The Affinity Bridge

CHAPTER Seven





From the Chelsea Bridge the airship works were clearly visible in the morning light as a series of immense, red-brick hangers, squat beside the shimmering Thames, fumes rising like smoke signals from a row of tall, broad chimneys. Steam hissed from outlet pipes in great, white plumes, whilst water gushed back into the river in a deluge of brown sludge. Huge airships were tethered to the roofs of the hangers, reminiscent of a row of children's balloons, bobbing languorously in the breeze.



Newbury looked out over the river. Ships and boats of all shapes and sizes drifted lazily along the shipping lanes, dipping gently with the ebb and flow of the water. It was busy, thick with the detritus of industry. It was noisy, too; horns blaring and gulls chattering over the constant clatter of horses' hooves as they rolled over the bridge towards their destination. He caught sight of one ship to which the others were giving a wide berth. He studied it for a moment through the window. Large red crosses had been painted on the sides of the hull and the flag had been lowered to half-mast. He guessed it was a plague ship, carrying the corpses of the dead out to sea, where they would likely be dumped, unceremoniously, into the water. He knew from his discussions with Bainbridge that the corpses of plague victims had been turning up all over the city, particularly in the slums, where the people lived in squalor and the virus could easily spread from host to host. Stories of the 'revenants' were spreading, too, with the daily newspapers parroting the rumours heard on the streets and sensationalising the epidemic for the gleeful consumption of cockatoos such as Felicity Johnson. They were right to fear, though; before the virus killed its host it would completely unravel their humanity, transforming them into a monstrous killing machine. Their flesh would stop regenerating, their only thoughts becoming animalistic, feral; in short, they would be reduced to nothing but the basest of creatures, and with that loss of faculty they'd become almost unstoppable, feeling no pain, showing no awareness of wounds that would kill an average man. It was as if the virus, somehow, kept them alive through all of this, waiting for an unidentified biological trigger. Then, after a handful of days had passed, the virus would complete its work and turn their brains to sponge, dropping their spent, lifeless bodies by the side of the road. It was a bad way to go. He hoped, for Miss Coulthard's sake, that she was wrong and that her brother had so far managed to evade infection. Everything he knew about the virus suggested if that if he had been infected, by now he'd either be dead in a gutter or else stalking the fog-shrouded streets by night, a mindless monster in search of food and blood.

Newbury closed his eyes for a moment, lulled by the motion of the cab. He imagined that Her Majesty would be growing impatient with the crisis by now, keen for the virus to burn itself out in the poorer districts of the city. She probably had a hundred scientists searching for a vaccination. If no solution were found soon, he had no doubt that she would place a cordon around the slums in an effort to slow the spread of the disease. Everyone was anxious, fearful of what might happen if the plague truly managed to get a grip on the city. Some projections suggested that up to fifty percent of the population could succumb to the illness: if not killed by the virus itself, then taken by one of the rampaging monsters it created. He suspected that it would be some time yet before the issue came to a head, and that the worst was probably still to come.

He looked up. Veronica sat in silence on the other side of the cab, lost in thought. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap, her face turned to the opposite window. She was wearing a powder blue jacket and white blouse, with matching culottes. He admired her modern sensibilities. Indeed, he admired much about her. Searching around for another distraction, he chose not to disturb her reverie. Instead, he unfolded his morning copy of The Times on his knee and inspected the day's headlines. Unsurprisingly, the editor had chosen to dedicate the front page to a huge article about The Lady Armitage disaster. The headline read Airship Crashes in Finsbury Park: Sabotage suspected, upwards of fifty dead. Newbury shook his head. Sabotage suspected? He wondered if Stokes had been feeding ideas to the press. He certainly wouldn't put it past the man. He hoped to find the company's directors a little less repellent but was expecting to be disappointed. In his experience, like invariably attracted like, and any associates of Mr. Stokes would either have to maintain a will of iron or an ego as enormous as that of Stokes himself.

