by George Mann
She had a sudden, startling thought: Was this how he was healing Amelia?
It was too much of a coincidence that her episodes had ceased just around the time that Newbury’s had begun. Was that what was going on? Had he somehow found a way to draw off her condition, to take it upon himself? Her mind reeled with the possibility.
Veronica realised she was pacing the room. Her tea had spilled in the saucer as her hand shook. She forced herself to stop, sit in one of the chairs, and drink her tea while she considered.
That had to be it. The book, the ritual … that’s what he was doing. Her heart sank.
She looked up to see Newbury stagger into the room. He was dressed now, albeit hastily—he was wearing only his trousers and shirt, the sleeves rolled back, the collar open. He was unsteady on his feet—so much so that as he came into the room he had to reach out a hand to steady himself against the wall. “I…” He looked at her, his eyes pleading.
She rushed to his side, abandoning the teacup and saucer on the floor, not caring whether its contents spilt across the carpet. She caught him in a tight embrace, and he clutched at her, holding her close. He held her tightly for a moment. He was cold to the touch and she could feel him shivering. His breath was still ragged. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s only … I wish you had not seen me like that, reduced to that.”
She stepped back, her hands on his shoulders, searching his face. His eyes were tired and sunken, his lips thin, his face drawn. “If I had known,” she said, “that this was what you were doing…”
Newbury shook his head. “You could not know. Of course you couldn’t. You would never have allowed it.”
“Well,” she said, glancing away, fighting back tears. “It cannot continue.”
“She’ll die,” he said, quietly. “She’ll die without it. I’m stronger than her. It must continue. There’s no other way.”
“But look at you! Look at what it’s doing to you!” she said, her voice rising in urgency. “You’re right. I would never have allowed it, and I cannot allow it now.”
“It’s not for you to decide,” he said, solemnly.
She reeled on him. “Amelia would not want this, Maurice. You must know that. She would not inflict this curse on anyone.”
Newbury sighed. He looked as if he were about to keel over.
“How long has it been going on?” she asked, pressing him further. “When did the seizures begin?”
“A few months,” he said, levelly.
“A few months!” she exclaimed.
“Ever since the ritual began,” he continued. “Ever since it proved to be a success.”
She took a deep breath. “Come on. Come and sit down. I’ll pour you some tea.”
He nodded, shuffling towards the divan. “Now that’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” he said, grinning.
“How can you be so flippant?” she asked, shocked.
“What else would you have me do?” he replied. “There’s no point in getting morose. Besides…” he trailed off, glancing out of the window, as if he didn’t want to give voice to his thoughts.
“Besides what?” she prompted.
“It’s fascinating,” he said, refusing to look at her. “Absolutely fascinating.”
“For the love of.… Don’t tell me you’re actually enjoying the experience!” Veronica fought to keep her temper. She was running the gamut of emotions, from shock to hurt to love to pity to anger. Her head was spinning.
“No,” he replied. “‘Enjoy’ would be quite the wrong word for it. But the process … the things I’ve seen…”
“Maurice,” she said, a warning tone in her voice. “You’re dabbling with things you don’t understand. It’s dangerous. Too dangerous. You’re going to kill yourself if you’re not careful.”
He turned to look at her, his eyes narrow. “I have to protect you,” he said. “The danger is closer than you think.”
Veronica tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. “What do you mean?” she asked, although she thought she already knew.
“Amelia must have spoken to you of it? The Executioner,” he said. “The Executioner is coming.”
Veronica held her head high. “Yes, well, I’ve heard all about this so-called Executioner from Amelia. And here’s what I’m going to do about it: carry on as normal. What you’ve seen isn’t the future. It’s simply a possibility.”
“Veronica,” said Newbury, “that might well be true, but can we really take that risk?”
“What would you have me do?” she asked, her voice strained.
He shrugged. “Go away, to somewhere safe. Take a steamship to New York, or an airship to the Continent. Anywhere but here, where you’re at risk.”
“And how do you know that what you’re seeing in your … visions doesn’t happen somewhere other than here?” she asked.
