The Affinity Bridge

CHAPTER Five




The wreck of The Lady Armitage was like the carcass of some ancient, primordial beast; the skein of rubber-coated fabric that served as the outer skin of the vessel now burnt and torn like peeling flesh. The sub-structure of iron girders jutted into the sky like broken ribs, blackened by the soot and heat and buckled from the impact. The engine housing, at the rear of the wreckage, looked relatively intact, although in truth it was hard to tell, as much of it was buried in the earth where the impact had driven it into the ground. The passenger gondola, usually situated underneath the belly of the ship, had been forced upwards and backwards, puncturing the underside of the vessel and contorting awkwardly where it came into contact with the iron struts of the interior frame. The whole thing was a terrible mess, and Newbury had to use every ounce of his experience to maintain a level head as he walked towards it.

Steam and smoke still rose from deep inside the wreckage. As Newbury and Veronica approached the misshapen outer door of the gondola, Newbury felt the need to warn his assistant once again of the dangers they may face inside. "Make sure you don't touch anything. It may still be hot from the fires. And watch out overhead, too; the wreck hasn't settled yet, and as the metal cools, fragments of the vessel may still collapse inwards, trapping us inside, or worse."

He covered his nose and mouth with the crook of his arm to stave off the terrible smell of death and burnt rubber. Veronica followed suit, once again holding Newbury's borrowed handkerchief to her face. The hem of her skirt was already thick with mud and soot where it trailed on the ground, her boots filthy with grime. She tried not to notice.

The door into the gondola had buckled badly. There was nothing but a blackened frame there now, where once there had obviously been an elaborate door and mechanism. Veronica peered inside, seeing nothing but darkness and iron girders. "Are you sure this is the best way in?"

"It looks like the only way in, as far as I can tell." He looked around, confirming his suspicions. "I wouldn't trust that man Stokes for a minute, but I can't fault his directions in this instance. Here, let me go first." Newbury tentatively put a hand on the outer rim of the door. "Still warm." He gripped it more firmly with both hands and swung himself through the twisted metal opening. Veronica watched him disappear inside.

"Oh well. For Queen and Country, I suppose." She grabbed the door frame and swung herself in behind him.

Inside, Veronica found it difficult to get a sense of the scale of the ship. She was standing in what she assumed had been the lobby, although now, with fire and structural damage, it was difficult to tell. The Lady Armitage may have been small by airship standards, but on the ground it was still an immense vessel, and the passenger gondola was equally well-proportioned. Newbury was making his way towards the compartments at the front of the gondola, if she had her bearings right. She watched him climbing over blackened furniture and the still-warm cinders of other unidentifiable objects. He turned back. "I'm off to try to find the pilot's control room. You take a look around. We'll meet up again shortly." She looked the other way, trying to see a path through the scene of destruction. "Oh, and Miss Hobbes?"

"Yes?"



"Be careful."



She smiled to herself, pleased with his evident concern.



The lobby—or what remained of it—was a long rectangular room with doors in each of the far walls. Since Newbury was heading fore she decided to take the other option and see what she could find towards the rear of the vessel. She supposed, as she trod carefully over the ash-covered floor, that she was heading towards the part of the ship reserved for passengers, since the bulk of the gondola's interior space seemed to lay in this direction. Fighting her way past the crisp shell of a wooden sideboard, and ducking under a nest of trailing metal cables, she came to a stop in front of the door. It was still relatively intact, although flames had obviously licked black soot up and down its fascia. She hesitated. She knew she was likely to happen across a body or two on the other side. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself. Her palate was growing used to the stench, now, and her clothes were so thick with grime, dust and soot that she'd given up paying attention. She reached out and tried the handle, then immediately withdrew her hand. It was still hot from the fire, and even through her red-leather gloves she knew it would scald her hand. Not only that, but the door appeared to have sealed shut with the heat. Stepping back, and looking around her to ensure no one was watching, she hitched her skirt up above her knees and sent her booted foot flying into the centre of the door. It gave a little in the frame, splintering where the wood had been stressed by the heat. She tried again, this time putting her full weight behind her as she drove herself forward into the door.

