The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes

by George Mann

  Also by George Mann and available from Titan Books

  Newbury & Hobbes: The Executioner’s Heart

  Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

  Coming soon

  Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead (November 2013)

  Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes (February 2014)

  Newbury & Hobbes: The Revenant Express (July 2014)

  GEORGE MANN

  TITAN BOOKS

  THE CASEBOOK OF NEWBURY & HOBBES

  Print edition ISBN: 9781781167427

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781781167434

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: September 2013

  Cover design by Amazing15.com

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  George Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Copyright © 2013 George Mann.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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  FOR PAUL MAGRS AND STUART DOUGLAS

  No one could ask for better friends

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  The Dark Path

  The Hambleton Affair

  The Shattered Teacup

  What Lies Beneath

  The Lady Killer

  The Case of the Night Crawler

  The Sacrificial Pawn

  Christmas Spirits

  Strangers from the Sea

  The Only Gift Worth Giving

  A Rum Affair

  A Night, Remembered

  The Maharajah’s Star

  The Albino’s Shadow

  Old Friends

  A Timeline of the Newbury & Hobbes Universe

  Story Notes

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  INTRODUCTION

  I can barely believe it’s been five years since The Affinity Bridge was first published. It seems as if only a few months have passed. I’ve been astounded by people’s response to the series, by how many people have found something to enjoy in these madcap tales of derring-do and adventure in the dark streets of a Victorian London that never was.

  When I set out to write The Affinity Bridge it was purely an exercise in self-gratification. I wanted to write the type of story I love to read, something that would be sheer, unadulterated fun. I wanted to write a book for the sheer pleasure of it. The irony, of course, is that the book and the series it spawned has proved to be by far the most successful I’ve ever written. Which only goes to prove that old adage about writing for yourself, rather than writing what you think people are going to want to read...

  Four novels and a handful of stories later and the characters have taken on something of a life of their own. Now it seems like they’ve always been there, a part of my psyche. Perhaps they have.

  I originally conceived of Sir Maurice Newbury long before I wrote The Affinity Bridge. I think he was born out of my desire to write a sequence of stories in the mould of those classic Victorian and Edwardian tales about supernatural sleuths—Aylmer Vance, Eugene Valmont, Flaxman Low and, of course, Carnacki the Ghost Finder. I’ve always had a passion for those stories, along with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Who—tales of high adventure, of foggy streets and bizarre encounters. Of bold heroes and larger-than-life villains.

  Newbury was always going to explore bizarre and supernatural crimes in a weird, fantastical version of Victorian London. And his desire to understand the occult and his drug addiction would mean he always walked a fine line between being an expert in the dark arts and becoming a practitioner. That, you see, is Newbury’s flaw—he is drawn to the darkness. And it may yet prove to be his undoing.

  It wasn’t, however, until Veronica Hobbes came into being that everything gelled and The Affinity Bridge began to take shape. Veronica was only ever intended to be Newbury’s sidekick, but almost as soon as I started writing I realised that this had to be a true partnership, a meeting of equals in a time of inequality. Veronica, a strong woman battling against the prejudice of her age, her clairvoyant sister locked in a lunatic asylum—she had a story of her own to tell. And secrets, too. Dark secrets that she couldn’t share with Newbury, no matter how much she longed to do so.

  Then, of course, there was Charles Bainbridge, Newbury’s friend and confidant, a fellow agent to the Queen and an inspector at Scotland Yard. Bainbridge was never going to be a bumbling Lestrade, the ineffectual policeman who was there only to allow our hero to shine. Rather, he is a man of steady nerves—solid, dependable—quite the opposite of Newbury, and in his own way as essential a member of the team. Bainbridge solves crimes through hard work, process and resolve, whereas Newbury relies on flashes of insight and inspiration. Method as opposed to action; Bainbridge is yin to Newbury’s yang. They need each other to function effectively.

  It soon became clear to me that these books are as much Veronica’s and Bainbridge’s story as they are Newbury’s, and the more of them I write, the more evident I think that becomes. Newbury—the man who started it all—is made greater by the presence of his friends and loved ones, just the same as us all.

  So, as I sit here at my desk working on the fifth novel in the series, it seems strange to reflect back to the beginning of the saga. Things have changed so much for these characters—loyalties and battles have been fought and won; friends have been made and lost. But the core of these stories—the trio of Newbury, Veronica and Bainbridge—remain as constant as ever. Hopefully their adventures will continue for a long time to come.

  Here, then, in this collection, are a selection of those adventures, tales that detail some of the exploits of these characters during the times between novels, and for anyone encountering them for the first time, offer a flavour of the series as a whole.

  Alongside all the regulars we also meet in these pages some of the other characters that later turn up in the novels, or enjoy associated adventures of their own: Professor Archibald Angelchrist, Lady Arkwell, Peter Rutherford, to name a few. Plus, of course, the occasional dalliance with famous peers, such as Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.

