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comforting words. He paused, and then looked around, straining to see over the bustling crowds of people. “Come on; let’s see if Bainbridge is here yet.”
    Together, the two of them made their way around the cordon, looking for signs of the Chief Inspector. Newbury kept a hand on Veronica’s arm as they pushed their way through the press of locals, who had turned out in droves to see the spectacle of the downed ship. Newbury supposed he couldn’t blame them; for many it was a frightening near miss, with such a devastating explosion occurring so close to their homes. The vessel could have easily come down upon a row of terraced houses instead of the relative safety of the park. For others it was surely a unique opportunity to witness something that they would usually only read about in newspapers, a sensational spectacle to tell their grandchildren of in years to come. From a purely detached perspective—ignoring, for a moment, the human cost of the tragedy—history was unfolding before their eyes.
    They pressed on, fighting against the swarm of people in an attempt to find someone who looked like they were in charge. Moments later, they found who they were looking for.
    The police had set up a temporary base underneath a bandstand, just inside the cordon at the far end of the crash site. Wreaths of dark smoke still curled through the air, and here, the stench of the wreckage was even more intolerable than when they’d first arrived. Newbury tried not to imagine what was causing the diabolical smell. He made his way over to the cordon line and called to get the attention of one of the men stationed there.
“Hello? May I have some assistance here, please?”
    Two men in suits, deep in conversation, looked around to eye the newcomer. One of them flicked his wrist to a uniformed officer and the man came plodding over to where Newbury and Veronica were standing.
“Yes?”
    “I’m attempting to locate Sir Charles Bainbridge. Can you tell me; is he present at the site?”
    “No, sir. I don’t believe he is.” The other man looked irritated, as if anxious to get back to his post.
    “Ah. Well, in that case, is there anyone else I could talk to?” Newbury reached into his jacket pocket and produced his credentials, which he waved at the constable. The monogram of Queen Victoria was clearly visible on his papers. “My name is Sir Maurice Newbury and I’m here on the business of the Crown.”
    The constable stared at him, wide-eyed. “Of course, sir. If you’d like to come this way?” The officer lifted the cordon and both Newbury and Veronica dipped their heads to pass underneath the rope barrier. Veronica, straightening herself on the other side, made a point of repositioning her hat. Newbury supposed she was trying to keep herself busy, and keep her mind from wandering back to the horrors on the other side of the bandstand.
    The two men in suits were still talking as the three of them approached. Veronica glanced around. She could see that the police were struggling to get the situation under control; they were few in number and the constables were barely managing to keep the onlookers back from the cordon. Meanwhile, higher-ranking officers attempted to coordinate the other emergency services and ensure that nothing was removed from the wreckage that would prove useful in uncovering the cause of the disaster. Veronica was sure that the investigation was already underway, but it seemed to her as if the police had their hands full just trying to stop the crash site from getting out of control.
    The bobby who had led them over from the barrier made a point of clearing his throat, and the two men in suits ceased talking for a moment to take them in. The man on the left, dressed in pinstriped grey, with a full beard and dark green cravat, looked Newbury up and down discerningly. He seemed about to say something when the constable stepped in. “Sir, this gentleman is here on behalf of the Crown.”
    The man nodded,