The Affinity Bridge

CHAPTER Three




The cab clattered noisily over the cobbled street as its pistons churned furiously and the driver swore at the mechanism in a half-hearted attempt to make it run faster. In the back, Newbury and Veronica sat in silence, jolted by the speed at which the vehicle rumbled towards its destination and the unevenness of the road. At the front, the driver sat upon his dickey box, pulling levers to direct the angle of the wheels as the steam-powered pistons fired with noisy abandon and the cab bounced along on steel wheels softened with rims of polished hardwood. Veronica couldn't help thinking that, whilst it might have taken them a few minutes longer, a traditional horse-drawn carriage may have offered them a more comfortable alternative to the loud, dirty transport within which they now sat. Newbury, on the other hand, was a keen supporter of progress, and whilst even the driver seemed to be having difficulty keeping the contraption under control, Newbury appeared to be relishing every moment of their tumultuous journey.

Outside, the fog was still thick and cloying, a yellow, tubercular cloud that sat heavy over the city, a shroud over the populace and a haven for the creeping things of the dark. Veronica watched through the window, seeing only the impression of grandiose buildings looming out of the smog, or the occasional vehicle flitting by on the road, its passengers hidden behind darkened windows or wreaths of smoky fog. Gas lamps flickered in the damp air, a network of disembodied halos that lined the edges of the streets. Underlit carriages rode on a carpet of rolling fog. It was mid-morning, but it seemed to Veronica as if the day had somehow stalled, the sunlight replaced by a remarkable twilight that appeared to have descended all across the city. She looked up, presuming that the regular slew of airships that filled the skies these days had been grounded temporarily by the impenetrable weather, or else they had risen up above the smog to where the skies were clear and free of city air. She glanced at Newbury, but his face seemed suddenly serious. She folded her hands on her lap and waited.

Presently, as they raced towards Whitechapel and the scene of the murder, the fog became gradually less dense and the buildings closed in, the streets becoming narrower, the towering mansions and sweeping terraces of Bloomsbury giving way to less monumental structures and more factories, breaker's yards and public houses. Veronica drew the curtain across the window inside the cab and Newbury raised an eyebrow in her direction, evidently interested to know what had spooked her. She pretended not to notice.

A short while later the cab juddered to a halt and the driver clambered down from his perch and opened the door for the two passengers. The engine was still running, and outside, the noise of it was even more intense. It sounded like some great industrial machine, churning out clouds of steam and soot into the already bleak morning.

Newbury made good on the fare and no sooner had he climbed down from the carriage than Bainbridge was at his side, leaning on his cane, his overcoat pulled tight around his wiry frame. He looked like he'd been here for a while already.

"Ah, good, Newbury. We can press on." He paused for a moment at the sight of Veronica, unsure how to go on. He inclined his head politely. "Good morning, Miss Hobbes."

He turned to Newbury. "Can I have a word?"



Newbury smiled. "Indeed." They moved to one side.



"My dear fellow, do you think it's a good idea to bring a lady to a scene such as this? She could find it terribly alarming."

Newbury chuckled. "Charles, I may only have known the girl for a few weeks myself, but already I know better than to exclude her." He smiled. "Trust me, Veronica can look after herself."

Charles shook his head, as if dismayed at what the modern world was coming to. "So be it." He sighed. "Come on, this way."

He led them on to where the body was laying, sprawled out on the cobbles like a broken doll, its neck contorted into an awkward posture, the face a picture of anguish and pain. Surrounding the scene were three constables, their hands clasped firmly behind their backs, each of them keeping a wary eye on the surrounding fog and what it may or may not be hiding from view.

"Any witnesses?"



"No."



Newbury knelt closer to examine the body. The man was dressed in pauper's clothes, dirty from the workhouse, with black filings underneath the fingernails. He was clean-shaven and appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Newbury turned him over, gently, examining the soft flesh around the throat, probing with his gloved fingers. He looked up at Bainbridge, who was standing over them, watching intently. "The neck's been broken, but the cause of death is definitely strangulation. Look at these marks here, here and here." He indicated with his hand. "This bruising suggests the victim was grabbed forcefully around the throat and struggled somewhat before finally being despatched. There's nothing of the perpetrator left at the scene, but it certainly matches the profile of the other killings."

Veronica cleared her throat. "Has he been robbed?"



Both of the men turned to look at her in surprise. "Good question, Miss Hobbes. Let me check." Newbury fished around in the dead man's pockets for a moment, before withdrawing a small leather wallet from inside the man's waistcoat. He opened it up. Inside was a smattering of low denomination coins.

"He had little enough about him, but whoever—or whatever—killed him clearly wasn't interested in making a profit."

