The Immorality Engine (Newbury & Hobbes Investigation) Read online

  Yet Fabian couldn’t stop, couldn’t prevent himself from pushing further, from testing the boundaries, from experimenting on the girl. He needed to know what made her tick, just like the clockwork heart in Victoria’s chest. He needed to understand it. And he would not let go of the matter until he did.

  Fabian realised the Queen was waiting for him to respond. “The prophecies remain the same, Your Majesty. Each and every one of them, no matter what I do, how many of them I create … the same thing, over and over. They talk of destruction, the engines of war. They talk of fire and death, of the tearing down of a great house. They talk of chaos and despair.…” He trailed off.

  Victoria nodded. “Our enemies move against us, Fabian. The intruder was just a warning. There is more to come. These prophecies—we believe they talk of the destruction of this palace, of our death. They must be prevented from coming true, at any cost.”

  “What shall we do, Majesty?”

  “The Royal Engineers have fortified the palace. The guard has been doubled. Scotland Yard is at our beck and call. We are resolute and impenetrable. A fortress. We are England, Doctor, and we shall not fall.” Victoria raised a hand to her mouth to wipe away the bloody spittle. “It has been most useful to have our suspicions confirmed by the Hobbes girl. Most useful indeed. We shall be ready for them when they come. We see great need of the girl’s talents in the dark times ahead.”

  If she survives that long, Fabian thought. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger. He was sweating again. He didn’t doubt the Queen’s words—she would be ready for the upstarts, and she would smite them with all the strength of a colossus for their impudence. But who would dare to go against the Queen? Who would be so foolish as to storm the palace? And what did they hope to achieve?

  Victoria gave another racking cough, and Fabian saw her hand go to her mouth, saw blood dribbling through her fingers. He rushed forward, handing her a handkerchief to mop it away. “Majesty—you are not well. Allow me to assist you.”

  Victoria waved him away with a low moan. He stepped back and realised that she was laughing. “We have not been well for a very long time, Dr. Fabian. A very long time indeed.” She spluttered again into the bundle of silk in her fist. “Leave us now. Go back to your little laboratory and continue with our experiments.” She turned away from him, wheezing and choking as she eased her chair away into the gloom.

  Fabian seethed. How dare she dismiss him in such a fashion!

  He stood, watching her retreat into the darkness at the rear of the audience chamber. For a moment, he felt a flash of empathy for whoever it was who was plotting her downfall. Let them come. Let them tear down the palace, brick by brick. Let them shatter her Empire and leave it crumbling in the dust.

  Red faced and furious, he stormed from the room.

  CHAPTER

  17

  The hansom cab trundled along in the darkness, its wooden-rimmed wheels groaning in protest as it bounced over the uneven cobbles. A solitary lamp hung like a droplet of light from a curved brass arm at the front of the cab, and the driver hunched against the rain on his dickie box, wrapped in a thick woollen coat.

  Inside, Charles Bainbridge was feeling weary and old. He’d been operating on nervous energy all day, what with launching a high-profile investigation, organizing a security detail for the palace, and liaising with the Queen’s Guard. He’d barely had time to stop and think. He’d also spent another part of the afternoon at the morgue—his third visit in as many days. He was growing strangely accustomed to the place. This time, however, he’d had the unfortunate experience of standing over a police surgeon—or, more accurately, butcher—while he performed an autopsy on the body they had recovered from the palace.

  Aside from the long steel bolt in his chest, the man had been young, fit, and perfectly healthy. As the Queen had already noted, he was clean and well kempt, and had the air of affluence about him. He had close-cropped sand-coloured hair, olive green eyes, and was wearing a fine suit from Savile Row. He wore expensive cologne and had a taste for Prussian cigarettes. Aside from these minimal facts, however, painstakingly determined from multiple examinations of the body, Bainbridge had absolutely nothing to go on. He didn’t even know where to start.

  Now Bainbridge was hurtling across town, returning to the palace for his second audience with the Queen that day. He hoped she would be satisfied with his endeavours. He suspected not.

