As it transpired, he didn’t have the opportunity to find out. The two guards marched him around a bend in the main tunnel before coming to an abrupt stop in front of a heavy wooden door. One of them slid open a small panel in the door and peered inside. “Stay back,” he barked at the occupant, whom Newbury assumed to be Veronica. He was proved right a moment later when he was unceremoniously shoved inside with her, a sword at his back. The door slammed shut again, and he heard the key scrape in the lock.
Newbury glanced around. They were alone in near darkness, no light but what seeped in through the gap beneath the door. Newbury rushed over to Veronica, who was sitting huddled on the ground, her knees pulled up beneath her chin. “Veronica! Did they hurt you? Are you alright?”
She nodded and looked up at him. “I’m alright, Maurice. Is there any news of Sir Charles?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Let’s hope. He’s a resourceful old fellow.” He coughed.
“Did you get anywhere with Graves?”
Newbury dropped to the floor beside her, resting his back against the wall. It was uncomfortable and cold. He couldn’t stop shivering. “Yes. He asked me to join them.”
“He what?” Veronica was astounded. “I hope you told him you’d do no such thing!”
“Of course I did.” Newbury sighed. “But there’s more. They’re the ones behind the attack on the Queen. They’re gearing up for an assault on the palace.”
“My God,” Veronica said. “And have they got anything to do with what’s going on at the Grayling Institute?”
Newbury shook his head. “As far as I can ascertain, they know nothing about Fabian’s current… experiments. It seems that Fabian might have learned about the duplication technology from a man here, Warrander, and adapted it for use at the Grayling Institute. The Bastion Society isn’t interested in creating living copies of themselves; that would go against everything they believe in. But Fabian has no such qualms.”
Veronica bristled. “Then it’s down to the Queen. It has to be. She’s behind it, Newbury. I know she is.”
Newbury wanted to challenge her on that, wanted to ask her how she could be so sure, but he suddenly couldn’t speak. He was shaking. Sweat was trickling down his face. He ran his hands through his hair, loosened his collar. His skin was crawling, alive with sensation. “We have to get out of here,” he said.
Veronica turned to face him, concern in her eyes. “What’s the matter? What have they done to you?” She altered her position, kneeling before him, cupping his face in her hands. “Oh, Maurice,” she said, realising.
“I’m sorry,” was all he could muster. “I’m so sorry… the weed.”
He closed his eyes. Veronica clutched him to her, holding him gently as he shook. He longed for unconsciousness. More than anything, though, he longed for the brown bottle of laudanum with the peeling label he kept in his study, for the cosy oblivion it would bring.
CHAPTER
20
Bainbridge woke slowly, consciousness returning in stuttering explosions of light and sound: a fragment of a woman’s voice, a bright light, the scent of burning wood, the kiss of raindrops upon his cheeks. It hurt to breathe. In fact, simply existing seemed to be enough to cause him pain. Every fibre of his body ached. He was cold and wet, and he couldn’t feel his left arm.
His eyelids fluttered open. He was lying on his back. Above him there was only the vastness of the slate grey sky, obscured by a shimmering cascade of raindrops that glimmered in the light of a nearby streetlamp. To his left, a curling trail of black, oily smoke rose in a stark column. The cobbles were hard and cold beneath his head.
Slowly, he dragged himself up into a sitting position. He reached for his cane. It wasn’t there. He looked around in confusion. Then the memories snapped back into place. The hansom. The explosions. The two men who’d attacked him. He’d left his cane buried in the guts of one of them.
What had the man said to him as he’d sprawled on the ground spitting blood? “With the compliments of Enoch Graves.” The Bastion Society. Of course. First they had made an attempt on Miss Hobbes’s life, and now they’d come after him.
He had to hurry. He had to get to Newbury, to stop his friend from walking into a lion’s den… if it wasn’t already too late. He had no idea of the time, no sense of how long he’d been out cold. All he knew was that he was soaked through to the bone, and that every inch of him throbbed with pain.
Well, almost every inch. He still couldn’t feel his left arm.
Bainbridge looked down. A ragged fragment of metal casing, about the size of his hand, was lodged in his upper arm, just below the shoulder. His jacket was soaked in blood around the wound, but thankfully, it no longer seemed to be bleeding. The fabric was scorched and smouldering as a result of the fiery blast. Absently he wondered how long he must have lain there in the rain.
Then his sensation returned, and Bainbridge howled as his shoulder ignited in pain. He thought he was going to swoon again, but he steadied himself with his other hand and managed to retain consciousness. He heard footsteps and voices, almost drowned out by the patter of the rain. Did the other attacker survive the explosion? Was he coming to finish him off? Bainbridge didn’t have any more fight left in him.
Groggily he raised his head and looked up. A man and a woman were rushing towards him, concerned expressions on their faces. Behind them he could see the shattered remains of the hansom, still blazing, even in the pounding rain. The force of the explosion must have thrown him back at least fifteen feet, if not more. Other people were milling about, too, their faces twisted in appalled shock as they caught sight of the ruined carcasses of the horses and the exploded remnants of the three men. Bainbridge realised with a grim satisfaction that the surviving attacker must have been killed by the blast of his own weapon.
To his left he heard someone shouting and cursing. He glanced over. The shopkeeper.
Bainbridge tried to stand, but his legs were like jelly, and he collapsed back to the ground just as the two civilians arrived at his side. The man-dressed in an overcoat and wide-brimmed hat, his face mostly hidden in shadow-wrapped his arms around Bainbridge and propped him up, helping him to stand. Bainbridge leaned heavily on the man, panting for breath.
“… the explosion and came running.” Bainbridge realised the woman had been talking to him in urgent tones. He turned to look at her. She was the spitting image of Isobel. He staggered back and the man caught him, taking his weight. He looked again. It was more than just a passing similarity; she resembled his late wife so closely that Bainbridge felt his heart leap. He blinked, wondering if his mind was still addled from the explosion. No, it was true. This young, pretty woman looked just like the girl he remembered from all those years ago. Her face was framed in a bob of flaming red hair, the bridge of her nose dusted with freckles. Her eyes were the sharpest blue. Bainbridge smiled and tried to focus on what she had to say. “… dead. How did you get away?”
Bainbridge tried to speak but his mouth was gummed shut with blood. He swallowed and it stuck in his throat. For a minute he thought he was going to retch, but then he found his voice. “Scotland Yard,” he said. His words sounded slurred and unfamiliar, even to him.
“Scotland Yard?” the man echoed. “Yes, they’re on their way. We sent for them.”
Bainbridge shook his head. He tried to reach into his jacket pocket for his papers, but the lancing pain in his shoulder was too much to bear, and he fumbled ineffectually. “No,” he said, finally. “ I’m from Scotland Yard. Charles… Bainbridge.” The last word was hissed out between clenched teeth.