The Affinity Bridge Read Free Page A

his hat. “Well? To the White Friar’s?”
    Bainbridge shook his head. “Not tonight, old friend. You’ve given me much to think about, and I must say that that pudding of Miss Johnson’s is sitting rather heavily on me now. Don’t have quite the constitution I used to.”
    Newbury smiled. “You’ll hear no argument from me.” He held out his hand and the other man grasped it firmly. “Let me know if there are any further developments in the case. In the meantime, I bid you well and good night.” He turned and made off in the direction of the White Friar’s Club, gazing up at the sky in wonder at the vapour trails left in the wake of the passing airship.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Two
     
    Newbury leaned back in his chair and, with a sigh, spread his morning copy of The Times out before him on the desk. After retiring from the White Friar’s Club the previous evening he’d found he was unable to sleep. Nonetheless, with the coming of the dawn he had risen, dressed and caught a cab across the city from his Chelsea lodgings to his office at the British Museum. He had little doubt that his housekeeper, Mrs. Bradshaw, would curse him colourfully in her delightful Scottish tones for failing—yet again—to inform her of his plans, but he also knew that she was growing used to his unpredictable comings-and-goings, even if she feigned exasperation to his face.
    Outside, the sun was settling over the city and the streets were gradually coming to life as people set about their daily business. Soon the museum would be bustling with his fellow academics and, not long after, with members of the public, come to gaze in awe and wonder at the treasures on display in the gaudy exhibits. Newbury had been an agent of the Queen for nearly four years, and whilst he was typically engaged in some case or other—whether helping Scotland Yard or left to his own devices—he continued to maintain a position at the museum all the same. He was an experienced anthropologist, with a particular speciality in the religion and supernatural practices of prehistoric human cultures, and he often found his academic work had resonance with his work in the field. At present he was engaged in writing a paper on the ritualistic practices of the druidic tribes of Bronze Age Europe. He’d hardly found time to touch it for a week, however, what with the string of bizarre strangulations occurring around Whitechapel and his desire to aid his old friend, Bainbridge, in the hunt for the killer. Discovering that the culprit may have supernatural origins had only solidified his resolve to see the case through to the end, and what’s more, the revelation put the case firmly and directly into his specific area of expertise. Since briefing the Queen with a missive the previous day, any time he spent aiding Bainbridge with his investigations was now considered official business.
    Newbury yawned. It was still early, and his secretary had yet to arrive at the office. He was anxious for a cup of tea. He regarded the newspaper before him, paying no real attention to the article he’d been trying to follow, which concerned a politician involved in some lurid financial scandal. He was dressed in a neat black suit, a white shirt and crimson cravat. His hair was dark—the very colour of night itself—and swept back from his face, and he was clean shaven. His eyes were a startling, emerald green. A casual observer would have placed him in his early thirties, but in truth he was approaching his fortieth year. He looked up at the sound of someone bustling into the adjoining room, and called out. “Good morning, Miss Coulthard. I’d like a pot of tea when you’re settled, please.” He returned, distractedly, to his reading.
    A moment later there was a brief rap at his door. He didn’t look up from his newspaper when the door itself swung open and someone crossed into the room. “Thank you, Miss Coulthard. I trust you are well?”
    The woman