Outside, the fog was still thick and cloying, a yellow, tubercular cloud that sat heavy over the city, a shroud over the populace and a haven for the creeping things of the dark. Veronica watched through the window, seeing only the impression of grandiose buildings looming out of the smog, or the occasional vehicle flitting by on the road, its passengers hidden behind darkened windows or wreaths of smoky fog. Gas lamps flickered in the damp air, a network of disembodied halos that lined the edges of the streets. Underlit carriages rode on a carpet of rolling fog. It was mid-morning, but it seemed to Veronica as if the day had somehow stalled, the sunlight replaced by a remarkable twilight that appeared to have descended all across the city. She looked up, presuming that the regular slew of airships that filled the skies these days had been grounded temporarily by the impenetrable weather, or else they had risen up above the smog to where the skies were clear and free of city air. She glanced at Newbury, but his face seemed suddenly serious. She folded her hands on her lap and waited.
Presently, as they raced towards Whitechapel and the scene of the murder, the fog became gradually less dense and the buildings closed in, the streets becoming narrower, the towering mansions and sweeping terraces of Bloomsbury giving way to less monumental structures and more factories, breaker's yards and public houses. Veronica drew the curtain across the window inside the cab and Newbury raised an eyebrow in her direction, evidently interested to know what had spooked her. She pretended not to notice.
A short while later the cab juddered to a halt and the driver clambered down from his perch and opened the door for the two passengers. The engine was still running, and outside, the noise of it was even more intense. It sounded like some great industrial machine, churning out clouds of steam and soot into the already bleak morning.
Newbury made good on the fare and no sooner had he climbed down from the carriage than Bainbridge was at his side, leaning on his cane, his overcoat pulled tight around his wiry frame. He looked like he'd been here for a while already.
"Ah, good, Newbury. We can press on." He paused for a moment at the sight of Veronica, unsure how to go on. He inclined his head politely. "Good morning, Miss Hobbes."
He turned to Newbury. "Can I have a word?"
Newbury smiled. "Indeed." They moved to one side.
"My dear fellow, do you think it's a good idea to bring a lady to a scene such as this? She could find it terribly alarming."
Newbury chuckled. "Charles, I may only have known the girl for a few weeks myself, but already I know better than to exclude her." He smiled. "Trust me, Veronica can look after herself."
Charles shook his head, as if dismayed at what the modern world was coming to. "So be it." He sighed. "Come on, this way."
He led them on to where the body was laying, sprawled out on the cobbles like a broken doll, its neck contorted into an awkward posture, the face a picture of anguish and pain. Surrounding the scene were three constables, their hands clasped firmly behind their backs, each of them keeping a wary eye on the surrounding fog and what it may or may not be hiding from view.
"Any witnesses?"
"No."
Newbury knelt closer to examine the body. The man was dressed in pauper's clothes, dirty from the workhouse, with black filings underneath the fingernails. He was clean-shaven and appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Newbury turned him over, gently, examining the soft flesh around the throat, probing with his gloved fingers. He looked up at Bainbridge, who was standing over them, watching intently. "The neck's been broken, but the cause of death is definitely strangulation. Look at these marks here, here and here." He indicated with his hand. "This bruising suggests the victim was grabbed forcefully around the throat and struggled somewhat before finally being despatched. There's nothing of the perpetrator left at the scene, but it certainly matches the profile of the other killings."
Veronica cleared her throat. "Has he been robbed?"
Both of the men turned to look at her in surprise. "Good question, Miss Hobbes. Let me check." Newbury fished around in the dead man's pockets for a moment, before withdrawing a small leather wallet from inside the man's waistcoat. He opened it up. Inside was a smattering of low denomination coins.
"He had little enough about him, but whoever-or whatever-killed him clearly wasn't interested in making a profit."
Bainbridge tapped his cane thoughtfully against the cobbles. "So what did they have to gain?" The frustration was clearly evident in his voice. "Are they just killing people for the hell of it?"
Newbury stood, handing the wallet to Bainbridge. "No, I doubt that very much. There has to be a motive here somewhere. We just can't see what it is, as yet."
"Well I hope one of us starts seeing it soon. This is the seventh victim this month. Things are getting out of hand. I'm going before Her Majesty this afternoon and, currently, all I have to tell her is that the body count keeps getting higher!"
Newbury looked pained for his friend. "Look, I'm making some progress with my research that could suggest a couple of avenues for your men to investigate. Why don't you call on me later at the office and I can talk you through it? Right now, I think it best that you get that cadaver moved to the local morgue and have the surgeon begin the post-mortem directly. A body lying around in the fog might be too much of a temptation for these 'revenant' creatures to bear." He glanced around at the nearest constable who was shuffling uncomfortably on the spot.
Bainbridge shrugged. "Yes, yes, you're quite right." He turned to the constable on his right, waving his cane. "You, man. Go and organise some transport to get this body moved." The other man hesitated, as if he were about to protest. Bainbridge was having none of it. "Well, go on then!" The constable scuttled off into the fog. Bainbridge turned back to Newbury and Veronica. "I'd better go with them, make sure the surgeon gets the correct instructions. Can you find your own way back?"
Veronica nodded. "Of course we can, Sir Charles. But first, would you object terribly if I put a few questions to your men?" She moved over to stand beside Newbury.
Bainbridge looked confused, but assented readily. "No, no, my dear. Anything at all if you think it may prove useful in helping to solve the case."
Veronica nodded appreciatively, and then edged her way around the body and approached one of the remaining two constables.
"Good morning, ma'am." He looked vaguely uncomfortable; it the thought of being questioned by a woman.
"Good morning, Constable…?"
"Pratt, ma'am."
"Good morning, Constable Pratt. I'm in need of some assistance. You see, my colleagues over there are labouring under the impression that I'm fully up-to-date with all the minutiae of this murder inquiry, but, as I'm relatively new to the job, I seem to be missing some of the pertinent facts. I was hoping you could help me out of my predicament?"
"Certainly, ma'am. Where would you like me to begin?"
Veronica feigned ignorance. "Well, we could start with the victims. How many are there now?"
Pratt hesitated before going on. "Well ma'am, there are seven official victims, all of them strangled to death and abandoned in the street, just like this one. All from the same area of the city."
"Official victims?"
"Yes ma'am. Folk around here are saying there's actually around three times that number, if not more. Sometimes the families come and move the bodies before the police happen upon them, other times the corpses are stripped and robbed and end up floating down the river."
"And what of witnesses?"
"People aren't too forthcoming, ma'am. They're attributing these killings to a phantom, the glowing policeman. Talk like that makes them clam up good and proper when a man in uniform comes knocking on their door. Not only that, but people are scared to come out at night. On one hand they're worried about the murderer, on the other about the revenants that are walking the streets at night, hiding in the gutters like animals. Places like this, they ain't safe, ma'am. People keep themselves to themselves."