by George Mann
The Queen fixed Bainbridge with a stern look. “Doubtful,” she proclaimed dismissively. “We have learned to keep a closer eye on our former or more errant agents,” she said, glancing pointedly at Newbury as she spoke. “We keep them gainfully employed. We should know if any of them were not fulfilling their obligations.”
Newbury felt the words sting like darts.
“Don’t forget, it might still be the Cabal of the Horned Beast, or some other such cult,” said Bainbridge. “The ritualistic elements seem too pronounced to be ignored. Perhaps they tortured one or more of their victims, eliciting names…?”
“Or perhaps it’s foreign agents?” interjected Newbury. The thought suddenly bloomed in his mind. This was what Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales had suggested: that London was swarming with foreigners keen to undermine the Queen’s power. If this were true, surely they could be responsible for the recent spate of deaths. “Could this represent clandestine activity by another nation? Are we at peace with the Kaiser?”
“The Kaiser?” barked Victoria, surprised. “We cannot believe that Wilhelm has any interest in this filthy business,” she stated, firmly, and Newbury saw her left hand open and close into a fist in frustration or anger. Clearly he had touched a nerve. “Although we accept it is possible that foreign agents representing other factions may be at work, we believe that it is far more likely that the problem is home-grown.”
“Home-grown?” asked Bainbridge.
“This so-called Secret Service,” said Victoria, with venom. “Upstarts with ideas above their station.”
Newbury felt Bainbridge bristle beside him. “Your Majesty, I hardly feel-”
“We care little for what you feel, policeman,” she interrupted, savagely.
Newbury could imagine Bainbridge growing redder in the face by the second. “It is my understanding, Your Majesty, that this government agency has been established to aid in the protection of the Empire, not to undermine it. Their stated aim is to ensure the peace and prosperity of our nation and her interests abroad.”
“But, what if, Newbury,” challenged the Queen, “they feel that the interests of the country would be best served by dethroning the monarch, or, at the very least, undermining our power base?” She paused, fixing him with her jaundiced eyes. “What then?”
Bainbridge began to stammer something in response, but wisely bit his tongue. It wouldn’t do to become agitated with the monarch in her presence, and Bainbridge knew it.
“Treat those ‘spies’ as potential enemies of the Crown. Begin your investigations there. We fear they may be plotting a coup. These unfortunate deaths may yet prove to be a symptom of it,” said Victoria.
“Your Majesty, some of their agents are known to me. Indeed, a number of them have assisted Scotland Yard in unravelling some particularly high-profile cases. I myself was involved in establishing the bureau,” said Bainbridge, the exasperation evident in his voice.
“It has not gone unnoticed,” said Victoria, coldly. “But now you will sever all links and treat all of their activity with suspicion. We shall uncover the truth regarding their motives.”
Bainbridge took a deep breath, but didn’t respond.
The Queen looked to Newbury. “Now go. Bring this matter to a swift resolution. No more deaths.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” replied Newbury, his tone neutral. He knew how to play this game. He bowed briefly, putting his hand on Bainbridge’s shoulder and urging him to bow as well. He could feel his friend trembling in anger. He gripped his shoulder all the more firmly, reassuring, but cautionary, too.
Without another word, the two men turned and left the audience chamber, leaving the Queen to revel in her solitude in the heart of her slowly receding globe of lantern light.
* * *
Bainbridge did not say another word until they were standing in the courtyard of the palace beside their brougham cab, not even a civil word to Sandford as he collected their coats and ushered them out with a strained smile. Sandford had once been an agent himself. He had long since retired from active duty, but Newbury knew that he understood all too well the Queen’s temperamental nature and what it was like to be on the receiving end of her wrath.
Bainbridge shot a glance at Newbury, his moustache quivering with barely concealed rage. “I … I…” he stammered loudly, struggling to give shape to his words.
“Contain yourself, Charles. The walls here have ears. Let us repair to Chelsea where we can discuss the matter in private,” said Newbury, his voice firm.
