The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (11 page)

Miss Veronica Hobbes placed the sheaf of letters on the low table beside the chaise longue. Her shoulder was still strapped from the bullet wound she had received two weeks earlier, during her encounter with the rogue agent, Dr Aubrey Knox. She winced as she moved, turning to regard the man standing over by the window. She was wearing a serious expression on her pretty face. “These letters are clearly the work of a madman, Sir Charles. What the devil is going on?”

Sir Charles Bainbridge offered her a heartfelt shrug. His bushy grey moustache twitched as he spoke. “The world is going to pieces is what, Miss Hobbes. Dr Isambard Ward was a good man. I spent many of my formative years in his company. It’s a damnable affair. I can hardly believe it myself.”

Veronica felt lost. “Believe what? What exactly occurred? And what of Sir Maurice?” she added, with trepidation.

Bainbridge crossed to where Veronica was resting on the chaise longue. He glanced at the pile of letters. “It was meant to be a relaxing break. I believed I was taking Newbury to a place of sanctuary, a place where he could cast off his dependence on that wicked poppy.” He sighed heavily. “Little did I imagine that an attempt would be made on his life, nor that I was planting him directly in the middle of another mystery.”

“So, what? Dr Ward had lost his mind, and fixated on Sir Maurice, believing him to be a villain? But who is Alice? And what did Newbury want with her?”

Bainbridge smiled; a sad, tired smile. “Alice was once a maid in Ward’s employ. What’s clear now is that he developed an obsession with her, a deep passion that I’d venture she did not reciprocate. I believe it was this unrequited love that drove him to commit the most heinous of crimes. He became unhinged. He poisoned Alice and hid her corpse beneath the floorboards in one of the disused guest rooms. He rubbed salves into her dead flesh in an attempt to preserve her body, and paid her visits on a regular basis, fantasising that they were having an affair.” He shuddered, clearly disturbed by the memory of what he had seen. “He wrote her love letters—such as these—and posted them to her through a crack in the floorboards. He couldn’t have her in life, so he made sure she couldn’t leave him in death. His wife, Felicity, had no notion of what was going on. She was simply told that Alice had left their employ to take up a position as a governess in another nearby household.”

Veronica shook her head, clearly dismayed. “I’m so sorry, Sir Charles. It must have been a terrible shock, to discover an old friend had committed such a terrible act. How did it come to light?”

“Newbury. From the time we arrived Newbury knew that something wasn’t right with Ward. I knew he was right, but put it down to stress or anxiety. I suppose I was more forgiving of an old friend’s eccentricities. But it didn’t sit right with Newbury. Not one bit of it. He said that he’d seen the signs before. He thought that Ward was hiding something, and he was right.”

“So Ward was right, too. In the letters, I mean. Newbury really was on his trail.”

“In a manner of speaking. Newbury suspected that
something
was amiss, but in no way had he fathomed just how depraved and shocking that something would prove to be. And while he was certainly monitoring Ward’s behaviour, he really was unwell, and assures me that at no point did he actually spend time snooping around the house as Ward suggests in his letters. Those are just the ravings of a paranoid mind, I fear.”

“So what
did
occur?”

“It was Ward himself who gave it away. After writing that last letter, the bundle of which we discovered only after the Yard had been in to clear up the whole damn mess, Ward decided that we were on to him. In a last, desperate attempt to get away, he rushed to the guest room where he’d hidden the girl’s body and began ripping up the floorboards. I think he’d intended to steal away with the corpse. Needless to say, all that banging and shouting alerted us downstairs, and we all went rushing up to discover him cradling the dead woman’s body like a baby. The stench was near unbearable. Thankfully, Newbury was able to spare Mrs Ward the shock of seeing her husband reduced to such a sorry state. I was able to prise Ward free of that grim embrace, and we sent for the Yard immediately. Ward confessed the whole thing to me later, after we’d taken him back to London and thrown him in a cell.”

“I expect he’ll hang for his crime?”

“I think it more likely he’ll be banished to the asylum. There’s no doubting the fact he’s now utterly insane.”

