Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart

by George Mann

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  For Liz

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Newbury & Hobbes Investigations by George Mann

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER

  1

  LONDON, MARCH 1903

  The ticking was all she could hear.

  Like the ominous beating of a hundred mechanised hearts—syncopated, chaotic—it filled the small room, counting away the seconds, measuring her every breath. A carnival of clockwork, a riot of cogs.

  She realised she was holding her breath and let it out. She peered further into the dim room from the doorway, clutching the wooden frame. The paintwork was smooth and cold beneath her fingers.

  The room was lit only by the flickering light of a gas lamp on a round table in the centre of the space. A warm orange glow seeped from beneath the half-open lamp shutters, casting long shadows that seemed to carouse and dance of their own volition.

  The air was thick with a dank, musty odour. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. The room probably hadn’t been aired for years, perhaps even decades. Most of the windows had long ago been boarded over or bricked up, hidden away to keep the outside world at bay. Or, she mused, to prevent whoever lived inside from looking out. Clearly, the hotel had fallen on hard times long before the accident had put it out of business.

  The décor reflected the fashions of the previous century, an echo of life from fifty or a hundred years earlier. Now the once-elegant sideboard, the gilt-framed mirror, the sumptuous chaise longue, were all covered in a thick layer of powdery dust, which bloomed in little puffs as she crept into the room, particles swirling in the air around her. There was evidence that rodents had nested in the soft furnishings, pulling the downy innards from the cushions and leaving their spoor scattered like seeds across the floorboards. There was a sense of abandonment about the place, as if whoever had once lived here had up and left, leaving everything in situ for her to find years later. She could almost believe the place had remained like that, untouched until now, if it hadn’t been for the clocks.

  All around her the walls were adorned with them. More clocks than she had ever seen, crowding every inch of space, their ivory faces looming down at her from wherever she looked. There were small clocks and large clocks, fine antiques and dirty, broken remnants. Spectacular, gilded creations from the finest workshops of Paris and St. Petersburg, discarded junk from the rubbish tips of London, each of them slowly meting out the seconds like chattering gatekeepers, each in disagreement with the others. To her there was something ominous about them, something wrong.

  She crossed to the table in the centre of the room. The sounds of her movements were muffled by the constant, oppressive ticking, which threatened to overwhelm her, making her feel dizzy and unsure of herself. The noise rung in her ears, drowning out everything, even her thoughts. She fought the urge to flee, reaching instead for the gas lamp and flipping up the shutters.

  Light erupted from the lamp in a bright halo, flooding the room. Everything became indistinct, hazy, as she waited for her gloom-adjusted eyes to grow accustomed to the light, and at first she had to squint to see. Ghostly shapes and hulking shadows took on new forms now that the darkness was dispelled: a dresser where a lurking presence had been, a chair where previously some nightmarish creature had crouched in wait. The light gave her strength. She absorbed it.

  She sensed sudden movement behind her and spun around, but there was only a wide fan of dust drifting in the still air, most likely disturbed by her own frantic movements. Nevertheless, she felt uneasy. Was someone in the room with her? Were they skulking somewhere in the shadows, watching even now?

  She hefted the lamp from the table and turned in a slow circle, considering the room. There was evidence that someone had slept there recently: a heap of scarlet cushions on the floorboards in the far left corner, the faint impression of a human body still evident upon them. Beside these lay a number of discarded food wrappers, cast aside and left for the rodents to nose through at their leisure. Whoever it was, they were clearly accustomed to sleeping rough, although how anyone could sleep at all with the constant chattering of the clocks, she did not know.

  She was beginning to wish that she hadn’t come alone. This was not, she told herself, an admission of weakness, but simply a matter of practicality. If anything happened to her here, no one would come looking. Or rather, they would have no notion of where to find her. She might end up like one of those missing young women reported with alarming regularity in The Times, nothing but a brief description and a desperate plea for information, for witnesses, for hope. Or worse, like one of those artefacts announced in the columns of the lost and found, misplaced and much-lamented, but lost forever to the annals of time. She was adamant that this would not be her fate. She should have left word of her intentions and her whereabouts, but she no longer trusted the men she had once confided in. The men she had once considered incorruptible. Their duplicity had confounded her, had left her with few options of how to proceed. She no longer understood their motivations. There was an irony to be found in that, but she took no comfort from it.

  Movement again. This time she was sure it was more than just the hands of the clocks describing their ceaseless, monotonous circles; there was another presence in the room. She twisted around sharply, the gas lamp still clutched in her left hand so that her sudden movement set it rocking wildly back and forth in her grip. One of the shutters snapped closed. Strobing columns of light flickered to and fro as she searched the room, creating stuttering snatches of light and dark, a series of jaunty stills that flashed before her eyes.

