by George Mann
“Is she awake?” asked Newbury, hesitantly, as he led the way down the steps.
“No. I’ve kept her under. The pain would be excruciating. She will remain unconscious until we find a solution, one way or another,” replied the Fixer.
At the bottom of the stairs, the room suddenly opened up into a vast space, familiar to Newbury from his own brief stay. This massive chamber was adjacent to the one in which he had deposited Veronica earlier, but at least three times the size. It was brightly lit by another electric arc light that spanned the vaulted ceiling, flooding everything in its clinical gleam. An array of strange and unusual machinery lined the walls: whirring clockwork engines that pumped bubbling pink fluid through glass valves and coiling tubes; devices that resembled multi-bladed weapons but were, in fact, surgical tools; an automaton assistant that scuttled around at waist height, bearing trays of spatulas and scalpels. Empty beds stood like sentries, posted at intervals amongst the machines. The room stank of carbolic and blood.
In the far right corner, a series of bellows attached to a large brass box were wheezing as they slowly inflated and deflated, over and over, as regular as the ticking of a metronome or a clock. Newbury could see more tubing snaking out of the brass box, disappearing into the chest of what looked like a pale wax dummy laid upon a bed beside it. He felt his own heart breaking at the sight. “My God,” he whispered, as he drifted mechanically across the basement towards her. He had no words with which to adequately describe his thoughts.
Veronica lay there, unconscious and unmoving, much like a corpse. The place where her chest wound had been now erupted with a bundle of fat tubes, filled with dark, red blood. The flesh around them was puckered and purple.
Her head had fallen to one side on the pillow and her lips were slightly parted, as if in a wry smile. Her hands were folded over her stomach, and a white gown—the front of which had been hastily modified to provide access to the tubing in her chest—protected her modesty. She was pale, and her skin had taken on a damp sheen. Beside her, the brass contraption gurgled as it fed hungrily on her blood, cycling it through her veins.
“She would not have wanted this,” said Bainbridge, clearly appalled. “She would not want to live like this.”
Newbury turned on him, but there was little fight left in him. “I’ll find a way, Charles. There must be a way.” He glanced at the Fixer.
“She needs a new heart,” said the Fixer. “A replacement for her original organ. With Fabian dead, however…” He trailed off, but Newbury caught his meaning. He didn’t know of anyone capable of such a precise feat of engineering and invention. The irony was not lost on Newbury: If he and Veronica had not allowed the Bastion Society’s attack on the Grayling Institute to go ahead, Fabian would still be alive.
“There’ll be others,” said Newbury, defiantly. “There must be others.”
“If you are to find them,” said the Fixer, the doubt evident in his voice, “then you must act swiftly.”
Newbury nodded. He could feel the anger swelling in his chest. Anger at himself, anger at Veronica … but most of all, anger at the Prince of Wales. This was his doing. Newbury would ensure that he paid for what he had done.
“Look, she’s safe for now, Newbury. You need to get some rest. You’re wounded and tired, and you can’t do anything else for Miss Hobbes here. Not now. Go home, and I’ll go directly to the palace to lay it all out for the Queen,” said Bainbridge, putting a hand on Newbury’s shoulder.
“I’ll kill him, Charles,” muttered Newbury. “I’ll have his head for this.”
“Newbury!” There was a warning note in Bainbridge’s voice. “You can’t even think of it. Do not go there. Let the Queen handle it. You’ll get yourself killed if you try to take matters into your own hands.”
Newbury looked at the Fixer, who was watching them with interest. He looked back at Bainbridge. “You’re right, Charles. You must go directly to the Queen. Ensure that she understands who is responsible for this sorry mess.” He turned and strode towards the door.
“Newbury? Where are you going?” Bainbridge called after him. “Newbury!”
Newbury didn’t answer, didn’t look back at Bainbridge, the Fixer, or Veronica. He simply carried on walking towards the door and the steps that led up to the entrance hall.
He had business to attend to.
