes had adjusted properly to the dim light, and then searched out his dressing gown, flung it around his shoulders, and shoved his feet into the slippers he kept underneath his bed. A moment later he was following behind Mrs. Bradshaw, squinting in the bright light of the gas lamps, as he made his way downstairs to meet his friend.

Bainbridge was pacing anxiously before the fireplace, which was dull and cold and full of nothing but ash at this early hour in the morning. He held a brandy in his hand, but appeared not to have taken a swig of it, as yet. He looked up when Newbury came into the room, his moustache bristling at the sight of his old friend, still dressed in his bedclothes and suffering from a mild hangover.

Newbury looked the other man up and down. "There's been another murder in Whitechapel."

Bainbridge looked astounded by this rather minor piece of deduction. "How did you...?"

Newbury smiled. "Why else would you be here at this hour, Charles?" He shrugged. "Your boots are still clean and you look like you've dressed hastily; your tie is askew and you've notched your belt on the wrong hole." Bainbridge looked down at his belt, and then shook his head in exasperation. "I take it you've only recently been made aware of the situation and have come to pick me up on your way over to the scene?"

Bainbridge nodded. "Indeed. As you say. So jolly well go and fetch up some clothes and make yourself presentable, man. I've already sent a cab for Miss Hobbes." He took a swig of his brandy and leaned heavily on the mantelpiece.

Newbury nodded, smiling, and then disappeared once again from the room.





A few minutes later the two men took their leave of Newbury's Chelsea home and mounted the cab that Bainbridge had left waiting for them on the road outside. Its steam engine spluttered noisily as the driver gunned the controls and sent the vehicle careening into the cold, dark morning. Newbury, his head still groggy from the alcohol and lack of sleep, fell back into the seat inside. He had dressed hastily and still wore the shadow of a beard around his face and throat, but had more-or-less managed to make himself presentable. He looked up when Bainbridge tapped on the window with the end of his cane. "Not sure how much longer I can put up with this abominable weather, Newbury." He glanced out at the smoky, fog-filled streets as they rushed by. "This damnable fog makes our police work doubly hard. Gives these criminal types all the cover they need for sneaking around the city at all hours." He sounded weary.

Newbury nodded, but didn't speak. He watched the shapes of building flit past, hidden by the gossamer mist that seemed to soften the edges of everything, making the real world outside the cab seem insubstantial, otherworldly.

"Are you well, Maurice? You seem unusually quiet."



Newbury smiled. "Quite well, Charles. I attended the soiree at the Hanbury-White's last night. I fear I may have led Miss Hobbes rather astray; we indulged in one too many glasses of champagne amidst the merriment."

Bainbridge laughed heartily. "Then I shall conserve my sympathy for more worthy subjects! I take it there was much merriment to be had, in that case?"

Newbury grimaced. "A little. Most interesting, however, was the scene between a certain Mr. Musgrave of Islington and Joseph Chapman, of Chapman and Villiers Air Transportation Services."

"How so?"



"It appears Chapman sold Musgrave one of those automaton devices. It later malfunctioned and killed his best hound. The word from the society gossips is that Musgrave had been trying to claim compensation from the company and, having received no satisfactory response, took the opportunity to set upon Chapman in front of everyone at the party."

Bainbridge sat forward, resting on his cane. "So what happened?"

"Not a great deal, if truth be told. Chapman had Musgrave escorted from the party by two of his automatons and then made his own exit from the proceedings. We didn't see him again all night."

"How peculiar. Do you think it's relevant to your case?"



Newbury nodded. "Our case, Charles. You're forgetting Christopher Morgan. It transpires that the same situation is true of Morgan, although in his case it ended in a rather more grisly fashion. He'd also had an automaton malfunction at his gallery and had successfully negotiated a refund from Chapman. However, when he heard about The Lady Armitage he wrote to me asking to meet, intending to divulge his miserable experience with the device, and the rest you are already aware of. He ended up dead and dumped in Whitechapel."

Bainbridge clenched and unclenched his fist. "So it seems like Chapman is involved in Morgan's death, and that he may be behind the airship disaster too. What of Musgrove? Do you think he's in danger?"