Bainbridge tapped his cane thoughtfully against the cobbles. "So what did they have to gain?" The frustration was clearly evident in his voice. "Are they just killing people for the hell of it?"

Newbury stood, handing the wallet to Bainbridge. "No, I doubt that very much. There has to be a motive here somewhere. We just can't see what it is, as yet."

"Well I hope one of us starts seeing it soon. This is the seventh victim this month. Things are getting out of hand. I'm going before Her Majesty this afternoon and, currently, all I have to tell her is that the body count keeps getting higher!"

Newbury looked pained for his friend. "Look, I'm making some progress with my research that could suggest a couple of avenues for your men to investigate. Why don't you call on me later at the office and I can talk you through it? Right now, I think it best that you get that cadaver moved to the local morgue and have the surgeon begin the post-mortem directly. A body lying around in the fog might be too much of a temptation for these 'revenant' creatures to bear." He glanced around at the nearest constable who was shuffling uncomfortably on the spot.

Bainbridge shrugged. "Yes, yes, you're quite right." He turned to the constable on his right, waving his cane. "You, man. Go and organise some transport to get this body moved." The other man hesitated, as if he were about to protest. Bainbridge was having none of it. "Well, go on then!" The constable scuttled off into the fog. Bainbridge turned back to Newbury and Veronica. "I'd better go with them, make sure the surgeon gets the correct instructions. Can you find your own way back?"

Veronica nodded. "Of course we can, Sir Charles. But first, would you object terribly if I put a few questions to your men?" She moved over to stand beside Newbury.

Bainbridge looked confused, but assented readily. "No, no, my dear. Anything at all if you think it may prove useful in helping to solve the case."

Veronica nodded appreciatively, and then edged her way around the body and approached one of the remaining two constables.

"Good morning, ma'am." He looked vaguely uncomfortable ;it the thought of being questioned by a woman.

"Good morning, Constable...?"

"Pratt, ma'am."

"Good morning, Constable Pratt. I'm in need of some assistance. You see, my colleagues over there are labouring under the impression that I'm fully up-to-date with all the minutiae of this murder inquiry, but, as I'm relatively new to the job, I seem to be missing some of the pertinent facts. I was hoping you could help me out of my predicament?"

"Certainly, ma'am. Where would you like me to begin?"



Veronica feigned ignorance. "Well, we could start with the victims. How many are there now?"

Pratt hesitated before going on. "Well ma'am, there are seven official victims, all of them strangled to death and abandoned in the street, just like this one. All from the same area of the city."

"Official victims?"



"Yes ma'am. Folk around here are saying there's actually around three times that number, if not more. Sometimes the families come and move the bodies before the police happen upon them, other times the corpses are stripped and robbed and end up floating down the river."

"And what of witnesses?"



"People aren't too forthcoming, ma'am. They're attributing these killings to a phantom, the glowing policeman. Talk like that makes them clam up good and proper when a man in uniform comes knocking on their door. Not only that, but people are scared to come out at night. On one hand they're worried about the murderer, on the other about the revenants that are walking the streets at night, hiding in the gutters like animals. Places like this, they ain't safe, ma'am. People keep themselves to themselves."

Veronica smiled. "So do you think this is the work of the glowing policeman, Constable Pratt?"

"I'm not qualified to say, ma'am. But I do know folk who claim they've seen him out here, wandering around in the fog, his face and hands glowing with ghostly blue light whilst he waits for his next victim."

"Thank you, constable. Most useful." She made her way back to where Newbury and Bainbridge were standing, a wry smile on her face. "It sounds as if these bodies may be just the tip of the iceberg."

Bainbridge nodded, obviously impressed. "You continue to confound me, Miss Hobbes."

Veronica smiled. "Let's just hope it proves useful in bringing the killer to justice, Sir Charles."

"Indeed. Indeed."



Newbury docked his hat to his old friend. "Charles, we'll take our leave. Watch your back out here, won't you, and remember to call by the office this afternoon for a talk. I'm sure we can start moving forward in this matter, hopefully before another sorry individual loses his life."

"Thank you, Newbury. Your assistance is most appreciated."

"Say no more." And with that, Newbury and Veronica turned on their heels and disappeared into the fog-laden morning in search of a cab.



"I liked your trick with the constable back there." Newbury was in a much more talkative mood, now that the two of them had managed to hail a hansom cab and were on their way back to the museum. Veronica was relieved that, this time, they'd been able to settle on a more traditional vehicle, pulled by horses instead of the more temperamental steam engine they had suffered before. She regarded Newbury from across the carriage.

