Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (34 page)

“She’s in a bad way,” said Newbury, brandishing Veronica’s limp form.

“I can see that, Newbury,” said the Fixer. “Bring her over here; put her on this table.”

Newbury staggered over to a large trestle table topped with a white marble slab. It reminded him of the operating tables in the morgue so much that he almost hesitated to lay Veronica down upon it. He didn’t want to let her go. What if it was the last time he would hold her? He felt short of breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He realised he was being irrational, so he placed her gently down upon the table, brushing her hair from her face.

“Hurry, man!” said the Fixer. He was scrabbling about amongst his surgical tools. He turned to Newbury, brandishing a small pair of scissors, then crossed to where Veronica lay on the slab and set about cutting away the remains of her clothes. His face told a thousand tales as he exposed the extent of the wound between her breasts. He glanced over his shoulder at Newbury. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “Now go.”

“I won’t leave her,” countered Newbury.

The Fixer glared at him. “Let me work. I can’t have you harrying me. Go.”

Newbury sensed movement behind him and turned to see Rothford standing on the other side of the room. He smiled warmly. He looked immaculate in his black suit, with grey, receding hair and a hooked, equine nose. “This way, sir,” he said, extending his arm to indicate the way. “We have a waiting room upstairs. You may sit with Sir Charles while the master does his work.”

Newbury glanced at Veronica. The Fixer was standing over her now, donning his worn leather smock and gloves. Her milky-white torso was exposed, and the gaping wound where the Executioner had cracked her chest yawned open like a sickly, smiling mouth. Inside, he could see her labouring heart, straining to maintain its rhythm. He felt as if he was going to swoon. “Yes,” he said, faintly. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”

He felt Rothford take his arm, and realised the man had crossed the room to steady him. He allowed himself to be led away.

*   *   *

The waiting room was sterile and immaculate. The floor was the same gleaming white marble as the operating table in the basement, and the walls were hung with gilt-framed paintings by many of the old masters of Europe. Strangely, the room smelled of freshly cut flowers, even at this time of night.

Bainbridge perched on the edge of a Chesterfield by the crackling open fire, hunched over a large glass of brandy, his expression fixed and unreadable. Newbury paced back and forth before the bay window, jittery with nervous energy.

An hour had passed with no word. Newbury had lost track of time, but knew it must be the early hours of the morning. Rothford had appeared once to offer them tea, but both men had shaken their heads dully, preferring to take comfort from the decanter of brandy he had provided them with earlier.

Neither of them had spoken a word. Newbury kept replaying the events at the abandoned hotel, thinking that if only he’d done something differently he might have gotten to her in time.

If only she hadn’t gone to that place alone. If only he’d been able to stop her, to make her listen. He knew the attack was coming. He’d seen it in his opium-fuelled dreams. Why hadn’t she listened? Why hadn’t he
made her
? Surely he could have prevented this if he’d been stronger.

He realised he was shaking in anguish. He moved to stare out of the window, but then turned at the sound of footsteps approaching in the hall.

The Fixer appeared in the open doorway. He was wiping blood from his forearms with a damp towel, and Newbury saw that it was spattered over his clothes and soaked into his white shirt, despite the smock he had worn. His jaw was set firm, his eyes dull and unrevealing.

Newbury didn’t want to hear what the man had to say. He couldn’t bear it if she were dead. He’d almost prefer to be trapped in this perpetual twilight of uncertainty, to stretch this moment out indefinitely. At least here, now, there was hope.

“How is she?” asked Bainbridge, quietly.

“She’ll live,” said the Fixer. “For now.”

The tension, which until that point had been nearly unbearable, seemed to snap. Newbury exhaled for what felt like the first time since he’d found Veronica at the hotel. His shoulders dropped, and relief washed over him.

“Her heart, however, was damaged beyond repair,” continued the Fixer, his expression unaltered. “I was forced to remove it.”

“
Remove
it!” said Newbury, realising his relief had come too soon.

“She would have died,” said the Fixer. “The organ was lacerated during her attacker’s attempt to extract it.”

“But … with no heart? Surely…?” stammered Bainbridge.

