Veronica sipped at her tea, watching Newbury from across the table as he attacked his meal with vigour. He had spent the last hour taking a bath, shaving and then dressing in his private rooms. He looked almost restored to his former self, save for the dark rings that still sat heavily beneath his eyes. Veronica was sure that a hearty meal would be good for his constitution and aid in his recovery from the effects of the laudanum. She had passed the time whilst he washed and dressed by perusing the spines of the rare books in his study. It was a wide and varied collection, containing many books she had never heard of and was sure could not be found in the annals of the British Library. Whilst she had been aware of Newbury's speciality in dealing with the occult and paranormal, she hadn't been aware of the sheer intensity of his fascination. If finding him semi-conscious inside an enormous chalk pentagram hadn't been evidence enough, the esoteric volumes in his private library had proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was one of the foremost experts in the field throughout the whole of the Empire.
She placed her empty cup on the saucer. Newbury looked up.
"So, tell me, what came of your visit to the palace yesterday?"
Newbury finished chewing his food. "Very little, I'm afraid, although I did manage to tease out of Her Majesty the reason for her intense interest in the case." He reached for his coffee, taking a long draw. Veronica leaned forward, waiting for him to continue. "Apparently the body of a Dutch Royal was found aboard the wreckage. A cousin of the Queen, in fact." He paused, waiting for her reaction.
Veronica frowned. "But wasn't The Lady Armitage a passenger-class vessel? Why would a member of the Royal Family take a second class transport to Dublin?"
Newbury smiled. "Precisely. But it's not much of a lead. We can't even begin to consider interviewing the family, and besides, they have even less of an idea about the whole thing than we do. The man had been missing in London for days before it happened. Her Majesty has promised the boy's mother an explanation, and it's up to us to find one, as soon as possible." He didn't look particularly confident. Taking his cutlery, he continued to tackle his breakfast. Veronica poured herself another cup of Earl Grey. They sat in silence for a few minutes, each of them wracking their brains for ideas.
Veronica was startled by a knock on the door. Newbury looked up, but didn't speak. A moment later Mrs. Bradshaw entered, bearing a silver tray that was covered in letters-the post Veronica had seen on the hall table when she'd first arrived. It seemed like days had passed since her arrival that morning.
"Your post, sir. I thought you may like to open it whilst you finished your breakfast?"
"Very thoughtful, Mrs. Bradshaw. Thank you." He watched her leave and then turned his attention to the tray she had placed on the table beside him, studying the contents intently. Five or six letters lay scattered upon it. He placed his cutlery on the side of his plate and poked at the envelopes, stopping when he saw one that bore a hand he didn't recognise.
He glanced up at Veronica. "Excuse me for a moment, my dear, whilst I take a look at this rather interesting missive." He used his finger to tear the envelope open and withdrew the letter he found inside. It was dated the previous day, and written in a perfect copperplate, with big, artistic flourishes, on plain white paper. Newbury scanned the short paragraph that comprised the body of the letter, then folded it in half and passed it to Veronica.
Veronica unfolded it and spread it out on the table before her.
Sir Maurice,
I request your presence at the Orleans Club, 29 King St, S. W., tomorrow at four. I find myself in possession of information that may pertain to your current investigation, regarding the crash of the passenger airship, The Lady Armitage. I would appreciate the opportunity to aid you in bringing the perpetrators in this matter to justice.
Yours,
Mr. Christopher Morgan
She looked up. "Do you know this man?"
"Indeed not. Although…" He thought for a moment. "I believe I know him by name and reputation." He took another sip of his coffee. "A speculator and a dilettante, if I'm not mistaken. I believe he owns an art gallery across town." He smiled, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. "Nevertheless, Miss Hobbes, we have our lead, and no time to spare. If we're to find our way to the Orleans Club by four, we should be on our way directly. Are you fit?"
Veronica smiled, delighted to see Newbury so engaged and full of energy once again. She nodded. "Are you?"
Newbury laughed, shrugging his shoulders. "Fortified by eggs and bacon. Let us not procrastinate any longer." He stood, pushing the remnants of his meal to one side. "Come on, let's fetch our coats."
Veronica watched Newbury's back as he left the room, calling for Mrs. Bradshaw. She hoped he was up to another sojourn, and whilst she admitted to herself it was wonderful to have the old Newbury back, she felt drained by the whirlwind that surrounded him. She'd rather, for his health, that they put the meeting off until the following day, but with no return address on the letter it would be difficult to get word to Morgan in time, and in truth it was too good an opportunity to miss. It was the only lead they had, and if they chose to enjoy the confines of Newbury's home for much longer, the trail would almost certainly grow cold again. Reluctantly, she climbed to her feet and followed after him, anxious to keep a watchful eye on proceedings, and on Newbury himself.
Chapter Fourteen
In their haste to get across town, Veronica had allowed herself to be subjected to the noise and bluster of one of the steam-powered carriages that Newbury appeared so heartily to enjoy. It had proved as uncomfortable as ever, and now, on the doorstep of the Orleans Club, she found herself rearranging her dress and trying to put herself hastily back in order. It was cold, and the fog was beginning to settle over the streets in wispy tendrils, slowly encroaching upon the city like ivy creeping across an old brick wall.
The Orleans Club, Newbury had informed her on the way over, was the offshoot of a gentleman's club based in Twickenham, the town dwelling for members of the latter who, it seemed, were welcome to invite guests to the establishment so long as they were of the male variety. Any women were referred directly to the ladies room and kept well out of earshot of the banter that took place in the main lounge. Veronica found the whole idea ridiculous, but she also knew that she wasn't about to overturn hundreds of years of tradition by simply complaining about it. She was aware that Newbury attended a club, and that he found it a worthwhile pursuit, in terms of both business and pleasure. Not only that, but it was important that they got to speak with Morgan, one way or another. She supposed she'd just have to live with it, for now.
The building itself was typical of this type of establishment; a Georgian townhouse that sat mid-terrace between what appeared to be private dwellings on either side. Sash windows revealed little about the activities inside, covered by heavy drapes, and there were no signs or indicators that they had even come to the correct address, other than the number '27' on the door, as suggested in Morgan's letter. Clearly the members of the Orleans Club liked to carry out their business behind closed doors.
Newbury stepped up to the blue panelled door and rapped loudly with the knocker. Almost immediately it creaked open and a butler appeared in the opening. Light spilled out onto the steps around their feet. Newbury presented his letter and informed the man that they had come for a private conference with one of the club's members, Mr. Christopher Morgan.