Newbury nodded, but didn't speak. He watched the shapes of building flit past, hidden by the gossamer mist that seemed to soften the edges of everything, making the real world outside the cab seem insubstantial, otherworldly.
"Are you well, Maurice? You seem unusually quiet."
Newbury smiled. "Quite well, Charles. I attended the soiree at the Hanbury-White's last night. I fear I may have led Miss Hobbes rather astray; we indulged in one too many glasses of champagne amidst the merriment."
Bainbridge laughed heartily. "Then I shall conserve my sympathy for more worthy subjects! I take it there was much merriment to be had, in that case?"
Newbury grimaced. "A little. Most interesting, however, was the scene between a certain Mr. Musgrave of Islington and Joseph Chapman, of Chapman and Villiers Air Transportation Services."
"How so?"
"It appears Chapman sold Musgrave one of those automaton devices. It later malfunctioned and killed his best hound. The word from the society gossips is that Musgrave had been trying to claim compensation from the company and, having received no satisfactory response, took the opportunity to set upon Chapman in front of everyone at the party."
Bainbridge sat forward, resting on his cane. "So what happened?"
"Not a great deal, if truth be told. Chapman had Musgrave escorted from the party by two of his automatons and then made his own exit from the proceedings. We didn't see him again all night."
"How peculiar. Do you think it's relevant to your case?"
Newbury nodded. "Our case, Charles. You're forgetting Christopher Morgan. It transpires that the same situation is true of Morgan, although in his case it ended in a rather more grisly fashion. He'd also had an automaton malfunction at his gallery and had successfully negotiated a refund from Chapman. However, when he heard about The Lady Armitage he wrote to me asking to meet, intending to divulge his miserable experience with the device, and the rest you are already aware of. He ended up dead and dumped in Whitechapel."
Bainbridge clenched and unclenched his fist. "So it seems like Chapman is involved in Morgan's death, and that he may be behind the airship disaster too. What of Musgrove? Do you think he's in danger?"
"That's just it. I can't see how he could be, not after the performance made by Chapman at the party last night. If he turned up dead now it would give us cause to pull Chapman in immediately. If he is guilty of Morgan's murder, I can't believe he'd be so insouciant about it."
Bainbridge took a moment to let that sink in. "But what about the other murders? They don't follow the same pattern as Morgan's. Do you still think Morgan's killer tried to use the existing spate of murders as a cover for his own crime?"
"That's what I'm trying to work out. We've got very little we can actually pin on Chapman yet, and if we move too soon we'll simply cause him to clam up. We need to build a solid case against him, if indeed he is responsible for Morgan's death. Whilst we've certainly established that the automaton device that was piloting The Lady Armitage could have caused the crash through malfunction, in truth we've got no real way of linking Chapman to Morgan's murder, as yet. It's a matter of time and patience." He shuffled in his seat, adjusting his collar.
"As to whether the other murders are connected, too, I still have my doubts. Perhaps we'll find out more at the scene we're about to attend. Did your men find out anything useful about the blue powder we found on Morgan's corpse, by the way?"
Bainbridge shook his head. "Not as yet. So far they haven't even been able to identify the powder itself, let alone the manufacturer, but they're aware of the importance of the matter. Some of them think it may have come over from China."
"Good. Make sure you tell me the minute you hear anything."
The men fell silent, both gazing out of the window at the sleepy city, both wishing they were still at home in their beds instead of rushing through the morning fog towards Whitechapel and another unhappy death.
After a few moments, Bainbridge looked up, catching Newbury's eye. "Oh, I received another invitation from Miss Felicity Johnson in yesterday's post, for a small gathering she's having on Tuesday evening. Did you find yourself invited to the same?"
Newbury tried to keep a serious face as he met the other man's eye. "I did not."
The two men faced each other across the cab. Bainbridge was first to give in, looking away in an attempt to stop himself from sniggering. By the time they reached the outskirts of Whitechapel the two men were roaring with laughter in the back of the cab, both of them finding the hilarity a welcome distraction from the more serious elements of their lives, and the knowledge that they were once again headed towards a scene of terror and death in one of the poorer parts of the city.
With a grinding of gears and a spluttering of the engine the cab rocked to a halt on the cobbled road alongside another, waiting vehicle. Bainbridge was first to jump out into the foggy morning, crossing the cobbles to the door of the other carriage. He rapped loudly before swinging the door open and stepping up into the cab. A moment later, as Newbury was arranging his hat by the curb side, he watched as Veronica emerged from the other vehicle, closely followed by the Chief Inspector.
Veronica crossed the street to stand beside him. "Good morning, sir. How are you?"
Newbury arched one eyebrow. "Capital. And you, my dear Miss Hobbes?"
"Perfectly well, thank you, Sir Maurice." Veronica smiled brightly. Newbury grinned. She gave no impression that her alcohol consumption the previous evening had affected her in any way.
Bainbridge approached them bearing three small oil lanterns, his cane tucked neatly underneath his left arm. He handed one of the lanterns to each of them, and then fiddled with the shutters on his own until the light was emanating in a warm halo all around it. It reflected back in the fog, giving it a strange, fuzzy glow, as if he were clutching a ball of light itself and not a lantern at all. He turned to the others. "Right. Turn these up like mine so we can keep an eye on each other as we walk. This blasted fog is so thick this morning that we run the risk of losing each other if we don't stick together." He looked from Veronica to Newbury and back again. "It wouldn't do to be losing either of you in the fog out here. We don't know what else might be lurking around the corner." His face was steely, determined. "I've told one of the cabs to get on its way, whilst the other waits for us here. We'll make our way to the scene of the murder, take a look to see if there's anything new to be deduced, and then be on our way, as quickly as we can. No use hanging around out here when there's a couple of men already in attendance by the body." He took his cane from under his arm. "Come on. One of them is waiting to show us the way." He set off, hugging the edge of the curb as he walked, in an effort to stay on track in the blinding fog. He was joined a moment later by a uniformed bobby who had been waiting around the other side of the cab. Newbury and Veronica followed behind them, their lanterns held up in the gloaming.