“There’s a machine,” said the Fixer. “A machine that will circulate her blood for her, developed many years ago by Dr. Fabian as a prototype for the one that now supports the Queen. It is temperamental and will not serve our purpose indefinitely. We have a few weeks at most to find a more permanent solution, otherwise she will be lost.”

Newbury felt his heart sinking once again. “But you healed me! You brought me back from the brink of death. Can you not find a means?”

“I stitched up your shoulder, Newbury. I cannot repair an organ as complex and fragile as a heart,” said the Fixer, with resignation.

“Show me,” said Newbury. “Let me see her.”

The Fixer nodded. “Very well. Follow me.” He led them through the house to a small door beneath the grand staircase in the main entrance hall. Behind the door, another flight of steps led down to the basement. “Down there,” said the Fixer. “But I’ll warn you, it’s not a sight for those of a weak disposition.”

“Is she awake?” asked Newbury, hesitantly, as he led the way down the steps.

“No. I’ve kept her under. The pain would be excruciating. She will remain unconscious until we find a solution, one way or another,” replied the Fixer.

At the bottom of the stairs, the room suddenly opened up into a vast space, familiar to Newbury from his own brief stay. This massive chamber was adjacent to the one in which he had deposited Veronica earlier, but at least three times the size. It was brightly lit by another electric arc light that spanned the vaulted ceiling, flooding everything in its clinical gleam. An array of strange and unusual machinery lined the walls: whirring clockwork engines that pumped bubbling pink fluid through glass valves and coiling tubes; devices that resembled multi-bladed weapons but were, in fact, surgical tools; an automaton assistant that scuttled around at waist height, bearing trays of spatulas and scalpels. Empty beds stood like sentries, posted at intervals amongst the machines. The room stank of carbolic and blood.

In the far right corner, a series of bellows attached to a large brass box were wheezing as they slowly inflated and deflated, over and over, as regular as the ticking of a metronome or a clock. Newbury could see more tubing snaking out of the brass box, disappearing into the chest of what looked like a pale wax dummy laid upon a bed beside it. He felt his own heart breaking at the sight. “My God,” he whispered, as he drifted mechanically across the basement towards her. He had no words with which to adequately describe his thoughts.

Veronica lay there, unconscious and unmoving, much like a corpse. The place where her chest wound had been now erupted with a bundle of fat tubes, filled with dark, red blood. The flesh around them was puckered and purple.

Her head had fallen to one side on the pillow and her lips were slightly parted, as if in a wry smile. Her hands were folded over her stomach, and a white gown—the front of which had been hastily modified to provide access to the tubing in her chest—protected her modesty. She was pale, and her skin had taken on a damp sheen. Beside her, the brass contraption gurgled as it fed hungrily on her blood, cycling it through her veins.

“She would not have wanted this,” said Bainbridge, clearly appalled. “She would not want to live like this.”

Newbury turned on him, but there was little fight left in him. “I’ll find a way, Charles. There must be a way.” He glanced at the Fixer.

“She needs a new heart,” said the Fixer. “A replacement for her original organ. With Fabian dead, however…” He trailed off, but Newbury caught his meaning. He didn’t know of anyone capable of such a precise feat of engineering and invention. The irony was not lost on Newbury: If he and Veronica had not allowed the Bastion Society’s attack on the Grayling Institute to go ahead, Fabian would still be alive.

“There’ll be others,” said Newbury, defiantly. “There must be others.”

“If you are to find them,” said the Fixer, the doubt evident in his voice, “then you must act swiftly.”

Newbury nodded. He could feel the anger swelling in his chest. Anger at himself, anger at Veronica … but most of all, anger at the Prince of Wales. This was his doing. Newbury would ensure that he paid for what he had done.

“Look, she’s safe for now, Newbury. You need to get some rest. You’re wounded and tired, and you can’t do anything else for Miss Hobbes here. Not now. Go home, and I’ll go directly to the palace to lay it all out for the Queen,” said Bainbridge, putting a hand on Newbury’s shoulder.

“I’ll kill him, Charles,” muttered Newbury. “I’ll have his head for this.”