  Bainbridge slumped in the back of the cab. It looked as if it was going to be a long night, to cap a long day. He wished he could instead fall asleep with a whiskey and a fat cigar, perhaps reading his paper before the fire. It had been too long since he’d been able to enjoy a night like that.

  He’d managed—just—to scratch out a quick note for Newbury, which he’d sent round to his friend’s Chelsea lodgings by courier. He wondered how Newbury and Miss Hobbes had got on at the Grayling Institute with Dr. Fabian. He hoped they weren’t planning any drastic measures without him; the gleam in Newbury’s eye when he’d talked about agitating the Bastion Society had been full of mischief, much like the Newbury of old. While that was encouraging, and indeed the result Bainbridge and Miss Hobbes had been aiming for, the chief inspector still worried that Newbury would end up putting them all in danger.

  He was still concerned for Newbury’s health—and not only that, but for his mental state, too. Even with the best of motives, if he were addled by the Chinese weed, Newbury might go charging on ahead without due consideration. And Miss Hobbes, Bainbridge knew, would unthinkingly put herself at risk on Newbury’s behalf, simply by virtue of the fact that she was so desperately enamoured with him. He wished he could be at their side, offering a steadying hand. But duty called.

  Bainbridge thought back over the events of the day. He still couldn’t quite believe the scenario the Queen had outlined for him that morning. Could she really be right? Would someone be daring enough, or foolish enough, to launch an all-out attack on the palace? Who had the means? Why should the perpetrators send a message in the form of a nameless assassin? And why was the Queen so adamant it was going to happen? What did she know that she wasn’t telling him?

  To Bainbridge, it all seemed somewhat unlikely. There were too many unanswered questions. He remained unconvinced that the whole incident had been anything but the ill-conceived strategy of a chancer. Perhaps the intruder had simply wanted to get his name in the history books?

  No—that couldn’t be it. If that were true, he would have left them some clue as to his identity. So, what, then? He sighed. There was much to consider.

  Bainbridge was just about to reach for his cigar case when he felt a dull thud against the right-hand side of the hansom. He leaned forward, reaching for his cane so that he could rap on the roof and attract the driver’s attention, when the world suddenly shifted.

  There was a detonation like a thunderclap. The hansom bucked and rocked dramatically onto two wheels, careening along the road for a few seconds before slamming down hard onto its side with a loud, splintering crack. The horses, startled, tried to bolt, dragging the broken carriage across the ground with a tortured screech. They neighed and whinnied in fright as they tried desperately to escape.

  Amid the chaos, Bainbridge had been thrown unceremoniously to the floor, badly gashing his head above the left temple. Blood was running freely down his face. His knee had also been jarred in the fall, and he knew he’d badly bruised his right arm. He lay in a crumpled heap inside the broken frame of the cab, barely aware of what was happening, still clutching his cane.

  Thud. Thud.

  More explosives.

  Bainbridge, still groggy, but acting under the auspices of self-preservation, sprang into action. Wrenching himself up using the seats as leverage, he stood in the shattered confines of the overturned hansom. The horses were dragging the wreckage along behind them, making it almost impossible to maintain his balance. His left eye stung where blood from his head wound was seeping into it, blurring
his vision. But he knew he had to act.

  Bainbridge wedged his cane between the remnants of the seats and held on to it for all he was worth, bracing himself for another explosion. All the while, he was running through possible scenarios, trying desperately to conceive a means of escape.

  Woomph. The explosion came with a deafening roar. The cab juddered and shook, sliding haphazardly across the street and slamming into something solid—a building?—before finally coming to rest. Bainbridge called out as he grappled with his cane, finally losing his grip and rebounding painfully off the seat beside him, thrown back by the force of the detonation and the resulting impact. He lay there for a second while he regained his breath. Then, battered and shaken, he dragged himself back up onto his feet. His twisted knee screamed in pain as he tentatively put his weight on it.

  He had to get out, and fast. The only way out of the wreckage was up, through the right-hand door of the cab, which was now doubling as the ceiling. It would leave him wide open to attack, but he was trapped where he was, and to whoever was raining the explosives down on him, he was a sitting duck. It was only a matter of time.