  Also included here is a timeline of stories set in the alternate world which Newbury, Veronica and Bainbridge—and in fact nearly all of my characters, across all of my different novels, stories and series—inhabit. Since The Affinity Bridge the world of Newbury and Hobbes has grown and evolved, spreading out in all manner of unexpected directions, encompassing other characters and stories and weaving them into the same fictional strata. Some of the stories included in this book draw some of those other characters in, helping to forge a more cohesive and diverse alternate history of the world.

  I hope the timeline, and the stories in this volume, may prove to be something of a guide to navigating this fiction
al history. Most of all, however, I hope they prove to be fun.

  George Mann

  Grantham, April 2013

  THE DARK PATH

  I

  “I make a point of only smoking Guinea Gold cigarettes and drinking French brandy, Benson. I fear nothing else will do.” Templeton Black exhaled slowly, smoke pluming from his nostrils. His cigarette drooped languidly from his bottom lip.

  “Then you, sir,” replied Benson, striking the billiard ball with the tip of his cue, “are nothing but a frightful bore.” He stood back, admiring his handiwork as two balls clacked together and a red one tumbled into a pocket at the far end of the table. He took a swig from a near-empty whisky bottle he’d left resting on the raised lip of the billiard table.

  Black raised a disapproving eyebrow. “You understand, Benson, that it’s terribly uncouth to drink from the bottle like that?”

  Benson laughed, nearly spluttering on his drink, and Black chuckled heartily, reaching out his hand. “Oh go on, give it here, foul stuff that it is.” He took the proffered bottle and downed the last of the caramel-coloured spirit, shuddering as it hit his palate.

  “A drink’s a drink, Templeton,” said Benson, placing his cue on the table. “And a win’s a win. That’s a guinea you owe me. Unless you want to up the stakes for a rematch?”

  Black shook his head, taking another long draw on his cigarette. “No,” he said, hopping down from where he’d been sitting on a window ledge and blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. “I must find Newbury. Apparently there’s something he wants to discuss.”

  “Hmm,” murmured Benson, unhappy to be losing his playmate. “I’m not sure why you bother attending these house parties, you know. You’re never here for more than five minutes before you go and get yourself caught up in another ridiculous investigation. You should tell Newbury to keep his mysteries to himself.”

  Black laughed, slapping Benson heartily on the back. “Now you’re being drunk and petulant,” he said, warmly. “Go on, go and find someone else to beat at billiards.” He looked up at the sound of footsteps to see a pretty young woman in a black, floor-length gown enter the room. “Jocasta will play, won’t you?” he said, laughing.

  “In this dress?” she replied, with a winning smile.

  “Oh, come on, old girl!” said Black. “Otherwise Benson will lapse into another of his foul moods and spend the rest of the party scowling at everyone. You know how he is.”

  Jocasta laughed as she closed the gap between them. She put a hand on his arm. “Do you like it?” she asked, demurely. “The dress, I mean.”

  Black grinned. “Oh, come on, old girl. You know you’re not my type.”

  Jocasta rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, more’s the pity. I suppose I shall have to make do with Benson and his billiards.”

  “I can hear you, you know,” said Benson, with mock hurt. “And I think your dress is terribly pretty,” he added.

  “There you are, then,” said Black. “Benson has someone to beat at billiards, and you have someone to appreciate your dress. The world is a happy place.”

  “Go on,” replied Jocasta, sighing, “go and find Newbury before I change my mind.”

  Black started toward the door. “Play nicely,” he called over his shoulder.

  “You still owe me a guinea!” bellowed Benson, behind him.

  II

  Sir Maurice Newbury was lounging on a sofa when Black found him in the drawing room a few minutes later.

  He was a handsome man in his late thirties, with a pale complexion and a square-set jaw. He wore his raven-black hair in a neat side parting, falling in a comma across his forehead, and tended toward black suits with starched white collars and colourful silk cravats.

  Now, he was nursing a half-empty glass of claret, and appeared to be deep in conversation with an older man who sported an impressive set of white whiskers.

  Newbury looked up when Black entered the room, and beckoned him over with a wave of his hand.

  Dutifully, Black made a beeline toward them, ignoring the two other conversations that were taking place in the large drawing room: a cluster of four women had gathered on a seat beneath a tall, mullioned window, while two other men spoke in hushed tones across the far side of the room, standing before the fire. Black had been introduced to them all, of course, but he was damned if he could remember their names. He realised this was something of a weakness in a Crown investigator, but he seemed to get by.

  “Ah, Templeton, have you been properly introduced to our host, Sir Geoffrey Potterstone?” said Newbury, as Black joined them.