It gave, bursting open and slamming back against an iron girder that blocked the way on the other side. She wondered, for a moment, if Newbury would come running at the noise, but after a short while had passed and she could hear no sound of him, she decided to press on. Pushing back against the door, she decided she'd try to squeeze her way through the gap she had created between the doorway and the girder. She tucked her hat underneath her arm, her dark hair spilling out of its carefully prepared coiffure.

She manoeuvred her way into the opening. Inside, she could still feel the residual warmth from the burnt-out interior. The floor was covered in a sticky, mud-like residue, which she supposed had been created when the water from the hose carts had mixed with the soot and ash, forming a film of black grime upon the ground.

She looked around, and then dropped the handkerchief to the floor with a gasp. She stared in horror at the sight before her. Row-upon-row of passenger seats were filled with the remains of the dead. Horrific, skeletal cadavers sat fixed in their final death throes, gripping the seats in front of them, screaming at their neighbours, or else spilled out on to the floor where they had tried to find somewhere to run. It was as if someone had set out a grisly diorama, a charnel house audience locked away in this horrible room, awaiting an appointment with God. She approached, slowly, forcing back the rising bile in her throat. Her eyes filled with tears. It was the most appalling sight she had ever seen. She wondered why the people were nearly all still seated, why they hadn't tried to bail out of the ship as it crashed, or at least taken cover in the hope that they may survive the impending impact. The corpses were all blackened and burnt, cooked flesh still clinging to the bones, terrified screams still fixed on their faces. She had no way of telling which of them had even been male or female, save for the occasional piece of jewellery still hanging around a woman's throat.

Leaning close to one of the bodies, she noted the answer to her earlier question: the person had been tied into their seat, fixed by a hoop around their left foot to the base of the seat in front. She checked another, and another, and found that they were all the same. No wonder the people hadn't tried to run. They couldn't.

Veronica noticed a gentle patter of raindrops on her face. She looked up. High above, she could see the sky through the torn belly of the airship, the broken spokes of its internal structure poking up into the waning afternoon light. She realised almost immediately that the water droplets she had felt were not rain, but water from the hose carts, sprayed into the blazing inferno earlier that day and still dripping from the girders up above. She glanced around, looking for anything else that may be of use. She could see a hole in the left side of the room where the firemen had obviously dug their way through from the outside in an attempt to find survivors. She wondered how those men had reacted to the scene that had faced them. Had they too been as appalled as she was? She finally gave in to her horror and vomited on the ground, her eyes stinging as she retched, violently, over and over again, until there was nothing left for her body to expel. She stood, gasping, wondering if she'd ever be able to cleanse the smell of the burnt flesh from her hair and skin, or worse, from her nightmares. Perhaps she should have stayed outside after all.

She turned at the sound of the door banging against the girder. Newbury stepped into the room. He coughed, hacking on the smell of the still-warm bodies.

"My God." He rushed to Veronica's side. "Are you alright?"

Veronica coughed. "I'm not sure I shall ever be alright again. I just can't believe the devastation. So many people dead, burned alive in the fires. What a horrible way to die."

Newbury looked saddened. "It won't have been a lingering death. The collapse of the gasbags will have caused a series of massive fireballs to blow through the ship. That probably explains why they're all still in their seats."

Veronica crouched down beside a row of seats. "That, and the fact that they were all tied into position like common criminals." She showed him the loop of charred rope around the ankle of the nearest passenger.

"Stokes made no mention of the vessel being chartered as penal transport. Do you suspect he was trying to hide something?"

"I believe he was trying to cover his own back." She stood again, blinking. "What did you find in the control room?"

"Nothing."



"Oh." She moved to turn away, anxious to put space between herself and the grisly scene, and then paused when he continued talking.

