by George Mann
“All of this subterfuge!” said Newbury, hotly. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I didn’t want to put you at risk, Newbury!” said Bainbridge.
“Well, it hardly worked, did it?” replied Newbury, shaking his head. “Quite the opposite. And besides, have you never considered that I might feel the same way? I’m only too aware of the Queen’s dubious, self-absorbed nature.”
“And Miss Hobbes?” asked Angelchrist.
“I assure you, Veronica has more reason to doubt the monarch than most. The Queen has woefully wronged her in recent months. We are forced to maintain a charade of servitude, to avoid exacerbating the situation,” said Newbury, wincing. Bainbridge noticed that he was nursing the wound on his forearm.
“What has the Queen done to so affront Miss Hobbes?” asked Bainbridge, concerned. He wondered why Newbury, in turn, had not spoken of the matter, but decided not to press him on that for the time being. He was still reeling from the shock of realising that Newbury shared his concerns regarding the monarch.
“It can wait,” countered Newbury. “Right now, my concern is to put a stop to the Prince’s plans. We can worry about the Queen later. We need to prevent any more people from dying.”
“You’re right,” said Bainbridge. He grabbed the brandy bottle off the sideboard and sloshed another measure into Newbury’s glass, which Newbury drank thirstily. Bainbridge hoped it would help to numb the pain. “Where might the Prince be harbouring her, this ‘Executioner’? We can hardly go storming up to Marlborough House and ask him.”
Newbury looked thoughtful. “He won’t be keeping her at Marlborough House. He wouldn’t want her under his roof any longer than is necessary, to avoid associations such as the one I made after my unexpected visit. He clearly doesn’t realise that I saw her in the library, or, if he does, he believes I won’t make the connection, at least until it’s too late.” He raised his hand, suddenly, as if an urgent idea had just come into his head. “Yes! That’s it!”
“What is?” asked Bainbridge, perplexed by Newbury’s sudden outburst.
“The Prince told me he was involving himself in the property market, purchasing an old, abandoned hotel with a view to restoring it to its former glory. I thought it odd at the time, but now I can see that there must have been an ulterior motive. I’ll wager that’s where we’ll find her,” replied Newbury, animated now.
“Where is this hotel?” asked Angelchrist.
Newbury shrugged. “I don’t know. It has to be fairly central. The murder scenes appear to have been spread evenly throughout the city.”
“We can find out,” said Bainbridge. “We have files on the Prince, observations gathered over the course of the last few months. Surely there must be something in there? If he’s purchased a property, it must be a case of public record.”
Angelchrist nodded enthusiastically. “The files are held in my safe, back at Grosvenor Square.”
Bainbridge stood. “Then we should go there immediately. We must strike while the iron is hot. If we’re correct and she’s hiding at this abandoned hotel, we may be in a position to catch her before the night is out. Once we have the Executioner, we’ll also have the Prince.”
Newbury stood, too. “Veronica didn’t return, Charles. She’s not at Chelsea. I need to go to her, to ensure she is safe. What if the Executioner goes after her while we’re busy looking for an address?”
Bainbridge nodded. “Yes, of course. Go to her. Get her back to Chelsea. We’ll send for you there once we have the address.”
Newbury nodded. “Excellent. We’ll await word, then meet you at the hotel before the night is out.”
“Shall I send for reinforcements from the Yard?” asked Bainbridge.
“No,” replied Newbury. “If there’re too many of us, we’ll frighten her off. But for all of that, remember: There’s strength in numbers. Do not attempt to tackle this woman without us. I’ve seen what she’s capable of. If it wasn’t for Scarbright, I’d be dead now, and she’d have walked away with my heart.”
Bainbridge nodded. “I knew I’d let a good one go in Scarbright, Newbury. Not only is he the best chef I’ve ever known, it seems he’s pretty handy in a fistfight, too.” He grinned, trying to make light of the situation. In truth, he was deeply concerned for Newbury. He didn’t look at all well, and his clothes were stained with blood. “Get some rest, if you can. You’re going to need your strength.”