He settled back in his seat, flicking through the pages of newsprint on his knee. He was still feeling delicate from the excesses of the laudanum, and silently chastised himself for giving in to his cravings. Miss Hobbes was astute, and his late arrival at the office and less-than-savoury appearance that morning had not gone unnoticed. He resolved to represent himself better in future.

The driver tapped loudly on the top of the cab and both Newbury and Veronica looked up in surprise, dragged away from their thoughts.

"Yes?"



"Is this the place you're looking for, sir?"



He glanced out of the window. The cab had come to rest outside a small office building appended to a much larger complex of industrial hangers and factories. A sign above the door read: Chapman & Villiers Air Transportation Services.

"Yes, thank you driver, this is the place." He sighed, and caught Veronica's eye, folding his newspaper under his arm as he did so. "Are you ready, my dear?"

"Absolutely."



"Well then, after you." He watched her clamber down from the cab to the street below. He had a feeling that today, one way or another, some of the missing pieces of the mystery would begin clicking into place.





The offices of Chapman and Villiers were an austere affair, housed within a separate structure that was divorced from the factory proper by a large courtyard and an elaborate set of cast iron gates. Clearly the proprietors were intent on maintaining a strict distance between their visiting clientele and the factory workers, who, Newbury guessed, would likely have a separate entrance somewhere around the rear of the complex. It appeared, from the signs evident in the windows, that the office not only dealt with the company's commercial affairs but also served as a travel agency, of sorts, selling passage on its fleet of charter vessels to locations all over the globe, from Prussia to China, Jersey to Hong Kong. Newbury toyed with his gloves for a moment. "Well, Miss Hobbes, I do hope you have your detective's cap on?"

In reply, she stepped forward and pulled the office door open before her. It groaned loudly on its hinges. "Of course. After you, Sir Maurice."

He shook his head, taking the door from her and ushering her inside. "Come now, Miss Hobbes, let's do things properly."

The main reception area was as sobering in appearance as one expected after taking in the view of the building from the outside; the walls were hung with a dark, burgundy covering that seemed to soak up all of the light, and a scattering of chairs were situated beside low coffee tables and tall, leafy plants. A set of short stairs led up to another, unseen level. A clerk sat in one corner with his back to them, talking to a customer in hushed tones about purchasing transport to the Far East.

Their attention was most immediately drawn, however, to the man behind a mahogany desk in the centre of the room, his fingers forming a perfect pyramid before him on the polished surface, his pale face belying his apparent displeasure at receiving customers so close to lunch. When he spoke, his voice was thin and nasal. "Can I help you?"

Newbury strode up to the desk and placed his hat down beside a sheaf of paper files. The clerk looked at the item as if it were a horse's head, his disdain clearly evident.

"I'm here to see Mr. Chapman."

The clerk made a show of looking in his ledger. "Are you sure, sir? I have no meetings scheduled for Mr. Chapman today. He really is a very busy man." He shut his ledger as if that were simply the end of the matter. "Perhaps you'd care to make an appointment?"

"I'm afraid you don't seem to understand. It's imperative I speak with Mr., Chapman today." Newbury glowered at the man behind the desk.

"Imperative, you say, sir? Could I inquire as to what business you may have with my employer that could possibly be so urgent? If you're looking to make a complaint about a recent journey then you can find the forms behind you on the table there."

Newbury sighed. "I'm here on the business of the Crown. It is a delicate matter that I wish to discuss with Mr. Chapman in private. Of course, if you'd prefer me to air his private business out here...?"

The man's entire demeanour changed. His face seemed to flush with colour and his pursed lips split into a wide smile. He swallowed, and parted his hands in a conciliatory gesture. The timbre of his voice became immediately more welcoming. "Of course, sir. I quite understand. Allow me to go and enquire as to whether Mr. Chapman is available. May I offer him your name?"

"Sir Maurice Newbury."