  Her heart was in her mouth. She glanced nervously from side to side. And then she saw it. A glimpse of something half-expected, frozen for the briefest of moments as the lamp swung around, framing it, capturing it for a second in its shimmering rays.

  There was a face in the darkness. It was ghostly white, stark in the orange lamplight, with terrifying black eyes that seemed to bore directly into her. There was accusation in that stare. Envy, even. As if the woman hated her simply for being alive.

  The woman’s brown hair had been roughly
hacked off, short and unkempt, and every inch of her exposed skin had been tattooed with elaborate whorls and eddies, with runic symbols and arcane pictograms. Thin traceries of precious metals had been inlaid in the soft flesh of her cheeks, glinting with reflected light.

  One moment the face was there, the next it had gone, swallowed by the gloom as the lamp continued its pendulous motion, swinging back and forth, back and forth.

  She braced herself, fighting panic, and raised the lamp in the vague hope that she might catch another glimpse of her quarry. She had come here in search of answers, but instead she had happened upon this murderess, the woman they had hunted through the mist-shrouded alleyways of London, from crime scene to exhibition hall, from the revenant-infested slums to the splendour of Buckingham Palace itself. But now, somehow, she felt like she was the prey. It was as if their roles had been reversed, as if by coming here to this half-ruined hotel with its ticking, clockwork heart, she had altered the relationship between hunter and hunted.

  She felt the ghost of movement to her left, of disturbed air currents brushing past her cheek. She turned, swinging the lantern around, but there was nothing to see, only darkness and clocks. The woman was toying with her.

  A shiver passed unbidden down her spine. She felt for the grip of the pistol tucked in her belt. Her fingers closed around it and she tugged it free. The wooden butt was smooth and worn, the metal cold against her palm. She hated the thing, hated that she’d used it to kill people, harnessed its violence to snuff lives out of existence. No matter that she had done so to protect herself and others; it was still an odious tool for an odious job, a constant reminder of the terrible things she had done. Was she really any better than the woman who was lurking in the darkness? Did the fact that she had acted in pursuit of a just cause make any difference whatsoever?

  She heard the scuff of a boot against the dusty floorboards behind her and knew it was time. She would bring an end to this now. She raised the pistol and swung around, launching the lamp in the direction of the sound, then snapping out two brisk shots. The lamp clattered noisily against the wall, missing its target and dislodging a cluster of timepieces, which skittered across the floorboards in a chaotic jumble. The light guttered and blinked out, shrouding the room in a heavy cloak of darkness.

  She clutched the pistol, her hand trembling. Had she hit her mark? She didn’t think so. She couldn’t hear anything other than the strangely symphonic chattering of the clocks and the thumping of her own heartbeat, pounding relentlessly in her ears.

  She twisted from side to side, drawing the nose of the pistol through the musty air as if it could somehow cleave a path through the darkness or divine the location of her adversary.

  For a moment she did nothing, standing alert and still, waiting to see if the woman would make a move. There was nothing else she could do. She’d lost all sense of her bearings in the immaculate darkness. She had no idea of where the doorway might be or which direction she was facing.

  She started as she felt something touch her cheek: the cool, almost gentle caress of a metal blade. Involuntarily her arm came up in defence, knocking the other woman’s hand aside. She aimed a kick in the same direction, hoping to take the woman’s legs out from beneath her, but her enemy was still toying with her and had already danced off, melting away into the darkness.

  She grunted in frustration. She had almost overbalanced with the momentum of her kick, and had to throw her arms out wide to stop herself from falling.

  She righted herself a moment later, feeling a strange tightness in her chest. Was she having trouble breathing? It was as if she suddenly had a heavy weight bearing down on her, preventing her from drawing breath.

  She gasped for air ineffectually and felt panic beginning to well up inside her. Her left hand went to her chest, exploring, as if drawn there, and she realised with dawning horror that something was protruding from it, right above her heart. With realisation came pain, a sharp, excruciating pain the like of which she had never experienced before. Her head swam, and she thought she was going to swoon. Her world began to close in around her. All she could think about was the blossoming pain and the long metal blade buried deep in her rib cage.

  She screamed, a deep, guttural scream of horror and frustration and shock. She screamed so loudly that her throat felt raw and hot and bloody, so loudly that it drowned out even the noise of the clocks and the pain in her chest and the pounding in her head.

  She toppled, falling backwards into the darkness, barely aware of the ground coming up to meet her.

  There was no sign of the woman, but she imagined those black eyes watching her, boring into her, standing over her.

  “Veronica?”

  Veronica Hobbes heard her name being called, but the frantic voice sounded distant, and the pain in her chest had bloomed in intensity until it was all she could see; a bright, white light of pain, blotting out everything else.

  “Veronica?”

  Somehow, Newbury had found her. Somehow, remarkably, he had known she was there. But her last thought before the white light swallowed her was that he was far too late.

