Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (19 page)

Now, however, neither Bainbridge nor the professor were anywhere to be seen.

She was about to ask Newbury if he knew what had become of them when she saw the look on his face. She followed his gaze. Across the nearly empty exhibition hall, the second bird was still rampaging, snapping indiscriminately at the few remaining people who were trying desperately to find their way to the exit.

Her shoulders dropped. “Again?” she said, with a sigh.

Newbury shrugged. He held up another pistol, which he must have taken from one of the dead German agents. “We can’t allow it to get out into the park,” he said. “Think of the havoc it would wreak.”

She nodded, stooping to reclaim the still-smoking pistol she had dropped. “Very well,” she said, with a sigh. “But next time you ask me to accompany you to one of these damnable exhibitions, you can jolly well take it as read that my answer is no.”

Newbury chuckled loudly as they set off together in pursuit of the second beast.

CHAPTER

17

“I’m afraid Sir Maurice is, shall we say …
indisposed
.”

Veronica made a brief appraisal of Scarbright, standing on the doorstep of Newbury’s house. He looked impeccable as always in his neatly cut suit, with starched collar and perfectly folded cravat. Nevertheless, the strain was showing somewhat in his expression. His eyes had narrowed, his lips pinched. He’d lost a modicum of his usual confidence. He was clearly embarrassed about the situation, and unsure how to respond.

“Indisposed. Ah, yes. Well, we both know what
that
means,” said Veronica, knowingly.

Scarbright gave a shrug, as if to say, What would you have me do?

“Never mind,” said Veronica, forcing a smile as she took the last two steps up to the house, gently nudging Scarbright aside with her left arm as she stepped into the hallway. “I’ll wait in the drawing room.”

Scarbright looked momentarily taken aback, and stammered as if to raise an objection, before sighing graciously in defeat. “Yes … well, quite so, miss.” He closed the door behind her. He probably knew already that she had no intention of waiting.

Veronica strolled brazenly down the familiar hallway, stopping before the panelled door to the drawing room. She rapped loudly. “Sir Maurice, may I come in?”

No answer.

She glanced back at Scarbright, who nodded, gave a strained smile, and motioned for her to enter. She turned the handle and stepped over the threshold, peering around for any sign of Newbury.

She couldn’t see him. She stepped further into the room and was assaulted by the cloying odour of stale smoke. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. She had to admit, however, that the place looked tidier than it had in months. Scarbright had obviously managed to get inside long enough to tidy away the spoiled food and crockery, the empty teapots, the overflowing ashtrays and abandoned wine bottles. He’d even managed to run a duster around the mantelpiece and draw back the curtains, allowing natural light to spill into the room for the first time in as long as Veronica could remember.

The room still bore the overbearing mark of its owner, however. Clutter filled every available nook and cranny. Books threatened to burst from the overstuffed shelves, and indeed had spilled out into piles on the armchairs and heaps upon the floor. Weird and wonderful objects lay scattered about the place: the cat skull on the mantel; an idol the size of a small child, with a staring, vacant expression on its stone face, a hole in its chest where its gemstone heart had once been; the clockwork owl he had inherited after one of his cases, silently regarding her from its perch above the dresser.

She moved over to peer at the divan where Newbury could often be found reclining in a state of repose during his opium-saturated episodes. Again, there was no sign of him.

Behind her, Scarbright pointedly cleared his throat. “If you’d like to take a seat, Miss Veronica? Sir Maurice is at work in his study. His instructions are such that he must not be disturbed under
any
circumstances. However, I will take steps to make him aware of your arrival, and I shall warm a pot of tea in the meanwhile.”

With a sigh of resignation, Veronica nodded, then dropped into one of the Chesterfields beside the fireplace, being careful not to upset a heap of papers by her feet. Scarbright slipped away, disappearing along the hallway towards the kitchen.

