"We'd all heard stories about this glowing policeman, read the reports in the newspapers about the killings in Whitechapel, but none of us can understand how Mr. Morgan got involved in all that business. He never mentioned it to any of us. It's just senseless."
"And now no one seems to know what will happen to the gallery. Mr. Morgan's son is in Africa and his wife died last year of pneumonia. We're waiting for the solicitor to tell us whether we're out on the street or not." Adam shook his head.
"Tell me, had Mr. Morgan exhibited any unusual behaviour in the last few weeks? Have there been any strange occurrences at the gallery?"
They heard a noise and looked around as one to see Newbury standing in the doorway. He'd obviously been listening to the conversation for a few moments.
Veronica turned back to the others. "This is Sir Maurice. He is responsible for our investigation."
Cynthia shrugged, looking from Veronica to Newbury. "No. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Unless you count that automaton device that Mr. Morgan brought back to the gallery a few weeks ago?" The man called Stephen spoke in a quiet, unassuming voice that seemed somewhat at odds with his swarthy, manly appearance.
Newbury paced into the room, resting his hands on the back of an empty chair. "Go on."
The man looked at the tabletop as he talked, clearly nervous. "Well, Mr. Morgan bought one of those new automaton men I few weeks ago, and brought it back to the gallery to serve drinks during the private viewings. He wanted it to be a talking point amongst the guests."
Veronica leaned closer to hear. "And what happened?"
Stephen glanced at her. "After a few days it started to behave erratically. It failed to carry out Mr. Morgan's instructions and began shambling around the place like it had lost its balance. It started to emit strange sounds, high pitched whistles and such like." He toyed with his fingers. "Then, on the following day, it attacked Mansfield, the desk clerk, when he came in to look at the books. Mr. Morgan and I had to prise it off of him and lock it in the storeroom until the manufacturers could come and collect it. It made a hell of a racket in there."
"Was anybody hurt?"
"Just cuts and bruises. But Mr. Morgan was hopping mad. He sent a telegram to the company he'd bought it from. He refused to have a replacement. Said the things were dangerous and should be banned."
Newbury stood back from the table. "Do you know the name of this manufacturer?"
Stephen met his gaze. "I do, sir. Chapman and Villiers. I remember it clear as day."
Newbury walked over to the door marked Storeroom. "Is this where you imprisoned it?"
"Yes."
He opened the door and glanced inside. Veronica craned her neck to see. The contents of the cupboard were exactly as one would expect: a mop and pail, a broom, a shelf full of cleaning products. The inside of the door, however, was marked with a series of long gouges, scratches where the automaton had clearly tried to break its way out of the cupboard, raking its brass fingers across the wood. Newbury caught Veronica's eye. He closed the door.
"Is any of this actually relevant?" Adam sat back in his chair, clearly put out by the conversation. "What difference does it make now? Mr. Morgan was murdered by the glowing policeman, and no talk of automatons and clerks is going to bring him back."
Cynthia leaned across the table and took his hand. "Adam, everything is going to be alright." The young man pushed his chair back petulantly and got to his feet, strolling pointedly from the room. Cynthia sighed, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to fade before speaking. "He's young, and he's taken it hard. He was fond of Mr. Morgan, and he's worried about losing his earnings."
She shrugged. "We all are."
Veronica stood. "I can assure you that we'll do everything we can to find the culprit. You've been very helpful. Now, if we can just take a quick look inside Mr. Morgan's office, we'll leave you to your mourning."
Jake nodded. "The door's open. Go ahead. I'm not sure you'll find anything of use in there, mind you. The police have been through it once already."
Veronica navigated her way around the table, and together, she and Newbury left the three remaining employees to their thoughts.
Jake's words had proved more or less correct, and the two investigators had found nothing of real use in Morgan's sparsely furnished office. The desk had been piled high with correspondence, but much of it had already been rifled through by the police and it consisted mostly of bills, receipts and speculative letters from artists, soliciting Morgan to exhibit their work. Veronica had managed to locate the receipt, and consequent refund slip, from Chapman and Villiers, and was appalled by the expense Morgan had gone to in acquiring the unit. It was no wonder he had complained bitterly when the thing began to malfunction; the device had cost him more than Veronica was paid in a year. She had passed the documents to Newbury, who had folded them carefully and slipped them into his pocket for later use.
As they strolled along the private driveway outside the gallery, Newbury's disposition seemed to brighten. "Well, Miss Hobbes. Another interesting development, wouldn't you say?"
Veronica smiled. "Absolutely. I believe I could now hazard a guess as to what it was that Morgan wished to talk to you about yesterday."
"Indeed?"
"Well it sounds to me as if Morgan had cast-iron proof that the automaton units are not, as Monsieur Villiers had us believe, impervious to malfunction."
"Precisely my thoughts, Miss Hobbes. It seems as though our friends from Battersea were a little economical with the truth."
"To my mind that puts Chapman and Villiers themselves very much in the frame for Morgan's murder. They certainly had a motive. It also suggests that the pilot of The Lady Armitage may indeed have been subject to a malfunction. Shall we pay them another visit this afternoon?"
Newbury shook his head. "No, my dear Miss Hobbes. It's too soon for all that. We need more evidence before we can build a case against them. Motive on its own is not enough. Certainly, they had a lot to gain from Morgan's death, but we still don't know what the link to the Whitechapel case may be, if any. I don't want to compromise either investigation by charging ahead prematurely. No, I suggest we part company for a short while."
Veronica looked concerned.
Newbury laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not about to go charging off without you. I'm overdue a stop at the office and I'm anxious to see if there is news from Miss Coulthard. Are you free this evening?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then how would you like to accompany me to a soiree? The Hanbury-Whites are hosting a party at their house in St. John's Wood and I was planning to attend."
Veronica looked a little taken aback. "Thank you, Sir Maurice, I would be delighted to accompany you." She smiled, fiddling with the buttons on her coat.
"Excellent. I will call for you in a cab around seven."
"Just be sure that it's one of the horse-drawn variety, and not one of those terrible modern contraptions. I can't bear the noise and the smell."
Newbury chuckled. "I most certainly will."
They turned from the driveway onto the street, which was bustling with mid-afternoon traffic. Newbury paused. "Can I drop you now?"
Veronica shook her head. "No. I'm intent on a stroll. You go ahead."
"Are you sure? It's quite a walk back to Kensington."
"Positive. I could do with the exercise."
Newbury nodded, and Veronica watched as he hailed a cab, and, with a brief wave, disappeared inside. Then, wrapping her coat around her shoulders, she set off into the blustery afternoon, a wide grin on her face.
Chapter Seventeen
The party was in full swing when, later that evening, Newbury and Veronica arrived in St. John's Wood, climbing out of their cab to stand in the shadow of the enormous family home of the Hanbury-Whites. The moon was a bright disk in the sky, wreathed in wintry mist, and Veronica’s breath plumed in the frosty air. She turned on the spot, taking in the view.