Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (24 page)

“Yes, thank you, Your Royal Highness. Once again, your support in this matter has been most appreciated,” said Newbury, getting to his feet. He clutched the envelope tightly by his side. He looked round to see the door to the hall already open, and Barclay waiting for him on the threshold, a tight smile on his lips.

“Good day, Newbury,” said the Prince. “And let me just say how much I admire your tenacity. Observing you at work is a lesson for us all.”

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” said Newbury. He gave a short bow, then left the room, refusing to acknowledge the sneering butler on his way out.

CHAPTER

22

It had been months since Newbury had last visited Aldous Renwick at his unusual bookshop off Tottenham Court Road. As he approached unannounced at this late hour in the afternoon, he couldn’t help but feel a stirring of guilt. Renwick was a friend as much as he was a source of information and rare, specialist books, and Newbury had ignored him of late, just as he’d ignored so much of import in his life in recent months. Or, more truthfully, he’d ignored Renwick until he’d needed something, at which point he’d sent the man an apologetic note, requesting his urgent help. No wonder he was feeling guilty, he chided himself. It was no way to treat a friend.

Renwick would understand. The man was not the sort to judge. Nevertheless, Newbury reprimanded himself for his ignoble behaviour, and decided he would make an effort to remain in touch. He had few enough real friends, and he recognised that he abused them terribly.

The small emporium was still open, so Newbury stopped for a moment to examine the cluttered, leaning piles in the window. Renwick had long ago given up on using the space for any sort of cohesive display, and had taken to using it as room to pile more of the musty old books that burst from the heaving shelves inside.

How the man ever made a sale, Newbury didn’t know. He adored the shop, however; the almost-vanilla scent of the ancient, dusty books, the sight of so much knowledge, adventure, and opinion huddled together in that small space; the sense of triumph at finding something unexpected printed on a gilded, leaning spine. He could have spent hours in there losing himself amongst the maze-like stacks. Indeed, every time he visited the shop he promised himself he’d make time to return during more leisurely hours to do just that. There were few finer things in life, in Newbury’s humble opinion, than spending time perusing the shelves of a good bookshop.

Newbury’s particular interest in the premises, however, lay out of sight, in Renwick’s private back room. That was where he kept his real treasures: the books that weren’t for sale.

Renwick had one of the most extensive—if not
the
most extensive—libraries of obscure occult writing in the world. It was unrivalled, in Newbury’s experience, containing riches from all the many corners of the globe. On numerous occasions he had found reason to peruse the rare tomes in Renwick’s possession, and on nearly as many Renwick had been able to help him to ascertain the nature of a particular problem or the meaning of some esoteric symbolism. His hope now was that his friend had been successful in identifying the meaning behind the missing hearts, and whether there truly was a ritualistic significance behind them.

Newbury, steeling himself for some well-deserved jibing, pushed open the door to the shop and stepped inside.

Renwick was—for once—standing behind the counter, but if he’d noticed the door open and close, or the jingling of the tiny bell instigated by the action, he showed no sign of it such as looking up from his work.

He was perhaps one of the most eccentric men Newbury had ever met, and his appearance mirrored perfectly his chaotic attitude to life. He was scruffy and shambolic, with untidy grey hair that defied taming. It burst from his head in wild tufts, matted and wiry. He wore a stained white shirt—or rather, a shirt that had
once
been white, but was now more of a dirty pale brown—and a worn leather smock around his waist. The fingers of his right hand were stained yellow from the excessive smoking of cigarettes, and his teeth had a similar, dirty hue, although Newbury hesitated to assume it was for the same reasons. He had a plethora of unusual—and somewhat antisocial—habits, including the brewing of his own disgusting beverages, which he consumed with hearty abandon.

Most interestingly, Renwick’s left eye had been damaged beyond the bounds of normal medical repair at some point, and had been replaced by a primitive viewing device reminiscent of a jeweller’s eyepiece. This small machine had been wholly embedded into Renwick’s skull, wired directly into the visual centre of his brain.