"Please take a seat, Sir Maurice. I will only be a moment."

Newbury watched as the clerk scuttled out from behind his desk and crossed the office, glancing once behind him to see if Newbury was watching. He climbed the stairs and disappeared from view, Veronica lowered herself into one of the chairs, smiling to herself. Newbury paced the office, obviously impatient.

A moment or two later the clerk appeared at the top of the stairs. He climbed down, his hands clasped behind his back, and approached Newbury tentatively, as one might approach a lion, "Mr., Chapman is in his office and would be only too delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir Maurice. I will show you up now." He beckoned for them to follow. Newbury remembered to reclaim his hat before helping Veronica to her feet.

At the top of the stairs, three doors led into what Newbury supposed were private offices. The clerk hesitated before the middle one, clearing his throat. He rapped politely, three times, and then opened the door with a flourish, stepping to one side to allow them to enter.

"Your visitors, sir,"

Newbury followed Veronica into the room, his hat tucked carefully under his arm.

It was a large office, and ostentatiously furnished, cluttered with artwork and fine goods from all corners of the globe. Newbury glanced around, trying to get a measure of the place. An enormous marble fireplace dominated one wall, whilst above it, a portrait of the Queen looked mournfully down upon the visitors. A display case in one corner held relics from as far afield as Constantinople, Baghdad, Greece and Delhi; souvenirs,

Newbury supposed, from journeys undertaken in pursuit of business in those far-flung nations.

Chapman himself lounged in a large Chesterfield, smoking a cigarette. His hair was blonde and cut long around his shoulders, and he was dressed in his shirtsleeves and a black waistcoat. Newbury thought he had the look of a cat about him, languorously warming himself before the fire. He stood as Newbury entered the room and moved quickly to shake his hand. "Sir Maurice Newbury, I presume?"

"Indeed." Newbury took his hand and shook it firmly. He stepped to one side. "Allow me to introduce my assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes."

Chapman smiled and took her hand, holding it for just a moment longer than was necessary, before inclining his head politely. "Delighted, I'm sure." He gestured at the clerk, who was still standing in the doorway. "Now, can my man Soames fetch you any refreshments? A brandy, perhaps?" He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. "Not too early for that, are we?" He looked baffled, as if he'd only just realised the time.

Newbury shook his head. "A pot of tea would be fine. Earl Grey, if you have it?"

Chapman nodded briskly and Soames disappeared again, clicking the door shut behind him. They heard his footsteps on the stairs as he made his way down to the office below.

Chapman beckoned for them to take a seat, folding himself back into his chair. He reclaimed his cigarette from the ashtray on the table and took a long, luxurious draw. It was clear to Newbury that the man didn't give much thought to convention: his entire manner was at odds with his station, and his appearance marked him as something of a fop. Nevertheless, he couldn't help feeling drawn to the man's bohemian charm. He could see immediately that there was a cool intelligence lurking behind the darting, ice-blue eyes, and whilst he didn't put much stock in the man's taste in furnishings, he had to admit the fellow had an acute nose for business. Either that or he was spending his inheritance at a rate that would soon see him bankrupt or destitute. Chapman tapped his cigarette in the ashtray and regarded Newbury with a wistful smile. "So, Sir Maurice, I presume you are here regarding that terrible business with The Lady Armitage}99He looked suddenly serious. "A truly lamentable affair."

Newbury nodded. "Yes. Have you visited the site of the wreckage yourself, Mr. Chapman?"

"No." He paused to take another draw on his cigarette. "Unfortunately, I was previously engaged—a small matter to resolve with my banker—so I took the liberty of relying on my legal representative, Mr. Stokes."

Newbury stiffened. "Yes, I spoke with Mr. Stokes for a brief while yesterday."

Chapman smiled knowingly. "Terrible bore, isn't he? Seems to be the way with these legal chaps. Dependable, though. I trust he gave you everything you required?"

