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an unreadable expression on his face. “The Crown indeed. Well, we can certainly use all the help we can get. Abominable affair.” His face cracked into a sad smile. He held out his hand. “Inspector Foulkes of Scotland Yard.”
Newbury took his hand. “Maurice Newbury.”
    “Ah, Sir Maurice. Yes, Sir Charles has told me all about you. Glad you could make it.” He put his hand on the shoulder of the man he’d been talking with when they arrived. “This is Mr. Stokes, representing the company that built and operated the airship in question.”
Veronica noted that Stokes was harbouring a dark frown.
    Newbury took his hand, inclining his head politely. “Mr. Stokes.” He stepped back, allowing the others to see Veronica, who had been standing behind him in the shadow of the bandstand throughout the course of the exchange. “This is my assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes. She’ll be aiding me in my inquiries. Please ensure you extend to her all the necessary courtesy and freedom she requires to properly execute her role.”
    Foulkes looked startled by this new development, but quickly spluttered his assent.
    Newbury turned to the man named Stokes. “Mr. Stokes, I’d appreciate it if you could elaborate on some details for me. Have you any notion yet of what occurred to bring about this sorry situation?”
    Stokes looked immediately uncomfortable. He was a short, lean man, shorter than both Newbury and Foulkes and only a few inches taller than Veronica. He wore a brown suit and white collar, with black shoes that, Veronica noted, were filthy with mud, grime and ash from the crash site. His moustache was trimmed to perfection and waxed at the ends, and his bushy eyebrows did much to accentuate his apparently permanent frown. He shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. “Alas, we’re only just beginning to piece together the sequence of events that preceded this tragedy. There is nothing in the wreckage to indicate what may have happened onboard, and we can see no obvious reason why it should have plummeted out of the sky as dramatically as it did. Unfortunately, there are no survivors left to question, either.”
    Newbury shook his head, his face serious. It was obvious he didn’t care for Stokes’s dismissive tone. “What of the ship itself? What was it, and where was it bound?”
    “The ship was named The Lady Armitage, and according to my charter it was bound for Dublin. It was a passenger-class vessel, the smallest size in the fleet, and appears to have been carrying around fifty individuals when it crashed.”
“Fifty…” Veronica was appalled.
    Newbury continued. “And what of your employers, Mr. Stokes?”
    Stokes offered Newbury a black look. “I’m a representative of Chapman and Villiers Air Transportation Services, of Battersea. Mr. Chapman himself has engaged me to assess the situation here today and to act as his mouthpiece during the ongoing investigation. Any questions pertaining to the company can be directed at me. I am also the firm’s legal representative.”
    Newbury glanced at Veronica, a sardonic expression on his face, and then turned his attention to Inspector Foulkes. “Do you know if Sir Charles will be attending the scene?”
    “Not initially, sir. He has ceded responsibility for the case to me for the time being. He’s still caught up in this damnable Whitechapel situation. They found another body this morning.”
    “Indeed. Miss Hobbes and I were present at the scene.” He glanced back at Stokes, who was attempting to clean the dirt from his shoes by rubbing them on the grass. “Do we know how long it’s been since the vessel came down?”
    The other man didn’t look up from his ministrations. “Witnesses are reporting seeing the vessel come down between ten and ten-thirty this morning.” He emitted a ‘tutting’ sound as he continued to rub the side of his shoe on the wet grass, to no avail.
    Newbury flushed red. “Damn it, man! Fifty people are dead! Show some decency and