Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (20 page)

His eyes seemed to follow her face, and then slowly focus. His expression hardened. “Get out!” he hissed. “Get out!”

“Maurice … I…” she faltered.

“Get out!” he bellowed for the third time.

For a moment Veronica was unable to act. She remained where she was, crouched over Newbury’s naked form, trembling in shock. She had never once, in all the time she had known Newbury, seen such a fierce look in his eyes, such a fearsome glower. She hesitated. She didn’t know what to do, how to respond.

Then, a few moments later, something snapped. Reality rushed in, cold and unwelcome. She stood, hurrying from the room, feeling nauseous. She didn’t stop to close the door, nor to worry about what Scarbright might think.

She thundered down the stairs, charged across the hall and back to the drawing room, where she stood for a moment, leaning upon the back of a chair, labouring for breath.

What had she seen? The way his body had convulsed, the muscular spasms, the way his eyes had rolled back in their dark, bruised sockets … and the mumbled word,
Executioner,
as if he were seeing things that no one else could see.

Newbury was suffering a clairvoyant seizure, like the ones Veronica had witnessed her sister have a hundred times before. But why the candles, and the nakedness?

She glanced back at the door. She didn’t know what to do. Should she leave? Should she go back to him? She heard a footstep in the hall. Scarbright appeared in the doorway bearing a silver tray that clattered with the tea paraphernalia. Concern, however, was evident upon his handsome face.

“Miss Veronica, is everything quite well?” he asked, hurrying into the room. He slid the tray onto the top of the sideboard and approached her. Veronica held up a hand as if to shoo him away, but realised she was still shaking.

“I heard footsteps. Has Sir Maurice finished with his work?” he asked, the trepidation evident in his voice.

“No, no. All is well, Scarbright. Sir Maurice is still … otherwise engaged. Do not trouble yourself,” she said, her voice quavering slightly.

“But Miss Veronica…”

“No, Scarbright. It’s fine. Now pour me a tea, will you? Be a good chap.”

Scarbright frowned. “Forgive me, Miss Veronica, but you’re looking terribly pale. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

Veronica forced a smile. “No. No, I shall remain here and wait for Sir Maurice. Thank you, Scarbright.” She could tell he was not convinced, but he acceded to her wishes, crossing to the sideboard and straining her cup of tea.

“Here you are, miss,” he said, handing it to her.

“Thank you,” she replied.

He made to leave, but turned about on the threshold. “I’ll be in the kitchen, Miss Veronica, if there’s anything you need.” He paused, as if to add emphasis to his words. “Anything at all.”

She nodded. “I’m sure I will be just fine,” she said, although she knew her voice lacked conviction.

A moment later—when she was sure Scarbright’s footsteps had receded—she let out a single, brief sob, which she stifled quickly with a handkerchief. Her every instinct screamed at her to leave, to snatch up her hat and coat and get as far away from Newbury’s house as possible. She wanted to be anywhere but there, somewhere where she didn’t have to face that man who was so different from the Newbury she had come here to visit.

Nevertheless, she had to be strong. She’d dealt with worse. He hadn’t meant to be so vicious—it was simply embarrassment. She had burst in on him naked and vulnerable, and he hadn’t known how to react. She had uncovered a secret, something he’d managed to keep from even his valet, and he’d felt exposed. Perhaps this was what he’d been talking about yesterday when he’d spoken of trust?

More than any of that, though, she needed to be there to help him. This was not some trifling matter that could be shelved and forgotten. For how long had he been succumbing to these episodes? Was it that, rather than the opium, that had left him so weak, so diminished?

She had a sudden, startling thought: Was this how he was healing Amelia?

It was too much of a coincidence that her episodes had ceased just around the time that Newbury’s had begun. Was that what was going on? Had he somehow found a way to draw off her condition, to take it upon himself? Her mind reeled with the possibility.

Veronica realised she was pacing the room. Her tea had spilled in the saucer as her hand shook. She forced herself to stop, sit in one of the chairs, and drink her tea while she considered.

That had to be it. The book, the ritual … that’s what he was doing. Her heart sank.

