by George Mann
Bainbridge sighed. “I was rather hoping you were going to tell me that,” he said, resignedly.
Newbury looked up from the corpse of the woman. “Well, I don’t think there’s a particular occult ritual being performed here, or at least not one that I’m aware of, but there’s definitely something ritualistic about the manner in which they all had their hearts removed. It may look like a crude job, but whoever did this took real care over the removal of the organs themselves. Yes, they’ve hacked open the chest cavities in a rather barbaric fashion, but they’ve shown a strange sort of respect for the hearts they were stealing.”
“Almost as if they wanted them for something else?” said Veronica from behind her handkerchief.
“Absolutely that,” replied Newbury, glancing at her. “Although for what, I’m not at all sure.”
“Witchcraft?” asked Bainbridge. “Some Godforsaken nonsense involving human sacrifice and dancing in the woods? Isn’t that usually the way? I thought it might have something to do with that cabal, the ‘horny beasts’ or whatever it was they called themselves.”
“The Cabal of the Horned Beast,” interjected Veronica, trying not to laugh.
The three of them-Veronica, Newbury, and Bainbridge-had encountered members of this strange devil-worshipping cult just a few months earlier. Newbury had liberated a rare book of rituals from them, from which he derived his unusual treatment for Veronica’s sister, Amelia. As an act of reprisal, the cultists had taken Newbury and Bainbridge prisoner. Veronica had been forced to mount a rescue, posing as a cultist and battling one of their abysmal half man, half machine creations to gain entry to the manor house in which they’d established their lair.
Newbury sighed. “I only wish the world were that simplistic, Charles,” he said, sadly.
“Or perhaps the killer is reusing the organs, like those automatons with the ‘affinity bridges’ in their craniums. Could the killer be using them to power some sort of infernal machine?” Bainbridge continued, hopefully.
“It’s all possible, Charles,” said Newbury, “but at present I have no means of even theorising. There’s simply not enough information to go on.”
“There are three corpses!” protested Bainbridge. “How much information do you need? Have you even examined them properly?”
Newbury shrugged. “Context is everything. I need to see the victims in situ. If there was anything more to be gleaned from the manner of their deaths, it was lost the moment they were moved. You know that, Charles. There’s nothing else for me to see here. Sometimes a corpse is enough. This time … well, I’m afraid not.”
Bainbridge’s shoulders dropped as he recognised the truth in Newbury’s words. “Then there’s very little we can do. We’ll have to wait to see if the killer strikes again.”
“I fear so,” said Newbury. “I can carry out some research, and I can speak to Aldous Renwick in the hope that we can find some significance behind the missing hearts. Otherwise, we’re impotent until the killer shows their hand. I wish I could offer you more, but I have nothing. Not yet.”
Bainbridge gave a curt nod. He was clearly frustrated, although it was clear he didn’t blame Newbury for being unable to offer up a neat solution.
“Would it help if you were to visit the scene of the most recent murder?” offered Angelchrist, who’d otherwise remained silent throughout the proceedings.
“Perhaps,” said Newbury. “It really depends on how much has already been disturbed.” He glanced at Bainbridge questioningly.
Bainbridge shook his head. “They’ve already started to clean up. The place was a terrible mess. Abominable. I’d never have imagined so much blood could have been contained in a single human body.” He issued a long, heartfelt sigh. “You’ll talk to Aldous, then?”
“I will,” replied Newbury. “If there’s anyone who can find a ritual involving human hearts, it’s Aldous. It may take him some time, however. And it may come to nothing. We don’t know yet that there is any occult or ritual significance to the theft. It may simply be an obscene fetish that’s driving the killer to act as he is, taking trophies from his victims for his own gratification.”
“Let us hope you’re wrong,” said Angelchrist, darkly. “Otherwise we have even less to go on than we thought.”