CHAPTER
30
The sun was coming up as Newbury stalked determinedly along the gravel driveway towards the monolithic home of the Prince of Wales.
He looked dishevelled and exhausted, limned by the amber glow of the breaking day. His hair was mussed, his collar open, and his cravat long discarded. His once-black jacket was sticky with Veronica’s drying blood. There was rage in his eyes, and a deep, burning desire for revenge in his belly.
Bainbridge had warned him not to come here, to leave the matter to the Queen to resolve, but Newbury could not let it rest. He needed to look the man in the eye, to understand what had driven him to commit such heinous atrocities. Even more, he needed to ensure the Prince would pay for what he had done to Veronica, one way or another.
His hands were bunched into tight fists, and he was barely aware of the sounds of the household waking as he approached, or the twittering of birds overhead, heralding the dawn. He had only one goal in mind: to get inside the building and locate the traitorous Prince of Wales. He’d work out what to do when he found him.
He approached the front entrance, his feet stirring the gravel. He reached for the bell pull and gave it a sharp tug. The bells jangled deep inside the building, beckoning to the servants within. Newbury paced restlessly back and forth for a moment in the shadow of the awning, until the sound of footsteps in the hallway caused him to stop and look round.
The door creaked open a fraction and Barclay’s pale face appeared in the opening. When he saw Newbury his expression darkened. “Sir Maurice,” he said, looking him up and down, an eyebrow arched in snide amusement. “You seem a little out of sorts.” He waited for a response, but Newbury was not forthcoming. “But I’m afraid your journey here has been in vain,” he continued after a moment, when it became apparent that Newbury had chosen to ignore his jibe. “The Prince cannot see you at this early hour. I’d suggest making an appointment. And,” he added pushing for a reaction, “that perhaps you should consider adopting a more formal appearance.”
“Let me in, Barclay,” growled Newbury in response. He felt his ire rising.
“I cannot,” replied the butler, tartly.
“You shall,” said Newbury, stepping forward and shoving the door open with his left hand.
Barclay fell back, attempting to block his entrance. “Desist, Sir Maurice,” he said, boldly, although he was clearly shaken by Newbury’s unexpected intensity.
“Step aside,” said Newbury, a note of warning in his voice. “I will not ask you again.”
“I will not,” came the response.
Newbury sighed. He would tolerate the imbecile no longer. He let his shoulders drop in apparent resignation, but then lashed out suddenly with his fist, catching the odious little man across the jaw with a right hook that rendered him almost immediately insensible. His legs buckled beneath him, his head dropping, and he slumped to the tiled floor. Newbury didn’t bother to catch him as he pitched forward onto his face. “I’ve wanted to do that for the best part of a week,” he said to the unconscious man, flexing his smarting fingers.
He stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him. He left the butler lying in the hallway as he followed the sounds of bustling activity deeper into the house.
He began by retracing his steps from the previous day. The drawing room proved to be empty, however, and the library door was locked. He considered forcing the door in with his shoulder, but decided he would be better off searching for his quarry elsewhere in the immense house before resorting to drastic measures. It was still relatively early, although he assumed the Prince would have risen from his bed by this time on
a winter’s morning.
He passed a maid as he hurried along the passageway and she stared at him, her eyes wide. She looked as if she were about to speak—probably with a view to offering assistance or enquiring after his dishevelled appearance—but he silenced her with a glowering look, and she scuttled off, her head bowed.
Two further rooms—a sitting room and a music room—yielded no results, but the third, which turned out to be the dining room, proved eminently more fruitful.
The Prince of Wales sat at the large table, attired in a quilted dressing gown of imperial red, and hunched over a plate of sausage, bacon, and eggs, with a freshly pressed newspaper at his elbow. He was alone. Newbury suspected that Barclay had been in attendance up until a few moments before, when he had rung the doorbell and called the butler away.