  Veronica was already dead.

  CHAPTER

  2

  LONDON, FEBRUARY 1903

  London had always been a place of death.

  Sir Charles Bainbridge, Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, mulled this over as he considered his lot in life at six in the morning on a wet, dreary Wednesday.

  Ever since the city was birthed on the banks of the Thames, since the Roman interlopers had destroyed the primitive settlements of the early Britons and founded the city proper, its streets had run red with blood. Oppression, suppression, festering rebellion, and bloodshed—each of them was key to understanding London’s history. And, some might say, its present, too.

  Bainbridge wondered if there was something to the notion that it was the place itself that was rotten, haunted by the spirits of all those millions who had died within its boundaries. Did those spirits somehow exert their influence on the psyche of the modern populace? Was it this that drove people to commit such dreadful acts?

  Newbury probably thought so. Bainbridge could imagine the argument now: both of them flushed with brandy, Newbury leaning across the table at his White Friar’s club, passionately gesticulating as he outlined his case. “Of course, Charles! Can’t you see it? There’s no doubt in my mind that the landscape plays a fundamental role in the development of a killer’s mind-set. And, in turn, that the history of that place also has a role to play. Spirits or not, the grisly biography of this city has a bearing on how its present populace behaves.”

  Bainbridge, of course, would argue in favour of self-determinism, that people had a choice to behave however they wished to, but that wouldn’t wash with his friend. Newbury saw the world in ways that Bainbridge never could. It was this, Bainbridge believed, that gave Newbury his edge, the remarkable insight that had seen them both through so many scrapes. Bainbridge believed in absolutes—good and evil, right and wrong—but Newbury took a different, more complex view. He often berated the chief inspector for viewing the world in such simplistic terms, in plain black and white, and slowly, inch by painful inch, he was teaching Bainbridge to see in shades of grey.

  Bainbridge grinned at the thought of his old friend. There hadn’t been many arguments in the White Friar’s of late, nor many other opportunities to spend time in each other’s company. Bainbridge had been busy—far too busy—and, if he was truthful, he’d been avoiding Newbury in recent weeks. It was cowardly to keep away, but it pained him to see his friend so in thrall to the dreadful weed to which he had pledged his allegiance.

  The wastrel was intent on delving ever deeper into his addiction, despite assurances to the contrary. No amount of stiff conversation on the matter could dissuade him from his chosen path. As a consequence, he appeared to be growing weaker day by day: paler, drawn, his eyes bruised and sunken. When he wasn’t in the city engaged on a case, he spent all of his time locked away i
n his rooms, brooding.

  Whether it marked him out as a coward or not, Bainbridge simply wasn’t prepared to watch while his friend slowly frittered away his life. And now even Scarbright—the valet Bainbridge had installed at Newbury’s Chelsea home to keep a watchful eye on him—had stopped reporting back.

  Bainbridge only wished there was something more he could do, some way he could begin to understand the allure of the drug, the grip it exerted on his friend. Perhaps Newbury, too, was under the sway of malign spirits?

  Bainbridge sighed. No, that would be too simple. And nothing was ever simple where Newbury was concerned.

  Bainbridge glanced cursorily around the drawing room. Whoever lived here—or, rather, had lived here—had ostentatious tastes; the décor was of classical design, all white marble and gilded plasterwork. The walls were duck egg blue; the ceiling decorated with a large, elaborate rosette over a gaudy crystal chandelier. Ranks of portraits, showing gloomy-looking fellows in frilly shirts and plate armour, lined the walls.

  Bainbridge thought it was all terribly gauche and embarrassing, as if the owner was trying desperately to cling to some former aristocratic heritage, a proud dream now long forgotten by the rest of the world. He supposed there were plenty of people who had found themselves in that position in recent years; the former scions of society, now fallen on hard times and replaced by the wash of self-made industrialists and opportunists who had identified their niche in the changing, modern Empire.

  So much for the frilly shirts and the glory days of old.

  Bainbridge laughed at himself. He was grumpy at having to haul himself from his bed at so unsociable an hour. This, of course, was nothing new to such a seasoned man of the Yard, but he was presently nursing a thick head, the result of a late night spent drinking port and conversing with a government man, Professor Archibald Angelchrist. He and Angelchrist had been meeting regularly over the last six months, ever since the beginning of Bainbridge’s association with the Secret Service. Angelchrist worked as an advisor to the government in some capacity, chiefly pertaining, Bainbridge had gathered, to matters of a scientific bent. He was a good man, but—as Bainbridge had discovered, to his detriment—Angelchrist liked his liquor. He hoped, perhaps a little unkindly, that Angelchrist was currently suffering as much as he was, but then he remembered the time and realised the other man would most likely still be tucked up snugly in his bed. Just as, if there was any justice left in the world, Bainbridge himself would have been.