The Immorality Engine by Mann George

Author:Mann, George [Mann, George]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Tor Books
Published: 2011-09-26T14:00:00+00:00

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.

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