She looked up to see Newbury stagger into the room. He was dressed now, albeit hastily—he was wearing only his trousers and shirt, the sleeves rolled back, the collar open. He was unsteady on his feet—so much so that as he came into the room he had to reach out a hand to steady himself against the wall. “I…” He looked at her, his eyes pleading.

She rushed to his side, abandoning the teacup and saucer on the floor, not caring whether its contents spilt across the carpet. She caught him in a tight embrace, and he clutched at her, holding her close. He held her tightly for a moment. He was cold to the touch and she could feel him shivering. His breath was still ragged. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s only … I wish you had not seen me like that, reduced to that.”

She stepped back, her hands on his shoulders, searching his face. His eyes were tired and sunken, his lips thin, his face drawn. “If I had known,” she said, “that this was what you were doing…”

Newbury shook his head. “You could not know. Of course you couldn’t. You would never have allowed it.”

“Well,” she said, glancing away, fighting back tears. “It cannot continue.”

“She’ll die,” he said, quietly. “She’ll die without it. I’m stronger than her. It must continue. There’s no other way.”

“But look at you! Look at what it’s doing to you!” she said, her voice rising in urgency. “You’re right. I would never have allowed it, and I cannot allow it now.”

“It’s not for you to decide,” he said, solemnly.

She reeled on him. “Amelia would not want this, Maurice. You must know that. She would not inflict this curse on anyone.”

Newbury sighed. He looked as if he were about to keel over.

“How long has it been going on?” she asked, pressing him further. “When did the seizures begin?”

“A few months,” he said, levelly.

“A few
months
!” she exclaimed.

“Ever since the ritual began,” he continued. “Ever since it proved to be a success.”

She took a deep breath. “Come on. Come and sit down. I’ll pour you some tea.”

He nodded, shuffling towards the divan. “Now that’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” he said, grinning.

“How can you be so flippant?” she asked, shocked.

“What else would you have me do?” he replied. “There’s no point in getting morose. Besides…” he trailed off, glancing out of the window, as if he didn’t want to give voice to his thoughts.

“Besides what?” she prompted.

“It’s fascinating,” he said, refusing to look at her. “Absolutely fascinating.”

“For the love of.… Don’t tell me you’re actually
enjoying
the experience!” Veronica fought to keep her temper. She was running the gamut of emotions, from shock to hurt to love to pity to anger. Her head was spinning.

“No,” he replied. “‘Enjoy’ would be quite the wrong word for it. But the process … the things I’ve seen…”

“Maurice,” she said, a warning tone in her voice. “You’re dabbling with things you don’t understand. It’s dangerous.
Too
dangerous. You’re going to kill yourself if you’re not careful.”

He turned to look at her, his eyes narrow. “I have to protect you,” he said. “The danger is closer than you think.”

Veronica tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. “What do you mean?” she asked, although she thought she already knew.

“Amelia must have spoken to you of it? The Executioner,” he said. “The Executioner is coming.”

Veronica held her head high. “Yes, well, I’ve heard all about this so-called Executioner from Amelia. And here’s what I’m going to do about it: carry on as normal. What you’ve seen isn’t the future. It’s simply a possibility.”

“Veronica,” said Newbury, “that might well be true, but can we really take that risk?”

“What would you have me do?” she asked, her voice strained.

He shrugged. “Go away, to somewhere safe. Take a steamship to New York, or an airship to the Continent. Anywhere but here, where you’re at risk.”

“And how do you know that what you’re seeing in your … visions doesn’t happen somewhere other than here?” she asked.

Newbury’s shoulders dropped in defeat. “I don’t,” he admitted, softly.

“There we are, then,” she said, pouring his tea. She crossed the room, handing it to him. “There’s nothing more to be said on the subject.”

Newbury accepted the teacup gratefully, and drained it. He placed it on the floor beside the foot of the divan, and glanced up at the clock. “You’re here early,” he said, changing the subject.

“Yes. I came to discuss Sir Charles and the Secret Service,” she said.

“More of that,” replied Newbury, sighing. The colour was beginning to return to his cheeks. “I feared that might be the case.”

“You did?” said Veronica. “Then you share my concerns?”

Newbury frowned. “Not entirely, no.”

