But time is a cruel mistress, and it was not until much years later that she would learn the truth: that there is no such thing as salvation, and escape is only ever an illusion conjured up by the hopeful.
CHAPTER 9
The Queen, Newbury considered, was looking decidedly unwell.
This in itself should have come as no surprise. Her Majesty was now living a mechanically assisted half-life, confined to a life-preserving wheelchair that wheezed and hissed and groaned as it pumped air into her lungs and fed nutrients and preservative fluids into her bloodstream. Large coils of tubing erupted brazenly from her chest, snaking away to the twin canisters mounted on the rear of the machine. Her now-useless legs were bound together around the calves and ankles, and a metal rod supported her partially collapsed spine. Newbury had even heard talk that Dr. Lucien Fabian, the man responsible for developing the remarkable equipment, had built and installed a clockwork heart in Victoria’s breast. He had no way of knowing if this was anything other than idle speculation, but it wouldn’t have surprised him to discover that the monarch was, in fact, as heartless as she seemed.
Whatever the case, it could never be said that the Queen looked well. But today, even in the gloom of the audience chamber, Newbury thought her flesh had taken on an even more sickly pallor than usual, and her breathing was sounding progressively more laboured. This, he presumed, was a consequence of Dr. Fabian’s recent death, which meant that the physician was no longer on call to tend to his charge or the maintenance of his machine.
Unknown to the Queen, Newbury himself had played a significant role in Fabian’s demise. Now, seeing the consequences of his actions, he felt a sharp pang of guilt. He let the emotion pass. The Queen did not deserve his pity. Her own machinations were what had led her to this point: her constant scheming, her emotionless exploitation of others, her unrelenting desire for immortality. She was the architect of her own downfall, and he refused to repent for the choices he had made. Even if they meant that her life-giving machines would fail and she would die.
He stood over her now, both of them caught in a globe of orange lantern light in the midst of an eternal sea of black. She looked up at him from her chair, a sickly smile on her lips. “You took your time, Newbury.”
He nodded, but didn’t reply. There was a reason he’d been ignoring her summons for weeks: He’d been unsure if he could face her following the events that had led to Fabian’s death. Upon arrival at the palace that morning, however, Sandford, the agent’s butler, had explained that, while Victoria did wish to speak with both Newbury and Bainbridge regarding the case in hand, she first desired an audience alone with Newbury. Thus he faced her alone, Bainbridge having been ordered to wait outside until he was beckoned.
The Queen spluttered into a handkerchief. “We trust you have finished with your little rebellion?”
Newbury swallowed. “I was … indisposed.”
Victoria laughed. “Yes, chasing the dragon at Johnny Chang’s. Do not think your movements have gone unnoticed, Newbury. If we had suspected it was anything other than a temporary aberration, we would not have indulged you for so long.”
Newbury smiled inwardly. He knew exactly who was watching him, and precisely what she had reported back to the monarch. Victoria wasn’t as informed as she liked to imagine. Clearly, the Queen had no reason to suspect the truth about what had happened at the Grayling Institute, or the fact that Newbury and Veronica had smuggled Amelia out of there alive.
“I am at your service, Your Majesty,” he said, diplomatically.
The Queen raised an eyebrow in haughty disapproval. “Do not attempt to dazzle us with platitudes, Newbury. You are an agent of the Crown. It should not be necessary to remind you that we tolerate your indiscretions and excesses only because it serves us to do so. There must be results as well.” She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “We fear for your position.” Her tone gave little away, but Newbury heard this for what it was: a thinly veiled threat.
“I understand, Your Majesty,” he said, cautiously.
“We sincerely hope that you do,” she replied, licking her dry lips and narrowing her dark, beady eyes. “Our summons are not to be dismissed lightly. Nor our patronage. It has limits.”
Newbury remained silent, listening to the wheezing grind of the breathing apparatus as they forcibly inflated and deflated the monarch’s lungs. The moment stretched. Finally, the Queen spoke. “Now, fetch the policeman. We have business to discuss.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, his tone level.
The policeman? Newbury considered this as he crossed the audience chamber towards the thin strip of light emanating from beneath the door, behind which Bainbridge was waiting. He wondered if the Queen had ever called Bainbridge that to his face. It was appallingly dismissive. But then, those were the games she played. It was her way of maintaining control, of establishing her position. She would undermine her subjects to remind them that, despite the fact that she was strapped immobile into a grotesque life support machine, she was the one who held all of the power in their relationship. It might once have been an effective strategy, even on Newbury, but he knew this woman for what she was, and he, too, understood the rules of the game. As did Veronica-perhaps more than most.
Bainbridge, on the other hand, still struggled to reconcile her behaviour with the innate respect he held for the woman’s position. He made allowances for her because she was the monarch, whereas Newbury did not think such allowances should be granted. If anything, he believed the monarch should uphold the values and integrity of the nation even more resolutely than her subjects, to lead them by example.
Bainbridge was waiting in the passageway, a respectful distance from the closed door, so as to make it clear he had not been eavesdropping on the conversation within the audience chamber. He was staring up at a portrait of the Tsar. Newbury was struck once again by the Russian monarch’s resemblance to Albert Edward. The royal family had connections all across Europe, forming an intricate web with Victoria at its heart, matriarch and dictator. That was what had struck Newbury about the Prince’s words of warning the previous day: If foreign agents were indeed swarming over London, wouldn’t it be at the will of the Prince’s relatives?
Bainbridge glanced over questioningly as Newbury stepped into the passageway.
Newbury gave the briefest of nods to indicate that all was well-or, at least, as well as could be expected. He beckoned Bainbridge forward.
Silently, Bainbridge joined him, limping a little without the aid of his stick. Newbury had rarely been to the palace alongside his friend, and always found it somewhat ungracious of the monarch to demand that the chief inspector leave his cane with Sandford. She was clearly growing more anxious about having anything in her presence that might be construed as a weapon.
At the sound of their footsteps, Victoria hoisted her lantern to shoulder height. Her sagging, pale face was cast in harsh relief, taking on a ghostly aspect in the gloom.
“Ghost” is right, thought Newbury. This once-great woman had been reduced to a shadow, trapped in the interstitial place between life and death. She went about her days in this miserable darkness, refusing to let go, refusing to relinquish her ever-tightening grip on the Empire. The Prince of Wales was right to question her validity as ruler.
“Come closer,” she said. Newbury and Bainbridge approached, their footsteps echoing into the black void that surrounded them.
“What progress has there been in your investigation, Sir Charles?” she asked.