Newbury nodded. “Until later, then,” he said, clasping Bainbridge on the shoulder and shaking Angelchrist’s hand. “Good hunting, gentlemen.”
“Until later,” said Bainbridge. He watched Newbury go, a little unsteady on his feet, then turned to Angelchrist. “Come on,” he said. “You heard the man. There’s a murderer to catch.”
Angelchrist grinned. “Two, in fact,” he said, rising to his feet. “Don’t forget the Prince of Wales.”
Bainbridge sighed. “Not likely,” he said, with feeling. He downed the last dregs of his brandy. “That’s one conversation with the Queen I’m truly dreading.”
Angelchrist laughed. “Makes me glad I only have to answer to the Home Secretary,” he said.
“Come on, you damn republican,” said Bainbridge, gruffly. “There’s work to be done.” He opened the door to the hall and ushered Angelchrist out.
CHAPTER
27
Veronica paced before the window of her drawing room, looking out across a damp, dimly lit stretch of Kensington High Street. It was mostly deserted now, with only the occasional hansom steaming past, funnels belching soot-coloured smoke into the grey night. Most of the horse-drawn cabs had retired for the evening, with only the hardy steam-powered variety still buzzing around the city, their drivers warmed by the proximity of their miniature furnaces and tanks of boiling water.
Try as she might, she still couldn’t believe what she had seen through the window of Bainbridge’s sitting room. She kept attempting to rationalise it, to explain away what she had witnessed.
However hard she tried, though, she could not find an alternative explanation. Bainbridge had lied to her, brazenly, about seeing Angelchrist, and almost immediately afterwards had returned home to find the other man waiting for him. It had not been an unexpected call, either: The manner in which Bainbridge hurried to greet him and hand over the envelope suggested it was a prearranged appointment. Angelchrist had been waiting for him to return with the list. No wonder Bainbridge had been so keen to take possession of it back at Chelsea.
Could it be that the Queen was correct about the Secret Service? It certainly appeared as if they were involved in something covert having to do with the Crown agents. And Bainbridge had clearly thrown his lot in with them. Could they really be the ones behind the Executioner? She didn’t want to believe it, but the facts were beginning to mount up.
Veronica decided it was time to tell Newbury the truth: that she had been spying on Angelchrist and Bainbridge, and that her worst fears had been confirmed. She could put it off no longer.
She glanced at the overnight bag she had placed by the door in readiness. Mrs. Grant had been in bed for hours, and she was used to Veronica coming and going at unsociable hours. She’d barely stir, if she even heard anything at all.
It was probably for the best. Veronica didn’t really want to have to explain that she was planning to spend the night—or, indeed, the next few nights—at Newbury’s house. Despite everything she had said to Newbury, she did fear for her reputation, if only in the eyes of her housekeeper, who would not approve. Newbury was, after all, ostensibly her employer, and the affection between them was hardly a secret.
Nevertheless, if she left now and hailed one of those dreadful steam-powered cabs, she could be at Newbury’s house within half an hour, then tomorrow she would make her excuses to Mrs. Grant and explain that she was staying with a friend for a few days.
In the meanwhile, she and Newbury could decide together how they might tackle Bainbridge and the professor. Assuming, of co
urse, that Newbury could be persuaded to take her at her word. She still feared he would react badly to the news, and refuse to see ill of his friend.
Veronica grabbed her still-damp coat from where she’d left it flung over the back of a chair, and collected her bag. Quietly, she slipped out of the house, careful to lock the door behind her.
* * *
The house was shrouded in darkness, and no lamps appeared to be burning in the upper windows. The front door was still locked, however, and there was no sign that anyone had forced entry.
Newbury’s assumption, then, had been correct. Once home, Veronica must have changed her mind about spending the night at Chelsea, and instead taken to her own bed for the night. He admired her for her courage and independence, but wished, on this one occasion, that she’d adhered to the agreed plan.