"That's just it. I can't see how he could be, not after the performance made by Chapman at the party last night. If he turned up dead now it would give us cause to pull Chapman in immediately. If he is guilty of Morgan's murder, I can't believe he'd be so insouciant about it."

Bainbridge took a moment to let that sink in. "But what about the other murders? They don't follow the same pattern as Morgan's. Do you still think Morgan's killer tried to use the existing spate of murders as a cover for his own crime?"

"That's what I'm trying to work out. We've got very little we can actually pin on Chapman yet, and if we move too soon we'll simply cause him to clam up. We need to build a solid case against him, if indeed he is responsible for Morgan's death. Whilst we've certainly established that the automaton device that was piloting The Lady Armitage could have caused the crash through malfunction, in truth we've got no real way of linking Chapman to Morgan's murder, as yet. It's a matter of time and patience." He shuffled in his seat, adjusting his collar.

"As to whether the other murders are connected, too, I still have my doubts. Perhaps we'll find out more at the scene we're about to attend. Did your men find out anything useful about the blue powder we found on Morgan's corpse, by the way?"

Bainbridge shook his head. "Not as yet. So far they haven't even been able to identify the powder itself, let alone the manufacturer, but they're aware of the importance of the matter. Some of them think it may have come over from China."

"Good. Make sure you tell me the minute you hear anything."

The men fell silent, both gazing out of the window at the sleepy city, both wishing they were still at home in their beds instead of rushing through the morning fog towards Whitechapel and another unhappy death.

After a few moments, Bainbridge looked up, catching Newbury's eye. "Oh, I received another invitation from Miss Felicity Johnson in yesterday's post, for a small gathering she's having on Tuesday evening. Did you find yourself invited to the same?"

Newbury tried to keep a serious face as he met the other man's eye. "I did not."

The two men faced each other across the cab. Bainbridge was first to give in, looking away in an attempt to stop himself from sniggering. By the time they reached the outskirts of Whitechapel the two men were roaring with laughter in the back of the cab, both of them finding the hilarity a welcome distraction from the more serious elements of their lives, and the knowledge that they were once again headed towards a scene of terror and death in one of the poorer parts of the city.





With a grinding of gears and a spluttering of the engine the cab rocked to a halt on the cobbled road alongside another, waiting vehicle. Bainbridge was first to jump out into the foggy morning, crossing the cobbles to the door of the other carriage. He rapped loudly before swinging the door open and stepping up into the cab. A moment later, as Newbury was arranging his hat by the curb side, he watched as Veronica emerged from the other vehicle, closely followed by the Chief Inspector.

Veronica crossed the street to stand beside him. "Good morning, sir. How are you?"

Newbury arched one eyebrow. "Capital. And you, my dear Miss Hobbes?"

"Perfectly well, thank you, Sir Maurice." Veronica smiled brightly. Newbury grinned. She gave no impression that her alcohol consumption the previous evening had affected her in any way.

Bainbridge approached them bearing three small oil lanterns, his cane tucked neatly underneath his left arm. He handed one of the lanterns to each of them, and then fiddled with the shutters on his own until the light was emanating in a warm halo all around it. It reflected back in the fog, giving it a strange, fuzzy glow, as if he were clutching a ball of light itself and not a lantern at all. He turned to the others. "Right. Turn these up like mine so we can keep an eye on each other as we walk. This blasted fog is so thick this morning that we run the risk of losing each other if we don't stick together." He looked from Veronica to Newbury and back again. "It wouldn't do to be losing either of you in the fog out here. We don't know what else might be lurking around the corner." His face was steely, determined. "I've told one of the cabs to get on its way, whilst the other waits for us here. We'll make our way to the scene of the murder, take a look to see if there's anything new to be deduced, and then be on our way, as quickly as we can. No use hanging around out here when there's a couple of men already in attendance by the body." He took his cane from under his arm. "Come on. One of them is waiting to show us the way." He set off, hugging the edge of the curb as he walked, in an effort to stay on track in the blinding fog. He was joined a moment later by a uniformed bobby who had been waiting around the other side of the cab. Newbury and Veronica followed behind them, their lanterns held up in the gloaming.

