CHAPTER1
Bedlam.
If the dominion of Hell had ever found a footing on Earth, it was here, confined within the towering walls of this palatial edifice. Here, where the warren-like corridors and treatment rooms echoed with the screams of the lost. This, Bainbridge knew, was a repository of nightmares, a storehouse of all the worst horrors that afflicted the Empire. This was where the very worst criminals were sent to live out their days, to become objects of scientific study; observed, restrained, and experimented upon. Here, people went to become less than human, to disappear.
And they had the gall to call it a hospital.
Bainbridge stood in the courtyard, peering up at the foreboding building, while the carriage driver and the attendant nurse unloaded their passenger into a wheelchair behind him. Huge Tesla coils, affixed to the roof either side of the central dome, sparked in the mizzling rain, crackling with arcing light, like a false dawn rising over the surrounding grounds. Light glowed in the serried rows of windows, and the distant echo of a wailing creature—man, woman, animal, Bainbridge could not tell—caused the hairs to prickle at the nape of his neck.
“Come on, hurry it along,” he said, turning to the nurse, who fussed over the slack-mouthed man in the wheelchair as she tucked a blanket across his lap. The patient was wearing a vacant expression, a bowler hat pulled low on his brow, obscuring much of his appearance from view.
“Yes, sir,” said the woman. “We’ll be with you momentarily.”
Bainbridge nodded, then turned his attention to the porticoed entrance. There were two porters loitering beside one of the columns, watching them with interest. Bainbridge raised the head of his cane in a gesture of greeting. The man on the left flashed a toothy grin by way of reply.
“We’re ready, sir,” said the nurse from behind him.
“Very good,” said Bainbridge. He glanced at the driver, who was clambering up the slick side of the carriage to his dickey box. His hair was plastered to his face. “Driver—wait for us around the back. I don’t anticipate this is going to take very long.”
“Aye, sir,” acknowledged the driver, cranking a lever. The vehicle’s engine sputtered, and a spume of black smoke erupted from the spout of the exhaust vent. A few seconds later the carriage rolled into motion, its engine chugging noisily as it trundled away into the night.
“Come on, let’s get out of this rain.” He headed for the entrance, the nurse pushing her charge alongside him, wheels stirring the wet gravel.
The porters—two men dressed in black suits and white shirts with open collars—eyed them curiously as they neared. “Evening, guv’nor,” called the one on the left, the one who had smiled at him. “Got another one for us, have you?”
“Something like that,” muttered Bainbridge. He’d visited the hospital on numerous occasions over the years—never by choice—and knew it was likely he’d be recognised. In fact, he was counting on it. “I’m here to speak with Dr. Warrender.”
The other porter was a swarthy-looking man with a scraggly black beard, who shifted from one foot to the other. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”
Bainbridge bristled. His moustache twitched in annoyance. “I don’t need an appointment,” he said, his voice stern. “You know who I am. And if you don’t, you should.” He paused, looking from one porter to the other. “This is Her Majesty’s business. If Warrender knows what’s good for him, he’ll see me.”
The swarthy-looking porter swallowed. “Of course, Sir Charles. Let’s start by getting you out of this rain.” He took a step forward, flinching as one of the Tesla coils above emitted a violent discharge, splitting the sky with a thunderous clap. The man seemed to judder for a moment as the light flickered brightly and then died back, leaving him once more engulfed in the shadow of the building behind him. He reached the wheelchair and took the handles from the nurse, angling the chair towards the doorway. The other porter beckoned for them to follow him inside.
“Seems quiet, this one,” said the man pushing the chair, as they walked along the marble-floored passageway inside the door. The wheelchair’s wooden rims creaked with every revolution.
“Drugged,” said Bainbridge. “To keep him that way.” He removed his hat, brushing the raindrops onto the floor beside him as he walked.
“So, he’s a lively one, is he?”
“You could say that,” said Bainbridge. “But as I said, this is Her Majesty’s business.”
They lapsed into silence as they continued down the passage. Now, Bainbridge could hear the wailing for what it was—the pitiful screams of a confined prisoner, or patient, elsewhere in the building. Not for the first time, he wondered whether this whole endeavour was folly. Could they possibly hope that the man was still capable of being saved? Was it not already too late?
