by George Mann
A moment later, just as he was raising his cane impatiently to knock for a second time, he heard the creak of footsteps in the hallway. “Hurry along, Scarbright! It’s rather chilly out tonight.”
The door creaked open on hinges in need of a good oiling, and Bainbridge felt a welcome flood of warmth from within.
“Sir Charles?” Newbury’s valet—Scarbright—sounded utterly incredulous, as if taken aback that the chief inspector might actually be out there in the swirling snowstorm on Christmas Eve. He stood for a moment in the doorway, staring at Bainbridge as if he couldn’t quite take it in.
“Well, don’t just stand there, man! Step aside so I might come in!”
Scarbright blinked at him, and then realisation seemed to dawn on his face and he stepped back, beckoning Bainbridge inside. “Of course, my apologies. It’s only that I believe Sir Maurice wasn’t expecting you until the morning, sir.”
Bainbridge grinned as he handed over his hat and cane and began unbuttoning his coat. “Oh, don’t fret so, Scarbright. I’m not staying. I simply have something for Sir Maurice that couldn’t wait.”
“Even on Christmas Eve, sir?”
“Quite so, Scarbright,” replied Bainbridge, failing to entirely hide his displeasure at the fact the valet considered it appropriate to question his motives. He shook out his coat, spattering water and ice droplets over the polished floorboards. Then, having extracted the small package from inside one of the pockets and dropping it into his jacket pocket instead, he handed the still-dripping garment to the valet. “Now, be a good chap, Scarbright, and organise some tea.”
Scarbright smiled wryly as he folded the coat over his arm. “Of course, Sir Charles. Sir Maurice is... relaxing in the drawing room.”
“Ah, like that, is it?” replied Bainbridge. “Well, I’ll get in there and stir him up a bit. It doesn’t do to let him fester, Scarbright.”
The valet raised a single eyebrow in response. “I’ll see to that tea, Sir Charles,” he said, before turning and sloping off down the passageway towards the kitchen.
Bainbridge smiled to himself. Scarbright had always shown an unerring sense of loyalty, and it was obvious he liked Newbury. It was for this reason that Bainbridge had acquiesced to him remaining indefinitely at Cleveland Avenue, instead of returning to Bainbridge’s own employ.
Of course, Newbury thought it was all his doing, and often ribbed Bainbridge about the way in which he had stolen the chief inspector’s servant from under his nose, turning Bainbridge’s “spy”—given to Newbury on loan after his housekeeper had walked out on him—into a loyal, dedicated valet. Bainbridge had allowed this little myth to grow, aware that Newbury needed this victory if he were to ever truly accept Scarbright as anything other than Bainbridge’s informant. The irony was, of course, that Scarbright had long since ceased to inform Bainbridge of anything useful at all. Not that Bainbridge had wanted to spy on his friend in the first place. It was simply that he wished to keep a watchful eye on Newbury, in order that he might intervene if the situation needed him to, or if Newbury went and got himself into trouble with his employers. Which, Bainbridge considered, had happened on more than one memorable occasion in recent months.
“Stop loitering in the hallway and come and warm yourself by the fire, Charles. And tell Scarbright not to bother with that tea. I need brandy!” Newbury’s bellowing voice carried down the passageway from the drawing room, eliciting a loud guffaw from Bainbridge. So much for the surprise. He might have known Newbury would have anticipated the identity of his unexpected caller. There’d be some obvious giveaway, no doubt; the click-clack of his cane, the way he rapped on the door, the simple odds that Bainbridge would be the only one of Newbury’s friends to call at such an hour, on Christmas Eve, in the snow.
Bainbridge wasted no time in accepting Newbury’s invitation, and, still feeling damp and cold from his excursion, swiftly made his way along the passageway to the drawing room. He didn’t bother to knock before pushing open the door and stepping over the threshold.