It was cold, and no flame burned in the grate. For a moment Veronica considered starting a fire, but then thought twice. Not because she was incapable—far from it—but because she didn’t want to disturb the heaped piles of ash and soot still in the grate and run the risk of covering herself and her dress in oily residue. Besides, with the amount of rare tomes piled up in the vicinity, she was wary of inadvertently destroying a precious relic with a stray ember, or worse, making a bonfire of Newbury’s entire collection. Most of them were irreplaceable. Indeed, the book of rituals stolen from the Cabal of the Horned Beast was not the only volume he’d gone to extreme lengths to obtain.

Veronica leaned back in her chair. The only sounds were the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and Scarbright’s receding footsteps in the hall. She didn’t often find herself alone in Newbury’s habitat. This room, she thought, gave a measure of the man: intriguing, complicated, unpredictable. One never knew what one was going to discover.

She searched the coffee table for anything of interest. What had Newbury been busying himself with? Days-old newspapers with articles circled in heavy black ink; a notepad covered in his indecipherable scrawl; an ancient grimoire, two hundred years old at least, handwritten on vellum, with woodcuts depicting complex geometric patterns and the aspect of a goat-headed devil.

Close to these was another of Newbury’s particularly macabre totems—a human skull, hewn into a mask and covered in elaborate engravings, runes, and glyphs. Some of them were familiar to Veronica, but she had no idea of their actual meaning or purpose. The empty sockets stared back at her, and she felt herself shudder in dismay. Who had it once belonged to? How had Newbury acquired it? She supposed it was best not to know.

She reached for one of the newspapers, opened it, and dropped it across the skull mask so that she wouldn’t have to look at it any longer. The thing gave her the creeps.

Clearly Newbury wasn’t expecting her—and there was no reason he should be. His note, received earlier that morning, had suggested the three of them—Newbury, Sir Charles, and Veronica—should convene at Chelsea later that afternoon, but she had wanted to catch him early, to talk about Sir Charles and the Secret Service.

Ever since the business at the Crystal Palace the previous afternoon, she’d been mulling things over. The Prince of Wales had evidently been wrong about the Germans, or at least wrong in his suggestion that they were responsible for the gruesome series of killings that Newbury and Sir Charles—and, by extension, Veronica—were charged with investigating.

She’d considered that it was still possible the German agents were behind it, but she doubted they would have shown their hand so openly at the exhibition if this were the case. It was one thing to attempt to seize a search lamp from an exhibition hall. It was quite another to implicate themselves in the murder of four of the monarch’s personal agents. The Kaiser would fear the Queen’s reprisals and war they might precede. If he truly were waging a clandestine campaign against his grandmother, he would most likely have forgone his attempted acquisition of the weapon to avoid calling attention to his other interests in London.

Who did that leave? Well, they had very little left to go on. Someone who knew the Queen’s agents—or at least some of them—and someone who had a vested interest in undermining her power and weakening her grip. A rival organisation, perhaps, making a play for control? Veronica couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Newbury had been too hasty in his dismissal of the Queen’s assertion that the Secret Service was involved, too trusting of Angelchrist and his followers. What if he was wrong, and the Queen was right? The very thought of that spiteful woman being right made her cringe.

Sir Charles’s crime may only have been one of naïveté, but his new associates might not have the same excuse.

She needed to discuss the matter with Newbury, to put her ideas, as well as his assumptions, to the test.

Veronica rubbed unconsciously at her bruised chin. She was aching all over. Her encounter with the giant birds the previous day had left her smarting and sore. They’d been able to despatch the second creature swiftly and efficiently once they’d convinced the driver of the steam-powered elephant to corner it with his machine. Following this, the two of them had made a swift exit from the scene. They might not have been able to disguise their presence at the exhibition, but hopefully they could disassociate themselves from the events that had taken place there for the prying eyes that were even now filing reports to the Queen.

Newbury had insisted that Bainbridge could look after himself, and reported that he’d seen both Bainbridge and Angelchrist making a hasty retreat in the aftermath of the firefight. Of course, it would be down to Bainbridge in his role as chief inspector to attend to the scene and attempt to explain what had occurred. How he planned to extricate himself from the situation if challenged by the Queen was anyone’s guess.

