Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart

by George Mann

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” said Veronica. “If—and I grant you, you make a good case that it does not—the Secret Service does have some hand in the murders, you’d be tipping them off that we’re on to them. Do you truly know we can trust Professor Angelchrist?”

  “I would trust him with my life,” said Bainbridge.

  “And I,” said Newbury.

  “Good. Because that’s exactly what you’ll both be doing,” said Veronica. She didn’t need to add “and mine along with it.” The implication was clear.

  For a moment the three of them sat in silence, allowing the tension to stretch. Finally, Bainbridge spoke. “I’ll have Clarkson make the necessary arrangements. He can get word to Angelchrist without arousing suspicion. We’ll meet somewhere out in the open, where there are lots of people.”

  Newbury nodded. “Yes. Somewhere we can talk without being seen, and with a crowd sufficient to help us cover our tracks.”

  “Very well. I’ll see to it forthwith.” Bainbridge was already heaving himself up out of his chair.

  “Excellent,” said Newbury. “Then I think it’s time we were bidding you good day. There is much to consider.”

  “Indeed. You’ll see yourselves out, won’t you?” said Bainbridge, reaching for his cane and crossing to the drawing room door.

  “Of course,” said Veronica.

  Newbury waited until Bainbridge’s footsteps had receded down the hallway before turning to Veronica. “Of course, there’s one other thing to consider, Miss Hobbes.”

  “About Professor Angelchrist?”

  “No, about the murders.” He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. “The possibility that the Queen herself is responsible. That she’s clearing out the ranks of her own operation for some reason, perhaps to minimise her risk of exposure to some piece of information that she doesn’t want to get out.”

  “Surely not? I mean, I know what she’s capable of, but, really … would she kill her own agents just to protect a secret?” asked Veronica.

  “Nothing would surprise me any more, not when it comes to Her Majesty the Queen,” replied Newbury solemnly. “And not after what we saw at the Grayling Institute.”

  Veronica nodded. “You’re right, of course. But why not mention this in front of Sir Charles?”

  “Because he’d never believe it,” said Newbury, “even with his newfound distaste for her methods. He hasn’t seen the things we have, and we’re not at liberty to explain why we did what we did.”

  “No, but he seems to be coming to a similar conclusion all on his own,” said Veronica.

  “And for that we should be grateful,” replied Newbury, laughing. “Provided, of course, that he doesn’t go and get us all executed for treason.”

  Veronica grimaced. “That’s no laughing matter and you know it. If we’re caught fraternising with the professor she won’t be lenient on us.”

  “In that case, my dear Miss Hobbes, we’ll simply have to ensure that we don’t go and get ourselves caught,” he said, still chuckling.

  Veronica shook her head in mock exasperation. “Men,” she said, sighing, as she got to her feet.

  “Shall we share a hansom?” asked Newbury.

  “Only if you agree to find one of the traditional, horse-drawn variety,” replied Veronica.

  “If we must,” he said, grinning and getting to his feet. He hooked his arm with Veronica’s and led her to the door. “If we must.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  The spoon was solid silver, with a tapered head in the shape of a leaf and three lozenge-shaped slots in its bowl. It was dulled through use and had never been polished; he kept it in a small, velvet-lined box along with other, similar paraphernalia. Both superstition and ingrained routine meant that he never left the strange assortment of implements out for Scarbright to clean—he didn’t know what the valet would make of them, and had no desire to find out. The box resided amongst Newbury’s personal effects, nestled in a very particular spot amongst the ageing spines of his bookcase.

  Newbury balanced the spoon carefully over a glass tumbler and, using a pair of matching silver tongs, placed a brown sugar cube upon it. He reached for the jug of iced water on the table beside him and held it above the spoon, tilting it fractionally so that only the tiniest trickles of liquid splashed upon the sugar cube, eroding it slowly and steadily so that the sugary water blended easily with the rich, green liquor below. As he watched, the liquid in the glass took on an opaque, cloudy aspect.

