"What is it? Have you seen something?"
Newbury stepped back from the mortuary table. He regarded his friend. "Take a look at the bruised areas around the throat."
Bainbridge handed Newbury his cane and leaned heavily on the marble slab, lowering his face to examine the corpse more closely. "What am I looking for, man? I can see plenty of bruises. Looks to me like the chap was strangled, just as you said."
"Indeed, but if you look a little closer you'll see what I'm interested in. There are tiny flecks of blue powder spotted about his throat. It shimmers if you shift slightly in the light."
"My God, Newbury. I think you're on to something."
Newbury smiled. "It's not much, but it certainly suggests our killer may have a more corporeal explanation than we'd previously imagined."
Bainbridge stepped away from the corpse. "So what's to be done?"
Newbury circled the table again, finding the white sheet and folding it neatly back over the corpse. "Miss Hobbes and I will pay a visit to Morgan's gallery tomorrow and interview the staff. I need to establish what it was he was so keen to talk to me about. It may have been what got him killed, and if so, there's a definite link between the glowing policeman and the wreck of The Lady Armitage." Bainbridge nodded, listening intently. "I'd suggest that you have your men test this blue powder at first light. Let's see if they can't establish a manufacturer. That way we can run through their customer records and begin to narrow down the list of potential candidates for our killer."
Bainbridge grinned. "Marvellous. Newbury, I knew you'd be of service to me when I knocked on your door this evening. Now," he took the other man by the shoulders and led him away from the mortuary slab, his cane clicking on the tiled floor as they walked, "what about that dinner you promised me? How about that little place you like by Kingsway?"
Chapter Sixteen
It was mid-morning before Newbury rose, pulled on his dressing gown and made his way to the bathroom to begin his daily ablutions with his razor and flannel. The previous day had been a drain on him, both physically and mentally, and today he had chosen to lounge for a while in bed, reading a book. He was, of course, anxious to press on with the case, but by the same token was sure that Morgan's gallery could wait for a few hours whilst he ensured that he was fully recovered from the excesses of the laudanum. He had finally emerged around ten o'clock, enjoyed a leisurely feast of porridge, fruit and toast; and then, after opening his post, had taken a short constitutional stroll before hailing a cab and making his way to Kensington to call for Veronica. His mind felt sharp and alert, his body taut and wiry. His trip to the morgue with Bainbridge had proved enlightening, and he was sure they were getting closer to the heart of the mystery surrounding the wreck of The Lady Armitage, and also the Whitechapel strangulations and the glowing policeman. It was clear that the two investigations were linked, somehow, and he hoped that a visit to Morgan's gallery would help him to establish the nature of that link. It would take a day or two for the police to analyse the blue powder that he'd found on Morgan's corpse, but in the meantime he'd agreed with Bainbridge that he'd press on at the gallery, and that they would keep each other informed of their progress. The discovery of the powder had been playing on his mind since the previous evening, and he couldn't help wondering if he'd somehow missed the evidence on the first few bodies that he had inspected. Were there specks of the stuff on the collars or clothes of those other victims? He certainly didn't recall seeing anything around their throats, save for bruising and the obvious signs of a struggle, although he knew, by now, that it was too late to check. The bodies would have been interred in the local cemetery and he was loathe to start digging up graves on the off chance that he'd still be able to find evidence of a fine blue power on their clothes. In fact, in all likelihood, their clothes would have been burnt and their corpses dressed in their best suits before burial. He clacked his tongue. He supposed it may be that the killer was getting careless or arrogant, confident that no matter what trace he left of himself at the scene, the police would be unable to catch him. He may have taken care to remove all of the evidence at the scenes of the first few murders, but after weeks of continued activity with no sign that the police were on to him, he may have grown lazy. Newbury had seen that before; the mad gleam in the eye of the killer, the notion that he was somehow invincible and above the law. It wouldn't surprise him if the killer turned out to be totally insane.
On the other hand, of course, he'd inspected the other bodies in situ at the various murder scenes, in the dark and the fog, and it could be that he'd simply missed the evidence without the aid of the lamps and the clinical gleam of the morgue. So be it. He knew it was a waiting game now; waiting for the police laboratory to identify the powder, or else waiting for the killer to make his next move. He closed his eyes as the cab rumbled on towards Kensington, wondering which it would be.
Veronica's apartment was on the ground floor of a large terraced house, built during the Georgian period, with tall sash windows and the brickwork rendered in smooth, white plaster. The fumes of the passing ground trains and steam-powered carriages had begun to stain the white walls up above, turning them a dirty grey, and Newbury knew that Veronica would disapprove most heartily of this development. He found a delicious irony in that. Veronica was such a forward-thinking woman, and put such great stock in the liberation of the fairer sex, but in other ways she had yet to accept the tide of progress that was currently washing through the Empire. Industry and technology were revolutionising the world, an unstoppable force as certain as life and death, and in Newbury's view the only option was to embrace it wholeheartedly, or else be left behind. He wasn't old enough yet to get stuck in his ways.
When Newbury did finally rap on Veronica's door it was clear almost immediately that she had spent most of the morning awaiting his arrival. Moments after her housekeeper had come to the door, Veronica appeared in the hallway, dressed in a short grey jacket, white blouse and long grey skirt.
Newbury smiled at her from the door. "Good morning, Miss Hobbes. I'll wait for you outside."
He held the cab whilst she collected her belongings and put on a long woollen coat to protect her from the winter chill. The wind was bracing, and Newbury took the opportunity to seek shelter in her doorway whilst he waited. She joined him a moment later, smiled, and then climbed up into the cab without saying a word. Newbury, grinning, gave the driver instructions and clambered in behind her.
Settling in to his seat, he turned to regard her, only to find her watching him intently from across the cab. He removed his hat and placed it neatly on the seat beside him.
"You look well today, Sir Maurice. I'm delighted to see it." She was wearing a kindly expression.
"Thank you, Miss Hobbes. I do believe that I am fully recovered. Please, let us speak no more of the incident," he looked somewhat sheepishly at the floor, "if you can bear to forgive me my foolishness."
Veronica blinked, looking from his face to the window and back again. "I see no reason to dwell on it, Sir Maurice." She smiled, altering her tone. "What plans do you have for the day ahead?"