  Bainbridge retrieved his cane, held it vertically before him with both hands and thrust it upwards with all his might, bashing at the buckled panel of the door. It rattled in its frame but didn’t give. He tried again, and then again, and then finally with a third attempt the lock smashed free.

  Climbing up onto the seats, Bainbridge scrambled towards the door, finding foot- and handholds wherever he could. With an almighty heave he managed to push it open, causing it to swing back on its broken hinges and clatter against the scorched side of the cab. He cautiously raised his head and peered out.

  Nothing. Nothing but darkness and the patter of raindrops against the cobbles. There was no sign of his attacker. How far had the horses dragged the carriage after the first explosion? He had no idea. He was utterly disorientated. He glanced over his shoulder. The sliding cab had ploughed into a shop front, shattering the windows and scattering fruit and vegetables haphazardly over the ground. Thick black smoke was curling into the air from the front of the hansom, where the second explosion had ripped the dickie box loose from its housing. There was no sign of the driver.

  Bainbridge pushed his cane out onto the side of the cab and then, using all the strength left in his upper body, he clasped the sides of the doorframe and wrenched himself out, dragging his legs behind him. He slid off the side of the vehicle to the slick cobbles below, stifling a cry of pain as he hit the ground. He wiped the blood from his eye with the edge of his sleeve, gasping for breath.

  Bainbridge didn’t recognise the street he was in, but wherever it was, the area appeared deserted. Around him, everything was still and silent other than the lone creaking of the hansom’s wheel, still turning languorously on its axle nearby.

  The peacefulness was shattered by a shrill, piercing whistle as something came hurtling out of the sky. This was followed by the dull thunk of metal striking the cobbles a few feet away from where he was standing. Another explosive round.

  Bainbridge didn’t wait to ascertain precisely where the thing had landed. He dived for cover behind the wrecked shell of the hansom, flinging himself around the rear end of the vehicle and tumbling to the floor between the ruined cab and the shattered front end of the building. With horror, he realised that his face was only inches away from the gruesome remains of the cabbie, whose body had been nearly obliterated by the explosions. His torso had been blown open, spilling his internal organs across the stones in a red slurry, and his legs were entirely missing. His skull had fractured across his left eye orbit, and blood was still seeping out into the street, pooling beneath the cascade of spilled apples that surrounded him like a bizarre tribute. What remained of his face was filthy with blood and soot. The splayed-open carcasses of the horses were within sight as well. He could make out the rib cage of one and the haunch of another. The sight and smell of it nauseated him.

  There was another almighty crack, as if the sky were splitting open. An incendiary device went up with a flash of light so bright Bainbridge wondered if he’d ever be able to see again.

  He was thrown back by the impact of the cab roof slamming into him as it was shoved by the force of the explosion. He hit the floor awkwardly, jarring his elbow.

  Rattled but still breathing, Bainbridge blinked desperately in an effort to regain his sight. He felt for his cane on the cobbles beside him. He found it, his fingers closing comfortingly around it. He might have use for it yet.

  Stay down, he thought. Let them think you’re dead. He tried to get his breathing under control, steadying his nerves as he waited for his vision to return.

  The silence resumed. There were no sounds other than the incessant patter of raindrops and the hissing crackle of wet wood and paintwork going up in flames, as the hansom went alight in the aftermath of the explosion. It took only moments for the whole thing to be engulfed, and Bainbridge felt the ferocity of the blaze from where he was lying on the ground only a few feet away.

  Then: footsteps, voices, getting closer. There were two of them. Both men. Bainbridge gripped his cane. He wasn’t about to go out like this. He lay back, feigning death, his eyes open only enough to tell when his assailants were near. The footsteps grew closer, but he still couldn’t see the men they belonged to.

  Not yet, Charles. Don’t show your hand.

  He waited until he could sense the two men standing over him.

  “I think he’s still breathing,” one of them said in a gruff voice.