Albert Edward glanced up as Newbury burst into the room. He looked startled, and somewhat confused. “Newbury?” he said, peering across the table to where Newbury stood in the doorway. “Well, I must say, this is something of a surprise. Most unorthodox.”
Newbury stalked further into the room, his face like thunder. “I rather think you imagined me to be dead, Your Royal Highness,” he said, almost spitting the last few words.
The Prince frowned. “Why ever would you say such a thing, Newbury? Why should I consider you dead?” He paused, contemplating his breakfast. “Although, judging from the look of you, you have rather been through the wringer. Are you hurt? You appear to be covered in blood.” His tone was genial and gave little away.
Newbury offered him a hard, unwavering stare. “I know it was you,” he said, gravely. “I know what you are.”
“Now look here, Newbury,” said the Prince, placing his cutlery neatly on the side of his plate and meeting Newbury’s eye. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about, and I cannot say that I approve of your tone. Now, it is clear to me that you have been involved in a distressing episode, and so I shall overlook your rather inappropriate implication. It occurs to me, though, that I may have been ill advised in extending to you a certain level of informality, such that you might deem it appropriate to burst in on me like this, first thing in the morning and dressed like a common tramp.”
“Cease your excuses!” bellowed Newbury, grinding his teeth in frustration.
“Good Lord! How dare you speak to me in such a manner?” The Prince, incensed, pushed his chair back and stood, slamming both palms down upon the surface of the table. “Leave now, Newbury, before I am forced to take action. Go home and take stock of whatever has occurred. You may return here to Marlborough House later this afternoon if you still have matters which you wish to discuss, and assuming you can do so with at least some sense of propriety.”
Newbury shook his head. “You misunderstand,” he said slowly, in an effort to control his temper. “It’s over. Your hand in the matter has been exposed. Even now, Sir Charles Bainbridge is before the Queen, explaining your part in proceedings, how you commissioned the Executioner to carry out your plans, how you orchestrated the deaths of key agents to undermine your mother’s power. How you even sent your pet murderess after me when I failed to engage in your carefully planned distraction and strayed too close to the truth.”
“You’re delusional, Newbury! Too many of those damnable cigarettes, I don’t doubt. That’s what it is. You’re seeing things that aren’t there,” replied the Prince hotly. His cheeks were flushed red with anger and embarrassment.
“You know as well as I do that I am not delusional. Her Majesty the Queen is unlikely to see it that way, either, once the facts are laid out before her.” Newbury was now standing only a few feet away from the Prince. “This blood,” he said, indicating the stains on the front of his jacket, “belongs to Miss Hobbes. It is on your hands.”
Albert Edward’s shoulders dropped. He lowered his eyes, gazing at the floor. “Your trouble, Newbury, is that despite all of your dreadful habits and obsessions, despite your best attempts to kill yourself with narcotics and ridiculous occult games, you’re too damn clever. Too astute. You could have stayed out of it. If Miss Hobbes found herself caught up in this dreadful business, then her blood is on your hands, Newbury. Your hands, not mine.” The Prince looked up, met Newbury’s gaze. His eyes were cold, hard. “You had the opportunity to save yourself. Your damn pride and relentlessness is what’s landed us both in this position.”
“So you admit it, then? You admit it all. You were behind the Executioner. You were feeding her targets, looking to destabilise and overturn your mother’s rule so you could claim the throne for yourself,” said Newbury, shaking his head. He’d known it to be true, but even now, even hearing it from the man himself, he could hardly believe it.
“I was doing it for the good of the Empire, to prevent her from passing everything to that … abomination,” spat the Prince. “She would have cut me out, Newbury, and installed her own little puppet on the throne. A child grown in a laboratory! She’s insane. She thinks only of herself, not the people of our great nation. Surely you must see that? It’s for the good of the Empire that she falls!”
The Prince’s words echoed in Newbury’s skull. An abomination … a child grown in a laboratory … Newbury had seen such things at the Grayling Institute, facsimiles of Amelia propagated in vats of amniotic fluid. Could it be that Dr. Fabian had been successful, that he had managed to smuggle one of the clones out for the Queen before the end? And a child? All of the copies he had seen were adults—if you could call the disturbed, animalistic things adults at all. Perhaps this was something different.