Inside, it was warm and welcoming, although filled with the thick, syrupy aroma of opium. Smoke hung in the air like a viscous shroud, clinging to the ceiling and causing Bainbridge to splutter and cough, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
A fire burned heartily in the grate, and the curtains were drawn against the weather. The room was in some disarray, with scattered newspapers and leaning piles of leather-bound books covering every conceivable surface. Specimen jars filled with things that Bainbridge had no desire to identify nestled amongst these towering stacks, and Christmas presents wrapped in gaudily coloured paper were heaped in a pile in one corner, ready for the festivities the following day. Very much unlike Newbury himself, Bainbridge mused, who looked as if he had no intention of engaging with the seasonal cheer.
He was currently lounging on his sofa, his head resting upon one of the arms, his feet balancing upon the other. His collar was askew, his hair a tangled mess, and he was blowing smoke rings into the air above his head, watching them drift away languorously and melt into the corners of the room.
He turned his head fractionally to glance at Bainbridge, and although his expression was far from unwelcoming, he did not appear overjoyed to see his friend standing over him. He returned to blowing smoke rings for a moment before speaking.
“I suppose you’re going to berate me and tell me to put this out immediately?” said Newbury, waving his opium-tainted cigarette lackadaisically in Bainbridge’s general direction. Blue smoke curled from the end of it, describing twisting ribbons in the air.
“Do what you will,” Bainbridge replied, in what he considered to be a very reasonable tone.
Newbury twisted around sharply to look up at him, a question in his eyes.
Bainbridge chuckled and shrugged. “Well, it’s your ruddy house, and God knows I’ve stated my case enough times before. Besides, it’s Christmas. It wouldn’t do to get into a row.”
“Are you feeling quite well, Charles?” asked Newbury, this time with a wry smile.
Bainbridge sighed, and then issued a barking cough as he inhaled a lungful of the thick, sweet-smelling smoke. “Well, you could do the decent thing and at least open a window.”
Newbury laughed loudly and swung his feet down from the sofa. He leaned over to the coffee table and crumpled the remains of his cigarette into the ashtray, before hauling himself to his feet and crossing to the window. A moment later the room was filled with a cool, swirling gust, which stirred up the fire and banished the worst of the clinging smoke.
“If I’d realised it was that easy to have you extinguish your foul cigarettes, I’d have been more reasonable about it before,” said Bainbridge, with a chuckle. “It seems all that shouting was unnecessary.”
“Well, as you said, it is Christmas,” replied Newbury, with a shrug. Bainbridge watched as Newbury shifted a pile of books to make room for them both to sit by the fire. He’d lost weight, and he was looking a little gaunt.
“You’re not yourself, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, his tone a touch more serious than before. “You usually relish this time of year.”
“I’m bored, Charles,” said Newbury, waving his arm dramatically. “I have no interest in commonplace murder and petty villainy. After everything that’s happened... well, I simply cannot muster any enthusiasm for the mundane. I crave stimulation. I crave adventure.” He dropped into a Chesterfield and ran a hand through his unkempt hair, issuing a heartfelt sigh. “Nothing seems to hold my attention.” He shook his head, as if recognising how impetuous he sounded. “Oh, pour us a drink would you, Charles?”
Bainbridge sighed as he made his way over to the sideboard and began searching around for two clean tumblers. “Listen to yourself, Newbury! So damn melodramatic. You make it sound as if the world has suddenly stopped turning. As if you’ve somehow managed to solve every conceivable mystery of interest, and now you’ve found yourself redundant!”
“Haven’t I?” asked Newbury.
�
�Newbury, it’s been two months! Hardly a lifetime. And if we’re honest with one another, we both know you needed the rest. You’re simply growing stir-crazy because you refuse to leave your ruddy rooms.” Bainbridge glugged brandy into the glasses as he talked. “And besides, it’s not as if I’m not busy. You could always give me a hand if you’re at a loose end.” He collected the glasses and crossed the room, passing one to Newbury before lowering himself into the chair opposite. “Well, with the very best of the season and all that,” he said, raising his glass in Newbury’s direction.
Newbury smiled. “I take it you’re still coming to dinner tomorrow?”
Bainbridge took a long swig of brandy, rocking back in his seat with an appreciative sigh. “You just try to stop me! I wouldn’t risk missing one of Scarbright’s Christmas feasts.”
