by Mann, George
Mrs. Grant frowned. She placed her hands on her hips, shaking her head in an exaggerated fashion. "Indeed not, Sir Maurice. Indeed not. Miss Hobbes has yet to return from the museum. I had hoped, upon seeing you, that you would be in a position to put my mind at rest regarding her good health." She looked him up and down once again. "I expected her over two hours ago, but I fear there has been no word."
Newbury nodded, thoughtful. "Hmmm. Well, I should not presume to fear too heartily, Mrs. Grant. It's not a long time to be missing. Perhaps she has simply been delayed in this dastardly weather."
Mrs. Grant did not appear to be pacified by this remark. She nodded, but it was clear she was not persuaded. "I take it you plan to wait for Miss Hobbes, in that case, Sir Maurice?" She looked hopeful. He nodded absently, and then followed her into the sitting room, where she bid him to take a seat. "I'll just go and pop that kettle on the stove." She disappeared through a side door to the kitchen.
Newbury paced the room. What had become of Veronica? He recalled their conversation of earlier that day, during which she had informed him of her intention to visit the family of the most recent missing girl. But that had been hours ago. Surely, she must have returned to the office at the museum following her interview? He frowned. He feared he knew all too well what may have become of his assistant. Whilst he had appealed to her sense of duty and asked for her commitment that she would not venture to the Archibald Theatre alone to confront Alfonso, he had every suspicion that she had done exactly that. Whilst he was occupied chasing Ashford across the rooftops of Regent's Park, Veronica had most likely taken matters into her own hands. Why else would she not be here to meet with him. Newbury knew she had been waiting to speak with him regarding the matter, and she would not have been late for some trivial reason. Indeed, more likely she would have sent word ahead if she had found herself delayed.
Perhaps his night of relaxation would have to wait. He quit the sitting room, walked the length of the hallway until he reached a door that he presumed led to the kitchen, and then called for Mrs. Grant. After a minute, she appeared at t he door, looking a little perplexed. "The tea will be with you presently, sir."
"Ah, no, thank you, Mrs. Grant. I have a sudden notion of where I might find Miss Hobbes." The housekeeper's face lit up. "If I dare put a stop to your tea-making, I'll take my leave, see if I can't track her down and put your mind at rest."
Mrs. Grant smiled gratefully. "Thank you, sir."
Newbury bid her good evening, leaving instruction that, should Miss Hobbes return home in his absence, he would call for her the following morning at the office. Then, buttoning the front of his mud-streaked jacket, he left the house and went in search of transportation to Soho and the Archibald Theatre, where he hoped that Miss Hobbes had not put herself unduly in the path of danger.
The theatre was shrouded in darkness when Newbury hopped down from the cab a short while later. Upon seeing the bills pasted in the windows, announcing that the show had been cancelled, Newbury almost stopped the cab driver as he trundled off down the road, thinking that perhaps his intuition had been proved wrong on this occasion. Then, knowing that he would be unable to rest without first establishing Miss Hobbes's safety, he decided to investigate further. A cancelled show would not have been enough to halt his headstrong assistant.
He tried a door and found it locked. Then, upon trying another, he was surprised to find it open. Evidently someone had been neglectful of their duties, or else the theatre was indeed inhabited that evening. Newbury crossed the large foyer in the dark, looking for signs that Veronica may have passed that way. There was nothing. The place was deserted.
Mounting a short flight of steps, Newbury pushed aside the curtain and entered the auditorium proper. Here, things were very different indeed. The only light was coming from a bright electric lamp on the stage, illuminating a grisly diorama, of a type that, unfortunately, he was finding himself growing increasingly accustomed to. The body of a man — Alfonso, no less — was spread-eagled on the stage, one of his own sabres protruding rudely from his chest. Beside him, a small round table had been overturned, spilling its contents, and a top hat lay discarded nearby. Surrounding the body was all the assorted paraphernalia of the show, most of it undisturbed. He had no idea what had occurred here, but he sincerely doubted Veronica could be responsible for such a brutal act. As passionate as she was about discovering what had happened to the missing girls, she would never lower herself to this. If she had come here, it would have been to apprehend the man, not to murder him in cold blood.
