by Mann, George
For Fiona Jenny Mann. That completes the trilogy!
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
Newbury & Hobbes Investigations by George Mann
Copyright
CHAPTER
1
The soft loam sucked at his boots, thick and oozing, as if trying to pull him down into its slick, waterlogged depths, down amongst the corpses and the coffins and the dead. Newbury shifted, looking for somewhere even remotely dry to stand. All around him the ground was clotted with mud, made worse by the incessant rain that pattered like a drumbeat upon the brim of his hat. Mist, rising from the warm earth, curled around the forest of listing headstones, clinging to the trees and shrubs and casting the entire scene in an eerie, ethereal shroud. Figures moved like shadows, all dressed in black, their pale faces hidden behind veils or hands.
Nearby, crows were picking at the stringy flesh of a dead fox beneath the shelter of an ancient oak tree. Newbury watched them with a grim fascination.
Around the huddled group of mourners, a perimeter of uniformed bobbies stood like ghostly sentries, half-visible in the vaporous morning, there to ward off roaming Revenants and other unsavoury things that loomed unseen in the shadows.
Graveyards such as this one had become the hunting ground of the soon-to-be-dead. Newbury wondered if perhaps the Revenants felt a kinship with the recently interred, or whether it was simply the lure of warm bodies that drew them in; people gathered in a quiet place, unsuspecting and too lost in their mourning to notice the shambling approach of the plague-ridden flesh eaters. He supposed it didn’t really matter. Either way, he wasn’t convinced a handful of bobbies would be able to stop the creatures if they decided to attack.
He looked around at the faces in the small crowd. There were six people attending the funeral. He couldn’t help thinking there should have been more. He watched their unmoving shapes, hulked low against the torrential rain. They were there to bury Amelia Hobbes.
Newbury tried to listen to the words of the vicar, who conducted his sermon in a solemn, monotonous voice at the side of the grave. Beside him, a small altar boy clutched an umbrella as shelter for the holy man, but was bearing the brunt of the weather himself, soaked to the bone, his once-white robes now splashed with mud and dirt. A large pile of earth was heaped neatly beside the coffin-shaped hole, ready to be replaced once the ceremony was over. The scent of it filled Newbury’s nostrils, fresh and damp.
Across from Newbury stood Mr. and Mrs. Hobbes, the parents of both the dead girl and her older sister, Miss Veronica Hobbes, Newbury’s assistant, who stood beside him, unwilling to lift her face to meet their judgemental glares. Currently, the faces of the two middle-aged socialites were obscured, wreathed in drifting mist, but Newbury had spoken to them earlier and had seen only relief in their eyes. Relief to be free of the burden of their strange, tortured daughter: the girl who could see into the future.
Newbury had shaken their hands and offered his condolences, and had tried not to judge them too harshly. But having seen the manner in which they behaved towards Veronica, he had not been able to suppress a feeling of righteous indignation. It was clear to him that they were interested only in themselves, their fortune, and their reputation, and that their children were nothing but ornaments to be seen and admired. Amelia, broken, had been hidden away from prying society, moved from asylum to asylum, hospital to hospital, until only recently when Newbury himself had intervened, calling on the mercy of Her Majesty the Queen to have the unfortunate girl taken into the private care of Dr. Lucien Fabian, the Queen’s personal physician.
Fabian’s efforts had been an abject failure, but Newbury knew there was far more to it than that. The whole matter had been a terrible travesty, a betrayal of the worst kind. And of course Fabian wasn’t here to see his charge put in the ground.
On the other hand, Dr. Mason, the man who had looked after Amelia during much of her decline, in the period preceding her transfer to Fabian’s Grayling Institute, was in attendance. He seemed more concerned for Veronica than he did for himself, his eyes trained on her throughout the service. Newbury decided this was an admirable trait, although he couldn’t help feeling a spark of annoyance at the other man’s attention.
To Newbury’s right was Sir Charles Bainbridge, Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, fellow agent to the Queen, and his dear friend. Bainbridge was older than Newbury by a decade, approaching his late forties, and he walked with a cane, his left foot damaged during some long-ago adventure. He wore a bushy grey moustache and a stiff top hat and looked bedraggled by the weather, even huddled beneath a heavy winter overcoat. He was staring into the hazy distance, lost in his own thoughts.
Newbury glanced at Veronica, who stood to the left of him. She was clearly distraught, sobbing openly, her head bowed. Her dark hair was lank and wet, clinging to her pale cheeks, but she seemed oblivious to the weather. The rain could do little to disguise the tears that streamed freely down her face.
Newbury looked up at the sound of footsteps. The pallbearers were approaching with the coffin.
Newbury moved closer to Veronica as they watched the men lower the coffin into the slick, waterlogged hole in the ground. Veronica stifled a single sob. The vicar continued to drone on, talking now of birth and resurrection. Newbury sighed. Birth and resurrection. That was what this was all about, one way or another.