Nevertheless, he’d have to wake her now. She’d want to be by his side as they stormed the abandoned hotel in a few hours’ time. More pertinently, it provided him with the chance to keep a watchful eye on her. Renwick’s revelations regarding the Executioner had terrified him, particularly when coupled with the horrifying things he had seen in his feverish dreams. Veronica was in danger, and it was up to him to protect her.
He stood for a moment in the front garden, catching his breath. The rain was a constant mizzle, soaking his clothes. They were already ruined, though, and he could change as soon as they’d returned to Chelsea. He’d need to prepare himself for another possible encounter with the Executioner, too. He’d seen what she was capable of, and fully intended to go into the situation armed with his pistol and sword.
He glanced behind him to see the driver of the steam-powered hansom he had flagged down waiting patiently for him at the roadside, huddled against the rain, a cigarette dripping from his lips.
Deciding there was no way to approach the matter with any degree of subtlety, he walked up to Veronica’s front door and rapped loudly with the brass knocker.
After a moment, a lamp flared in one of the upstairs rooms. He waited patiently on the doorstep, trying to ignore the rain. Shuffling footsteps sounded in the hall.
“Who is it?” came a suspicious voice from the other side of the door. It was Mrs. Grant, Veronica’s housekeeper.
“It’s Sir Maurice Newbury, Mrs. Grant. I need to speak with Miss Hobbes as a matter of urgency,” he replied, trying to keep his tone level. He didn’t wish to worry her unduly.
He heard the bolt scrape in the lock and the jangle of keys, and then the door yawned open. Inside, the hallway was dark. Mrs. Grant stood there in a heavy quilted dressing gown, her greying hair scraped back beneath a net. “What sort of time is this to be calling on a young lady?” she said, briskly. She gave him a severe look.
“I’m sorry to rouse you from your bed, Mrs. Grant, but this really is a matter of urgency,” he said, pressing her. “I do need to speak with Miss Hobbes. It cannot wait.”
“Very well,” she conceded, with a sigh. “I suppose you’d better step in out of the rain.” She held the door open for him and he ducked into the hall, thanking her.
She looked him up and down. “Oh…” she exclaimed, as she fully appreciated the condition of his torn and blood-spattered clothes for the first time. “You appear to have been in the wars, Sir Maurice. Are you quite well?”
Newbury nodded. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Grant.”
She shook her head, in what Newbury took to be a gesture of exasperation. “Right. Well, if you’d be kind enough to wait there for a moment, I’ll see if Miss Hobbes is prepared to see you.”
“Thank you,” he said. She ascended the stairs to the next floor. Everything was quiet in the house other than the creak of her footfalls on the treads and the rattle of his own breath.
She reappeared a moment later wearing a frown, and hurried back down to join him in the hallway. “I’m afraid Miss Hobbes is not here,” she said, the concern evident in her voice. “Her bed is undisturbed, and she is not in the drawing room.”
Newbury smiled reassuringly, but his heart was hammering in his chest. Where was she? Perhaps he’d missed her, and she had returned to Chelsea as planned after all. If so, she’d be sitting with Scarbright now, awaiting his return. The alternative was almost unfathomable. “I’m sure it’s nothing to trouble yourself with, Mrs. Grant. I had, in fact, arranged to meet with Miss Hobbes at my house, but found myself otherwise engaged. I’d assumed she would return home for the evening, but I must have been mistaken. I imagine that she is awaiting me at Chelsea even now.”
“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Grant, a note of disapproval in her tone. “At this hour. You may be a gentleman, Sir Maurice, and I do not doubt your intentions, but you must think of Miss Hobbes’s reputation and well-being.”
“I understand,” said Newbury, patiently, “and your concern does you credit, Mrs. Grant. I assure you, I have only Miss Hobbes’s best interests at heart.” He smiled. “Now, I apologise profusely for waking you unnecessarily. If Miss Hobbes does happen to return before I’ve had chance to speak with her at Chelsea, I’d ask that you please explain to her that I called, and that I will call again first thing in the morning.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Grant, with a heavy sigh. “Good night to you, Sir Maurice.”