Renwick had claimed on more than one occasion that the unseemly device had actually improved the quality of his vision, and that he felt no regret at the loss of its biological predecessor—other than, perhaps, the effect it had on customers, who would at times enter his emporium bursting with enthusiasm, but leave again hastily when they caught sight of the owner.

Newbury had grown used to it by now, of course, but still found it mildly disconcerting when the eye appeared to move of its own accord, shifting the lenses around with tiny gears to refocus Renwick’s vision and compensate for any changes in the quality of the light.

It wasn’t, perhaps, the most aesthetically pleasing of mechanical enhancements, but it clearly worked, and Renwick himself seemed more than satisfied with its performance.

Newbury wove a path through the heaped stacks of books towards the counter, narrowly avoiding sending some of them toppling over in his wake. He peered over at what Renwick was doing. He appeared to be engaged in repairing the binding of a rather tatty old book, carefully stitching the printed sections into a new leather spine.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Newbury,” he mumbled, his head down. “Tricky operation, this.”

“What is it?” asked Newbury, showing no surprise that Renwick had already established the identity of his visitor.

“A first edition of
A Key to Physic and the Occult Sciences
,” said Renwick, slowly, as he threaded through the final stitch and tied off the thread with a flourish. “Very rare.” He placed the needle on the counter beside the book and stepped back, admiring his handiwork. “There. A bit of tidying up to do, but much more satisfactory.”

He glanced up. “You look terrible, Newbury,” said Renwick.

“Oh, so we’re skipping the pleasantries?” said Newbury, jovially.

Renwick leaned closer, bringing his face disconcertingly close to Newbury’s own. His warm breath smelled of alcohol. His mechanical eye turned in its socket with a metallic grating as it refocused. “It’s not the opiates, is it?” he said, his voice level. It was a rhetorical question.

Newbury shook his head. There was no point in lying to this man, or attempting to make light of his words. Renwick could see through Newbury’s bluster like a hawk spying a scurrying rodent amongst the mulch and twigs of a forest floor.

“You’d better come through,” said Renwick, pushing open the dividing door to his back room. A waft of something foul smelling gusted out of the door, but Renwick did not seem to notice. Smiling, Newbury stepped inside.

There was a warm familiarity to the room, and Newbury felt himself relax. It was like stepping into a vault of ancient treasures, and he hardly knew where to look first. Row upon row of mahogany bookcases lined the deceptively small space, each of them crammed full with some of the most valuable books outside the Vatican library. At the back, a pan sat steaming on a small stove. Closer, on his right, was a large still, set up with numerous rods and bottles. Strange coloured fluids bubbled and fizzed, some of them being slowly siphoned off into small jars, others emptying into a large plastic bucket on the floor. Most surprisingly, the brass skeleton of a large bird was laid out on the floor, components spilled haphazardly around it; cogs of all sizes, levers and keys, trailing wires.

“You’re building something, then?” asked Newbury, indicating the slurry of parts.

Renwick nodded. “I
was
. I’ve been rather busy with something else for the last few days.” He patted a small stack of books on a stool by the door.

Newbury looked a little sheepish. “Yes. I apologise for calling on you, once again, out of the blue.”

Renwick shrugged. “So, tell me what’s going on. First I hear nothing from you for months, and then I receive a note asking some
very
interesting questions. Then you happen to turn up here at the shop, looking like that,” he motioned up and down with his hands, as if appraising Newbury’s appearance.

Newbury sighed. He could see he wasn’t going to get away without explaining himself. He dropped into a fusty-looking armchair, sending a huge plume of dust into the air. He waved his hand before his face, coughing. “Well, first of all, the two things are not related,” he said, once the choking had abated. “The contents of the note and my … appearance, I mean.”

Renwick reached for one of the flasks on the still and raised it to his lips, taking a swig of the bubbling liquid. He grimaced, glanced at the contents of the flask, and put it back on the still with a shrug. He eyed Newbury, but didn’t say anything in response.

Newbury grinned. “I managed to obtain a copy of the book,” he said, knowing this would provoke a reaction.

Renwick frowned, his mechanical eye whirring—always a giveaway that Newbury had captured his attention. “
The
book?”