Hesitantly, taking care to ensure there was no one watching in the shadows, Newbury passed down the long flight of wooden steps between two rows of seats and made his way slowly towards the stage. He hopped up and crossed to where the body lay waiting. It was an appalling scene. The man's face was struck with terror, frozen in the throes of death. He looked battered and bruised, as if he'd put up some resistance. There was little blood, but Newbury assumed the blade had struck right through the man's chest, piercing his back, so that the blood would have seeped out beneath him, probably dripping through the cracks between the floorboards. He tested the hilt of the weapon. It was stuck fast. Alfonso had been run through with such vehemence that the tip of the sword was buried deep it the wooden stage below. It was clearly a sadistic death, executed with great pomp. It was as if the theatrical nature of the setting had informed the manner of the death; the body had been left here on display, for show. Nevertheless, there was reason behind it, too. Whoever had done this had been anxious to ensure the magician would not be getting up again.
Newbury glanced around, squinting in the harsh electric glare of the stage lamp. It was clear there had been a scuffle of some kind, from the way the table had been overturned, but it didn't look as if Alfonso had been given much opportunity to defend himself. Newbury noted with interest that a small hatch lay open on the stage, just near to where the table now rested. He moved closer to take a look.
Two hinged flaps had dropped aside, giving way to a fair drop. He looked around for any trigger that may have caused the hatch to spring open. Perhaps the body was resting upon a pressure plate of some kind? He peered into the opening. There was clearly a large space beneath the stage, which he realised had been purposefully built to accommodate it. It occurred to him, with a grim smile, that this was how the magician had effected the disappearing act. Bizarrely, in death, Alfonso was finally giving away his secrets. If Veronica had seen this, then perhaps she had followed the mechanism underground. That would be as good a place as any to make a start.
Intrigued, and not a little disturbed by the sight of yet another body, Newbury set out to search for his wayward assistant.
Chapter Nineteen
When Veronica came round again, she felt sick with dizziness. The pain at the back of her head was like a hot lance inside her skull. She groaned and tried to move, realising with horror that her ankles and wrists had been bound. She opened her eyes and blinked, blearily as they adjusted once again to the dim light. She was slumped with her back to the wall, facing the door and the pile of corpses across the other side of the room. A figure was standing by the central table, hurriedly collecting up the scattered ephemera that lay upon it and throwing it untidily into a medicine bag. The man had his back to her. He was dressed in an immaculate grey suit with a crisp white collar. His hair was well kept and was beginning to turn a startling silver-grey, still spotted with freckles of light brown. He was tall and thin, just a little less than six feet.
The man turned to face her when he heard her shuffling. He had a handsome face with an aquiline nose, although it was marred by a deep, puckered scar that ran from his forehead, just above the left eyebrow, down across his left cheek, blighting his eye. The eye was milky and blind, the colour of London fog, although a series of tiny red lights around the cornea suggested the work of a master craftsman: the restoration work of Dr. Fabian, or one of his proteges. Otherwise, his skin was pale and unblemished, like a w
hite mask. His fingers were long and bony. Veronica realised with shock that she recognised the man.
"Aubrey Knox," she croaked.
The man smiled almost imperceptibly. "That's Doctor Aubrey Knox to you, Miss Hobbes." His voice was like silk; smooth and warm and full of grace. He was impeccably well spoken, and every word had the ring of perfection. She knew he was an Eton man, and had once been the most charming of gentlemen. He clearly retained this affectation.
Veronica tried to sit up, but her bonds prevented her from gaining purchase on the tiles. She glowered at the villain who had trussed her up in such a manner. "So it was you. All along, it was you." Knox inclined his head in acknowledgement, a smile curling his lips. Veronica glanced at the pile of bodies in the corner. How cold must he be, how dead inside, that he could continue to work in the same room, even stand there smiling, now, all the while aware that he was responsible for those women's deaths? She could find no empathy for the man, no understanding of what might have driven him to this terrible series of acts.
She met his gaze. He appeared to be watching her with amusement. "What do you need them for? What is it you're trying to do?"