  He allowed the water to continue trickling until the glass was half full and the sugar cube had completely dissolved. Then, removing the spoon, he dried it with a handkerchief and placed it carefully back into the box alongside the tongs.

  Sighing to himself in satisfaction, he leaned back in his Chesterfield and drained the drink in one go, shuddering slightly at the sharpness of the alcohol and the sweetness of the anise. He returned the empty glass to the occasional table and collected one of his opium-tainted cigarettes from the silver case in his pocket. He struck a match and played the flame across the tip of the cigarette, enjoying the slight crackle of burning paper and tobacco as it hungrily caught the heat. He took a long, deep draw, filling his lungs with the sweet-scented smoke, and then closed his eyes, shutting out the world and her many distractions.

  This was another of Newbury’s rituals; the process by which he retreated inside his own mind, withdrawing from the world around him. It was his means of seeking clarity. In this fugue state he would replay the many sights, smells, and conversations of the previous two days, reordering them in his mind, searching for connections amongst the minutiae. This was how he chose his path through a problem, how he fathomed the meaning of the things he had seen and heard.

  Newbury’s breath became shallow and his shoulders slumped as the alcohol and narcotics took effect. His head lolled against the back of the chair. Snatches of images and broken sentences began to swirl up from the darkness. He encouraged them, urging them forward so that he might tease out the information he required.

  The process would take hours, and he would spend them lost in a distant opium dream. He had much to consider.

  That afternoon, after seeing Veronica safely to her Kensington abode, he had ordered the cab driver to take him home to Chelsea, where a most mysterious parcel awaited him.

  It was wrapped in innocuous brown paper and tied with string. His name and address were printed on the label in neat capitals, although he could tell from the slight smudges around the edges of the label that the writer had been a little heavy-handed with the ink, and the label had still been wet when the package was collected for delivery. It hadn’t come far—there was no postmark, meaning it had been delivered by hand, probably by the driver of a hansom cab at the behest of the sender. That led him to believe that the parcel’s point of origin was somewhere within the bounds of the city.

  Scarbright, regrettably, had not been there to receive it, but had found it waiting upon the doorstep when he had returned from the market earlier that afternoon. Unsuspecting, the valet had carried it in, placing it upon Newbury’s desk to await his return. This suggested that either the delivery man had called at a time when Scarbright was out, or that the sender was aware of Scarbright’s habit of walking to the market for provisions at the same time every week, and had chosen that time purposefully to ensure the valet was not there to receive the parcel in person. Newbury—having now seen the contents of the box—suspected the latter option. It was most definitely a message, and whoever had sent it had wished to avoid leaving any clues whatsoever as to their identity.

  Warily, Newbury had cut the string and sliced into the brown paper, peering at the small wooden box within. He’d received parcels like this before and they had inevitably contained either threatening gifts or booby traps. As he’d soon come to realise, this particular parcel was no exception.

  Newbury had placed the plain, lacquered box upon the table and circled it suspiciously, looking for signs
of tampering. There had been no outward evidence of any mechanism contained within—a spring-loaded dart, perhaps, or a small bomb—so he had carefully lifted the box’s lid with the tip of his letter opener, standing as far back as he was able.

  Nothing untoward had occurred in the seconds that followed, so he’d stepped closer to the table to examine the contents of the box. He had to admit, it was a most fascinating assortment. The human skull was perhaps the most disturbing of the three objects, fashioned as it was into a grotesque mask: the lower jaw was missing and the brain cavity removed with a series of neat cuts. The bone appeared to have been boiled or bleached to remove the last remnants of flesh and muscle, and a series of occult runes and symbols had been etched into the surface with a fine blade. Finally, a mixture of blood and ink had been worked into these etchings, staining them a deep, dark red.

  The other two objects contained within the box were a curved silver dagger with a jewel-encrusted hilt and a small leather pouch containing the putrid viscera of a small bird, probably a juvenile crow. There was no card or note accompanying them, or within the paper wrapping.