“Yes,
the
book,” replied Newbury.

“Have you got it with you?” said Renwick, with an urgency that surprised Newbury.

He shook his head. “No. It’s back at Cleveland Avenue.”

Renwick shook his head in mock offense. “So you’ve managed to obtain a copy of one of the rarest, most sought after books of ritualistic magick in the world, and you
haven’t
brought it to show me. Now I’m
really
hurt.”

Newbury laughed, but there was truth in what Renwick said. “Give me a week, Aldous, and you can come to Chelsea to visit. There are things I have to do first.”

Renwick nodded. “You’ve been using it, haven’t you? That’s why you look like such a damn mess. I’ve told you, Newbury, that’s a dangerous book. The things you’re dabbling with … you’ll end up getting yourself killed.”

“I have my reasons, Aldous. I’m trying to help someone,” said Newbury, softly, seriously.

“And I’m trying to help
you
!” said Renwick, evidently trying to contain his outrage. “Where did you get it from, anyway?” he asked. “There are only two known copies in existence.”

Newbury remained silent.

“Oh, no. You didn’t. You stole it from the Cabal, didn’t you?” said Renwick, with a heartfelt sigh.

“The only other copy is in Constantinople, under guard by a hundred clockwork warriors. This one was a mile across town, in the vaults of a band of devil-worshipping imbeciles. Of course I took their copy,” said Newbury, exasperated. “They didn’t even understand the significance of what they had.”

“It hardly matters,” said Renwick, “whether they understand or not. You might think them imbeciles, Newbury, but that makes them all the more dangerous. They won’t rest until they get it back. Their entire belief system is centred around the ritualistic practises in that book.” His good eye twitched erratically. “Have they sent you any threatening parcels yet? That’s their usual method.”

Newbury nodded. “Yes. A most unpleasant assortment of oddities it contained, too.”

“Newbury…” said Renwick, his voice strained. “You need to take this very seriously indeed. Get away for a while. They’re a dangerous enemy. You mustn’t underestimate them. Throw them off the trail. Head to the Continent for a few weeks.”

“What, and leave the book with you in the meanwhile?” said Newbury, laughing.

“
I
don’t want it!” said Renwick. “I want to see it … but I don’t want it here. I don’t want them sending one of their ghastly creations after me. I don’t have your nerve, Newbury, or your resources. I don’t want the Cabal as an enemy.”

Newbury shrugged. “They’ve already tried to get it back once, but even in that they failed miserably. They couldn’t even hold me prisoner for more than a day or two. They’re nothing but credible fools, Aldous.”

“
Newbury
…” stressed Renwick.

Newbury nodded. “Very well. I’ll heed your advice. Once I’ve dealt with this miserable affair of the missing hearts, I’ll give the Cabal my full and proper attention.”

“Make sure that you do,” said Renwick. “And I suppose if that’s what’s holding you up, I’d better get on and tell you what I’ve found out about your missing organs.” He reached for the stack of books on the stool and withdrew a volume bound in black leather from approximately halfway down the pile. “Although, I warn you, you’re not going to like it.”

“I didn’t imagine for a second I would,” said Newbury, sitting forward in the armchair and disturbing further clouds of billowing dust. He glanced down at the light layer of dust that covered his black jacket and trousers, and decided it wasn’t worth worrying about until he was home.

“In your note you described three corpses. Each of the victims were stabbed, their chests cracked open, and their hearts removed,” said Renwick. “The missing organs were not found at the scene, and have not been recovered as yet?”

“Yes,” said Newbury. “That’s correct. Except that there are now five victims.”

Renwick nodded. “You asked if there was any occult or ritual significance to the removal of the hearts. I presume this was because you’re hoping any such significance will help you to divine a motive.”

“Precisely,” said Newbury, beginning to wonder where this was leading. “I could think of no significance other than the sacrificial practises found in the Aztec civilisations, but the murders did not bear any other hallmarks that suggested this might be the case. We’re at a loss. I need ideas that might lead us to the killer. Anything at all is useful.”

Renwick shook his head. “There’s no need for ideas. I’ve already identified your killer.”