“Must we?” said Bainbridge, bristling with frustration. “That damnable opium fog that lingers in your rooms leaves me feeling quite queasy, Newbury. I don’t know how you live with it.” He banged his cane decidedly on the ground. “No. Let us repair to my house, where at least there’s clean air and somewhere to actually sit down.”
Newbury raised a single eyebrow in surprise. “Very well,” he said, “But we must send for Miss Hobbes when we arrive.”
“Quite so, Newbury,” replied Bainbridge, yanking open the door of the cab and bustling up the iron steps. “Quite so.”
With a sigh, Newbury spoke a few hasty words with the driver and then followed Bainbridge into the conveyance, closing the door behind himself. Bainbridge was glaring out of the window at the palace, his fists clenched on his lap.
It was going to be an interesting afternoon.
CHAPTER 10
“God damn it!”
Bainbridge swung his cane viciously at the side table in the hallway of his home, shattering a vase and sending a notebook and a sheaf of papers sprawling across the floor. “God damn it!” he repeated angrily.
He threw his cane on top of the heaped detritus and stormed off into the depths of the house, bellowing loudly for his housekeeper.
Newbury stood for a moment in the hallway, taking stock. He’d never seen his friend in such a foul mood, nor his face that particular shade of cerise, but then, he’d never seen him treated with such terrible disdain, either. Bainbridge’s reaction might have been funny if the circumstances were different, but the Queen-for whom Bainbridge had always maintained the utmost respect-had placed him in an impossible position.
Everything he was working for, the links he’d been building with men like Angelchrist for nearly a year, she had questioned. Worse, she had implied that Bainbridge had actively sought to associate with traitors. This left him no room to manoeuvre, since the Queen was not to be proven wrong, whatever the truth of the matter. Bainbridge would have to sever his links with the government agency, or else risk everything: not only his relationship with the Queen, but his career, and possibly even his life. Newbury fully expected Bainbridge to do as the Queen had commanded-he was a loyal man, and she had left him with little choice-but he would do it reluctantly.
He could hear Bainbridge now, barking at his valet, Clarkson, in the kitchen. The poor man wouldn’t know what had hit him. Newbury wasn’t overly familiar with the valet. In fact, it was rare that he found himself in Bainbridge’s home-he could probably count the occasions he had visited on both hands. Typically they met in Chelsea, or the White Friar’s, or else the Yard, or a crime scene. He did not know what that said of their relationship.
The house was an austere sort of place-barely lived in, really, since Isobel had died. It existed in a strange state of preservation, as if these past years Bainbridge had maintained it in the way that his late wife might have done. He had refused to change anything or alter the decor in any way.
The drawing room, for example, was entirely the opposite of Newbury’s own. Whereas Newbury’s was filled with the accoutrements of his profession and his life-everything from the cat skull on the mantelpiece to the leaning piles of books beside the battered old sofa-Bainbridge’s was pristine and quiet, devoid of any heart. It was as if the spirit of the place had died along with Isobel. Now the house existed merely as a tribute to her, a place for Bainbridge to eat and sleep, which he did there as little as possible. It wasn’t a place
that was lived in.
Perhaps that was the reason Newbury was rarely invited to visit: Bainbridge wished to retain that sense of stasis, avoid bringing too much life and change into the house lest he disturb the spirit of his late wife, whose presence he had tried so hard to hold on to.
Sighing, Newbury stooped low, collecting Bainbridge’s cane and shuffling the scattered papers into a neat pile. He stood and arranged them once again on the side table.
He heard Bainbridge’s clomping footsteps echoing back up the hall towards him and glanced up. “Leave that, Newbury. Clarkson will see to it.”
“I fear Clarkson may already have his hands full,” said Newbury, with a smile.
Bainbridge’s shoulders sagged in resignation. “Yes, I did rather give him both barrels, didn’t I?” He sighed. “Anyway, he’s sent word for Miss Hobbes. She should be here within an hour.”
