by George Mann
Amelia stared at her for a long moment. “No,” she said, finally. “Not me.”
“Then who?” prompted Veronica, although she felt a horrible suspicion welling up inside of her.
“Sir Maurice,” said Amelia, quickly. “Sir Maurice wrote them.”
Veronica took a deep breath. What was going on here? “How? Why?”
Amelia shrugged. “He sees things, too, Veronica. Whatever he does, however it happens, he sees the same things as I do.”
Veronica shook her head. “No. He’s not like you. He doesn’t have your … talents.”
Amelia indicated the sheaf of papers in Veronica’s hands. “I’d argue that these papers suggest that he does.”
“But…” Veronica faltered. She shook her head. “No. Perhaps he thinks he does. All those rituals…” She trailed off again. “He must have heard you talking. Did you tell him about this word, this Executioner?”
Amelia shook her head. “No. I did not. I’ve told only you.”
Veronica glanced again at the pages in her grasp. Then, as if her hands refused to hold on to them any longer, she dropped them to the floor. They fell in a landslide across the burgundy rug before the hearth. “Tell me what it means,” she said, in a whisper.
Amelia looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “In my dreams I hear the same word repeated over and over, in a variety of voices. It’s accompanied by a sequence of flickering images, as if everything is taking place in a darkened room, with an inconstant light source. There’s a figure in black, the glint of a blade. And then there is you, lying on the floor. Your face is ashen white and you’re bleeding from a wound in your chest. In the background a thousand clocks are ticking.”
Veronica’s mouth was dry. She tried to swallow, but her tongue felt thick and swollen in her mouth. If this were true … “So, this Executioner … is coming for me?” Was she next on the list? Was this what had happened to the other agents?
Amelia was staring at the heap of spilt papers on the rug. “I think he might be.” She looked up, suddenly, imploringly. “You need to get away. Go somewhere safe, away from here, from London. Somewhere where they can’t get to you.”
“I can’t,” said Veronica. “I’m needed.”
“By the Queen?” said Amelia, barely suppressing a scoff. “Surely you can’t continue to harbour any sense of loyalty to that aged harridan?”
Veronica glanced away, searching the flames in the grate as if they might somehow provide her with guidance. “Not the Queen,” she said. “Not her. Maurice.”
“Sir Maurice can look after himself,” said Amelia. “He’d want you to go. To be safe.”
“It’s not as simple as that, Amelia. He needs me. There’s a chance he’s mixed up in something terrible, and there’s no one else he can turn to.”
“He would want you to get to safety,” said Amelia, her voice strained.
“He doesn’t have to know,” said Veronica, pointedly.
“Even if it means you might die?” replied Amelia, evenly.
“It’s a chance I’ll have to take.” She took a deep breath. “What have you told him? About your dreams. About the meaning of this,” she asked, pointing to the papers.
Amelia shook her head in dismay. “You must listen to me, sister!”
“What have you told him?” asked Veronica, firmly.
Amelia held her gaze for a moment in silence. All Veronica could hear was the crackle of the fire and the sound of Mrs. Leeson banging pots in the kitchen. “Very little,” said Amelia, finally. “I’ve told him very little. Only that I think you might be in danger. That doesn’t mean he won’t have formed his own conclusions, however.”
Veronica nodded. “Very well. We shall speak no more of this, Amelia. Do not even think of it.”
Amelia laughed, bitterly. “I only wish that were possible.” She sighed. “I wish you’d reconsider.”
Veronica shook her head, resolute. How could she? After everything that Newbury had done for Amelia. After what had passed between them in the cells beneath Packwood House, when he’d kissed her and told her how he truly felt about her. How could she abandon him now, at his lowest point, weakened by the rituals he was performing on her sister’s behalf, addicted to the poisonous weed that fed his understanding of the occult, possibly unable even to trust the word of his old friend, Sir Charles? How could she possibly leave him to cope with all of that, alone?
No. She would stay, and she would face whatever was coming. Amelia’s visions were not the truth. They were not the future. They were simply a possible future. And that meant it could be averted. Now that she was forewarned, she could prevent it from coming true. “You know I can’t reconsider,” she said, trying to sound confident, unruffled. “And besides, it’s my job. I face danger every single day. What’s the difference here?” She left the question hanging, knowing that it was inadequate. Both of them were aware of what she was doing—making light of Amelia’s revelations, brushing them under the carpet—and both of them knew the truth: that if Amelia had seen something troubling in her dreams, then it was surely lurking just around the corner.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the door. Veronica and Amelia both turned to look as Mrs. Leeson bustled in, opening the door with her hip and causing the contents of her tray to jangle and clink merrily as she crossed the room. She glanced from one of them to the other. “Tea?” she asked, brightly.
Veronica sighed. “Yes, please, Mrs. Leeson.”
CHAPTER
13
Marlborough House, like so many of the grand houses of the eighteenth century, was an imposing, slab-like edifice that stood proud amongst its palatial siblings in the heart of Pall Mall. Flanked by St. James’s Palace and Clarence House, one might have been forgiven for dismissing Marlborough House as just another unnecessary Royal household, similar to numerous other properties that had been co-opted by the monarchy over the years.
