"Or perhaps he's watching us from elsewhere in the room?" Veronica shivered at the thought.
Newbury frowned. He looked as if he were just about to reply when he stopped suddenly and turned away at the sound of shouting from the other side of the room. A hush descended on the party like a thick blanket, smothering the chatter. It was difficult to make out what was being said, but a man was clearly engaged in directing a torrent of abuse at another man whom he felt had somehow done him a disservice.
"…and another thing, sir! Your company's literature clearly states that in circumstances such as this, full recompense is assured. Yet I continue to find no such recompense is forthcoming! A damnable business, and you, sir, are a damnable man!"
Newbury raised his eyebrow at Veronica. Neither of them could see anything through the gathered throng. There was a wave of gasping sounds, and then the crowd suddenly parted as two automatons, their trays now abandoned, moved forward, thru brass feet clicking on the marble floor, a middle-aged gentleman in a black suit between them. The automatons each held one of the man's shoulders as they forcibly marched him Inwards the exit. The man was squirming, clearly in discomfort, and the spinning eyes of the automatons glinted in the low light, their features frozen, unmoveable. Behind them, Joseph Chapman stood with his hands on his hips, a wry smile on his face. He glanced at Newbury, and then nodded politely, his eyes flicking away to watch as his two brass guardians escorted the other man from the building. Then, as the guests all looked upon the scene with a kind of horrified fascination, he set off after his clockwork devices, exiting the party through the main entrance. Outside, the sound of the man's protests trailed away down the street. The party took only a moment to recover, and then the hubbub began in earnest once again, the society gossips quickly moving to engage one another with talk of the scandal.
Newbury looked at Veronica, bemused. "Well, my dear Miss Hobbes, you were certainly right about Chapman being in attendance here tonight, but it seems as if the problem has miraculously solved itself."
Veronica smiled. "Yes, you could say that, I suppose. But what do you make of it all? It strikes me that the unfortunate captive of those automatons may be a likely witness in our developing case."
Newbury nodded. "Yes, it certainly seems that way, doesn't it? I get the distinct impression that the poor gentleman may have had a similar experience to Mr. Morgan."
Veronica looked thoughtful. "Indeed. Do you think he's in danger of suffering the same fate? Should we go after them?"
Newbury shook his head. "No, I'll wager the man is in no danger, this evening at least." He took a long draw from his flute of champagne. "Even if Chapman is somehow connected to Morgan's death, this outcry was a little too public for anything to come of it now. The connection would be obvious to everyone. The automatons will take the man around the corner and he'll flee to his abode, angry and embarrassed. No doubt Chapman will take the opportunity to gloat to anyone who'll listen."
Veronica placed her empty glass on a sideboard behind her. One of the automatons immediately made a beeline over to reclaim it. "It is interesting, though, isn't it? I mean, after finding us in the other room watching the performance. It's almost like Chapman arranged for us to see this little charade. Did you notice how he made a point of catching your eye?"
" I did. I wonder what it is he's up to." Newbury was watching the crowd again as he talked. "Let's see if we can discover the Identity of Chapman's protagonist before the night is out. That way, we can pay him a visit in the morning."
Veronica nodded her agreement. "And now?"
"And now we have a party to attend." He smiled, holding out his arm. "I believe we were in the middle of doing a turn around the room. And you, my dear Miss Hobbes, look as though you Could use another drink."
Arm in arm, they rejoined the gathered crowd and searched out another glass of champagne, keeping a wary eye on the automatons as they tried to enjoy the rest of the party.
Chapter Eighteen
Newbury woke with a thick head and a dry mouth. He rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. Then, as if surfacing from a glassy pool of water, he suddenly became aware of the world outside of his own head. Someone was rapping insistently on the door to his bedchamber. He rolled onto his back, peeling back his eyelids. It was still dark; there was no light streaming in through the window, and he hadn't yet had sleep enough to banish the residue of the alcohol he had consumed the night before. Early morning, then. He sat up, running a hand through his hair.
"Sir Maurice? Are you there?" The rapping continued.
Newbury frowned. "Yes, Mrs. Bradshaw. I'm awake."
There was an audible sigh of relief from the other side of the door. "Very well, sir. Sir Charles is here to see you. I've asked him to wait in the living room. Shall I assure him that you will attend to him shortly? I understand that it is a matter of some importance."
Newbury pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He groped around in the semi-darkness for his pocket watch, finding it on the bedside table. He peered at it intently, trying to see the hands. It was just after five. It must be important, for Charles to be calling at this hour. "Please do, Mrs. Bradshaw. I'll be with him momentarily."
Mrs. Bradshaw's footsteps fell away from the door and Newbury slumped back into his pillows, rubbing his eyes. Then, sighing, he slipped from underneath the warm, woollen blankets of his bed and stood beside his dresser, shivering in the chill. He blinked a few times until his eyes had adjusted properly to the dim light, and then searched out his dressing gown, flung it around his shoulders, and shoved his feet into the slippers he kept underneath his bed. A moment later he was following behind Mrs. Bradshaw, squinting in the bright light of the gas lamps, as he made his way downstairs to meet his friend.
Bainbridge was pacing anxiously before the fireplace, which was dull and cold and full of nothing but ash at this early hour in the morning. He held a brandy in his hand, but appeared not to have taken a swig of it, as yet. He looked up when Newbury came into the room, his moustache bristling at the sight of his old friend, still dressed in his bedclothes and suffering from a mild hangover.
Newbury looked the other man up and down. "There's been another murder in Whitechapel."
Bainbridge looked astounded by this rather minor piece of deduction. "How did you…?"
Newbury smiled. "Why else would you be here at this hour, Charles?" He shrugged. "Your boots are still clean and you look like you've dressed hastily; your tie is askew and you've notched your belt on the wrong hole." Bainbridge looked down at his belt, and then shook his head in exasperation. "I take it you've only recently been made aware of the situation and have come to pick me up on your way over to the scene?"
Bainbridge nodded. "Indeed. As you say. So jolly well go and fetch up some clothes and make yourself presentable, man. I've already sent a cab for Miss Hobbes." He took a swig of his brandy and leaned heavily on the mantelpiece.
Newbury nodded, smiling, and then disappeared once again from the room.
A few minutes later the two men took their leave of Newbury's Chelsea home and mounted the cab that Bainbridge had left waiting for them on the road outside. Its steam engine spluttered noisily as the driver gunned the controls and sent the vehicle careening into the cold, dark morning. Newbury, his head still groggy from the alcohol and lack of sleep, fell back into the seat inside. He had dressed hastily and still wore the shadow of a beard around his face and throat, but had more-or-less managed to make himself presentable. He looked up when Bainbridge tapped on the window with the end of his cane. "Not sure how much longer I can put up with this abominable weather, Newbury." He glanced out at the smoky, fog-filled streets as they rushed by. "This damnable fog makes our police work doubly hard. Gives these criminal types all the cover they need for sneaking around the city at all hours." He sounded weary.