It was Newbury's turn to smile. "In a manner of speaking. Nevertheless, I thought it wise to pay you a visit this afternoon, in an effort to get a better understanding of your operation, and to see for myself these automatons that Stokes mentioned."

Chapman's eyes seemed to light up. "Ah, the automatons. Villiers's prized creations. They are impressive machines, Sir Maurice, if you have not yet seen one?"

Newbury glanced at Veronica. "Indeed not. I would certainly welcome a demonstration."

"I'm sure that can be arranged." He reached over and crumpled his cigarette in the ashtray. "And you, Miss Hobbes. I'm sure you'd find the machines equally as impressive."

"I'm sure I would, Mr. Chapman."



Newbury looked up at the sound of rapping on the door, and then Soames entered, bearing their tea on a large platter. He crossed the room and placed it on the table before them. Chapman watched him turn and leave, waiting until the last moment to call after him. "Thank you, Soames."

Newbury scratched his chin absently. "So, Mr. Chapman, Mr. Stokes mentioned yesterday that one of these remarkable new automatons was behind the controls of The Lady Armitage when she went down?" Veronica studied the other man's face, watching for a reaction.

He remained impassive. "Quite possible. I believe around half of the fleet is now piloted by the machines. We even have a Royal charter. Remarkable, really, when you come to think of it."

"Quite." Newbury paused. "Mr. Chapman, I'm not sure if you're aware of all of the circumstances surrounding the disaster yesterday morning?"

Chapman looked puzzled. "Mr. Stokes provided me with a thorough report of his findings. I also spoke with Inspector Foulkes of Scotland Yard. I'd imagine myself to be in full possession of the facts."

"Did Mr. Stokes's report make reference to the fact that the pilot of the vessel appeared to be missing from the wreckage?"

Chapman fished around in his waistcoat pocket, searching out his silver cigarette case. He flicked it open and withdrew one of the small white sticks, then offered the case around to the others. When they didn't accept he slipped it back into his pocket and struck a match with a loud rasp. Smoke billowed around his face as he regarded Newbury. "He made mention of the fact that the unit in question had been destroyed in the impact."

Newbury met his gaze. "I find that very difficult to believe, Mr. Chapman. I understand the skeletal frames of these automatons are constructed out of brass?"

"Correct."



"Then why were their no remnants of the unit in evidence anywhere onboard the ship? Both Miss Hobbes and I toured the wreckage and I can assure you, there was nothing to be found."

Chapman poured the tea, his face thoughtful. "Well, if Mr. Stokes's assertions are correct, the unit may have burnt up in the fires that followed the crash."

Newbury sipped from his teacup. "Come now, Mr. Chapman. We both know that the heat in that wreckage would never have reached a temperature enough to incinerate brass. There has to be another explanation."

Chapman shrugged apologetically. "Perhaps it survived the incident and clambered out of the wreckage, wandering away into the park?"

"The police are certainly following that line of inquiry. Tell me, do you have any notion what may have gone wrong with the unit to cause it to lose control of the vessel, Mr. Chapman?"

Chapman shook his head. "As I understand it, Sir Maurice, the automaton was not responsible for the crash. We've had an impeccable safety record throughout the fleet since the implementation of these machines. I find it far more probable that, regrettably, there was a mechanical fault with the vessel itself."

"So you put no stock in the notion that the automaton unit may have malfunctioned?"

"I do not. Although in truth you'd have to ask Villiers. He's the man who invented the things; he should be able to give you a better idea of their functions and limitations." He shrugged.

Veronica placed her empty teacup on the table. "So, Mr. Chapman, where would we find Mr. Villiers?"

Chapman smiled. "He'll be in his workshop behind the mechanical works. I can take you there, if you like, by way of the airship manufactory?" He stood, not waiting for a reply. "What do you say? A quick tour of the facility?"

Both Newbury and Veronica rose from their seats. Veronica met Newbury's eye. "Mr. Chapman, I think that would be an excellent idea."