Veronica glanced at the clock. It was nearing quarter to twelve. Could she risk disturbing Newbury? Surely, for her, he would make an exception?

She made a decision. While Scarbright was busy making tea in the kitchen, she would make her presence known to Newbury. She would not stand for being dismissed. Not this time. There were questions that needed answering.

She stood, crossed to the door, and glanced along the hall. There was no sign of Scarbright. She dashed across the hallway and took the stairs two at a time, running on her tiptoes so as not to alert the valet. He would follow his master’s word to the letter and attempt to keep her at bay while Newbury finished whatever it was he was up to in the study.
Well, poppycock to that
, she thought.

She turned on the small landing, passed the bathroom, and climbed another, shorter flight of stairs to the second floor. The door to the study was at the far end. It was shut.

She hesitated for a moment. What might he be up to inside? Newbury was weakened by his ministrations to Amelia and might not know his own capabilities. If he was practicing more of his rituals, there was no telling what state she might find him in.

With this in mind, she approached the door and rapped gently with her knuckles. There was no response.

She pressed her ear against the wooden panel and heard a shuffling noise from within. “Sir Maurice?” she asked quietly. “Are you there?”

Again, there was no answer.

Veronica tested the handle, and, to her surprise, discovered that the door was unlocked. She pushed it open, the hinges creaking, and stepped inside. “Sir Maurice, I…” She trailed off, lost for words. The sight that greeted her was enough to stop her dead in her tracks.

The room was wreathed in a thick, smoggy cloud of incense. Heavy curtains were closed across the window, and candles flickered in sconces on the walls, or stood in candlesticks peppered around the room, on the floor, desk, and bookshelves.

The room had a funereal air about it. As she moved forward, the breeze of her passing stirred the candles, causing them to gutter and cast deep, dancing shadows across the bare white walls.

At the centre of all this, on the scarlet rug, lay Newbury. He was naked and was clutching his knees to his chest in a foetal position. He was twitching and shaking violently, and it was immediately clear that the shuffling noise she had heard from outside was the sound of his feet repeatedly striking the floor as he shook. At once she recognised what was happening: He was having a seizure. She had seen Amelia in this position countless times.

Horrified, she ran to Newbury’s side.

Never had he looked so vulnerable, so unlike the Newbury she knew. Not even in the depths of his opium trances, or when he’d been wounded and dying in the footwell of a hansom, or the time he’d caught a desperate fever in Switzerland while on the trail of Lady Arkwell and had to be returned to London on a military airship, unconscious and close to death.

She put her hand to his forehead. He was cold and clammy. “Maurice! Maurice!” she shouted, desperately.

His eyes had rolled back in their sockets, and she realised he was babbling quietly to himself, his words barely perceptible. “Tick-tock, tick-tock. Darkness. A throbbing heart, pulsing slowly. Tick-tock, tick-tock.” He stopped mumbling for a moment, and then his body shuddered violently again. “Executioner,” he said. “Executioner. Executioner. Executioner.” He kicked out, thrashing on the rug. His hands clawed at the carpet. His breath was coming in irregular, desperate gulps.

Veronica’s heart seemed to stop. Her mouth was dry. She willed herself to move, but she was frozen, rooted to the spot.
Executioner
 …

She shook her head. There was no time for that now. She had to make sure he was safe, and deal with that later. “Maurice? Can you hear me?” His head turned fractionally towards her. “It’s me, Veronica. Everything is going to be well.” She heard the crack in her own voice, realised she was trembling. How could this be? How could he now be suffering from the very same affliction as her sister, visions and all?

“Maurice?” she said insistently.

He emitted a low moan and his body shifted, his upturned face turning towards her. His eyes were still rolled back in his skull, white and unseeing.

“Can you hear me?” she repeated urgently. She put a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently. “Can you hear me, Maurice? I’m here.”

His eyes suddenly flicked around, and his breathing became more regular, his chest once again rising and falling with a constant, reassuring rhythm. He wore a startled, vacant expression.

“Maurice, it’s me, Veronica,” she said.