The six pallbearers retreated slowly from the sides of the grave, their boots squelching in the sticky mud. Veronica stepped forwards, grabbed a handful of soil from the muddy bank, and cast it into the hole. “Good-bye,” she said solemnly, then turned her back on the grave to face Newbury, a defiant gleam in her eyes.
Newbury watched her parents over her shoulder as they mumbled disapprovingly to each other. He smiled at Veronica, trying not to let her see his disdain. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this dreadful rain, Miss Hobbes.”
Veronica nodded silently. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her face forlorn. Abandoning all sense of propriety, Newbury stepped forwards and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Veronica. Come now, before you catch a chill.” He whispered quietly in her ear. “This place will do you no good.”
She leaned in closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. He felt her body shaking with tears. For a moment, it seemed to Newbury as if they were alone in that sad, misty place; the other figures, all dressed in black, became nothing but inky smudges, hazy and out of focus. At that moment, only Veronica mattered.
Newbury led Veronica gently away from the congregation and towards the row of waiting carriages, nodding once at Bainbridge, whose face was creased with concern and infinite sadness.
Newbury did not look back again as he helped Veronica step up into the carriage and climbed in after her, dripping rainwater over the seats. He sat beside her, taking her hand in his own. “Lead on, Driver.”
The dr
umming of the raindrops on the roof drowned out any response from the man hunched on the dickey box outside, but the horses juddered suddenly into motion, knocking Newbury and Veronica back into their seats. The wheels creaked as the carriage eased away into the foggy morning.
CHAPTER
2
SEVEN DAYS EARLIER
There was a definite aroma about the place.
Not unpleasant, Veronica thought, but distinctive, unusual. The mingling scents of herbal teas, tinged with the sweet stink of opium. She peered in through the open door.
Chinese men lounged about, carousing and laughing, or engaging in serious conversations at the many scattered tables while drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. Amongst them, waiters dressed in white smocks hurtled about, slinging armfuls of crockery about them with a practised ease.
Veronica looked up at Bainbridge, who was regarding the place with a wary eye. “It looks innocuous enough,” she said. “Are you sure this is the place?”
Bainbridge nodded. “Indeed so. This is the place.”
“Then where is he?”
Bainbridge shrugged. “I suspect they have another room out the back. A … lounge area.”
Veronica smoothed the front of her dress. “I shall go inside and make enquiries.”
Bainbridge puffed out his chest and turned towards Veronica with a stern expression. “You, Miss Hobbes, will kindly wait out here. This is no place for a lady.”
“Poppycock!” she exclaimed loudly, causing one of the waiters to look round in surprise. “I’ll have none of it.” She led the way through the small doorway, not looking back at Bainbridge, in case he tried to stop her.
She looked incongruous in such tawdry surroundings. Dressed in an immaculate grey suit, her long skirt swishing about her ankles, her dark hair pinned back expertly from her pretty face, she was the very picture of a professional woman. Only the lively pink of her blouse and the set of her jaw betrayed her determination to be different from the other women of her age, who she thought spent their time sewing or mewling over men and had very little that was exciting in their lives.
Veronica had decided long ago that she would not embrace that life, and had subtly guided herself towards one that had her visiting unsavoury establishments such as the one in which she was now, or worse, indulging in adventurous undertakings that could in no way be considered proper pursuits for a woman of station. And that was exactly the way she liked it.
This particular establishment was known as Johnny Chang’s Tearooms, renowned as a den of thieves, pickpockets, and newly arrived sailors from the East. The place had another reputation, too: a haven for fallen gentlemen, a place where one might go to dabble in the mystical arts or freely imbibe that dreadful oriental weed, opium. The drug had become known as the scourge of the East, but—Veronica thought wryly—it had become the scourge of the British upper classes, too. So many good men had been lost to its poison. In its way, the opium curse was as foul a disease as cholera or the Revenant plague, only it affected the rich and poor alike, and was a thousand times more insidious.
Veronica stared at the blank faces all around her. She could barely believe that Newbury would choose to patronise a place such as this.
She stood motionless as a Chinese waiter shuffled past, his arms laden with teacups and dirty bowls. A hush had fallen over the patrons as they stared openly at her, a mix of puzzlement, lechery, and suspicion on their faces.
One of the waiters approached her. He was a small man with clipped black hair and a broad, toothy grin. “May I help you, madam, sir?” He gave a swift bow of his head to both Veronica and Bainbridge in turn, making sure to keep his eyes on them at all times.
Veronica was about to speak when Bainbridge bustled forwards and raised his cane in a threatening fashion. Veronica noticed the people around the edges of the room bristle in anticipation. “You can stop with all that politeness and smiling straightaway. I know what sort of place this is,” he barked, full of bluster and unnecessary confrontation. His moustache twitched, as if in disgust. “My name is Sir Charles Bainbridge of Scotland Yard and I’m making enquiries after a gentleman. I have reason to believe he … frequents this establishment.”
The waiter smiled, then shrugged in a placatory fashion. “I am sorry, sir. I do not understand of what you speak.” He motioned to the tables around them, to the vagabonds and thieves who were still eyeing the two interlopers warily. “As you can see, your friend is not here.” The waiter took a step back from Bainbridge and bowed his head again. “I am sorry I cannot be of service to you today.” It was clear this was intended as a dismissal.