"That's just it. Nothing. No pilot or co-pilot to be found. No bodies, no evidence to suggest they were ever there at all. It's as if the pilot simply abandoned the controls."

Veronica frowned. "Do you think that's why the ship went down? Because the pilot wasn't at the controls? Could he have bailed out before impact? Or could he be back here, unidentifiable now from the other passengers?"

"I suppose anything is possible." Newbury looked up, noticing that the light was starting to go. "Come on. I think we've seen enough, and this is far from my ideal of one's first time aboard an airship." He looked circumspect. "Besides, I do believe we have some more questions for Mr. Stokes."





Mr. Stokes was still standing around the police cordon when Newbury and Veronica edged up beside him. They were both filthy from clambering around in the wreckage, and Newbury was looking forward to retiring for the day, intent on a long soak in a hot bath. Stokes turned to regard them as they approached.

"Well, I do believe it's true what they've been saying. The Crown is prepared to get its hands dirty from time to time." He guffawed at his own joke.

Newbury was unmoved. "Foulkes?"



Stokes was obviously taken aback by Newbury's directness. "Urn, no. He's had to go off somewhere. Something about a fireman getting injured in the wreckage."

"Well, Mr. Stokes, perhaps you could make yourself useful for a moment? I have another question and it's very much in need of an answer."

The other man nodded, apprehensive now.



"What became of the ship's pilot? I've been down to the control room and there's no evidence of a body. Indeed, there's precious little evidence that a pilot was even onboard."

Stokes's complexion turned a ghostly shade of white. "The, um, the pilot is missing."

"Missing? How does a pilot go missing} Did he bail out before the crash?"

"Not exactly, Sir Maurice... If I can just..."



"Look, man, I'm in no mood for your ridiculous evasions now! Can you answer the question or not?"

Veronica put a hand on Newbury's arm in an effort to quell his rising temper. Stokes gave an audible sigh. "There is no way the pilot of that vessel could have bailed out before the crash."

"And why is that, Mr. Stokes?" This from Veronica, who had evidently decided to step in and calm the situation before things got out of hand.

"Because it wasn't a 'he'. It was an 'it.'" He rubbed his hands over his face in exasperation. "The pilot of The Lady Armitage was a clockwork automaton, designed by Mr. Villiers himself. They're remarkable units, capable of many basic and, indeed, higher functions. But they are not programmed to abandon their stations in an emergency. They're simply not capable of it."

Newbury looked incredulous. "An automaton piloting an airship! Why didn't you think to disclose this information before now? There's the probable cause for your disaster, Mr. Stokes! The unit clearly malfunctioned."

Stokes shook his head defensively. "Oh no, Sir Maurice. That's simply not possible. The automatons have been piloting airships for nearly six months now, and safety records have improved dramatically during that period. Up to eighty percent! The programme is fully approved. We have all the necessary paperwork back at the office. I assure you, sir, that it's a simple impossibility that the unit malfunctioned. It's physically not possible."

"So where is the unit now, Mr. Stokes?" Veronica smiled in a placatory fashion.

Stokes cleared his throat. He was clearly uncomfortable with the course of the entire conversation. "I'm afraid I have no idea. My report will state that the device was destroyed in the explosion. Now look," He waved a manifest in front of them. "I really have to be getting on. I'm expected to provide a full passenger register for the police before the day is out."

"Of course. We're sorry to have kept you." Veronica took Newbury's proffered arm and began to edge away. Then, as if just remembering something, she stopped and looked back. "Oh, and Mr. Stokes? Just one more thing before you go?"

"Yes?"



"Could you tell me why all of the passengers were confined to their seats, with loops of rope around their ankles?"

Stokes looked as if he were about to choke. "A simple safety precaution, Miss Hobbes. In case of emergency all passengers are required to insert their left foot into the safety brace underneath the seat in front. It stops people tumbling all over the craft if the pilot encounters dangerous turbulence whilst airborne."

