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."
Chapter Eight
The hanger was cold and Veronica hugged her jacket to herself, wishing she'd thought to bring a shawl or a more substantial overcoat along with her that morning. Her breath fogged in the air before her face. She tried to avoid shivering.
They were standing on a steel walkway above the main factory floor, where the enormous shell of an airship gondola was currently under construction. It sat upon a large wooden pallet, squat in the centre of the massive room, scaffolds running over its surface like the strands of a vast spider's web, ensnaring the bowels of the partly-erected ship. Men buzzed around the skeleton of the vessel like worker ants, swarming up the sides of the scaffolds to place glass panes into the wooden window frames and pass doors, seats and other furnishings through to the workmen inside. Tools clattered loudly and men shouted to each other above the noise.
Veronica stared down from the railing that ran along the side of the walkway. After her experience the previous day she found the sight of the unfinished gondola incredibly eerie, reminiscent of the smashed wreck of The Lady Armitage. Many of the fittings were the same as those she had seen inside the shattered vessel, and from where she was standing, the internal layout looked practically identical. She could hardly bear to look at the passenger cabin, with its row upon row of empty seats, without visualising the scene inside of the burnt-out ship; the blank, ruined faces of the dead staring back at her, accusingly. She fancied for a moment that she could still smell the stench of the wreck, the aroma of cooked human flesh assaulting her nostrils and palate. Her stomach heaved.
She shook her head, realising that she was gripping the railing tightly with both hands. She had a sudden, unnerving sense of vertigo, like she was tumbling over the railing towards the factory floor below. She closed her eyes. The moment passed. She caught her breath, drawing raggedly at the air. She knew it was no good giving in to melancholy. She'd seen the results of that before, long ago. What was done was done, and now the most important thing was to find out who was responsible for the disaster, and if necessary, aid Newbury in bringing them to justice. She breathed calmly, and hoped that the others hadn't taken note of her momentary lapse.
She watched a man below struggling to carry a large mirror across the factory floor, wondering for a moment if the new ship was intended as a replacement for The Lady Armitage. She decided not; it was clearly too soon after the crash for the workmen to be this advanced with the construction. She turned from the railing. "It's quite an operation you have here, Mr. Chapman."