“Excellent,” said Newbury. “Then let us sit for a moment and regain our sensibilities. We need to approach this problem with a level head.”
“And a large brandy,” said Bainbridge, with a heavy sigh.
* * *
“This question may seem anathema to you, Sir Charles, but how do we know that the Queen isn’t actually right in her assertion?”
Newbury raised his eyebrows in surprise as Bainbridge blustered in response to Veronica’s question.
“Because … because … Gah!” He slammed his palm down hard upon the arm of his chair. “That’s a damned impertinent question, Miss Hobbes!”
“But nevertheless one that needs to be asked, Sir Charles,” said Veronica, firmly. “Like it or not, the question remains: How do we know what this new Secret Service is actually planning?”
“I count myself among their founding members, Miss Hobbes!” said Bainbridge, his voice raising an octave in sheer frustration.
“And do you play an active role in the assignment of each agent’s duties?” continued Veronica. “Are you aware of the nature of all of their current investigations or missions? I admit, Sir Charles, to knowing very little of how you’ve been spending your days of late.”
“Of course not!” said Bainbridge, hotly. “But I hardly think that means they’re waging a clandestine war against the agents of Her Majesty behind my back! I put my full trust in those men and women. Men such as Angelchrist are working tirelessly to protect this Empire from harm, in much the same way as you, Newbury, and I are.”
“But why?” asked Veronica.
“I should have thought it was obvious,” snapped Bainbridge.
“Don’t be obtuse, Charles,” said Newbury, leaning forward in his chair. Around them the house was shrouded in utter silence, save for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock and the distant cawing of birds outside. “I believe the question Miss Hobbes is getting at is: Why did the Home Secretary decide it was necessary to set up his own bureau of operatives when the Queen already has a vast network of agents at her disposal, throughout not only the Empire, but all across the globe?”
Bainbridge sighed heavily. “Well … yes, I see your point, Miss Hobbes, and I apologise for my impassioned outburst.” He paused for a moment to regain his composure. “The notion behind the bureau was to create a network of specialist agents who were free from the … the … constraints of being sanctioned operatives of the Queen.”
“Constraints?” prompted Veronica, pushing for further explanation.
“Well, we all know what she’s like!” said Bainbridge, a hint of the former anger edging once more into his voice. “We know she has a very particular way of doing things, and a rather skewed opinion of her own worth.”
Newbury sat forward, shocked to hear such utterances from the mouth of his old friend. “Charles! You astound me.”
“Oh, don’t pretend you’re shocked, Newbury. You saw her today.” Newbury noticed that Bainbridge was clenching his fists in frustration. “Overall, I believe the Queen still acts in the interest of the Empire, but she has never allowed it to prevent her from acting for her own good. You know that as well as I do. The most important thing to the Queen is the Queen herself.” He sat back, folding his arms across his chest defensively.
“So you’re saying that the men and women working for the Secret Service are free from such petty concerns?” asked Veronica, doubtfully.
“Not at all. Simply that all decisions are made by a committee, so we are able to insulate ourselves against the singular will of one overriding egoist. Better decisions are made that way, Miss Hobbes, and the good of the nation is always paramount.”
“I’d never have marked you down as a democrat, Charles,” said Newbury, smirking, “but I applaud you wholeheartedly for it.”
Bainbridge shrugged dismissively. “So there you have it. I maintain wholeheartedly that the Secret Service is not in any way responsible for the murder of Her Majesty’s agents.”
“Even,” said Veronica, refusing to let the matter drop, “if the actions of those agents were, in the opinion of your committee, considered to be counter to the good of the British people?”
“Well … I … you’re asking me an impossible, hypothetical question!” replied Bainbridge.
“Am I?” ventured Veronica, quietly.