Knox's face changed, his mood darkening. He crossed the room to where she was bound and raised his arm, slapping her hard across the face with the back of his hand. Despite herself, Veronica cried out. She could feel tears welling in her eyes, and her cheek smarted painfully. She forced herself to look him in the eye, her expression defiant.
"Miss Hobbes, I'd have thought you'd know better than that. This is not some ridiculous penny dreadful that we're playing out. I'm not about to reveal all of my carefully laid plans to you, now that you're finally here and close to death. Suffice to say, that you will exit this world as ignorant as you are now, and I shall take some measure of satisfaction in that." Grinning, he turned, crossed the room to the long table and continued silently with his work. Watching him, Veronica realised that he was not indiscriminately taking everything from the workbench as she had at first assumed, but rather a selection of choice items, including the little vials of brown fluid and the ancient scrolls of papyrus.
Veronica bit her lower lip, searching for a reserve of strength. She twisted her wrists, trying to wriggle free, but the binds had been expertly tied. Likewise her ankles. She was deeply afraid of what the renegade doctor might do to her. It was unlikely, from what she knew of the man, that he would grant her a clean and simple death. She doubted that would be enough of an amusement for him.
Veronica had been warned about Knox, of course, in her briefings about Newbury, when Her Majesty and her closest aides had been at pain to describe the horrors that the man had committed in the name of progress, and their need to ensure that Newbury did not follow a similar path. Knox had become obsessed with the occult and a desire to achieve extended life, and he pursued the cause with little concern for morality or human suffering. He saw himself as a progressive, the man who would finally learn to wed science with the arcane. That path had led him away from the Empire, and despite the best efforts of Her Majesty and her extended network of agents, he had not been seen for over two years. He was a danger — yes —but he was also an embarrassment, a worm that had turned, a betrayer, deep in the bosom of the Empire. Victoria wished to make an example of him.
Veronica watched him warily. Knox had almost finished gathering up the scattered artefacts and papers into his bag. He glanced over his shoulder at Veronica, a wry smile on the curve of his lips. "So, tell me of Sir Maurice. I understand he's quite the dashing man about town?" Veronica remained silent. Knox laughed. "I understand also that his taste for narcotics is dwarfed only by his taste for occult literature. I should dearly like to meet the fellow." This was a taste of the charming Knox again, the gentleman. Veronica understood that he lived by a code. But unlike Newbury it was a code of his own devising, and not one instilled by an innate sense of right and wrong. It was a code driven by insanity and a desire for self-perpetuation. Watching him now, Veronica could hardly believe the stunning outburst of violence he had demonstrated just a short while before. Her cheek, however, was a stinging reminder. She glared at him.
"Sir Maurice is twice the man you ever were, and twice the agent too."
Knox laughed. "What loyalty the man inspires! How interesting. One imagines he keeps you by his side like a pet dog, there to compliment his ego with doe-eyed looks and pretty frocks. Personally, I imagine you to be far prettier on the inside." He paused. "I should enjoy examining your brain." Knox moved around the table to place his medicine bag by the door. "I'm sure it would pain Sir Maurice terribly to know of your current predicament, my dear Miss Hobbes. Indeed, if I had more time, perhaps I could have made more of the circumstances. A shame." He gave a small, polite cough into his fist. "I must admit that, in the end, I'm disappointed, Miss Hobbes. I'd heard great tales of your derring-do, of your fiery passion. I'd been led to believe that you were perhaps even a worthy opponent. Regrettably, I find you full of righteous indignation. You are nothing but another insipid young woman, a prim and proper society girl, who finds herself afraid and out of her depth. What has become of the young woman who aided in the retrieval of the Persian Teardrop from Milan? Who I brought an end to the killing spree of the Liverpool Witch? Pushing papers behind a desk in a museum? What would your sister Amelia say of your decline?" He shook his head. "Victoria used to know better."
Veronica attempted to lurch forward, but succeeded only in toppling onto her side, prone on the floor. "Do not speak of my sister." The words were weighted with vehemence.