It was only a matter of minutes before Bainbridge's lantern came to a halt and Newbury and Veronica sidled up beside him. A scene resolved out of the fog. The confluence of three buildings and the cover of an arched alleyway had created a barrier of sorts against the thick smog. It still lay heavy in yellow, wispy strands, but with the light of the three lanterns, plus the one held by the other uniformed constable already in attendance, Newbury was able to ascertain the key elements of the scene.

A body lay on the cobbles a few feet away from where he was standing. Moisture from the fog had caused the skin to take on a damp sheen, and the waxy complexion suggested that the corpse had been in situ for some time before being discovered. That was only to be expected, Newbury supposed, given the visibility out there that morning. The neck of the corpse had been violently twisted and was laying at odds to the rest of the body. Clearly the neck had been snapped before the body was dropped to the floor. The man himself was undeniably a pauper, aged around thirty years old and wearing a scruffy beard and long, straggly hair.

Bainbridge moved off to talk with the other policeman, who was standing with his back to the wall a few feet away from the corpse, looking nervous and cold. Newbury caught snippets of the conversation as they talked: Bainbridge questioned him in detail about the circumstances of the death, how the alarm was raised, who found the body, which of the men was first on the scene. It was a thorough interview and, whilst it didn't appear to yield any further clues, it ensured they weren't making any assumptions before examining the corpse. The two constables did not mention the glowing policeman to Bainbridge, and it seemed as if there were no reliable witnesses to call on. Newbury waited for Bainbridge to return, his cane clicking on the cobbles.

"I'll take a look at the corpse, if you've no objection, Charles?"

"Of course not. That's why you're here, isn't it?" Newbury could tell that the other man was feeling the pressure.

Veronica stepped forward. "What can I do to help, Sir Maurice?"

"If you can stomach it, can you go through his pockets whilst I examine the wounds?"

"Of course." She circled around the body and dropped to one knee, setting about the task of emptying the dead man's pockets and searching out his wallet beneath the layers of dirty wool.

Newbury leaned in towards the body. He loosened the man's collar and examined the soft flesh around the throat. It was badly bruised and broken. He took the man's head by the chin and moved it from side to side. Then, mumbling something to himself, he took up the man's left hand an examined the fingernails. The hands were filthy, but it was clear he'd been in a fight. The knuckles were bloodied and there was some sort of residue under the fingernails where he had scratched his attacker during the fight.

By this time Veronica had located the man's wallet and had moved to one side to examine the contents. Newbury looked up at Bainbridge, who was leaning over him impatiently, his lantern dangling over Newbury's head. "Found anything?"

"Indeed. Just give me a moment to confirm my suspicions." Newbury rested the man's lifeless hand upon his chest, and searched around in his own pockets for his penknife. "Here, hold that light steady for me, Charles." He beckoned the other man closer. Taking up the dead man's hand again, Newbury unclipped the blade of his penknife and ran the point of it underneath the fingernail. He then returned the hand to its place beside the victim and lifted the blade to the light, examining the residue he had scraped free. "Ah. Just as I thought."

"What is it, man?" Bainbridge was frowning, unclear as to what it was exactly that Newbury had found.

Newbury rose to his feet. "Here, give me the light and take a look at the man's throat. I think you'll see something of great interest around the larynx."

Bainbridge placed his cane on the ground beside the corpse and leaned in. "The what?"

"The Adam's apple."



Bainbridge took a moment to look over the body. Then, without saying another word, he pushed himself up to stand beside Newbury. "Blue powder."

"Precisely. Dusted around the collar and worked into the broken skin, where the assailant's hands had clutched him around the throat." He held out his penknife, handing Bainbridge his lantern back. "And here, too, under the fingernails. He scratched at the killer's hands as he struggled to get free. That's probably why the killer had to break his neck in the end, because he was fighting back too hard."

"Well I suppose it means our 'incorporeal' killer has struck again."

Newbury nodded. "Indeed. But this time the profile is exactly the same. This man was clearly a pauper, judging by his clothes and the state of his hands. Veronica, did you find anything?"

Veronica came to join them, clutching the dead man's wallet. "Only a few coins. Nothing of note. He certainly wasn't robbed, though."

Bainbridge shook his head. "So here's the link to Morgan, then, and Chapman through that. The blue powder is a dead giveaway, regardless of what it actually is."