Newbury’s shoulders dropped in defeat. “I don’t,” he admitted, softly.
“There we are, then,” she said, pouring his tea. She crossed the room, handing it to him. “There’s nothing more to be said on the subject.”
Newbury accepted the teacup gratefully, and drained it. He placed it on the floor beside the foot of the divan, and glanced up at the clock. “You’re here early,” he said, changing the subject.
“Yes. I came to discuss Sir Charles and the Secret Service,” she said.
“More of that,” replied Newbury, sighing. The colour was beginning to return to his cheeks. “I feared that might be the case.”
“You did?” said Veronica. “Then you share my concerns?”
Newbury frowned. “Not entirely, no.”
“Well, if it’s not the Germans, who is behind this ghastly string of murders?” she asked.
“Isn’t that the question,” he replied, rubbing a hand across his face. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked as if he were about to continue, but turned at the sound of a rapping on the front door. “Charles,” he said.
“Already?” said Veronica, feeling her opportunity beginning to slide away.
“The sound of his cane is unmistakable,” he said.
“But I thought we were meeting at two.”
“As did I,” he replied pointedly, raising an eyebrow. Veronica tried not to look sheepish. Voices echoed from the hallway, and then Scarbright showed Bainbridge into the drawing room.
“Here we are, Sir Charles.” Scarbright caught sight of Newbury, and was unable to keep the surprise from his voice. “Oh! Sir Maurice, you’re here.”
Newbury smiled. “How perceptive of you, Scarbright,” he said, not unkindly. “Good day to you, Charles.”
“Is it?” Bainbridge replied, sullenly. He seemed more than a little flustered and was still wearing his hat and coat. He appeared to see Newbury for the first time. “Good God, man! Look at the state of you!” He glanced at Veronica, who shook her head almost imperceptibly.
Newbury didn’t bother to grace him with a response.
“Well, you’ll need to fetch a jacket, at the very least,” said Bainbridge.
“We’re going out?” enquired Newbury.
“Yes,” said Bainbridge. “We’re going out. There’s been another murder.”
CHAPTER
18
“Is this how they found him?” said Veronica, with barely concealed disgust.
“Precisely,” muttered Bainbridge. “He was discovered this way in the early hours of this morning, and he hasn’t been moved. The verger who found him…” He trailed off, as if trying to find a delicate way of phrasing what he wished to say. “Well, let us just say that the body has not been disturbed. I rather think it would be clear to anyone that the man was beyond help or medical assistance.”
Veronica nodded, but kept her thoughts to herself.
They had rushed to the scene of the murder directly from Chelsea, Scarbright securing the services of a cab while Newbury took steps to make himself presentable. He’d done a remarkably good job, too: Te
n minutes later he had emerged like a new man, washed and shaved, and with a glimmer of the old sparkle in his eyes. He was dressed in his customary black suit, white shirt, and green cravat, and he’d somehow managed to muster energy from some secret reserves. Veronica wished she knew how he did it, how he was able to shake off such dreadful, debilitating weariness so easily, as if all he had to do was chide himself in the mirror and pull himself together. When Amelia had suffered from such episodes it had taken her hours, if not days, to recover. Newbury had rallied in a matter of half an hour. Clearly, he was right about one thing: He was stronger than her sister.
Veronica didn’t yet know what that meant in terms of ongoing treatments for Amelia; how she felt about Newbury’s insistence that he be allowed to carry on, that it was not her decision to make. She was sure of one thing, though: that she most definitely would have a say in what happened next.
It was clear that Bainbridge attributed Newbury’s condition and general appearance of slovenliness to his propensity for opium abuse, and he made his opinions on the matter most keenly felt in the way he sighed and bustled about the place in an agitated manner, harrying Newbury and muttering curses beneath his breath. Veronica had wished that she could have disabused the man of such notions and outlined the truth of the matter for him then and there, but Newbury would not have thanked her for it. Besides, in so doing she would have had to tell him the truth about Amelia, and the Grayling Institute, and everything that had transpired since. She couldn’t risk taking that chance.