“Newbury!” There was a warning note in Bainbridge’s voice. “You can’t even think of it. Do not go there. Let the Queen handle it. You’ll get yourself killed if you try to take matters into your own hands.”

Newbury looked at the Fixer, who was watching them with interest. He looked back at Bainbridge. “You’re right, Charles. You must go directly to the Queen. Ensure that she understands who is responsible for this sorry mess.” He turned and strode towards the door.

“Newbury? Where are you going?” Bainbridge called after him. “Newbury!”

Newbury didn’t answer, didn’t look back at Bainbridge, the Fixer, or Veronica. He simply carried on walking towards the door and the steps that led up to the entrance hall.

He had business to attend to.

CHAPTER

30

The sun was coming up as Newbury stalked determinedly along the gravel driveway towards the monolithic home of the Prince of Wales.

He looked dishevelled and exhausted, limned by the amber glow of the breaking day. His hair was mussed, his collar open, and his cravat long discarded. His once-black jacket was sticky with Veronica’s drying blood. There was rage in his eyes, and a deep, burning desire for revenge in his belly.

Bainbridge had warned him not to come here, to leave the matter to the Queen to resolve, but Newbury could not let it rest. He needed to look the man in the eye, to understand what had driven him to commit such heinous atrocities. Even more, he needed to ensure the Prince would pay for what he had done to Veronica, one way or another.

His hands were bunched into tight fists, and he was barely aware of the sounds of the household waking as he approached, or the twittering of birds overhead, heralding the dawn. He had only one goal in mind: to get inside the building and locate the traitorous Prince of Wales. He’d work out what to do when he found him.

He approached the front entrance, his feet stirring the gravel. He reached for the bell pull and gave it a sharp tug. The bells jangled deep inside the building, beckoning to the servants within. Newbury paced restlessly back and forth for a moment in the shadow of the awning, until the sound of footsteps in the hallway caused him to stop and look round.

The door creaked open a fraction and Barclay’s pale face appeared in the opening. When he saw Newbury his expression darkened. “Sir Maurice,” he said, looking him up and down, an eyebrow arched in snide amusement. “You seem a little out of sorts.” He waited for a response, but Newbury was not forthcoming. “But I’m afraid your journey here has been in vain,” he continued after a moment, when it became apparent that Newbury had chosen to ignore his jibe. “The Prince cannot see you at this early hour. I’d suggest making an appointment. And,” he added pushing for a reaction, “that perhaps you should consider adopting a more formal appearance.”

“Let me in, Barclay,” growled Newbury in response. He felt his ire rising.

“I cannot,” replied the butler, tartly.

“You shall,” said Newbury, stepping forward and shoving the door open with his left hand.

Barclay fell back, attempting to block his entrance. “Desist, Sir Maurice,” he said, boldly, although he was clearly shaken by Newbury’s unexpected intensity.

“Step aside,” said Newbury, a note of warning in his voice. “I will not ask you again.”

“I will not,” came the response.

Newbury sighed. He would tolerate the imbecile no longer. He let his shoulders drop in apparent resignation, but then lashed out suddenly with his fist, catching the odious little man across the jaw with a right hook that rendered him almost immediately insensible. His legs buckled beneath him, his head dropping, and he slumped to the tiled floor. Newbury didn’t bother to catch him as he pitched forward onto his face. “I’ve wanted to do that for the best part of a week,” he said to the unconscious man, flexing his smarting fingers.

He stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him. He left the butler lying in the hallway as he followed the sounds of bustling activity deeper into the house.

He began by retracing his steps from the previous day. The drawing room proved to be empty, however, and the library door was locked. He considered forcing the door in with his shoulder, but decided he would be better off searching for his quarry elsewhere in the immense house before resorting to drastic measures. It was still relatively early, although he assumed the Prince would have risen from his bed by this time on a winter’s morning.

He passed a maid as he hurried along the passageway and she stared at him, her eyes wide. She looked as if she were about to speak—probably with a view to offering assistance or enquiring after his dishevelled appearance—but he silenced her with a glowering look, and she scuttled off, her head bowed.

Two further rooms—a sitting room and a music room—yielded no results, but the third, which turned out to be the dining room, proved eminently more fruitful.