Newbury looked thoughtful. He turned back to look at the corpse. "Perhaps. We certainly may have missed the blue powder on the earlier victims. But there is a distinct problem with your theory about Chapman, I'm afraid. This man has been dead for at least eight hours, judging by the rigor mortis and the pallor of his skin. Chapman couldn't possibly have done it."

"Why not?"



Veronica put her hands on her hips. "Because he was with us at the party." She paused for a moment, shaking her head. "Very clever."

Newbury gave an impressed sigh. "Indeed. Very clever. We wondered why Chapman was making a point of being seen. Now, I think, we have our answer. He's toying with us, inviting us to call him out. He knows he has a watertight alibi, for this and, no doubt, for Morgan's death too. And whilst we have good reason to believe the airship crash could be the result of an automaton malfunction, all we have is reasonable doubt. Without the evidence from the wreckage we have no way or proving our argument." He ran a hand over his stubble, adjusting his collar. Veronica shivered in the cold.

"So, what, we lay a trap?" Bainbridge said, frowning and frustrated.

"I'm not sure it's that easy." Newbury blinked, and noticed that Veronica's lantern was beginning to gutter in the damp. "Come on, we can talk further on the way back. Let's get out of this damp fog and somewhere warm for breakfast."

Bainbridge concurred, and went to have a brief word with the two constables before rejoining Newbury and Veronica and starting out for the cab once again. The fog was still thick and cloying and, away from the shelter of the mouth of the alleyway, they were soon smothered by it once again. Nevertheless, following the line of the curb led them easily back to the waiting cab, their lanterns bobbing in the quiet darkness. The cab driver was huddled on his dickey box against the cold, the engine running noisily, steam spouting into the cold air through tin funnels on the top of the contraption. He looked up when he heard them coming, grateful for the opportunity, no doubt, to be on his way.

Newbury was first to the coach door, and held it open for Bainbridge and Veronica to clamber inside. They both extinguished their lanterns before mounting the step, and Newbury held his aloft to ensure they could see. Then, just as he was about to follow suit, Bainbridge slapped his knee in frustration. "Damn it! I must have left my cane beside the body back there. Watch out, Newbury, I'll just run back and fetch it."

Newbury held his hand up to steady the older man. "No fear, Charles. You stay where you are and I'll dash back and collect it for you. It'll only take me a moment." He turned and held the lantern aloft before moving to retrace their steps along the curb. He heard the coach door click shut behind him.

After a moment Newbury had been almost completely swallowed by the dank fog. The sounds of the steam engine had had faded to a dull thudding as the pistons fired relentlessly, turning over the large, mechanical machine. He crept along, hoping to avoid surprising the two uniformed constables at the scene. A moment later he emerged from the fog into the mouth of the alleyway. What he saw was one of the most horrifying scenes he had ever witnessed in his life.

Three monsters—it was the only way he could think to describe them—were in the process of gutting the two constables, whose corpses had been dashed to the floor, blood spattered across their torn faces, spilled out over the cobbles all around them. Steam rose from the warm innards as the revenants pulled loops of intestine free from large rents in their bellies, feasting on it all indiscriminately, stuffing it into their mouths with abandon. The creatures looked as if they may have once been human, but all sense of their humanity had now been lost. Their flesh was peeling in long ribbons, their hair falling out around their shoulders, their clothes hanging filthy and torn from their abused bodies. The virus had done its work well, and these monsters were now no more than dead carriers of the plague, capable of nothing but killing and feeding on their Victims. They had the stink about them of half-rotted corpses, and this foul smell, mingled with the stench of blood and feces, caused Newbury to gag violently. He fought back the urge to vomit, not wanting to draw attention to himself. The three creatures were intent on their feeding frenzy and he didn't want to give them cause to make him their third victim of the day. Tentatively, he glanced from side to side. The area was entirely surrounded by the thick fog, and he had no sense of whether there were more of the creatures lurking in it. He was only a few feet away from the corpse of the murder victim, and he could see Bainbridge's cane on the cobbles beside it. He assumed the revenants were ignoring the body because it was hours old, and with two fresh victims pinned up against the wall, there was no need for them to feed on the bloated flesh of the dead.