“Whatever the truth of your words, the manner in which you have set about achieving your goal is detestable and extreme. Innocent people have died, their hearts ripped out by a licensed madwoman, authorised by your own hand,” said Newbury, bitterly.
“This is a war, Newbury! Can’t you see? Their deaths could not be avoided. It was necessary for the greater good.” The Prince sounded as if he were pleading now, for an understanding that Newbury could not provide.
“I don’t believe measures such as that are ever necessary,” replied Newbury. “The ends never justify such means.”
“Then I’m afraid you leave me no choice,” said the Prince, his expression hardening. “I’ll just have to finish the Executioner’s work myself.”
He lurched back, grabbing for the pommel of a display sword that was mounted on the wall behind him. He slid it from its housing with a swift, fluid motion, causing the accompanying shield to clatter noisily to the floor. He rounded on Newbury with a flourish, the tip of the sword only a foot away from Newbury’s chest, poised over his heart.
“This really is a most regrettable interlude, Newbury,” said the Prince. “I had planned for you to be by my side as I ascended to the throne, to become the head of my security forces. Together, we would have achieved great things. But now, you have reduced me to this, to lowering myself to such base matters. I will not make such a mistake again.” He launched himself forward, the blade humming through the air towards Newbury’s chest.
Newbury fell back and his right hand shot out, snatching a large silver candlestick from the dining table beside him. He swung it around before him in a sweeping arc. It struck the Prince’s épée with the dull clatter of metal upon metal, sending the Prince’s attack wide. Newbury continued the motion, stepping forward and at the same time twisting the angle of his wrist so that the thin blade became entangled amongst the triad of silver stems that comprised the candlestick. With a sharp jerk, he twisted the sword out of the Prince’s grasp and sent it clattering away across the floor.
The Prince cursed and stepped back, nursing his wrist. Newbury, still holding the candlestick, stepped forward again, raising the heavy decoration above his head as if to strike the other man.
The Prince cowered, raising his hands above his head in a pathetic attempt to stave off the anticipated attack. Newbury could see the fear in his eyes, could tell from the sharp intake of breath that the man was panicked. He ha
d tried to murder Newbury, and his botched attempt at undermining the Queen had resulted in the near-death of the woman Newbury loved. Newbury would be justified in striking him down, if not, perhaps, more.
Instead, however, Newbury dropped the candlestick upon the floor and stood back, looking down upon the pathetic man whom he had once held in such high regard. “You are not worthy of my time,” he said quietly, firmly. “I shall leave you for your mother to deal with.”
The Prince stared up at him with confusion in his eyes. He seemed unable to grasp that Newbury was not going to see the attack through, that he was not going to end the Prince’s life then and there on the parquet floor of his dining room.
Newbury turned his back on the Prince of Wales and strode defiantly from the room.
He walked along the narrow passageway until he entered the hall. The main door was hanging open, and two maids were attending to the unconscious Barclay. They looked up at Newbury in apparent fascination. He ignored them, heading directly for the door.
As he stepped over the still-prone form of the butler, he heard the Prince bellowing loudly and fretfully for the man from the bowels of the house. Newbury spared a weak, sad smile for the maids on his way out the door.
CHAPTER
31
“How is she?” said Bainbridge, as he bustled through the door to Newbury’s drawing room, forgoing the usual formalities. He was anxious to hear word of Veronica, and also to check on his old friend, who was taking it very badly indeed. Two days had passed, and Bainbridge had been busy dealing with the aftermath of the whole affair: fighting off reporters, placating the Queen, informing the families of the Executioner’s victims.
He didn’t yet know what had happened to the Executioner’s corpse, which was missing from the scene, or what had become of the Prince of Wales, who had not been seen since the morning after the events at the abandoned hotel.