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he’s come up against that sort of thing and won.”
Veronica raised her eyebrows.
    “A story for another time, perhaps.” He stood, pulling on his gloves.
    Veronica placed her cup back on the saucer. “One last question before we take our leave. May I ask why this crash is deemed so important to the Crown?”
    Newbury paused for a moment, as if deciding how much he should disclose to this woman, who—despite her only having been in his employ for a matter of weeks—he was already beginning to trust with his life.
    Veronica took his lengthy pause as a sign of his disapproval. She flushed red. “Oh, please forgive me! Have I overstepped the mark?” She stood, nearly knocking her cup and saucer over as she banged awkwardly against the edge of his desk.
    Newbury waved her to sit down again. “No, not at all, Miss Hobbes. The truth of the matter is simple: I don’t know. I’ll admit I’m finding that question peculiarly frustrating. I can see no obvious connection between the affairs of the monarchy and the disaster that became of The Lady Armitage, Not only that, but the Whitechapel case is more definitely within my area of expertise.” He sighed. “Nevertheless, one must do one’s duty. And I must admit I’m rather intrigued by this whole automaton business.” He held the door open for Veronica and ushered her through.
    Miss Coulthard was sitting at her desk, the nib of her pen scratching noisily as she attempted to transcribe one of Newbury’s recent academic papers for the museum archives. He shook his head as he collected his coat. “Miss Coulthard? Did you manage to have my letter sent to Scotland Yard as I instructed?”
“Yes, Sir Maurice. I sent it by cab as you requested.”
“Very good. Then I must ask you what you’re still doing here,
    scratching out one of my illegible essays when you should be at home, awaiting news of your brother?” He smiled warmly.
    “Well, sir, this document was supposed to be completed for filing yesterday. I was concerned about getting behind in my work.”
    “Poppycock! Now, Miss Hobbes and I will be gone for the rest of the day, so I dare suggest you won’t be missed. Go on, be off with you. I shan’t take my own cab until I’m convinced you’re well away from this place.”
    “Thank you, sir. I won’t forget your kindness.” She placed her pen carefully back in the drawer and fumbled with her papers.
    A moment later, when Miss Coulthard had collected her belongings, the three of them left together, locking the door to the office behind them.
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Seven
     
 
    From the Chelsea Bridge the airship works were clearly visible in the morning light as a series of immense, red-brick hangers, squat beside the shimmering Thames, fumes rising like smoke signals from a row of tall, broad chimneys. Steam hissed from outlet pipes in great, white plumes, whilst water gushed back into the river in a deluge of brown sludge. Huge airships were tethered to the roofs of the hangers, reminiscent of a row of children’s balloons, bobbing languorously in the breeze.
    Newbury looked out over the river. Ships and boats of all shapes and sizes drifted lazily along the shipping lanes, dipping gently with the ebb and flow of the water. It was busy, thick with the detritus of industry. It was noisy, too; horns blaring and gulls chattering over the constant clatter of horses’ hooves as they rolled over the bridge towards their destination. He caught sight of one ship to which the others were giving a wide berth. He studied it for a moment through the window. Large red crosses had been painted on the sides of the hull and the flag had been lowered to half-mast. He guessed it was a plague ship, carrying the corpses of the dead out to sea, where they would likely be dumped, unceremoniously, into the water. He knew from his discussions with Bainbridge that the corpses of plague victims had been turning up all over the city, particularly in the slums, where the people