What set Marlborough House apart was its occupant: Albert Edward, the future King of England.
It was, Newbury reflected, a most suitable abode for a Prince. The building had a grand, monumental air, with a sweeping approach and extensive, well-tended grounds. Serried ranks of tall sash windows looked out across the city, and a small balcony over the front portico provided the Prince with the means to make a formal address, should it be required.
The house was brightly coloured, and its red and white brickwork, particularly when compared to the grey austerity of Buckingham Palace, gave the place a sense of vibrancy and life. A statement, Newbury considered, that might be applied equally well to the palaces’ respective occupants.
He glanced at the gated entrance and was struck by a dawning sense of trepidation. How did one go about calling on the Prince of Wales? Should he simply walk right up to the front door and knock? Should he have sent ahead to enquire about making a formal appointment? He was confident the Prince would be willing to assist him, particularly given his unexpected call at Chelsea, but had the informality of that interview somewhat gone to Newbury’s head?
He couldn’t help but ponder these matters as he walked along the outer wall of the grounds, searching for a side entrance—perhaps if he made his presence known at the tradesmen’s entrance it might not be deemed such a liberty—but he found the side gate locked and threaded with a heavy chain, and was forced to resort to his earlier plan.
Steeling himself, he went back the way he had come, then followed the gravelled approach across the grounds, admiring the immaculate front lawns and the neat hedgerows. He was sure someone inside the vast house would have seen his approach and would be there to meet him when he arrived at the portico, but once again, his expectations were dashed. The house was shrouded in silence.
Newbury finally decided that he was there already and had little choice but to continue. He took the bell pull in his right hand and gave it a sharp tug. The resultant clanging from deep inside the house caused his stomach to turn as the gravity of what he was
doing dawned on him.
He had, of course, been granted innumerable audiences with the monarch herself over the course of his career as an agent of the Crown, but the rules of engagement had always been clearly delineated. When he visited the palace, it was at the Queen’s behest. While he could never say he had grown comfortable in her presence, a certain familiarity with her means and methods had perhaps taken the edge off. On the rare occasions when he had needed to initiate a communication with the Queen, he had arranged it via Sandford, the agent’s butler, who had ensured everything was properly sanctioned, approved, and in order.
This, however, was entirely different. He had only met the Prince of Wales on a handful of occasions, and they had always been at the Prince’s instigation. Now, he was there on the steps of Marlborough House, calling without an invitation to beg a favour of the future king. Bainbridge would have said he was mad. For once, Newbury could find no logical way to disagree.
The Prince’s butler did not keep Newbury waiting for long. The massive oak door swung inwards with a perceptible sigh, and a finely dressed man—wearing a black suit, starched collar, and white gloves, and with a face as stern as chiselled ice—offered Newbury an appraising look, raised a single eyebrow, and drawled “Yes?” as if it were a word of ten syllables and not one.
Newbury drew himself up. “My name is Sir Maurice Newbury. I’m here to see the Prince of Wales.”
The butler was somewhat taken aback. “And do you have an appointment, sir?” he asked, his voice whistling nasally.
“Not as such,” said Newbury.
“Ah,” came the response. The butler moved as if to close the door.
“I do, however, have an invitation from the Prince himself,” interjected Newbury hurriedly, in an effort to prevent himself from being rejected forthwith. “He asked me to call.”
The butler offered him a speculative look. “Indeed?” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Sir Maurice Newbury, you say?”
“That’s correct,” responded Newbury, with as much gravitas as he could muster. He was not about to be intimidated by a servant with a trumped up opinion of his own role.
“Very well,” said the butler, inclining his head fractionally and opening the door a little wider. “You may wait here, in the hallway, while I enquire with His Royal Highness.”
Newbury glowered at the man as he crossed the threshold and stepped into the grandiose foyer. It was as impressive as any royal residence he had seen. The floor was a chequerboard of black and white marble tiles, polished until they gleamed like the mirrored surface of a lake. Huge fronds erupted from pots as tall as Newbury himself, and a sparkling glass chandelier hung low and magnificent, refracting the thin light that slanted in from the upper windows.
The staircase was impressive, too, seeming to flow up and around to a wide upper gallery. But what drew Newbury’s attention most of all was the scattering of small birds that fluttered, ducked, and wove above his head, darting around the furnishings, twittering noisily, wheeling and dancing in the lofty space. There must have been ten or twenty different varieties in a multitude of vibrant colours: pink, azure, jade, saffron. He watched them for a while as they fluttered from one perch to another, be it the chandelier, the banister, the potted leaves, the picture rail. He wondered why the Prince would keep such a bizarre and impressive collection there in the hallway, free to affect an escape any time the main door to the house was opened. He imagined the birds would turn up in unexpected places all over the house—the kitchens, the bedrooms, the dining room—perhaps even the grounds; sometimes lost and trilling loudly as they begged to be shepherded back to where they belonged, other times discovered only once they had already perished from hunger, exhaustion, or fright, or else the claws of a malign cat.