He supposed they didn’t really have much of a choice. The Queen had made her move, declaring the Secret Service a renegade organisation, marking all those associated with it as traitors. Assassins had been despatched to exterminate the agents, many of them Bainbridge’s personal friends. Everything he had helped to build was at risk.
So no, they had no choice. Their hand had been forced.
They rounded a corner, passing another knot of porters engaged in what appeared to be a deep conversation. They passed a series of closed white doors, behind which Bainbridge could discern muffled moaning and the crackle of applied electricity, presumably drawn from the Tesla coils above. At the end of the passageway they turned left, deeper into the bowels of the building. He tried to keep track of the way they had come, memorising the layout as they went. His cane clacked against the tiled floor to mark his passing.
Nothing about the place felt clinical, despite the rich tang of carbolic and the trailing cables looping along the architrave humming with barely contained power. It was closer, Bainbridge considered, to the lair of some madman—the habitat in which he’d expect to find someone such as Aubrey Knox, his former colleague who had spent years conducting secret, horrific experiments upon wastrels plucked from the slums. He’d seen places such as this too many times in the course of his investigations: the terrible workshops at the Grayling Institute, the caverns beneath Fairfax House, Knox’s laboratory in the sewers. The only difference here was that Bedlam, or Bethlehem Hospital as it was more properly known, had been sanctioned by the Queen. All of the procedures and experiments carried out here were done so at her pleasure. To what end, Bainbridge could only imagine.
Although in truth, he didn’t want to imagine. He knew now what she was capable of: experimenting on foundlings and medical patients in the vain hope of gleaning the means to preserve her ailing existence, ordering the murder of good men and women to protect her secrets, manipulating world powers to further her private agendas, and so much more besides. The thought made him nauseous. And now he had to look himself in the mirror every morning and know that he’d devoted decades of his life to upholding her nightmarish regime.
Well, no longer. Now, his sole purpose was to help to tear it down.
Presently, they came to a passageway where the corridor terminated abruptly in a set of polished mahogany doors. The man in the wheelchair was lolling forward, drool pooling on the lapel of his jacket. The porter didn’t seem to have noticed. He drew the chair to an abrupt halt and the patient slumped forward, almost toppling out upon the tiles.
“Careful!” snapped the nurse, coming around to straighten her semi-conscious patient, pushing him back into his seat.
The porter sighed and looked away, muttering something beneath his breath. Bainbridge wondered how someone could become so desensitised to the suffering of others that they ceased affording them even common courtesy. Perhaps, he considered, it was a prerequisite for a job like this.
“Carry on, carry on.”
The other porter flashed his toothy grin once again and turned to rap loudly on the door.
A voice sounded from within; hoarse, weary. “Come.”
The hinges creaked as the porter shoved the door open and ushered them to step inside. The nurse, her expression sour, bustled the swarthy porter away from the wheelchair and took hold of the handles, her knuckles whitening as he issued another mumbled curse.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Bainbridge, his voice low and even. “That’ll be all.”
“But—” started the talkative one. Bainbridge silenced him with a raised finger.
“We’ll send for you, should we be in need of any assistance.”
The man nodded, clearly put out, but then turned and punched his colleague lightly on the shoulder before starting back the way they had come. “Come on. It’s almost time for our tea break.”
Bainbridge watched them go. Then, drawing a deep breath, he indicated for the nurse to carry on. Tight-lipped, she rolled the wheelchair ahead of her into the room. He followed behind, allowing the door to swing shut in his wake.
Here, the light of the Tesla-coils spat and sparked overhead, visible through the greasy panes of a long skylight that ran most of the length of the room. They appeared to be the only source of light, causing the entire room to strobe in and out of existence like it was trying to drag itself free of some inky, half-remembered dream. It was a cavernous space, given over to an office-cum-workshop. A large wooden desk had been placed at the far end, facing the door, with several dull portraits of austere-looking men peering down at them from the walls. To the left stood a marble-topped table that reminded Bainbridge, disturbingly, of a mortuary slab, and behind it, a wall lined with bookcases and shelves. Medical equipment, vials and stills littered a wooden workbench closer to the door. On the right, two mismatched sofas and an armchair sat before a small hearth, and upon one of these sat Dr. Warrender, the man responsible for this grotesque establishment, and the man whom Bainbridge had come here to see.