Gingerly, Newbury edged forward, trying not to make a sound. He was intent on getting out of there as quickly as possible, and whilst he wasn't really concerned with retrieving Bain bridge's cane, he knew it would make a handy bludgeoning weapon if he found himself cornered with nowhere to run. The sound of the creatures feeding on the ruined corpses of the two policemen filled his ears. He repressed the fear that was creeping up his spine. He needed to keep a clear head. He reached out slowly and, keeping his eyes on the backs of the three revenants, felt for the cane with his fingertips. At first he found nothing but cold, slick cobbles, but he patted the ground for a moment longer and eventually his fingers closed on the hard wood of the cane. He rose slowly to his feet, bringing the cane along with him. Trying not to let the adrenaline make him run, he tightened his grip on the lantern and turned slowly away from the nightmare scene, directly into the path of another revenant.

Newbury stumbled backwards but it was too late, and the creature, its foul breath sour in his face, leapt forward and clamped its jaws onto his left shoulder. He cried out in agony as the monster's teeth bit down through his clothes and into his flesh, drawing blood. Its hands quested for a grip on his torso, its talons raking into his flesh, tearing his overcoat as if it were paper. Newbury kicked out with all his might, getting a measure of leverage on the creature and forcing it back with his booted foot. The monster allowed itself to be pushed back momentarily, releasing Newbury's shoulder from its vice-like jaws, before coming at him again, its teeth bared in an ominous black snarl. His shoulder aching with the vicious bite wound, Newbury reacted as quickly as he could, swinging the cane down across the creature's temple, striking it hard with the round brass handle. It staggered to one side with the force of the blow, the bones around the eye socket shattering where the brass knob had impacted. Newbury tried to glance over his shoulder to make sure the other three creatures were still busy with their existing meal and were not closing in on him from behind. They were not, but the one in front of him ranged up again in no time at all, and he found himself dodging out of the way of its flailing talons. His shoulder throbbed and he could feel the warmth of his blood seeping down the inside of his shirtsleeve. He struck the revenant again with the cane, this time breaking loose a few teeth which rattled to the stones below, but it seemed to have no real effect on the creature. Its bloodshot eyes glared at him as they circled each other, Newbury trying hard not to stumble over the corpse that lay behind him on the ground. The creature lunged once again, aiming its jaws towards his throat, hoping to incapacitate him by tearing his windpipe and jugular out With its teeth. Not knowing what else to do, Newbury dropped the lantern and threw himself backwards, using the corpse of the dead pauper to cushion his fall. He then rolled quickly to one side, scrabbling back up to his feet as quickly as possible, blandishing Bainbridge's cane before him. He could see out of the corner of his eye that the other three creatures were still busy with the remnants of the policemen. He knew it wouldn't be long before they turned their attention to this new quarry, however. He had to despatch the one in front of him soon, or he linked ending up like the Bobbies.

He circled, fixing his attention on the revenant before him. It was waiting, hulking over the body of the dead man, looking

for another opportunity to pounce. Blood was running down

the side of its face where he'd caved in the orbit of its eye, and he

noticed for the first time that it had a letter opener half buried

in its neck. Clearly this was not the first time it had cornered

someone unexpectedly.

Newbury readied himself, planting his feet firmly on the cobbles. He'd managed to snatch up the oil lantern again after his brief tumble and, realising that he was no match in strength or endurance with the creature, he'd decided to try something else.

The revenant pounced, uncoiling in midair like a half-human panther, baring its teeth and flexing its claws. Newbury swung wildly with the lamp, connecting with the monster's shoulder and spattering its hair and face with hot oil. There was a sudden whooshing sound, and all at once the creature was on fire, its rotten skin and lank hair spreading the angry flames that seemed to spill out from the lamp like a wave of liquid light. Within seconds the creature's entire head and shoulders were in flames, and it staggered about, unable to see as its eyes boiled away in the heat. Newbury took the opportunity to run, darting past the burning monster and staggering away into the fog. His shoulder burned where the creature had bitten him and his right side was agony where its talons had gouged a tear in his flesh. Drawing a huge breath and fighting against the spinning darkness that threatened to drag him into unconsciousness, Newbury started back in the direction of the cab.