Newbury laughed. “And Angelchrist?”
“I believe so,” he said. “Although in truth our paths haven’t crossed for a number of weeks. We were supposed to meet at the club for dinner this week, but I had to postpone because of an incident in Shoreditch.”
“Ah, yes. The Revenant murder.”
Bainbridge was a little startled by this revelation that Newbury was already aware of the case he was investigating. “Yes... indeed so. But how did you know?”
Newbury shrugged. “As I explained, Charles, I’m bored. And I make it my business to remain informed, even if, as you so eloquently put it, I ‘refuse to leave my ruddy rooms’.”
Bainbridge flushed. “Then no doubt you’re already aware that the investigation has ground to a halt? Not that it ever really got started.”
“Indeed,” said Newbury.
“And you had no thoughts of offering your assistance?” Bainbridge felt at risk of losing the good mood that had so far possessed him that afternoon, but he fought away his aggravation. That was Newbury all over: dismissive of Bainbridge’s work, unless there was something in it that caught his attention, some peculiar or occult element that somehow made it stand out from the norm.
Newbury looked away, staring into the leaping flames of the fire as if he was instead staring through a window into another world. “I can’t see how I could be of assistance to you, Charles. Truthfully. People do terrible things to one another, and sometimes we’re able to punish them for it. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we’re even able to prevent it. But this time, I think you’re simply going to have to accept that you’re unable to attribute this horrible, random act of violence to any particular villain, as galling as that may be.”
“Perhaps,” said Bainbridge, softly. He took another swig of his brandy and allowed himself a little inward smile. So Newbury wasn’t aware of the entire picture, then. He could draw some satisfaction from that, at least.
“Is that why you’re here tonight? To solicit my help with your case? If so, Charles, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. There’s nothing in it for me. Nothing I can get my teeth into.”
Bainbridge placed his tumbler on the coffee table between them—or rather, on the pile of old newspapers that covered its surface. “Not at all, Newbury. I simply came to give you a gift.”
He watched as Newbury’s face fell in disappointment. “A gift? I... well, thank you, Charles.” Newbury turned to glance at the heap of parcels in the corner. “Although I fear I’ll have enough brandy and cigars to last a lifetime after tomorrow.”
Bainbridge couldn’t prevent himself from grinning. “Ah. I fear it’s not that sort of gift, Newbury.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved the small package he had placed there earlier. He handed it to Newbury. “Happy Christmas, dear chap.”
Newbury offered him a confused expression. “But you’re coming to dinner tomorrow, Charles. Is it not traditional for us to exchange gifts over a glass of port after dinner?”
Bainbridge laughed. “Just open the damn thing, Newbury!”
Shrugging, Newbury reached inside the small manila envelope and withdrew the object inside. His eyes widened in surprise as it dawned on him exactly what it was. “It’s made of bone!”
“Human finger bones, to be precise. Five of them.”
Newbury almost leapt out of his chair, dropping the envelope and turning the object over in his hands. He held it up to the light, studying it closely with a sudden gleam in his eye.
Bainbridge had received the thing that morning, left for him in the same unmarked envelope at the Yard. His reaction, upon opening it, had been quite the opposite of Newbury’s; he’d recoiled in fascinated horror, dropping the artefact immediately upon the open ledger on his desk. It was a talisman or occult token of some kind, a pentagram formed from a grisly assemblage of human finger bones, bound together with thin leather strips. The bones had been artificially bleached, and black script had been meticulously etched on to the smooth surfaces, written in an arcane language that Bainbridge—or anyone else at the Yard, for that matter—could not identify. And so he had brought it to Newbury, partly to ask for his help in identifying its purpose and meaning, but mostly because he knew it would arose his friend’s interest, particularly when he had occasion to read the accompanying note.
“It’s fascinating,” said Newbury, still scrutinising the object beneath the nearest wall-mounted gas lamp. “Where did you get it?”