  Newbury, of course, had known what it was at once. These were the elements of a ritual suicide, a death rite practiced by occultists since the Middle Ages. It was said to ensure prosperity in the afterlife, the trading of one’s living soul for the promise of eternal damnation. It could have been sent to him by any number of people or organisations he had crossed over the years, but the message was clear: We’re offering you the opportunity to take your own life, before we come and take it for you.

  Newbury would take his chances with the living. For now, the threat itself meant very little. If anything, by attempting to frighten him, the sender had shown their hand, and Newbury would now be expecting them when they came for him. He’d beaten the Cabal once before, and, if necessary, he could do it again.

  The stub of Newbury’s extinguished cigarette tumbled from his fingers, dropping onto the rug before the hearth. His eyes flickered open. He had no idea how much time had passed, but the fire in the grate was cold, and the room was chill and dark. The curtains were still open, revealing the fog-shrouded night beyond.

  A smile played upon Newbury’s lips as he reached for the jug of now tepid water. He knew what he had to do. Bainbridge had told the Queen they needed a list of her agents to look for patterns in the selection of victims and to anticipate any further attacks. The Queen had refused, but Newbury had another potential avenue through which to obtain the information: Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales.

  He would visit the Prince in the morning and seek his assistance in the matter. While he was there, he would apprise him of the situation regarding the murders, and his concerns that foreign agents might prove to be behind them. He was sure that the Prince would come to his aid. Then, assuming Bainbridge was successful in arranging a liaison with Angelchrist, they would meet to discuss the matter that afternoon.

  Newbury took a swig of water and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. It was too late for bed and too early to rise. He would pass the time with another cigarette, waiting for the sun to bring its warming light through the window.

  CHAPTER

  12

  “I received your note,” said Veronica, anxiously, “and came directly. What’s wrong?” She was breathless from rushing across the village green, and her clothes stank of engine fumes and soot. Within minutes of receiving the morning post, she’d hailed one of the odious steam-powered carriages and told the driver to take the most direct route to Malbury Cross.

  “Calm yourself, sister,” said Amelia, standing and crossing the living room to take Veronica in a hearty embrace. She was wearing a concerned expression. “I didn’t mean for you to drop everything the moment you received my letter.”

  “But you said you needed to speak with me as a matter of urgency?” said Veronica, confused. “I thought … well, I thought something was terribly wrong.” Her shoulders dropped as the tension she’d been carrying for the last couple of hours finally dissipated. She felt a curious mixture of relief and annoyance at discovering there wasn’t, after all, an emergency. She had immediate business to attend to back in London, and she was anxious to maintain a watchful eye on Bainbridge and Angelchrist. Whatever reasons the chief inspector had given the previous day for his involvement with the Secret Service, she was still wary of the intentions of that organisation. Perhaps Bainbridge was ignorant of their schemes, but she couldn’t help considering that perhaps he was not.

  Veronica had learned to trust Bainbridge during the course of their association, but nevertheless had shied away from being entirely open with him when it came to her sister or her role as an agent of the Crown. She’d feared—and Newbury confirmed—that Bainbridge was too fixed in his beliefs of what constituted right and wrong, that he wouldn’t understand the decisions she had made to protect her family. For the last few months, however, he had been behaving suspiciously, attending scores of furtive meetings which he would not speak of or provide any details, and she had begun to wonder if she hadn’t got Bainbridge entirely wrong, after all. Now she was intent on discovering just what it was the chief inspector had gone and got himself involved in, and why it was causing the Queen such consternation and concern.

  But whatever else was going on in Veronica’s life, Amelia came first, so she had come here to the village directly upon receiving her sister’s summons, fearful for Amelia’s fragile health and well-being. It seemed now that she might have acted in haste.

  Amelia helped Veronica shrug out of her coat. “Look, I’ll go and tell Mrs. Leeson to put the kettle on. We do need to talk.”

  Veronica nodded. “I was worried”—she almost choked on her words—“that perhaps there’d been some sort of side effect caused by Sir Maurice’s treatment, or that it had stopped working entirely; that you might have suffered another seizure.”