  Black turned to regard the older man, extending his hand. “I believe not, although I do fear I’ve rather been taking advantage of your hospitality, Sir Geoffrey.”

  Potterstone laughed warmly. He was a ruddy-faced man, in his late fifties, with narrow blue eyes and the scarlet nose of a heavy drinker. He took Black’s hand in his own, giving it a firm squeeze. Black resisted the urge to grimace in pain. “You’re most welcome, Mr Black. Most welcome indeed. Any friend of Sir Maurice is a friend of mine.” He finally released Black’s hand, adding, “And besides, he speaks most highly of you.”

  “Does he, indeed?” replied Black, with a quick glance at Newbury, whose expression was giving nothing away. “Well, it’s both a pleasure and an honour to be considered a guest at your impressive house, Sir Geoffrey.” Black glanced at the empty chair beside Newbury. “May I join you?”

  Sir Geoffrey waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t mind me, Mr Black. I’ve been ignoring my other guests for too long as it is.” He planted his hands firmly on the arms of his chair and pulled himself up. He was not a large man, but portly, and was clearly having some difficulty with his right foot. Probably gout, considered Black, given the overall appearance of the fellow and the evidence of his most comfortable lifestyle.

  Sir Geoffrey turned to Newbury. “Regarding that other matter, Sir Maurice...?”

  “In hand, Sir Geoffrey,” replied Newbury. “Say no more.”

  “Excellent,” replied the other man. “Then I’ll ask the two of you to excuse me while I mingle for a while.” He turned and tottered off in the direction of the four women by the window.

  Black turned to Newbury. “What was all that about?” he enquired, searching out his silver cigarette case and withdrawing another Guinea Gold. He lit it, leaning back and taking a long, pleasurable draw.

  Newbury watched him for a moment, smiling. “A little problem he’s asked me to look into,” he said, after a moment. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I rather fear I’ve volunteered our services.”

  Black laughed. “I imagined you might.”

  Newbury grinned. “I could use your help. And besides, I thought you might find it interesting.”

  “Don’t I always,” replied Black, with a chuckle. “So, go ahead, enlighten me.”

  “It’s the valet,” said Newbury. “He’s missing.”

  “Missing?” enquired Black.

  “For three days,” replied Newbury. “No one has seen hide or hair of him. He requested the morning off on Wednesday, claiming he had a personal errand to run. Said he was heading into the village. He never returned.”

  “And no one here has any idea where he might have gone?” asked Black.

  “Apparently not. Sir Geoffrey says he’s a very private man. Keeps himself to himself, spends most of his free time alone in his room, reading novels. His name is Henry Blakemore.” Newbury shrugged.

  “Family? Might he have received word of an emergency and taken off without notice?”

  “Hardly the actions of a dutiful valet. Even if he’d been called away by an emergency, it’s been three days. He’d have sent word by now.” Newbury took a swig from his brandy. “And besides, he has no family left. No parents, no siblings. No one to run to.”

  Black smiled. “A real mystery.” He exhaled another cloud of cigarette smoke. “So, where do we start?”

  “Apparently the servants
are saying all sorts of fascinating things about the haunted woods on the edge of the estate,” Newbury became more animated as he spoke, and his face seemed to light up at the very prospect, “but I imagine our first port of call should be to search his room in the morning.”

  Black laughed. “Don’t think for a minute that you can pretend you didn’t know about these so-called ‘haunted woods’ before we set out for this party. I can see now that’s the only reason we’re here.”

  Newbury looked scandalised. “I’m shocked that you’d think that, Templeton.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I had heard that Sir Geoffrey has a rather impressive and plentiful wine cellar, too.”

  Black shook his head in mock dismay. “You’re incorrigible. I’m turning in. I suppose I’ll see you at breakfast?” He stood, crushing the stub of his cigarette into a nearby ashtray.

  “Indeed,” confirmed Newbury. “And then our investigation can begin.”

  “I can hardly wait,” said Black, with as deadpan a tone as he could muster.

  III

  Breakfast consisted of a small portion of bacon and eggs, followed by copious amounts of black coffee and cigarettes. Black had risen early, unable to sleep, and having eaten, he decided to take a stroll around the extensive grounds of the manor.

  It had rained during the night and the air smelled damp and earthy. Water droplets glistened on the immaculate lawns as the sun attempted to break through the canopy of grey clouds, spearing shafts of brilliant light onto the ground.

  Black paused for a moment on the stone terrace at the front of the house, surveying the horizon. There, on the far edge of the estate, were the “haunted woods” Newbury had mentioned the previous evening. Black didn’t put much stock in talk of ghosts and ghouls but, he had to admit, the dark, spiky stretch of woodland did not appear particularly inviting. The leafless trees seemed somehow threatening as they clawed at the sky with their jagged fingers. He could see why they’d attracted such a sinister reputation.