by George Mann
“And Sir Charles’s role in the affair.”
“Indeed,” said Veronica.
“Good. Then there is nothing more to be said. You may leave.” The Queen placed her lantern on her knees and, with a creak of its wooden rims, wheeled her chair back into the gloom.
Burning with anger, but nevertheless relieved her interview with the abhorrent woman was over, Veronica made hastily for the door.
CHAPTER
9
Breakfast in the dining car proved to be a quiet, sombre affair. While Newbury was perfectly pleasant company, passing time politely with the other passengers, he did not seem his normal self. His talk was of Veronica, of the plans he was making for her welfare and the period of recovery that she would undoubtedly need following the replacement of her heart.
Amelia listened carefully, keen to contribute, but to her it all seemed so far away, like the edges of a map that had still to be drawn. She desperately hoped their mission would prove a success—she would do everything in her power to make it so. Newbury assured her they would return from St. Petersburg with a device that would bring new life to her sister, but it still seemed so remarkable, so tenuous, that she found herself unable to properly engage in his plans. There was a part of her that wanted to wait, to avoid thinking about the future until she was sure it could become a reality. She supposed Newbury had his own way of coming to terms with the situation.
At the same time, however, it gave her a great deal of comfort to know that he was making such plans, that he had such faith in the future. Veronica had always maintained that if there was something you wanted enough, you could find a way to make it happen. It was certainly clear that Newbury wanted this. She wondered how he would manage—how they would all manage—if they failed.
Their conversation continued in this vein throughout breakfast, and they lapsed into a companionable silence as they strolled back from the dining car a short while later.
Newbury paused at the door to his cabin—the single door they had been using to gain entry to their suite. He stood there for a moment, frowning.
“What is it?” said Amelia.
“Someone’s been here,” replied Newbury. He stooped to examine the lock, running his fingers around the frame. “We’ve had a visitor.”
“How can you be so sure?” said Amelia. “The door is still locked.”
“It’s been opened,” said Newbury. “It’s not how I left it. Look here, there are scratches around the lock.” He glanced up at her. “We should tread carefully.”
Amelia could see nothing out of sorts. Perhaps it was Newbury’s trained eye, but she couldn’t help wondering if the stress of the last few weeks, the pressure he was putting himself under, was starting to take its toll. Was he seeing things that weren’t there? Could it be paranoia? Whatever the case, she decided to follow his instructions carefully.
Newbury withdrew the key from his pocket, slid it into the lock, and turned it slowly and deliberately. He twisted the knob and pushed gently on the door. It swung open to reveal his cabin, which was now largely in disarray.
The bedclothes had been disturbed. The doors of the small wardrobe hung open. A drawer had been upturned on the floor, its contents rifled through.
Amelia expected him to rush to his belongings, to establish what was missing, but instead Newbury stepped over the detritus on the floor and went straight through to the sitting room. Amelia followed after him, pulling the cabin door shut behind her. When she saw what was waiting for them she issued a shrill scream.
“Shhh!” said Newbury, rushing to her side and pressing his hand over her mouth. “You’ll bring the guards.”
“I’m all right,” said Amelia, pushing him away. “It was just the shock, that’s all.”
“Very well,” said Newbury, with a curt nod. He stepped back, giving her room. She peered hesitantly over his shoulder.
The scene was like something derived from a nightmare and brought horribly, appallingly to life. A man of around thirty years of age lay slumped in one of the chairs—the very chair Amelia had been sitting in only an hour or so earlier—his head lolling so that his chin rested upon his chest. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was twisted in a snarl of pain that looked disturbingly like a sneer of amusement. His arms tumbled over the sides of the seat, his fingertips brushing the floor. His shirt—once crisp, starched white—had been savagely torn open, and his bared chest was a bloody, lacerated mess.
It was clear from a pink, puckered wound that a blade had been slipped carefully under his ribs, puncturing his heart. Dark blood had seeped from the wound, but there was far less of it than Amelia might have expected.
Newbury fished in his pocket for a moment and handed her the key. “Go and lock the door to my cabin.”
She took it and did as he said, running back through, leaving the key in the lock and sliding the bolts.
When she returned a moment later, Newbury was stooped over the body. “It’s a message,” he said.
“A message?”
“Yes. Someone’s carved something here, into the flesh.” He indicated the dead man’s chest with his finger. Amelia didn’t really want to look, but couldn’t help herself. A series of blood-smeared lines and circles had been carefully cut into the pale skin.
“What is it?”
“It’s a symbol,” said Newbury. “A circle with two horns. The sign of the Beast.”
“You’re not making any sense,” said Amelia, with rising panic. It was only now starting to dawn on her what had really happened here. Someone had killed a man and left the body for them to find, here, in her armchair, in their suite.
“The Cabal,” said Newbury. “It’s a message from the Cabal. They’re here on the train. We have something they want.” She watched him put his fingers to the man’s throat, searching for a pulse, but they both knew it was a redundant gesture. “He’s been dead for hours,” he said. “He wasn’t killed in here. Whoever killed this man did it elsewhere on the train, probably during the night, and then took the opportunity of us eating breakfast together to pick the lock and plant the body here.” He offered her a grim smile. “It’s audacious, I’ll give them that.”