Veronica reached for a glass of water that was perched on the table beside her. She took a long draught. Bainbridge stood by, watching her, wordless. The silence between them was enough to convey everything they were both thinking.

“It’s Mrs Ward that concerns me.” Bainbridge turned to gaze out of the window once again, the sunlight dappling the front of his jacket. Veronica watched the dust motes dance lazily in the air. “She doted on Isambard. Hung on his every word. She’ll never be the same again, poor woman. How could you go on living after discovering a secret like that about someone you loved?”

Veronica couldn’t look at him. “People keep secrets from one another, Sir Charles. Sometimes for the best of reasons.”

“Pah. Poppycock. There’s never a good reason for keeping something from the people you love. Secrets are never anything but destructive. Believe me. I was married once.” He turned to meet her gaze, a warm smile on his lips. “Anyway, I didn’t come to regale you with stories of murder and insanity. I came to find out how you were recovering from your injury.”

Veronica grinned. “In that case, Sir Charles, I do believe we should have Mrs Grant put the kettle on. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to search her out and have her fetch the tea?”

“Of course not. It would be my pleasure.” He turned and quit the room, calling out for Veronica’s housekeeper as he made his way along the landing to the top of the stairs.

Veronica lay back on the cushions and sighed. He was right. Of course he was right. Secrets would be the end of them all. Secrets were the foundation upon which she had built her entire life, what lay beneath the thin veneer of her existence. Secrets were her burden, too, and she knew how they had driven Isambard Ward towards insanity.

Veronica placed her empty glass on the table and turned to see Bainbridge open the door and step into the room. Her heart sank. Secrets might be the end of her friendship with this man, and perhaps the end of her relationship with Newbury, too. She only hoped it wasn’t too late. She feared it probably was.

Only time would tell. Time, and the truth, and she feared the latter more than she had feared anything else in her entire life.

Ringing, deafening explosions. Bright lights. Chaos. Screaming.

Then silence. Utter, absolute silence.

Sir Maurice Newbury came to with a start.

There was a hand on his cheek, soft and cool. Veronica? He opened his eyes, feeling groggy. The world was spinning.

The hand belonged to a woman. She was pretty, in her late twenties, with tousled auburn hair, full, pink lips and a concerned expression on her face. Not Veronica, then.

Newbury opened his mouth to speak but his tongue felt thick and dry, and all that escaped was a rough croak.

The woman smiled. “Good. You’re coming round.” She glanced over her shoulder. Behind her, the world looked as if it had been turned upside down. Newbury couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. He tried to focus on the woman’s face instead. She was watching him again. “There’s been an accident,” she said. “My name’s Clarissa.”

Newbury nodded. An accident? He tried to recall what had happened, where he was. He couldn’t think, couldn’t seem to focus. Everything felt sluggish, as if he were under water. How long had he been unconscious? He studied the woman’s face. “Clarissa?”

She still had her hand on his cheek. “Yes. That’s right.” Her voice was soft and steady. Calm. “Do you remember what happened?”

Newbury shook his head, and then winced, as the motion seemed to set off another explosion in his head.
Explosion?
A memory bubbled to the surface.
There had been an explosion.
He shifted, pulling himself into a sitting position. His legs were trapped beneath something hard and immovable.

Clarissa withdrew her hand and sat back on her haunches, still watching him intently. For the first time since waking he became aware of other people in the small space, huddled in little groups, their voices audible only as a low, undulating murmur. Someone was crying.

Newbury blinked.
Was it some sort of prison cell? No. That didn’t make any sense. The explosion. An accident.

Newbury swallowed, wishing he had a drink of water. He was hot and uncomfortable. The air inside the small space was stifling. He felt behind him and found there was something solid he could lean against. He blinked, trying to clear the fogginess. Clarissa looked concerned. “What happened?” he managed to ask, eventually. He was still groggy and his voice sounded slurred.

“I’m not sure. The ground train must have hit something. There was an explosion, and then the carriage overturned. I think I must have blacked out for a minute. When I came round, you were unconscious beside me.”

The ground train. Yes, that was right. He’d been on a ground train.

He strained to see over her shoulder again. They were still in the carriage. It was lying on its side.