Bainbridge practically snorted in fury. “Now, look here! This is wholly unsatisfactory. I demand to know where I may find Sir Maurice Newbury!”
The waiter’s face was impassive.
Veronica put her hand on Bainbridge’s arm. “Sir Charles. Please stop.”
Bainbridge gave her a scornful look, but seemed to visibly draw back from the smaller man, expelling a long sigh.
Taking matters into her own hands and refusing to let go of Bainbridge’s sleeve, Veronica pulled him on towards the rear of the premises, pushing past the waiter, and refusing to make eye contact with the three men who sat at a small table against the back wall, playing cards and smoking. One of them watched her with a wry smile, clearly enjoying the show. She saw him call off the two men beside him: larger, bulkier men—bodyguards, she presumed—who were both preparing to rise from their seats to challenge her. She wondered if this were the eponymous Johnny Chang. Whatever the case, he appeared to be granting her passage, but for what reason, she could only guess.
The waiter called out loudly behind them, but Veronica ignored him and stormed on. A heavy red curtain was draped over an open doorway in the rear wall. She supposed this was what separated the main tearoom from the less salubrious establishment in the back.
“Through here.” She led the Scotland Yard inspector through the curtain into the shadowy room beyond, still ignoring the effervescent protests of the waiter. The man seemed reluctant to give chase beyond the threshold of the tearoom, as if doing so would somehow take him from the safety of his own domain to somewhere much more dangerous and terrifying. A realm beyond the bustling world of teacups and cigarette smoke that he usually inhabited. A world filled with the ghosts of the living.
At least, that was how it seemed to Veronica as she passed beneath the velvet curtain and into the large, sumptuously decorated room beyond.
The lighting was dim, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. Heavy fabric drapes hung on the walls in reds and greens, and the windows had been covered with thick curtains. Little clusters of divans and chaises longues, each piled with colourful silk cushions, were placed carefully to form discrete, distinct areas for the patrons. The supine forms of innumerable men lay draped upon the furniture, drowning amongst the puddles of soft fabric. The air was thick with the sickly sweet aroma of the opium, but aside from the sounds spilling through from the tearoom, the place was shrouded in silence.
A Chinese man in red silk drifted amongst his vacuous-looking clientele, tending to their needs, refilling their pipes, and rearranging their cushions. The skirts of his cheongsam whispered across the tiled floor, giving Veronica the strange impression he was floating, a spirit made flesh. The notion was exaggerated by the curls of oily smoke that hung in the air like wraiths, rising from the still bodies like souls evacuating the dead.
Veronica coughed and put a hand to her mouth, choking on the thick vapours.
Bainbridge was looking around, his eyes wide. “The excess!” he exclaimed. “The decadence!” He shifted his weight onto his cane, as if weighed down by the simple fact of being in such a hedonistic place. “Can you see him?”
Veronica shook her head. She moved slowly into the room, finally releasing her grip on Bainbridge’s arm, and wandering between the low divans and heaps of cushions in search of Newbury. She stepped over the splayed legs of a semiconscious Chinese man wh
ose eyelids fluttered briefly but without interest as she passed by. She heard Bainbridge’s footsteps fall in behind her.
The attendant paid the two of them little heed as they went about their search, glancing up only once before continuing to drift between his patrons, unconcerned by their sudden appearance or the commotion they had caused at the front of the house. Veronica wondered absently whether he, too, was operating under the influence of the soporific drug.
They moved methodically from divan to divan, from chaise longue to chaise longue. The clientele formed a rich mix of cultures and classes. More than once Veronica thought she’d found Newbury, only to realise upon closer inspection that it was just another fallen gentleman, still trussed up in his formal attire, lounging decadently without a care in the world. She hated to think of Newbury in those terms, to identify him with these layabouts. She knew he was different, that he used the drug for other reasons, to open his mind, to allow himself to think. At least, that’s what he insisted, and what she wanted to believe. She knew Bainbridge was far less forgiving of Newbury’s vice, and suspected she was deceiving herself. But it was a little lie, and it enabled her to carry on.
Veronica finally found him stretched out on the floor amongst a heap of cushions, near the back of the large room, apparently unconscious. He was wearing his usual dark suit, but the collar was open, his necktie loose around his throat. A spent pipe was discarded by his left hand, and his flesh had assumed a deathly pallor. He looked thin and uncared for, with pursed lips and bruised eyes. His raven-coloured hair was unkempt and plastered to his forehead with perspiration, and his breathing was short and shallow. His right hand lay limp upon his chest.
Veronica suddenly couldn’t breathe. Her hands felt cold and clammy. She couldn’t bear to see him this way. She wanted to rush to his side, but she knew it would do neither of them any good. He looked ill. He looked … close to death.
Veronica took a moment to gather herself. Just as she was about to say something, Newbury licked his lips and spoke. “Go away, Charles.” He hadn’t opened his eyes, and his voice was a dry, rasping croak.