Knox was laughing now. "Idle threats, Miss Hobbes. Idle threats. It surprises me that Amelia did not find it appropriate to warn you of this little encounter. Does she not speak to you of the future?"
Veronica's eyes widened. How did this man, this terrible man, know so much about her and her sister? She watched him as he crossed the room, collecting the elbow-length leather gloves from where they rested on the workbench. His eyes flashed, and Veronica knew that her time was almost up. With all her might she struggled against the bonds that held her. But she knew it was useless. Knox had her now, and before long, she would be consigned to the sorry heap in the corner with the other dead girls. She wondered whether she, too, would have a small hole burrowed through the centre of her forehead. The thought made her shudder. She was close to panic, her soundless lips frozen wide with fear.
Knox pulled one of the gloves over his wrist and wriggled his fingers dramatically. Just as he was about to follow suit with the other hand, there was a loud crash from somewhere above them.
Knox looked up, as if he somehow expected to be able to see through the ceiling to whatever it was that had made the noise above. Veronica assumed it must have been Alfonso, treading on the creaking boards of the stage. Knox, however, became suddenly flustered. He peeled the glove from his fingers and threw it instead on the table, a frustrated look on his face. There was another bang and a muffled shout. Veronica was unable to identify the words, or the voice. But something about the situation had startled Knox. His plans had changed.
Knox snatched up a dirty rag from amongst his belongings and approached her. His expression remained fixed. He intended to gag her. Veronica forced her jaw shut and turned he r head away from him. But to Knox, evidently an old hand, it was a matter of moments before he was able to force his lingers roughly inside her cheeks and prise her mouth open long enough to shove the rag inside. She did her best to spit it out, to push it out with her tongue, but it was no use. She choked back its oily, dirty fibres.
Knox offered her one last, sneering look, his milky-grey eye flicking over her face, then turned and stepped through the door disappearing into the passageway beyond.
Chapter Twenty
N ewbury dropped to one knee, running his hands around the edges of the open hatch in the stage. It was dark below, and there were no moveable lamps with which he could examine the trapdoor more closely. Nevertheless, he could see inside that the drop was around eight fee
t deep, and terminated in two metal runners that appeared to slope away to the right, dipping under the stage to disappear further underground. Clearly, during the disappearing act, Alfonso would position the girl over the hatch and then foot the paddle, dropping her swiftly into the hole beneath. Newbury guessed the victim would land in some kind of padded cart or box, which would then roll away on the tracks beneath, depositing the girl somewhere else i n the building.
It was ingenious — a masterpiece of engineering — and having seen the illusion performed first-hand, Newbury knew just how effective it appeared to the onlooker. He rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his chin. The strange thing was that the trap had been triggered at all. The weight of Alfonso's body had opened the hatch — clearly — but what intrigued Newbury was the fact that the cart itself was missing from beneath the stage. The mechanism had been used, but had not yet been reset. A body had been dropped into the missing cart. It could, of course, have been a simple case of tardiness, but in the back of his mind, Newbury feared that if Veronica had come to this dismal place, she may have discovered first-hand exactly how the girls were being whisked away.
Newbury paused, suddenly alert. Somewhere in the shadows, off to the other side of the stage, he thought he had heard a footstep. He waited.
Nothing.
He got to his feet. There! Not a footstep, but something else. The rasping sound of a sword being drawn carefully from a scabbard. Newbury felt himself stiffen. There was someone there, watching him, in the shadows. Someone bearing a weapon. He looked around for something he could use to defend himself. The rack of Alfonso's swords was off to one side, near to the source of the sound. There was the blade sticking out of the magician's rigid corpse, but Newbury knew that it would take him a moment to tug it free, and in doing so he would alert whoever was lurking in the shadows to the fact that he was aware of their presence. That could leave him dangerously exposed. He considered jumping into the hatch, but with the mechanism already triggered he did not know what to expect at the other end, and did not want to find himself trapped in an underground shaft with no means of escape. His options were limited. Reluctantly, he decided to call his opponent out. Unarmed, it was a dangerous course of action, but nevertheless, he wanted whoever it was lurking off stage in plain view.