Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (10 page)

The Queen’s eyes glittered as she glanced from one of them to the other. They settled on Bainbridge. “Very good. There may be political significance to the deaths. This is a line of inquiry we urge you to explore.”

“A political motivation, Your Majesty?” asked Bainbridge, his exasperation barely concealed.

“Indeed so. At first we assumed it was a coincidence, but it has since become clear that a coincidence is unlikely. All four of the victims have been agents of the Crown.”

“All four?” echoed Bainbridge. “Your Majesty, there have only been three reported deaths that match the modus operandi of the killer.”

Victoria emitted a wet, rasping cackle. “Quite so, Sir Charles. The fourth victim was killed while sequestered for an …
operation
. Due to the nature of that operation, it was paramount that the corpse was removed from the scene and swiftly disposed of. We cannot have everyone knowing our private business.”

Newbury silently considered the Queen’s words. This changed everything. If the victims were all, in fact, agents of the Crown, then a motive had suddenly appeared. It didn’t explain the strange manner of the deaths or the significance of their splayed chests or stolen organs, but it was clearly the link that they were looking for. Once again, Newbury found himself astounded by this woman. He’d worked closely with her for a number of years now, but still had no real notion just how extensive her network of agents was. She was a master manipulator, a matriarchal spider at the heart of her vast and intricate web, guiding her myriad operatives throughout the Empire.

“I fear this puts an entirely different complexion on the situation, Your Majesty,” said Newbury. “Were the dead agents all engaged in the same operation? Or could their murders have been revenge for past endeavours?”

Victoria turned her head slowly to regard him. Her eyes narrowed. “None of the agents knew each other, if that is what you’re asking, Newbury. And no, they had never been engaged against a common foe, simultaneously or otherwise.”

“Then they may have been killed simply because of their status as your operatives,” said Bainbridge.

“Quite,” intoned the Queen, huskily. “You should tread carefully,” she continued. “It may be that the two of you are also at risk.”

Was this another veiled threat? Newbury didn’t think so. The Queen seemed genuinely threatened by this assassin who was intent on relieving her of her agents. For once, she appeared not to be playing games.

“We are not alone in this,” said Bainbridge, quietly. “It seems as if
all
of your agents are at risk. Unless you have reason to suspect that we or others may be favoured as targets?” Victoria shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “Then perhaps, Your Majesty, you might have Sandford provide us with a list of possible targets? I can have my men work to safeguard them.”

The Queen let out another almighty cackle that threatened to break into a heaving cough. “Sir Charles, you test our patience. We could not trust even you with that. A list of all our agents? If it fell into the wrong hands…”

“With respect, Your Majesty,” said Bainbridge, shortly, “it sounds as if it already has.”

“Watch your words, policeman. You would do well to remember that you are far from irreplaceable.” The bellows on the back of Victoria’s chair concertinaed noisily in tandem with her rising anger.

“Then could it perhaps be a rogue such as Aubrey Knox? A former agent who knows the identity of some of our number, and who to target to most effectively get your attention?” Newbury noted the slight crack in Bainbridge’s voice as he spoke these words in hushed tones, as if he did not wish to give voice to his fears. The name of Aubrey Knox invoked bad memories for all of them.

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 décor 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.”