Free The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes by George Mann Page B

poor bastard apart. There’s no going back now. The only choice I have is to submit myself to the stasis field, to join the woman I love in the prison I have created. Goodbye, Crawford. Do not think ill of me.’
    “Hambleton turned and threw himself onto the dais beside his wife, his gun clattering to the floor. Crawford cried out. The machine fizzed and crackled, static energy causing my hackles to rise. A moment later Hambleton was overcome, and he collapsed into a peaceful sleep beside his wife.”
    Bainbridge looked aghast. “So what did you do? How did you get them out?”
    “That’s just it, Charles. We didn’t. There was no way to free them from their fate. Neither Crawford nor I had any notion of how to engage the controls of the machine, and although we spent hours reading through Hambleton’s notes, we could find no evidence of a method by which to safely deactivate the preserving field. Hambleton had been telling the truth. They were frozen there, in that bizarre machine, and there was nothing at all we could do about it.
    “At a loss for how else to handle the situation, Crawford and I sealed up the basement and went directly to the local constabulary. We told them that we’d all been out walking on the moors and that Hambleton, overcome with distress about his missing wife, had thrown himself in the river. We’d tried to save him, of course, but he’d been swept away and lost. The police set about dredging the river for his body, but of course there was nothing to find. The servants could not dispute the facts, either, as only Chester had seen his master return from the village that morning, and he was loyal until the end.”
    Bainbridge shook his head. “My God. What a terrible tale. What became of them?”
    “A while later Hambleton was declared dead and the house passed on to his nephew. Chester retired from service and Crawford had the door to the cellar panelled over before the new incumbent could move in. The missing lady was never found, presumed dead on the moor, having fled the house of her own volition.”
    “So, they’re still there? Trapped in that cellar, I mean?”
    Newbury nodded. “For all I know, yes, they’re still there. Perhaps there will come a time when technological achievement is such that the machine can be deactivated and the two disenchanted lovers can be reunited. For now, though, their story ends there, in a basement beneath a manor house.” Newbury paused. He eyed his friend. “As I’ve said before, Charles, revenge can make people do terrible things.”
    Bainbridge eyed Newbury over the rim of his brandy glass. “Hmm. Well there’s a lesson there for all of us, I feel. And for you in particular, Newbury.”
    Newbury frowned. “How so?”
    “I don’t think revenge has got anything to do with it. Women, Newbury. Women can make people do terrible things.” His eyes sparkled. “Better keep an eye on that assistant of yours, eh?” He winked mischievously.
    Newbury flushed red. “Right, you old fool. That’s quite enough of that. Time you were getting some rest. I’m in need of my own bed, and you’re keeping me from it.”
    Bainbridge laughed. “Right you are, old man. Right you are.” He placed his brandy glass on the table and rose, a little unsteadily, to his feet. He crossed the room, took up his coat and hat and, his cane tapping gently against the floor as he walked, bid his friend goodnight and made his way out into the fog-laden night. Newbury watched from the window as the chief inspector clambered into a waiting cab. Then, hesitating only long enough to bank the fire, he extinguished the gas lamps and made his way slowly to bed.

THE SHATTERED TEACUP
LONDON, DECEMBER 1901
    “Newbury! Thank God you’re here.”
    Sir Maurice Newbury swept into the hallway, his overcoat billowing open behind him as he marched across the marble floor towards his friend. His expression was serious. “Don’t thank God, Charles. Thank the cabbie who agreed to take