The four of them stood in silence for a moment, as if weighing the implications of Angelchrist’s words. A killer with no motives other than simple self-gratification. A murderer who chose his victims at random, leaving no clear pattern behind, no evidence besides a brutalised corpse without a heart. Veronica knew it would be like searching for a needle in a proverbial haystack.
“I’ll send word to Aldous as a matter of urgency,” said Newbury, coming around from behind the trestle table that bore the corpse of the woman. He looked to Veronica. “First of all, however, I have some business I must attend to with Miss Hobbes.”
“My thanks to you, Newbury,” said Bainbridge. “I feel as if our chances of success have improved tenfold, simply by virtue of having your assistance. It’s been too long.” He patted Newbury on the shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”
“See that you are, you old fool,” replied Newbury, chuckling as Bainbridge affected mock hurt. He turned to Angelchrist. “Until next time, Archibald.”
“Indeed, Sir Maurice. I trust we’ll speak again soon. And you, Miss Hobbes. I hope you will forgive me for capitalising so much of Sir Charles’s time this afternoon.”
“Of course,” said Veronica, diplomatically. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
Newbury held out his arm for Veronica and she took it gratefully, keen to put some distance between herself and the cadavers. He led her towards the exit.
“We have business to attend to?” she asked quietly, so that the others would not catch her trailing words as they walked.
“Indeed we do, Miss Hobbes. I believe it’s high time we paid another visit to your sister.”
Veronica squeezed his arm in grateful acknowledgement. “To Malbury Cross, then. I have a hansom waiting outside. Once you’ve attended to Amelia, I’ll see that you have time to write to Aldous, too.”
She leaned a little closer into Newbury, ignoring the imperious look of the mortuary attendant as they bid him good afternoon and stepped out into the drizzly late afternoon.
CHAPTER 6
The incense was thick and heady, and it lodged in the back of Amelia’s throat, making it difficult for her to breathe. She had no idea what the perfume was: lavender, most definitely, but something else, too, something unfamiliar, herbal, sharp. Accompanying this floral bouquet was a cloying tang of iron, which she really hoped wasn’t blood, but fully suspected was.
Not that she would have been able to tell. The room was shrouded in darkness. The heavy drapes were pulled across the windows to banish the watery afternoon sunlight, and the only other light source came from the five white candles arranged in a star pattern around her. She was kneeling on bare wooden floorboards at the centre of a strange pattern marked out in chalk: a complex geometric shape encompassing a five-pointed star, with unfamiliar glyphs and runes etched around it in a wide outer circle. She’d been told that she should never break the chalk pattern or step outside of its barriers while the ritual was being performed.
As a result she sat stock-still, despite the fact that the rough floorboards hurt her knees and her back ached terribly. She was worried that, should she make even the slightest of movements or unknowingly break one of the fine chalk lines with her hand or foot, she might disturb the ritual. She hadn’t been told what the consequences of such an action might be, but she was anxious not to find out.
Newbury sat opposite her within the chalk pattern, murmuring gently as he read from the pages of an ancient, leather-bound book. Amelia had tried making sense of the incantation, but had so far been unable to understand a word of it. It sounded as if Newbury was speaking in an eastern tongue, all glottal stops and rasping sounds made in the back of his throat. The book’s spine read The Cosmolo
gy of the Spirit, and from what scant glimpses she’d gotten of its contents, she’d ascertained that its pages were covered in an impenetrable scrawl, along with diagrammatic sketches and patterns akin to the one on the floor they now sat on.
Newbury traced his finger across a page, reading from right to left as if working backwards through the text. The concentration on his face was intense, his forehead creased in a deep frown. His head was slightly bowed, meaning she couldn’t see his eyes in the candlelight, just deep, pooling shadows. The effect was a little eerie, particularly when combined with the bizarre nature of their situation.