“Someone left it at the Yard for me this morning,” said Bainbridge, leaning back in his chair and watching Newbury with an amused grin. “But you haven’t seen the best part yet, Newbury. Take another look inside the envelope.”
Newbury carefully placed the talisman on the cluttered mantelpiece beside the cat skull and specimen jars, and hurried back to where he had been sitting, scooping up the discarded envelope and fishing around inside until he found the little notecard. He pulled it free, tossing the envelope away again and then turning the card over so that he might read its message.
Bainbridge watched as Newbury’s face lit up in abject shock and surprise. The chief inspector had, of course, already committed the contents of the note to memory. It was written in a beautiful, flowing script, just four simple words on a cream-coloured notecard. Nevertheless, they were four words that would quicken Newbury’s heart and resurrect his enthusiasm for life, four words that would alter his opinion of Bainbridge’s case and send him running to collect his coat, despite the inclement weather, despite the date:
Regarding your corpse...
Clarissa
“She’s back!” Newbury exclaimed, and Bainbridge could hear the excitement in his voice.
“It does rather seem that way,” replied Bainbridge.
“Lady Arkwell, here in London once again. I believed her lost, dead...” he trailed off, evidently unable to find the appropriate words.
“We all did, Newbury.”
Lady Arkwell, or Clarissa Karswell, had proven to be a thorn in Newbury’s side during the course of the prior eighteen months. He had battled with her on numerous occasions and even, during one particular affair, formed a temporary alliance with the woman in the face of a common enemy. She purported to be a foreign agent, but as yet, Newbury had been unable to ascertain to which nation or organisation she was affiliated. The truth was, she had continued to outwit Newbury at every stage, even, it seemed, faking her own demise in order to throw him temporarily off her trail. Yet here she was, back in London and making the first move, using Bainbridge to re-engage Newbury as if anxious to continue with their little game. Bainbridge had often wondered if there wasn’t, in fact, something more to it than that, but that was nothing but idle speculation; he’d only met the woman on one occasion himself, and even then, he hadn’t known it was her until well after she had already gone.
Newbury, for his part, seemed genuinely invigorated by the challenge and always rose to the occasion, whenever she showed her hand. He’d confided in Bainbridge more than once that he found the woman to be a complex, unfathomable creature whose motives were dubious and opaque, but with whom he was incurably fascinated. She was neither nemesis nor friend, and Bainbridge found it hard to
put his finger on exactly what she was. As far as he could tell, Newbury had yet to fathom that one himself, either.
Whatever the case, it was clear Newbury had a deep admiration for her, as well as a great deal of respect. He’d mourned her passing as if she’d been a close personal friend, which, in many ways, Bainbridge supposed, she probably was. It was clear Newbury had felt the loss of such an admirable opponent keenly. Such was the unusual nature of the relationship between them. Now, as Bainbridge had anticipated, the news that she was alive and returned to London had been more than enough to rouse him from his ennui.
“Regarding your corpse...” Newbury glanced up from the note to glower at Charles. “She means the corpse you found tied to that lamp post in Shoreditch?”
Bainbridge nodded but didn’t say a word.
“And you allowed me to spout all of that nonsense about giving up and accepting you would never find the killer? All the while with this in your pocket!”
“You seemed on such a roll, it was a shame to stop you,” Bainbridge replied cheerily.
The two men stared at each other for a moment across the drawing room, and then, almost simultaneously, they both broke out into heaving guffaws of laughter.
A moment later, when the laughter had subsided, Bainbridge stood and crossed to where Newbury was once again standing by the mantelpiece, examining the gruesome talisman. He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You want to see it? The corpse, I mean.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Bainbridge chuckled. “Fetch your coat then. It’s cold out.”
Newbury raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What? Now?”
“Why wait?”
“Because it’s snowing, and it’s Christmas Eve!”
Bainbridge rubbed his hands together before the fire. “There’ll be plenty of time for all that nonsense tomorrow. You’re not seriously telling me you’d rather remain here to play parlour games, are you? Not when there’s a case to be getting on with, and Lady Arkwell, somewhere out there in London, waiting for you to make the next move.”