“Warrender.”
The doctor looked up at the sound of his name, his quizzical expression turning to anger as his eyes narrowed in recognition. The crackle of the electrical discharge overhead cast his lined face in a sinister aspect, half absorbed in shadow. He was smoking a cigarette.
“Bainbridge.” Warrender almost spat the word. He pushed himself up from the sofa, tossing aside a sheaf of papers he’d been studying. The tip of his cigarette glowed like embers in the gloom. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Chief Inspector?”
Bainbridge cleared his throat. “I’ve brought you another of her rejects.”
Warrender approached, frowning. “I’ve had no such communication from the palace.”
Bainbridge shrugged. “Just following orders.”
“Yes, you’re good at that,” sneered Warrender. “Or so I hear. What was it she called you? ‘A useful little tool, once, but blunted now by overuse.’ I’d always thought there was never much point to you.” He smiled at his own joke. “No wonder she’s got you playing errand boy.”
“Better that than being knee deep in the Royal shit,” said Bainbridge. “I don’t envy you that, or whatever else it is you’re forced to do to keep her breathing.”
Warrender scowled, then turned to regard the patient, still lolling in the wheelchair. “Who is he, anyway?” he snapped.
Bainbridge shrugged. “Like I said, just following orders. Presumably some minor noble who can’t just disappear like the rest of them. Or an agent who’s rubbed her up the wrong way. Someone who’ll no doubt find himself sedated in one of your cells and left to go slowly insane.”
“Then he’ll fit right in,” said Warrender. He took a long draw on his cigarette; let it out. He studied Bainbridge for a moment. “All right. Leave him with me. I’ll keep him sedated overnight and seek word from the palace in the morning.” He shrugged. “Worst case is I end up with another subject for my latest project.”
“Then we’ll be on our way. Nurse?”
“Yes, Sir Charles.”
Warrender laughed as Bainbridge turned his back. “I must say, Bainbridge, you’ve really brightened my evening.” The Tesla coils crackled loudly overhead. “I always had you marked for a pompous fool, and to see you reduced to this … well, it warms my heart.”
Bainbridge’s shoulders dropped. He levelled his breathing but didn’t turn around. “Warrender?”
“Yes?”
“I just want you to know that I’m going to enjoy this.”
“Wha—”
Bainbridge’s cane hit the floor as he pivoted, throwing his weight behind the movement. His fist came up and around, bunched hard, and struck Warrender beneath the chin, slamming the man’s head back so that his teeth clattered loudly as he went down. The doctor didn’t have time to register the shock—he was unconscious before he hit the ground. He flopped onto his back and was still, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Bainbridge shook his hand, flexing his fingers. “Ow,” he said.
“Well, he went down easier than I expected,” said the nurse.
“Glass jaw,” murmured the patient in the wheelchair.
“Glass jaw my eye,” muttered Bainbridge. “It was the quality of the uppercut that did it.”
“If you say so, Charles.”
The nurse laughed.
Shaking his head, Bainbridge pointed at the unconscious doctor. “Well, come on then, Miss Hobbes. We haven’t got all night. Search out his ruddy keys!”
Sighing, Veronica Hobbes turned to her patient. “And don’t you think you can sit there laughing, either,” she said. “Get out of that contrivance and give me a hand.”
With a chuckle, the patient shook off his shawl and tossed his hat across the room, before pushing himself up out of the chair. He smoothed the front of his jacket, brushing the last vestiges of drool from his lapel. “A terribly undignified means of gaining entry, that,” he said.
“Getting in was the easy bit, Newbury,” said Bainbridge. “It’s getting out that’s going to be the real challenge.”
Newbury grinned, crossing to Warrender’s desk to begin searching the drawers. “Nonsense, Charles. With an uppercut like that, you’ll have us out in no time.”
Copyright © 2022 by George Mann