Newbury, however, had ignored any such jibes or disapproving looks, and, as soon as they were in the back of the hansom rattling across town, had set about unleashing a barrage of questions regarding the circumstances of the corpse’s discovery. Indeed, by the time they’d arrived at St. John’s Wood, he was beginning to show signs of impatience and agitation, anxious to be getting on with his exploration of the crime scene.
Now, he was hunched over the body of the dead vicar, murmuring intently to himself as he examined the man’s wounds.
Veronica tried not to look too closely, instead taking a moment to properly appraise their surroundings. It was an unusual sort of place for a murder, she decided, and didn’t fit with the pattern of the other deaths, which—as far as she understood from Bainbridge—had all taken place in the victims’ homes. Perhaps it was due to the man’s occupation that the killer had struck here, in the church.
The building itself was ancient and crumbling, more of a small chapel of worship than a place that would house a regular congregation. Nevertheless, it was lavishly bedecked with the gilded relics and icons typical of those larger establishments and their elaborate rituals. A large stained glass window adorned the west wall, depicting Saint George standing bold and victorious over the slain dragon. The afternoon sun was slanting through it now, pooling on the floor around the corpse in bright puddles of multi-coloured light. A statue of the Virgin Mary looked down upon the gathered crowd, too: plaintive, sombre, as if sitting in judgement. She had borne silent witness to whatever had occurred in this sacred place. Veronica could see the speckles of blood spattered on her marble robes.
Bobbies milled around the entrance to the small church, talking in hushed tones, while Inspector Foulkes waited in the wings for Newbury to finish his assessment of the victim.
The vicar himself, the Reverend Josiah Carsen, had suffered wounds that were congruent with those inflicted upon the other victims, leaving little doubt in Veronica’s mind—and, clearly, those of the other assembled investigators—that the same person was responsible.
He’d been run through with at least one blade. There were two ragged puncture wounds in his belly that indicated where the weapons had entered his body, and Veronica had no doubt that, when the body was eventually rolled over, the exit wounds would be pronounced and easily identifiable upon his back.
What was more, just like the other victims, his chest had been viciously hacked open and his heart removed. The resulting spillage of blood was horrendous, like a scene from an abattoir. It surrounded the body now, congealed and lumpy, still glossy in places where it had been disturbed. It was everywhere: spattered across the altar and the front row of pews, sprayed across the pulpit, drenching the vicar’s robes. Veronica fought back rising bile in her throat as she took this in. Rarely had she been witness to something so ghoulish. Not since Aubrey Knox and the heap of abandoned corpses beneath the theatre had she felt quite so disgusted.
The stench, too, was near debilitating—the cloying scent of congealing blood, the acidic trace it left on the back of her tongue. Veronica glanced away, unable to stomach the sight of the butchered corpse any longer.
“Was he an agent of the Queen?” asked Newbury, glancing up at Bainbridge for a moment from his study of the corpse.
Bainbridge sighed. “We can only assume he was,” he replied, bitterly. “We have no way of knowing without taking the matter to Her Majesty the Queen. And you know what she said about it.…” He shook his head in frustration. “We need that list, Newbury.”
Newbury nodded. “Yes, indeed,” he said, distracted.
“So, black magic? Occult ritual?” asked Bainbridge. “Tell me what’s going on. You said you needed to see the body in context.”
Newbury stood, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. Veronica didn’t wish to consider where they had been. “I don’t think so, Charles, no. Ritualistic? Yes, most definitely. But occult? I can’t see it. I think there must be some other significance to the missing hearts. It’s as if the killer is taking trophies from his victims.”
“Trophies?” echoed Veronica, in disgust. “Stealing his victims’ hearts as trophies?” The very idea repelled her.
Newbury nodded. His expression was fixed and grim. “I fear so. I can see no other explanation. This is not a delicate surgical procedure. The hearts are being damaged as they’re removed. I cannot imagine how they might be being put to use. My only thought is that they might represent some form of abysmal memento, or else a calling card left by the killer, letting us know who’s responsible for the death. Perhaps there’s some other significance, too, some message that we cannot decipher. What’s clear to me, though, is that this murder was not performed as part of an occult rite. There must be another motivation behind the killings.” He shrugged. “Aldous, of course, may be able to offer a different perspective.”