Amelia had to admit that she’d doubted Newbury’s motives more than once. Why was he helping her, and at such great cost to himself? Every instance of the ritual left him utterly drained. Diminished, even. It was as if the act-or else some vital preparation for it-left Newbury depleted of all his strength. Veronica had told her he holed up in his rooms for days following each visit, refusing to see anyone, apparently subsisting on very little but absinthe, laudanum, and cigarettes. Then, when he had gathered his strength once again, he would return to Malbury Cross for another round of “treatment” and the cycle would begin anew. It had been like this for months; Newbury repeatedly giving himself over to the ritual, treating her successfully, but putting himself through great torment each time.
Amelia couldn’t help but wonder what that meant, what was causing such physical and mental expenditure. Was he somehow sustaining her at his own cost? She’d tackled him on it, tried to draw the truth out of him, but each time he had brushed her off, waving his hand dismissively and informing her that he was tired and did not wish to discuss it.
Truthfully, she was wary of pushing him too far on the matter, partly because she was deeply unsure of the methods he was employing, but mostly because she was scared he would eventually admit the truth. And if things were as she feared-that he really was giving up something of himself to heal her-then it would have to stop. At the moment she had nothing but suspicions-suspicions that both Newbury and Veronica were unwilling to entertain. Having these suspicions confirmed, however, would mean she would have no choice but to demand an end to the treatment.
Amelia feared that more than anything else, because the treatment was the only thing keeping her alive. As unlikely as it seemed, whatever strange ritual Newbury was performing, it was working. She felt better than she had in years. The visions were still plaguing her, but they were becoming controllable, or at least containable. The seizures had become increasingly less violent, and she felt strong, well, alive. For the first time in months, Amelia had begun to think of the future, and, more importantly, a future with herself in it. She dared not put that at risk. But nor could she knowingly condone Newbury harming himself on her behalf.
Perhaps Newbury was right after all-perhaps it was better that she didn’t know. All the same, she couldn’t help feeling that not knowing made her weak.
Veronica would tell her to stop worrying, that Newbury knew what he was doing. That she should trust him and enjoy the fruits of his labours, no matter how unconventional they might seem. Amelia saw something, however, that her sister did not … or rather, that Veronica was choosing not to see: that Newbury would do anything for Veronica, even if that meant giving up something of himself to save her sister.
Amelia watched Newbury as he stirred a bowl of pungent fluid with a wooden spatula, all the while continuing to read aloud from the book that was open on the floorboards before him. His lips moved almost silently, his voice just a low, monotonous murmur. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow despite the chill, and he looked pale, even in the warm yellow glow of the candlelight.
The only other sound in the room was the steady ticking of a carriage clock. It seemed to Amelia that time was passing differently in that room, with its fog of incense and ancient pagan rites. There was a sense of peacefulness, of stillness, a disconnection from the real world.
Suddenly, the murmuring stopped. Newbury looked up. “It’s time,” he said quietly, sliding the little wooden bowl across the floor towards her.
Amelia gave the briefest of nods. This was the moment she dreaded, each and every time: the consummation of the ritual, the acceptance of Newbury’s gift to her. This was the culmination of everything he had done in the past hour. She had to drink the foul-smelling contents of the bowl. The ritual would be wasted if she did not.
She stared at the strange concoction for a few moments, bracing herself for what was coming. The first time they had performed the ritual, Amelia had actually vomited the stuff back up, but she’d since learned how to gulp it down swiftly, to fight off the brief wave of nausea that ensued. She was egged on, of course, by the effect she knew it would have on her condition. It was the only thing that had worked since Dr. Fabian had experimented upon her at the Grayling Institute the prior year, and she had no desire to put herself through that sort of business again.
“Go on,” said Newbury softly, urging her on.
Amelia nodded and reached for the bowl, cupping both of her palms around it. It was warm to the touch. She lifted it hesitantly to her lips, fighting the urge to reel back as she drew in its scent. It was indescribable and exotic. She had no notion of the actual ingredients, save for a splash of Newbury’s own blood, evidenced by the thin gash he’d opened up in his left palm as he’d prepared the mixture.