“Good night,” he replied, taking his leave. He signalled to the driver as he hurried down the garden path to the waiting cab. “Cleveland Avenue, Chelsea,” he said. “As quickly as you can.”
* * *
Newbury willed the cab to go faster, despite the fact that it was already churning through the wet streets at an undeniable pace. He desperately hoped that he’d return to Chelsea to find Veronica waiting for him there. It was late, and by his reckoning she’d been missing for some hours. Rationally, he knew there must be an explanation for her absence, but given his encounter with the Executioner earlier that evening and his epiphany regarding the Prince of Wales, he couldn’t deny that she was an obvious target. She was close to both Newbury and Bainbridge, for a start, and she was involved in the investigation into the Executioner’s murders. If the Prince wanted to tidy up after himself, she would be the next logical target after Newbury himself.
He stared out of the window, but could discern little of their location from the misty smear of houses as they rushed by in the darkness. He glanced at his pocket watch. They had to be halfway there by now.
He started at the sound of a heavy thud on the roof of the cab. The vehicle jolted slightly, as if the driver was struggling to keep it under control. Newbury leaned forward to open the window and call up to the man when the cab swerved suddenly to the left. He was thrown across the seat, banging his head painfully against the wooden frame. He righted himself, smarting, but the entire vehicle was rocking violently now as it continued to pelt along the cobbled lanes. He struggled to maintain his balance.
He heard a man cry out, followed by a piercing, inhuman shriek, an animalistic wail that caused his hackles to rise. The cab shuddered again as it struck the kerb and careened away, still barrelling along at speed, but clearly out of control.
Newbury grasped the handrail by the left-hand door and steadied himself. Then, with a huge effort, fighting against the momentum of the bouncing vehicle, he pulled himself upright and slid the window open. The cold night wafted in, blasting his face with rainwater. He could see now that the cab was describing a zigzag pattern up the street, thudding against the kerb on one side, then careening into the other and bouncing back again, over and over.
He twisted, glancing up at the dickey box, and recoiled in horror at the sight. The driver swayed back and forth with the movement of the vehicle, but only the lower half of the man’s torso was visible. His head, one arm, and most of his chest were missing. What remained was still propped up in the driver’s box, blood spurting from the ragged wound. The man had literally been torn in half. Whatever had done that to him was capable of immense strength.
Newbury felt something shift on the roof, and slid back into the main compartment of the cab
. He had to get out there and take charge of the vehicle’s controls before they careened into the side of a building or another oncoming vehicle. He considered jumping out, but at this speed he’d be dashed across the cobbles, or at the very least would sustain numerous shattered bones, leaving him injured and prey to whatever was up there on the roof.
Could it be the Executioner? He didn’t think so. The manner in which the driver had been killed was far too feral—primal, even—and lacked the finesse of her previous kills. What, then?
His question was answered a second later when a fist slammed down through the wooden roof in a hail of splinters. Newbury covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow as the fragments rained down upon his face and shoulders, stinging where they punctured his flesh.
He staggered back as a clawed hand thrashed about in the cab for a moment, before withdrawing and punching through the roof again, widening the aperture. Newbury ducked from side to side to avoid the creature’s curving black talons as they swept back and forth, searching for him. He dropped into the footwell, out of reach, and peered up through the hole, trying to get a sense of what it was that had set upon the cab.
His first thought was of a revenant—the pale, ragged flesh, the unnatural strength, the elongated black talons—but when he saw the thing lower its face into the hole and peer through at him, everything suddenly became clear.
The creature had, indeed, once been a man, but unlike a revenant it was not the victim of an unpredictable microscopic plague, but the result of an appalling experiment in surgical augmentation. This man had been afflicted by design, not by an accident of nature. His lower jaw had been replaced with a brace of enamel tusks, and one eye had been entirely excised, a strange, mechanical lens affixed in its place. Black tubing erupted in a knot from its throat, then curled away over its shoulders and out of sight. The remaining human eye was jaundiced and watery, and was fixed on Newbury, radiating hatred.