  Amelia smiled. “No, nothing like that. The treatment is as effective as ever. It’s just … you know how I told you my episodes were becoming more controllable, easier to contain?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, there are things I’ve seen, Veronica. Things you need to know.” Amelia sounded suddenly serious. She folded Veronica’s grey coat neatly over her arm, picking nervously at the bobbles of lint and refusing to meet Veronica’s gaze.

  “Right. Well, I’m here now, so let’s see about that tea and you can tell me all about it,” said Veronica, with some trepidation.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Veronica found herself ensconced by the fire in the living room, welcoming the warmth back into her weary bones. She still felt shaken from both her journey—the steam-powered carriage had jarred her most efficiently as they’d trundled through the cobbled lanes on the outskirts of the city—and the sudden fear for her sister’s health.

  Mrs. Leeson was busying herself in the kitchen, seeing to the kettle, and Amelia was sitting opposite Veronica, perched upon the edge of a chaise longue. She looked thin and gaunt, but hauntingly pretty, her raven-black hair tied back from her forehead in a neat chignon. Her eyes were wide with concern.

  “So, tell me—what’s this all about?” asked Veronica, not entirely sure that she wanted to know. It had been some time since Amelia had discussed the contents of her visionary episodes with her, and the last time, she’d warned Veronica that something dreadful was coming.

  Veronica had absolute faith in her sister’s ability to see … if not into the future, exactly, then impressions of what was to come, and often, it terrified her. “I thought the seizures had stopped? That the treatment meant you were getting stronger?” she said.

  Amelia nodded. “The seizures have stopped. And I’m certainly getting stronger. But the visions still come. They’re not as violent as they once were, and I’ve learned to anticipate when they’re coming. There’s a smell, a taste on the back of my tongue. It’s like the air before a thunderstorm, a prickle of anticipation…” She trailed off, taking a deep breath.


  “Go on,” said Veronica, both fascinated and appalled.

  “When it strikes, it’s like a waking dream. Images flickering through my mind, disjointed and fragmentary. Unbidden sounds. It’s over in seconds, and then I come to.”

  “Just like that? It used to take hours for you to regain consciousness,” said Veronica, sitting forward in her chair.

  Amelia smiled. “There’s nothing but a momentary disorientation,” she said. “Sir Maurice’s treatment is having a profound effect.”

  “But…?” asked Veronica.

  “But, the things I see.…” Amelia hesitated. “Do you remember when we first came here, to Malbury Cross?”

  “Of course.”

  “I told you something terrible was coming,” said Amelia, quietly.

  Veronica swallowed. “Yes.”

  “I still fear there is truth in that. I’m concerned you’re in grave danger, Veronica,” said Amelia, her voice cracking.

  Veronica stiffened. She’d feared as much. “Back when I first brought you here, you said there was a word, too. A repeated word. ‘Executioner,’ I think it was?”

  Amelia nodded. “Let me show you something.” She rose slowly from her perch on the chaise longue, crossing the room to a large writing bureau. She took a small key from a concealed pocket in her dress, inserted it into a matching lock on the face of the bureau, and turned it with a scrape. She allowed the wooden shelf to drop forward, revealing the disarrayed contents within: letters, scraps of paper, tatty quills and jars of ink; all of them shoved untidily—hurriedly, even—within.

  Amelia withdrew a sheaf of rolled papers, and, clutching it close to her chest, returned to her seat. She handed the papers to Veronica. “There.”

  “What is this?” said Veronica, mystified.

  “Open it,” replied Amelia.

  Veronica did as her sister asked, unfurling the curled pages and smoothing them carefully across her knees. As she looked over the hastily scratched letters and smudges of dry, spattered ink within, she felt her heart flutter in her chest. She studied the uppermost page. The word Executioner had been scrawled over every inch of its surface, repeatedly, in the same hand. She lifted the first page. Beneath it, the second was near identical. She shuffled through a sheaf of perhaps ten pages. All were the same. The writing was frantic, untidy—as if the writer had been scared or possessed, or possibly both. “You did these?” asked Veronica, her voice level. “Under the influence of one of your episodes?”