There was a loud rap at the door. Newbury looked up, and then glanced at Amelia.
“Hello?” said a gravelly voice from the other side of the door. “Hello? This is the train guard. We’ve had reports of a disturbance here. Please open the door.”
Amelia stared at Newbury, wide-eyed. What were they going to do? Perhaps if they could just pretend they weren’t there, the guard would go away.
Newbury put a finger to his lips, urging her to remain silent.
The guard tried the handle, and then muttered something indecipherable in French. Another voice replied.
“Monsieur Newbury. We know you’re inside. I demand that you open the door. Serious allegations have been made.”
Newbury dashed to the window, hauling up the sash. Cold wind gusted in, billowing the curtains. The noise of the train’s wheels clattering on the tracks was deafening. He ran back to the corpse.
“Help me with the body,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.
“Help you what?” she replied, in similar fashion.
“Move it!” Newbury hooked his hands under the dead man’s armpits and began to drag him from the chair.
“What? No!” said Amelia, aghast. “You’re not going to…” She looked to the window.
Newbury didn’t answer, but just continued to haul the body from the chair. The dead man lolled forward, his fingers trailing on the rug.
“We should let the guards in,” hissed Amelia, “explain to them what’s happened.”
Newbury fixed her with a hard stare. “No. Trust me. It would do little good.”
“But…” Amelia barely knew what to say. She couldn’t believe what Newbury was considering. She glanced at the door as the guards tried the handle again. They were raising their voices now, and she knew at any moment they were going to fetch a h
ousekeeper’s key and let themselves in. “Can’t you just tell them you work for the Crown, protest our innocence?”
Newbury shook his head. He looked exasperated. “We’re on a French train, halfway across Europe. Indeed, if they discover I work for the Queen, it could well serve as something of a red rag to a bull.” He looked pleadingly at Amelia. “And besides, it would slow us down. There’d be questions. Ceaseless questions. Veronica can’t wait that long.”
Amelia considered for a moment, unsure what to do. Her instinct was to trust Newbury—it always was—but this was murder, and he was disposing of the evidence.
“Come on, Amelia!” he snapped.
Her instincts took over. She ran to his side, stooped down, and gathered up the dead man’s feet. His muscles had already begun to stiffen, and he was cold. She felt her stomach knot. It was horribly disconcerting, and she tried not to look down as, together, she and Newbury staggered towards the window, the body hanging like a sack of potatoes between them.
The guards were still banging noisily on the door. “We know you’re in there, Sir Maurice. We’re going to force the door now.”
Amelia felt panic surging. If they came in and caught them like this it would be even worse.
She looked to Newbury. His expression was calm. There wasn’t even a hint of panic in his eyes.
Newbury heaved the dead man’s head and shoulders up onto the windowsill, so that the head itself was dangling over the side of the train. Amelia peered out. The rush of air was dizzying. There was a grassy verge, and wild, untamed countryside stretched away into the distance. She supposed the body wouldn’t be found for many days.
The door shook in the frame as one of the guards struck it with his shoulder.
“We can do this, Amelia,” said Newbury. “Come on.”
Allowing the windowsill to take some of the weight, Newbury began feeding the body up and out through the window.
The door shook again, and Amelia started at the sound of splintering wood. They’d be in within seconds.
One of the dead man’s arms flopped unhelpfully, jamming in the frame, and Amelia had to abandon her hold on the feet and move forward, folding the errant limb across the bloody mess of the chest. She knew there and then that this moment was going to haunt her for the rest of her life.
Newbury gave a final shove, and the balance of weight transferred. The dead man slid from the window, crashing into the verge and tumbling away like a tossed rag doll. Within seconds he was lost from sight, left far behind them.
There was a crunch as the door gave way. Amelia felt breathless. What were they going to do? What were they going to say? How could they possibly explain?
She glanced at Newbury, standing by the open window, and then, without thinking, rushed forward and threw her arms around him. She pulled him close and kissed him fiercely and deeply on the lips.
He started to back away, protesting, but she held on to him. “Kiss me!” she insisted, and the urgency in her voice must have made her point, because he relented a moment later, taking her in his arms as the men came piling into the room.
Still she held on to Newbury, cupping his face in her hands, drawing the moment out, ensuring every one of the guards had seen them. Then, calmly, she released him and stepped back.
Newbury turned to the guards. “What is this?” he demanded. He still held her tightly around the waist.
One of the guards, clearly the man in charge, was staring at them, a deep frown furrowing his brow. He looked utterly confused by the scene before him. “I … ah…” He looked at Amelia. “Are you quite well, madame? Only, we had reports of a violent disturbance and a scream.”
Amelia bit her bottom lip demurely. “Oh, yes. I’m quite well, Inspector. Perhaps I just got rather … carried away.” She let that hang for a moment. “Please, accept my apologies if I’ve wasted your time. There’s certainly no disturbance here.”
The guard glanced around the room, taking in the state of disarray. “No disturbance?”
Amelia shrugged. “A row over a lost trinket,” she said. “We found it, and we were … making up.”