It was hardly a conventional way to keep animals. This shouldn’t, in itself, have surprised Newbury—after all, nothing about the Royal family appeared conventional, not in any sense that he could understand it. Certainly, the matriarch at the heart of the family was as far from decorous as one could imagine, and the relationships between her and her children appeared equally idiosyncratic. Even Albert Edward, publically a staunch supporter of his mother, had suggested to Newbury in private that relations between he and the Queen were somewhat strained. It hadn’t surprised Newbury, who was keenly aware of the Queen’s selfishness and conniving nature. If this extended to her relations with her children, then it was only to be expected that some of them might bear something of a grudge.
Newbury was still watching the birds a short while later when the butler returned. Newbury dragged his eyes away from the avian display to regard the man. The butler’s expression had not softened, although he did have about him the air of someone a little more contrite, yet still obstinate and unyielding.
“His Royal Highness is only too pleased to grant you an audience, Sir Maurice,” said the butler, hastily. “He extends his apologies”—he pursed his lips as he said this, as though the very thought of the Prince of Wales apologising to such a lowly subject as Newbury was utterly distasteful to the man—“but asks if you would kindly wait in the drawing room for a short while. He is currently engaged in the library with another visitor.”
Newbury grinned, enjoying the man’s discomfort despite himself. “Of course,” he said, genially. “I’d be happy to.”
He followed the butler as the man led him down a long passageway to the left of the stairs. Portraits loomed down at him from the walls, faces staring out blankly across the ages, unsmilingly offering their judgements to posterity.
The butler’s shoes creaked as they followed the passageway into the bowels of the great house, passing various unoccupied rooms. After a few moments, the butler came to a stop, beckoning Newbury towards an open door.
Newbury could hear the murmur of nearby voices—the deep baritone of Albert Edward, accompanied by the husky tones of a woman. He could not make out what they were saying, but as he paused before the entrance to the drawing room, he glanced over his shoulder at another door, which stood slightly ajar.
Inside he could see row upon row of dark mahogany bookcases, each of them lined with leather-bound tomes, and the back of a woman’s head. She was sitting in an armchair about halfway into the room, her back to him. Her dark hair was cut in a shabby, uncompromising style that fell loose around the base of her neck, the flesh of which was pale and stark. She was thin, and appeared to be dressed in black, although he could see only the tops of her shoulders and one sleeve, which rested upon the arm of her chair. She was talking in hushed, whispered tones, and the Prince was silent, perhaps intent on listening to her softly spoken words.
“In here, sir,” said the butler insistently, stepping forward to block the other room from view. Newbury nodded and proceeded into the drawing room as directed. He couldn’t help but wonder about the identity of the mysterious woman and the Prince’s business with her. It wouldn’t do to ask, of course—that really would be viewed as impertinence—but it intrigued him.
“Would you care for a drink, Sir Maurice?” said the butler in a manner that made it clear he did not wish to go to the trouble of preparing one.
Newbury didn’t want one, but for a moment he considered asking for one regardless, just to teach the fellow a lesson. In the end, however, reason won out and he decided against entering into such childish games. “No, thank you,” he said, levelly.
“Very good, sir,” said the butler, with a contumacious smile. “The Prince knows you are here and will be with you in a short while. Please make yourself comfortable in the meantime.” He turned on his heel and left, pulling the door shut behind him.
Newbury waited for the sound of the butler’s retreating footsteps, but they did not come. Clearly, the man had chosen to remain in the corridor outside, to keep an eye on Newbury and ensure he didn’t attempt to interrupt the Prince and his other visitor. Of course, Newbury had no intention of doing any such thing.
Sighing, he strolled over to the fireplace. It was
ostentatious in the extreme, hewn from white Cararra marble, with two darker supporting pillars to either side. Logs were piled in the grate, but were not lit. Above the fireplace was a huge gilt-framed mirror that reflected the sheer splendour of the room with almost dazzling effect. The door frames, too, were gilded, and the black and white chequerboard floor continued through from the hallway, giving Newbury the impression he was standing on a square of an enormous chessboard, a pawn waiting to be moved. Perhaps, he reflected, he was.
This thought gave him pause, and he glanced around, looking for somewhere to sit. He settled on a low chair, upholstered in red velvet and with gilded feet in the shape of lion’s paws. It looked impressive, but was not particularly comfortable.
His eyes were drawn to a series of large canvases on the opposite wall. They were landscapes, but the scenes they depicted were unfamiliar to him. The rolling hills were not the lush and verdant green of England, but scrubland and desert. Small groups of figures in peasant’s robes toiled in the fields, and in the foreground, characters from biblical myth acted out scenes from the famous stories. They were not very much to Newbury’s taste. Nevertheless, the surroundings were much more appealing than the agent’s waiting room at Buckingham Palace.
He started a moment later as he heard the door open.
“Newbury! This is unexpected,” came the booming, authoritarian voice. Newbury turned around to see the rotund figure stalking into the room. The Prince of Wales looked immaculate in his grey double-breasted suit. He walked with a wooden cane which scuffed against the tiled floor with every step he made. He was smiling, but appeared somewhat flustered, distracted even.