The vehicle had clearly overturned. How long had they been there? Minutes? Hours? He had no way of knowing. His head was thumping and the world was making no sense. What had he been doing on a ground train?

He rubbed a hand over his face, tried to take in his situation. His legs were trapped beneath the seat in front and his body was twisted at an awkward angle, so that the floor of the carriage was actually supporting his back. He didn’t seem to have broken any limbs, but he wasn’t quite sure if he was capable of extracting himself without help. He looked up at Clarissa, who was still regarding him with a steady gaze. “Are you a nurse?”

She didn’t even attempt to repress her laughter, which was warm and heartfelt and made Newbury smile. “No. I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I’m a typist. Just a typist.”

Newbury shook his head. “No. I’m sure you’re much more than that.”

She gave a wry smile, as if he’d touched a nerve. “Are you hurt?”

“What? No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“It’s just you asked if I was a nurse.”

Newbury closed his eyes, sucking ragged breath into his lungs. He must have bashed his head in the aftermath of the explosion. Nothing else could explain the fuzziness he was feeling, his inability to think straight. “I was wondering why you were helping me. If you’d come with the rescue crew.”

Clarissa shifted from her crouching position onto her knees. She rubbed her arms. “They’re not here yet. I don’t think they can get to us. The explosion...” She looked over her shoulder, tossed her hair with a nervous gesture that suggested she was more concerned about their situation than she was trying to let on.

“They’ll come. I’m sure of it. It’s just a matter of time.”

Clarissa shrugged. “I hope you’re right. It’s just I—” She pitched forward suddenly, grabbing for Newbury as the carriage gave a violent shudder. There was a bang like a thunderclap. Newbury felt himself thrown backwards, and then Clarissa was on top of him, clutching at him, trying to prevent herself from sliding away, across the juddering vehicle. He wrapped his arms around her, desperately holding on. Somewhere else in the confined space a woman started screaming: a long, terrified wail, like that of a keening animal.

Newbury gasped for breath. The engine must have gone up. They were lucky they weren’t already dead.

The carriage slid across the cobbled road with the grating whine of rending metal, windows shattering as the frames buckled, showering Newbury and Clarissa with glittering diamonds of glass. Newbury’s face stung with scores of tiny wounds. He squeezed his eyes shut and clung to the slight figure of the woman until, a few moments later, the world finally stopped spinning and the carriage came to rest.

For a moment, Clarissa didn’t move. He could feel her breath fluttering in her chest, the rapid beating of her heart. Her hands were grasping the front of his jacket, hanging on as if he were the only still point in the universe. Her face was close to his. She smelled of lavender. She raised her head, and he saw the terrified expression on her face.

“Are you alright?” No answer. “Clarissa? Are you alright?”

She seemed suddenly to see him; the vacant look passed out of her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I’m alright.” Her voice wavered, as if she didn’t really believe her own words. She still hadn’t moved. She looked down at him, saw the lapels of his jacket bunched in her fists, realised she was crushing him against another seat. “I’m sorry... I...”

Newbury shook his head. “No need.”

She released her grip and eased herself free. As she pulled herself up into a sitting position, she glanced momentarily at her hands, a confused expression clouding her face. Then realisation dawned. She turned her palms out towards Newbury, brandishing them before her, eyes wide. “Blood...” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Oh God, you’re bleeding!”

Newbury stared at her bloodied hands, unable to associate what he was seeing with the words she was saying. He didn’t know how to react, what to do next; since waking, everything had taken on a dreamlike quality, as if he were watching scenes from someone else’s life unfold around him rather than his own. He stared blankly at Clarissa, waiting to see what she would do next.

She didn’t hesitate. Pawing at his jacket, she leaned over him, searching for any signs of a wound. There was blood everywhere. “Where does it hurt?” And then: “You said you weren’t injured!”

Newbury pinched the bridge of his nose, tried to concentrate. “I didn’t think I was. I—”

“Stay still! You don’t want to make matters worse!” She’d finished fiddling with the buttons on the front of his jacket and she yanked it open, exposing the clean white cotton of the shirt beneath. They both looked at it for a moment, dumbfounded.