Closing her eyes and holding her breath, Amelia parted her lips and took a long, gulping draught from the bowl. She swallowed urgently, forcing the coarse, viscous fluid down her gullet. She felt its warmth spreading through her chest like alcohol, and she tipped the bowl further, emptying it completely. With a shudder as its taste hit her palate, she replaced the bowl on the floorboards before her and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She raised her eyes to look at Newbury, whose own face was still shrouded in shadow.
“Good,” he said, swaying slightly. “Good.” He rocked forward as if he might topple over and Amelia leant in to catch him, supporting his weight in her arms for a few seconds while he regained his senses. He righted himself a moment or two later, mumbling an embarrassed “Thank you.”
Amelia nodded. “It’s the least…” She trailed off as she realised in horror that-in the sudden grab for him-she had accidentally smeared the outline of the chalk pentagram on the floor. “Sir Maurice, the chalk,” she gasped as she indicated the floorboards beneath her knees.
Newbury put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright, Amelia. It’s over for today. We’ll draw a new one next time.”
“But…?”
Newbury shook his head. “It won’t change anything. The ritual was complete. We were lucky. I’ll know not to push myself so far in future.”
Amelia frowned. Already she could feel the warmth from the strange elixir spreading throughout her frail body, filling her with a remarkable sense of well-being. Newbury, however, was more weakened than ever by the gruelling process. “Once again, Sir Maurice,” she said, her voice quavering slightly, “I must insist that if this ritual in which we are partaking is in some way compromising your own health, you must put an end to it immediately.”
Newbury climbed unsteadily to his feet. He reached out a hand for her and she took it, pulling herself up beside him. “Come on,” he said, ignoring her statement. “Your sister and Mrs. Leeson are waiting in the kitchen for you.” He turned to her, and in the low light she finally caught the shine of his eyes. It suggested a smile that had yet to form on his lips. “And besides, I’m in urgent need of a pot of tea.”
Amelia grinned. “Very well. I’ll make it fresh myself. Thank you, Sir Maurice.”
Newbury nodded as he reached for his candle snuff and set about smothering the still-burning flames.
With a shrug, Amelia crossed to the door. She opened it just enough to slip through, then stepped out into the hallway, shading her eyes against the dappled sunlight streaming in through the glass panel above the front door. She could still taste the foul mixture in the back
of her throat as she headed off in the direction of the kitchen in search of Veronica.
* * *
Veronica reached for her teacup and turned it around in its saucer, tipping it towards her and peering inside as if expecting to discover that it had miraculously refilled itself while she wasn’t looking. As she’d suspected, it was still empty.
“That’s the third time you’ve looked at that empty cup in the last five minutes, Miss Veronica,” said the rotund, middle-aged woman who sat across the kitchen table from her. “Would you like me to make you a fresh pot?”
Veronica looked up, a wan smile on her lips. “No, thank you, Mrs. Leeson. Let’s wait for the others. They should be finished soon, and I’m sure they’ll both welcome a cup.”
Mrs. Leeson shrugged. Her eyebrows were raised and she looked somewhat startled, but Veronica knew this was only a symptom of the manner in which she insisted on wearing her platinum-grey hair, scraped back in the severest of buns. She was a kindly woman in her late forties, and had once been independently wealthy, but had fallen on hard times following the unexpected death of her husband a few years earlier. Veronica had come to rely on her enormously in Amelia’s care over these last few months.
They both turned at the sound of approaching footsteps from the hall. “Ah, Miss Amelia!” announced Mrs. Leeson happily, pushing her chair back on the tiled floor and standing to welcome her charge with an expansive gesture. “You do look sprightly. Whatever it is that Sir Maurice is treating you with, it’s certainly making a difference. I haven’t seen so much colour in your cheeks for weeks.”
Amelia, hovering in the doorway, smiled warmly in response. “Thank you, Mrs. Leeson. Sir Maurice is a remarkable man.” Her arms were folded across her chest and she rubbed them unconsciously, hugging herself as if cold. She glanced at Veronica. “I said I’d make him a pot of tea.”