"I've always believed that it's worth keeping one's ear to the ground, finding out what people are saying. Invariably, in my experience, that's where one may find the truth, or at least the kernel of the truth that has given rise to the tall tales."

Newbury nodded in agreement. "An admirable tactic, and one that I'm convinced will bear fruit. But consider this..." He paused for dramatic effect, "What if, in this instance, the tall tales were actually based on fact?"

Veronica's eyes betrayed her incredulity. "Come now, sir, you're not suggesting the glowing policeman is the real source of these murders?"

"Indeed not, although at this stage I'm loath to rule anything out. What I'm getting at is the notion that the stories could have been inspired by past events, occurrences from many years ago that have left a residual, latent fear amongst the folk of this particular district."

"You've found something, haven't you, in your studies? Some reference that sheds light on what's going on at the moment?"

"A reference that may shed light on what's going on at the moment. In truth it may also turn out to be entirely unrelated, although I find that difficult to believe, given the nature of the murders and the circumstances surrounding the deaths. I've already mentioned it to Bainbridge, but he puts no stock in the idea."

Veronica leaned forward in the carriage. "Do tell."

Newbury smiled. He was beginning to believe he'd made the right choice in hiring Veronica as his new assistant. "About twelve years ago there was a disturbing case in the Whitechapel area, in which a gang of petty thieves were discovered breaking into a house. Instead of fleeing the scene, they turned on the policeman who had found them, and viciously beat him to death. The thieves were never brought to justice, but for a month after the policeman's body was interred, a 'glowing bobby' was sighted around the streets, walking his beat and searching out his murderers, one after the other."

"What happened?"



"They all turned up dead. Strangled, just like the victims we've seen in the last couple of weeks. Such was his vengeance, it was said, that the murdered policeman had actually risen from the grave to seek revenge on his killers. Once they were all dead, the 'glowing bobby' disappeared, never to be seen again."

A ground train rattled by their cab, startling the horses and causing them to whinny noisily and pull up by the side of the road. The driver shouted down his apologies and waited for the other vehicle to pass before coercing the animals back out into the road.

Veronica sat back in her seat. "The parallels are uncanny."

"Indeed. But there are holes. Why would the spirit return now, after all this time? Did it ever really exist, or was it just a cover used by the dead man's colleagues to track down and dispose of his killers? What, if any, are the connections between the victims? I can't see a good reason for the spirit of the dead policeman to be taking these innocent lives, both men and women. I'm not convinced the profile actually fits."

"But you are convinced that it is possible? Have any other policeman been murdered in the area lately? Could it be the same phenomenon, but a different set of people involved?"

Newbury straightened his back. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "My dear Veronica, what splendid deduction! We'll get Bainbridge looking into it first thing this afternoon. I've been so wrapped up in trying to draw parallels between the two cases that I'd overlooked this most obvious of angles."

By this time their cab was approaching Bloomsbury and the British Museum could be seen, through the window, an epic, monolithic structure rising out of the grey afternoon. Newbury took his watch out of his pocket and examined its face. He glanced at Veronica. "I don't know about you, but I'm feeling rather peckish. Spot of lunch?"

Veronica grinned. "Sir Maurice, I'm famished."





With Miss Coulthard gone for the day, the office was silent when they returned from lunch, with just the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner to break the monotony. The two rooms were connected by an interior door, the main office being a fairly large, open space with Miss Coulthard's desk placed centrally to face the door. The walls were decorated with an array of spectacular artefacts, ranging from mediaeval weaponry to a glass display cabinet filled with smaller antiquities from Egypt, Greece and Rome. A small stove had been fitted in the far corner, and a series of bookcases were overflowing with ageing, dusty tomes.

Newbury had just finished arranging his hat on the hatstand when Veronica, who had already gone through to the side room where their desks were located, reappeared in the doorway brandishing an envelope.

"It's got the Royal seal on it. Someone must have delivered it whilst we were out." She handed it to Newbury. He opened it immediately, dropping the envelope to the floor.

"It's from the Queen." He unfolded the letter and began to read.





To our faithful servant,



It is requested you abandon all current activity and proceed immediately to Finsbury Park. An airship has crashed this morning in suspicious circumstances and one suspects foul play. Early reports suggest no survivors.





Full report expected in due course.





This is a matter of grave importance to the Crown.





Victoria R.





Newbury folded the note in half and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Veronica eyed him quizzically. He reached for his hat.

"We're off the murder investigation. At least temporarily." Veronica looked somewhat disappointed by the news. Newbury continued. "There's been an airship crash in Finsbury Park. I'm afraid we're going out again." He pushed his arm into the sleeve of his long, black overcoat and headed for the door. "Come on, I'll explain on the way."