“Charles is not alone in his assertions, Miss Hobbes. I have not yet elaborated on the reason for the Prince of Wales’s visit to Chelsea yesterday afternoon. At this juncture he very much echoes the sentiments of the chief inspector here, in that he believes the Queen is becoming too self-involved and inward looking, and in so doing is allowing the enemies of the Empire to grow bolder.” Newbury glanced over at Bainbridge, who appeared to be listening to him intently. “He fears that operatives allied to hostile foreign agencies are currently in London, including those of his cousin, the Kaiser, who he suggests is spoiling for a war. If he can be believed-and I have no reason to think that he cannot-then perhaps those same foreign agents might be responsible for the recent deaths? They may be seeking to undermine the Queen’s power base so her position is weaker if it comes to war or a political coup.”
Veronica was frowning. “It’s certainly possible,” she said. “But forgive me, Sir Maurice, for asking why the Prince of Wales should come to you with such grave concerns?”
Newbury laughed. “Precisely my thought, Miss Hobbes. I asked him the very same question. He said that ever since the little affair we took care of for him in Cambridge, he’s felt he could come to me with his concerns. He asked only that I remain vigilant and report to him any activity that may come to light on the matter.”
“And will you report your theory that those foreign agents might be behind this rash of diabolical murders?” asked Veronica.
“Not yet,” replied Newbury. “I have nothing substantial to support the claim.”
“Angelchrist will have a better idea,” said Bainbridge, eyeing them both as he waited for their reaction. When they kept looking at him blankly, he continued. “I can’t think of another man who knows more about the political situation abroad. If there are foreign agents involved, he’ll be able to point us in the right direction.”
“You’re forgetting something, Charles,” said Newbury. “Her Majesty has forbidden you from speaking with Angelchrist, or any of the others who might be connected with him. Don’t think for a minute that she won’t be having you watched. If you put even a foot out of line … well, you saw how adamant she was.”
“Poppycock to that!” said Bainbridge, brusquely. “She’s wrong, Newbury. Plain wrong, and I refuse to sever ties to a good man for obscure reasons, not when the security of the nation is at stake. She also told us to ensure there were no further deaths. We cannot be expected to work miracles!”
“No, but we will be expected to obey her wishes. It’s too much of a risk even for me or Miss Hobbes to pay him a visit.”
“Then we’ll arrange to meet with him clandestinely. He deserves to know the truth, Newbury. You must agree with that, at least? He’s proved a good friend to us over the last six months, and as
ide from any insight he may be able to offer into the Prince’s concerns, we need to warn him that the Queen is out for his blood.” Bainbridge tugged at the corners of his moustache anxiously, as if he was urging Newbury to grant him permission.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” said Veronica. “If-and I grant you, you make a good case that it does not-the Secret Service does have some hand in the murders, you’d be tipping them off that we’re on to them. Do you truly know we can trust Professor Angelchrist?”
“I would trust him with my life,” said Bainbridge.
“And I,” said Newbury.
“Good. Because that’s exactly what you’ll both be doing,” said Veronica. She didn’t need to add “and mine along with it.” The implication was clear.
For a moment the three of them sat in silence, allowing the tension to stretch. Finally, Bainbridge spoke. “I’ll have Clarkson make the necessary arrangements. He can get word to Angelchrist without arousing suspicion. We’ll meet somewhere out in the open, where there are lots of people.”
Newbury nodded. “Yes. Somewhere we can talk without being seen, and with a crowd sufficient to help us cover our tracks.”
“Very well. I’ll see to it forthwith.” Bainbridge was already heaving himself up out of his chair.
“Excellent,” said Newbury. “Then I think it’s time we were bidding you good day. There is much to consider.”
“Indeed. You’ll see yourselves out, won’t you?” said Bainbridge, reaching for his cane and crossing to the drawing room door.
“Of course,” said Veronica.
Newbury waited until Bainbridge’s footsteps had receded down the hallway before turning to Veronica. “Of course, there’s one other thing to consider, Miss Hobbes.”
“About Professor Angelchrist?”
“No, about the murders.” He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. “The possibility that the Queen herself is responsible. That she’s clearing out the ranks of her own operation for some reason, perhaps to minimise her risk of exposure to some piece of information that she doesn’t want to get out.”