“Now, if you’d kindly leave us to our privacy?” said Newbury, sternly.
The guard’s face flushed a deep crimson. “Well, I can see that we were mistaken,” he said, attempting to maintain his composure. Behind him, three other men stood sniggering. Amelia knew they’d have a good laugh at her expense later, but didn’t care.
“We’ll be on our way, then,” said the guard. “My sincerest apologies, Sir Maurice, but I must ask that next time, you please answer the door.”
Newbury nodded. “I’d like to think there won’t be a next time. I presume you’ll be sending someone to fix the lock?”
“Directly, sir,” said the guard. With a quick signal to his subordinates, he left, pulling the door to behind him.
Newbury expelled a long sigh, and released Amelia from his hold.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It seemed the only thing to do.”
“No need,” he mumbled, clearly embarrassed. The moment stretched.
She had a sudden, unexpected urge to do it again. She buried it.
A gust from the open window stirred her hair. “The body,” she said. “Who would do such a thing? And why?”
“To discredit me,” said Newbury. “To get me out of the way, tie me up with questions and police officers.”
“Yes, but to what end?”
Newbury crossed to the window and pulled down the sash. The room felt suddenly quiet and still again. “Now that’s the real question,” he said. His expression darkened. “As I explained, I have enemies.” He glanced around, and she followed his gaze. She hadn’t noticed during all the excitement, but the room had clearly been searched. Their belongings were strewn everywhere, drawers left open, vases overturned.
“They were looking for something,” she said.
“Yes,” agreed Newbury. “And I can imagine what.” He didn’t seem to want to discuss it any further. Amelia decided to try a different tack.
“That poor man. What about his family?” she said.
“I’ll ensure his body is found,” said Newbury. “From Minsk or St. Petersburg I’ll leave an anonymous tip, tell them I saw something fall from the train. They’ll send people to investigate. By then he’ll probably have been reported missing.” Amelia could see he was clenching his right fist in frustration. He clearly wasn’t as calm as he would have her believe. “I’ll find his killer, too. I won’t let them slow us down or prevent us from helping your sister.”
“You mentioned a cabal,” said Amelia. “Tell me.”
“It’s of little importance,” said Newbury, dismissively.
Amelia wasn’t having that. Not after she’d helped him tip a corpse out of the window. If he had any idea what was going on, she deserved to know. “Tell me,” she said.
Newbury stared at her for a moment, and she was sure she saw the hint of a smile on his lips. “Very well,” he said. “The Cabal of the Horned Beast, a society who believe in the ridiculous notion that humankind should be remade in the Devil’s image. They accumulate artefacts of occult interest, but have no real notion of how to make use of them. They concoct silly games and rituals, and believe that in performing them, they’re setting the world back on the righteous path.”
“You make them sound like harmless schoolboys,” said Amelia.
“Schoolboys, perhaps,” replied Newbury, “but far from harmless. Those games include ritual sacrifice and the remodelling of men into grotesque beasts.”
“And they’re here, on this train?”
“So someone would have me believe,” said Newbury. “That symbol, on the dead man’s chest—that was a warning. They’ve been following me for some time. It looks as if they might finally have caught up with me.”
“Why should they come after you?”
“Revenge,” said Newbury levelly.
“Revenge?” Amelia was confused. “Whatever have you done to
provoke such a monstrous response?”
“I took something from them,” said Newbury. “Something they would very much like back.”
“It must be something very important,” said Amelia, doubtfully.
“It is,” replied Newbury. “I’ll show you.” With evident reluctance he crossed to her armchair—or rather, the armchair she had previously adopted, and the one in which the corpse had been arranged. He pulled the seat cushion free and turned it over. Amelia watched inquisitively, grimacing at the oily bloodstains she could see on the cushion cover.
Newbury unzipped the leather cover, exposing the downy material within. Wearing a frown, he inserted his hand into the cushion, rooted around for a moment, and then smiled as he clearly found what he was looking for. Unable to help herself, Amelia stepped forward, standing by his shoulder to see. He pulled his hand free. In it, he was clutching a book.
Amelia gasped. It was an all-too-familiar book. The book. The Cosmology of the Spirit, the book containing the ritual Newbury was using to heal her.
“That’s it?” she said. “That’s where you got it from? You stole it from that cult? You did it for me?”
Newbury looked at her. “I did.”
“Then you must return it to them,” said Amelia, with urgency. “You must give them what they want and bring an end to the matter. If they’re prepared to do this to a stranger on a train, just to make a point, then think about what they’re prepared to do to you—to us—to retrieve the book. I won’t allow it. I won’t allow you to put yourself in that much danger for me.”
Newbury gave a humourless laugh. “I fear it’s far too late for that, Amelia. Now they’re out for revenge, irrespective of whether they retrieve the book or not. I slighted them. Honour demands that I pay for my crime. And besides, why should I return it to them? They don’t understand what they had, what it’s for. In my hands, in helping you, this book can be a force for good. They would simply try to incorporate it into their silly rituals. I won’t allow that.” He made a point of pushing the book back into the cushion, zipping up the cover, and returning it to its place. It was, Amelia supposed, as good a hiding place as any.