“Have you heard from him yet?” asked Bainbridge.
“Not yet,” said Newbury. “He needs time to consult his books.”
“Time is one thing we don’t have,” said Bainbridge, testily.
“This isn’t simply a matter of looking something up in the Encyclopaedia Occultus, you understand, Charles. Aldous may even now be poring over pages and pages of ancient manuscripts, searching for references in obscure grimoires, referring to records of forgotten lore and myth from all over the world. Hopefully, if we’re lucky, he might be able to suggest some symbolic significance to what we’re seeing here, some clue that might help us gain a little understanding of what we’re dealing with. That’s all. Aldous isn’t going to give us all the answers here, and anything he does tell us might not actually prove to be of use.” Newbury fixed Bainbridge with a firm stare. “You do appreciate that, Charles?”
Bainbridge’s expression darkened. He looked as if he was biting back an angry retort, his face reddening, but he must have decided to give vent to it after all, as he rounded on Newbury. “Well, of course I appreciate that! What do you take me for? You can call me many things, Newbury, but I’m no imbecile. It’s simply that I’m damn well incandescent to find myself standing here over the mangled corpse of yet another sorry bastard knowing that we’re no closer—no closer—to having even the slightest idea of who is responsible.” He looked away, trembling with rage.
Newbury took a deep breath. “You’re right, Charles. Of course you are. I wish I had something more to give you, but there’s nothing here. No clue as to the nature of the killer, or what it is that’s driving him
to commit such appalling acts of violence.” He sighed. “Nevertheless, I’ll see what I can do to hurry Aldous along.”
He glanced round at the sound of footsteps echoing upon the flagstones behind them. Veronica followed his gaze. Professor Angelchrist strolled hastily towards them, flanked by two uniformed bobbies. He looked a little dishevelled, as if he hadn’t managed much sleep the previous evening. He was still wearing the same clothes as the previous day. “Sorry I’m late, Sir Charles,” he said, a little out of breath. He stopped beside Newbury, joining them in their makeshift crescent around the corpse of the vicar. “Good Lord!” he said, appearing somewhat taken aback by the sheer horror of the scene. “And in a house of God, too.”
“The killer knows no shame,” said Bainbridge, darkly.
Veronica looked from one man to the other. What the devil was Bainbridge playing at, inviting that man here? On top of what had happened at the exhibition, Newbury and Bainbridge were under definite instruction from the monarch herself to sever all ties with the Secret Service. By welcoming Angelchrist to a crime scene, Bainbridge was, effectively, colluding with the enemy—or at least Her Majesty’s perception of the enemy, which amounted to much the same thing. He was putting them all in very grave danger.
“Whatever the case, Archibald here was right,” said Newbury. “About the Germans, I mean.” The others turned to regard him. Veronica bit her tongue. “The corpse has been here for some hours. The cold weather and the atmosphere in this frigid church have helped to preserve the remains, but I have no doubt that he died yesterday, probably late in the afternoon.”
“At around the same time you were being chased by carnivorous birds at the Crystal Palace,” said Angelchrist.
“Yes. And the same time your men were engaged in an unnecessary gunfight with the German agents,” said Veronica, drily. “Do you know the full extent of the death toll yet?”
“Veronica, I really don’t think—” started Bainbridge.
Angelchrist cut him off with a wave of his hand, but wouldn’t meet her eye. “It’s alright, Sir Charles. I’m only too aware of my failure.” He raised his head, searching Veronica’s face. His eyes were limned with dark rings. “I can only assure you, Miss Hobbes, that it was never my intention to allow the operation to descend into such violence, nor to put the lives of any civilians in danger. Nevertheless, the risk of allowing the Kaiser to arm his flotilla of airships with such a weapon was too great to ignore. If he had been successful, I might well have many, many more deaths on my conscience.”