“Well, if it’s not the Germans, who is behind this ghastly string of murders?” she asked.

“Isn’t that the question,” he replied, rubbing a hand across his face. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked as if he were about to continue, but turned at the sound of a rapping on the front door. “Charles,” he said.

“Already?” said Veronica, feeling her opportunity beginning to slide away.

“The sound of his cane is unmistakable,” he said.

“But I thought we were meeting at two.”

“As did I,” he replied pointedly, raising an eyebrow. Veronica tried not to look sheepish. Voices echoed from the hallway, and then Scarbright showed Bainbridge into the drawing room.

“Here we are, Sir Charles.” Scarbright caught sight of Newbury, and was unable to keep the surprise from his voice. “Oh! Sir Maurice, you’re here.”

Newbury smiled. “How perceptive of you, Scarbright,” he said, not unkindly. “Good day to you, Charles.”

“Is it?” Bainbridge replied, sullenly. He seemed more than a little flustered and was still wearing his hat and coat. He appeared to see Newbury for the first time. “Good God, man! Look at the state of you!” He glanced at Veronica, who shook her head almost imperceptibly.

Newbury didn’t bother to grace him with a response.

“Well, you’ll need to fetch a jacket, at the very least,” said Bainbridge.

“We’re going out?” enquired Newbury.

“Yes,” said Bainbridge. “We’re going out. There’s been another murder.”

CHAPTER

18

“Is this how they found him?” said Veronica, with barely concealed disgust.

“Precisely,” muttered Bainbridge. “He was discovered this way in the early hours of this morning, and he hasn’t been moved. The verger who found him…” He trailed off, as if trying to find a delicate way of phrasing what he wished to say. “Well, let us just say that the body has not been disturbed. I rather think it would be clear to anyone that the man was beyond help or medical assistance.”

Veronica nodded, but kept her thoughts to herself.

They had rushed to the scene of the murder directly from Chelsea, Scarbright securing the services of a cab while Newbury took steps to make himself presentable. He’d done a remarkably good job, too: Ten minutes later he had emerged like a new man, washed and shaved, and with a glimmer of the old sparkle in his eyes. He was dressed in his customary black suit, white shirt, and green cravat, and he’d somehow managed to muster energy from some secret reserves. Veronica wished she knew how he did it, how he was able to shake off such dreadful, debilitating weariness so easily, as if all he had to do was chide himself in the mirror and pull himself together. When Amelia had suffered from such episodes it had taken her hours, if not days, to recover. Newbury had rallied in a matter of half an hour. Clearly, he was right about one thing: He
was
stronger than her sister.

Veronica didn’t yet know what that meant in terms of ongoing treatments for Amelia; how she felt about Newbury’s insistence that he be allowed to carry on, that it was not her decision to make. She was sure of one thing, though: that she most definitely
would
have a say in what happened next.

It was clear that Bainbridge attributed Newbury’s condition and general appearance of slovenliness to his propensity for opium abuse, and he made his opinions on the matter most keenly felt in the way he sighed and bustled about the place in an agitated manner, harrying Newbury and muttering curses beneath his breath. Veronica had wished that she could have disabused the man of such notions and outlined the truth of the matter for him then and there, but Newbury would not have thanked her for it. Besides, in so doing she would have had to tell him the truth about Amelia, and the Grayling Institute, and everything that had transpired since. She couldn’t risk taking that chance.

Newbury, however, had ignored any such jibes or disapproving looks, and, as soon as they were in the back of the hansom rattling across town, had set about unleashing a barrage of questions regarding the circumstances of the corpse’s discovery. Indeed, by the time they’d arrived at St. John’s Wood, he was beginning to show signs of impatience and agitation, anxious to be getting on with his exploration of the crime scene.

Now, he was hunched over the body of the dead vicar, murmuring intently to himself as he examined the man’s wounds.

Veronica tried not to look too closely, instead taking a moment to properly appraise their surroundings. It was an unusual sort of place for a murder, she decided, and didn’t fit with the pattern of the other deaths, which—as far as she understood from Bainbridge—had all taken place in the victims’ homes. Perhaps it was due to the man’s occupation that the killer had struck here, in the church.