Veronica nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Stokes, you've been most helpful."

She watched with Newbury as the little man scuttled away, keen to put distance between him and the ire of the moonlighting academics. The light was fading now, the sun low in the sky over the city. The crowds of people around the edges of the park had begun to thin and disperse.

"You understand, of course, that there's no feasible way in which the skeleton of a brass automaton could have been incinerated in that blaze? Especially when one considers that the majority of the human cadavers are still relatively intact." Newbury sounded contemplative now, rather than angry.

Veronica nodded. "My thoughts exactly."



"I'm beginning to think that Her Majesty's suspicions were correct. Something is definitely wrong here, and I'll wager it has its roots in the offices of Chapman and Villiers Air Transportation Services." He sighed, blinking to keep himself alert. "For now, though, I think it's time I retired to my lodgings. Can I drop you at home on my way, Miss Hobbes?"

She nodded, clearly exhausted. "Please do, Sir Maurice."



He held the cordon for her as they took their leave of the crash site and made their way to the nearest carriage.





The evening was still and cold as Newbury, attired only in a simple dressing gown, settled in his study before a roaring open fire. A book was open on his lap—Trelawny's History of Esoteric Societies of the Seventeenth Century—one of the many aged, leather-bound volumes that lined the walls around the room. Other shelves held more bizarre specimens; vials of chemical compounds; jars filled with preserved biological samples; a pentagram cast out of twenty-four carat gold; the bleached skull of a chimpanzee and much more besides. Paper files were stacked neatly in rows along one wall, containing reams of case notes, old academic papers, clippings and other assorted reference materials, collected during many long hours of research. The study was his private haven, the room he filled with all of the ephemera of his life. It was the one place where he could relax, where he felt free to become himself and where much of his actual deduction was carried out; over time, the study had become a place of revelation. He eased back in his armchair and turned the pages in his book.

Mrs. Bradshaw had retired for the evening after drawing him a bath and admonishing him enthusiastically for the state of his clothes. He smiled. She was forbidden from entering the study, but if she were to ever see its contents—not least the cluttered manner in which he liked to keep it—he wagered she'd flee his service at once. Not only that, but many of his files contained confidential information that needed to be kept away from prying eyes. He had no reason to doubt Mrs. Bradshaw's integrity, but he suspected the contents of his files would be enough to discredit the monarchy at least ten times over, and he feared what temptation could do to even the most loyal of people. For that reason, he kept the door to the room locked at all times, even when he was inside of it. He'd invited Bainbridge in once or twice, for he trusted him implicitly, and, after the events of the previous summer—during which they'd hunted a madman intent on inflicting an Ancient Egyptian plague on London—he knew the man had a stomach for the esoteric.

Tonight, however, he was happy for the solitude. He sat watching the dance of the flames for a while. He couldn't help thinking of the ruined, tortured faces of the corpses in the wreck of the airship that he'd seen that afternoon. Veronica had taken it badly, but so, in truth, had he. He'd seen innumerable corpses in his lifetime, of course, but in this instance it was a matter of scale; never before had he witnessed a scene quite as horrifying as this.

He reached for a small, brown bottle from the shelf behind his head. The label was peeling, but he knew well what it contained. He unscrewed the lid and poured a measure of the liquid into the half-full glass of claret that rested on the side table by his armchair. The laudanum would help him sleep, or so he told himself as he raised the glass to his lips and took a long drink. In the morning he would meet Veronica at the office and they would make their way to Battersea, to Chapman and Villiers's manufactory. There he hoped to find out more about the mysterious automatons and their creator, Mr. Pierre Villiers, an exiled Frenchman who—he had read—had been brought up on charges over a decade ago for experimenting on human wastrels in his Parisian laboratory. Still, that was for the morning. For tonight, he hoped, oblivion was near at hand. He drained his glass and sank back into the comfort of his Chesterfield, waiting for the laudanum to do its work.