  “Best finish him off, then,” replied the other. “Let’s toss him in the wreck of the cab. The flames’ll soon eat him up. It’ll make it harder for the police to identify him later.”

  One of the men poked Bainbridge in the side with his booted foot, and then stooped closer, looking for signs of life. Bainbridge could smell his sour breath. It was pungent with gin. This was not a man of distinction; more likely a hired ruffian.

  Just a moment. Just a moment longer …

  Bainbridge suddenly whipped his cane up and around, bringing it down heavily across the man’s skull, hard behind the ear.

  Bainbridge rolled, using his momentum to shove the collapsing body of his attacker hard to the left. The man crumpled to the cobbles, immediately unconscious. But Bainbridge wasn’t quick enough to get away from the other man’s boot, which struck him in the gut. Bainbridge sputtered and tried to roll out of the way, but another blow caught him across the jaw, and his head snapped round, his mouth filling with blood.

  Bainbridge kicked out, hard and low, his heel catching the other man in the knee and causing him to howl in agony and topple backwards. Bainbridge wasn’t sure if he’d managed to break his leg, but he’d done enough damage to give himself a few moments to scramble to his feet and appraise the situation. He spat blood. His jaw was throbbing and he thought a tooth might be loose. No matter. He could worry about that later, he hoped.

  His first attacker was still out cold, lying facedown wearing a cheap brown suit. Beside him was the bizarre weapon he had used to rain incendiary missiles down upon the hansom. It was a large brass cylinder with a padded shoulder harness and a crank on its side that was clearly the firing mechanism. There was a set of crosshairs on the side of the barrel and a second cylinder—a loading tube—fixed into the main body of the gun at a forty-five-degree angle. It was effectively a shoulder-mounted cannon, the ammunition propelled not by gunpowder but a hand-wound mechanism that flung the explosive devices through the air towards their target. It was a remarkable weapon, and Bainbridge hoped he’d never have to face one again. He considered trying to use it against the second man, now that his colleague was unconscious, but thought twice: He risked blowing himself up if he fired it incorrectly.

  For now, he needed to move before the second assailant reached him. Bainbridge decided to round on him, hoping to gain the upper hand. He adopted his old boxing stance, which had served him well through so many years and so many braw
ls. He hoped it would serve him well now, too; he felt battered, bruised, and utterly exhausted, but he knew he couldn’t outrun his opponent, so his only chance was to stand his ground.

  The other man was slowly regaining his composure, flexing his leg. He was a swarthy-looking fellow, a career criminal of the type Bainbridge had learned to spot a mile off. Well built, dressed in a stained suit at least a size too big for him—probably taken off the back of a corpse—he was hired muscle, paid to do a job without asking questions. This was a contract job.

  Bainbridge circled around his attacker, looking for an opening. He saw it a moment later and rushed in, jabbing at the man’s face. The other man sidestepped neatly, wincing in pain as he transferred his weight to his damaged knee. “You’ll pay for that, old man,” he barked.

  Bainbridge didn’t rise to the gibe. Instead, he came on again, three punches in quick succession, this time striking the man on the jaw. Bainbridge’s opponent reeled for a second, then rounded on him.

  A sweeping roundhouse punch caught him fast and hard in the side of the head. He stumbled, nearly tottering into the flaming hansom just to his right.

  Bainbridge tried to back away from the brute while he fought off his disorientation, but the other man was relentless, rushing forward to deliver another solid punch to the gut. Bainbridge tried to block him, but he was too slow. He doubled over, this time catching the man’s good knee in his face. Blood sprayed in a wide arc as his nose burst.

  “With the compliments of Sir Enoch Graves,” the man said, chuckling.

  Bainbridge slumped to the floor. Enoch Graves. So the Bastion Society was behind this.

  Baubles of light were dancing before his eyes. He struggled against the encroaching unconsciousness that threatened to overwhelm him. Darkness limned the edges of his vision. No! Not like this. I won’t go like this.

  Bainbridge felt around him, looking for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. Nothing. His fingers scraped against the wet cobbles. Where was his cane?