Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (3 page)

“Not that it did her much good in the long run,” replied Foulkes, levelly.

Bainbridge twisted around and glowered at the inspector. “Show a little respect, man.”

Foulkes looked momentarily taken aback. Then he nodded, his expression suddenly serious. “I mean to say that the killer was obviously relentless, despite the fact that the woman put up a tremendous struggle.”

Bainbridge sighed. He was taking out his frustration on the other man, and Foulkes didn’t deserve that. Three unsolved deaths in as many days, however, were starting to take their toll on Bainbridge. Three apparently linked deaths, at that, suggesting there were probably more to come. They’d all been virtually the same: Each of the victims had been found in their own homes, their chests cracked open and their hearts removed. The organs themselves were nowhere to be seen, spirited away from the scenes, Bainbridge assumed, by the killer himself. The only differences this time were the fact that the victim was a woman, and that she’d clearly tried to defend herself against her assailant. But once again, there was no obvious motive, no clear links between the victims, and thus—much to Bainbridge’s chagrin—no leads.

“Was she married?” he asked, spotting the gold band on the woman’s ring finger and frowning. Nothing he’d seen since entering the house suggested a man might have shared her home.

“No. She was a widow. She lived alone. Had done so for the last fifteen years.”

Bainbridge nodded. That made sense. She still wore the ring for sentimental reasons. “A housekeeper?” He glanced up at Foulkes, who shook his head dolefully.

“Just a maid who came in once a day to see to the washing and cleaning. Either she was fiercely independent, or she’d run into financial difficulties.”

Well, at least that fit with what Bainbridge had already surmised, although he cursed himself for not even considering that the dead woman might simply have been deeply private and independent. It wasn’t impossible, especially in this age. After all, Bainbridge had spent a great deal of time in the company of Miss Veronica Hobbes, who, to his mind, was the epitome of a modern, independent woman. He should have at least considered the option before jumping to conclusions. Shades of grey.

Nevertheless, there was hardly a comparison to be made here. The victim in this instance was older, a widow, and about as far from Veronica Hobbes as one could imagine.

Bainbridge sighed. “The maid. Has she turned up for work yet this morning?”

Foulkes nodded. “She was the one who discovered the body. Her routine was to arrive early and take care of her errands before the victim rose for the day. She’d then move on to another household, where she’d carry out similar chores before lunch.”

Bainbridge nodded. “Where is she now?”

“She’s rather shaken, as you might imagine. She’s in the kitchen with Cartwright. There’s very little she can add. The entrance and exit point of the killer is obvious from the broken window at the back, and there’s no reason to suspect she played any role in her mistress’s death.”

“Good work, Foulkes,” said Bainbridge, and he meant it. Foulkes had saved him a great deal of legwork, making sure all the basics were taken care of before Bainbridge had even arrived. He grunted as he pulled himself upright again. He turned away from the corpse to face the inspector. “There’s one thing you haven’t me told me, though.”

Foulkes looked perplexed. “What’s that, sir?”

“Her name,” said Bainbridge, indicating the body with a wave of his cane.

“Ah, yes. Right. Elizabeth Peterson, sir. She has one living relative, a son, who’s currently somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean on an airship bound for New York. We’ve sent word, so there should be a message awaiting him when he arrives there in a few days.”

Bainbridge nodded. Poor bastard. That was no way to find out about his mother’s death, especially in circumstances such as these.

“There’s one thing that’s been troubling me, sir,” continued Foulkes.

“Only one?” replied Bainbridge, and realised he was now being facetious. “I’m sorry, Foulkes. What is it?”

“The missing hearts, sir. There has to be some significance that we’re not seeing. Why does the killer take their hearts? He goes to a great deal of trouble to crack the victims’ chests like that. I just can’t work out what it’s all in aid of. I hesitate to say it … but do you think there might be some sort of ritualistic element to it?”

Bainbridge felt the corners of his lips twitch into a thin smile. Foulkes had been paying attention. “I think you’re right about the occult significance, Foulkes. The damn trouble is in working out what it might be.”

“And doing it before they strike again,” added Foulkes.

“Quite.”

“So…?”

“You never were very good at subtlety, Foulkes,” said Bainbridge, but there was an edge of levity in his voice.

“So you’re going to ask for his help?”

Bainbridge sighed. “Yes. I’m going to send for Newbury. If anyone can shed any light on the matter, he can. And, let’s face it: We’re not getting very far on our own, are we?”

Foulkes smiled for the first time that day, but he didn’t say another word as the two men filed out of the blood-spattered library, leaving the young bobbies to guard the corpse until dawn.

CHAPTER

3

Sir Maurice Newbury lounged on the sofa like a listless cat, warming himself before the fire.

A smouldering cigarette dripped from his thin, pink lips, smoke twisting in lazy curlicues from its glowing tip. His expensive black suit was rumpled and creased, his shirt open at the collar, the cravat long since discarded. He was unshaven, and his flesh had taken on a deathly pallor, as if it hadn’t seen the sun in many days. His eyelids were closed and his breathing was shallow.

The pungent aroma of opium was heavy in the air, mingling with the tobacco smoke to form a thick, sweet fog that clung to the corners of the room as if Newbury’s Chelsea home was now a microcosm of the city, choking amidst the tendrils of yet another pea-souper.

The fire spat and crackled noisily in the grate. The only other sounds in the small room were the gentle rasp of Newbury’s breath and the clacking of his clockwork owl as it hopped nervously from foot to foot on its wooden perch by the window.

Books lay scattered about him: heaped on the floor, piled on the coffee table, balanced precariously on the arms of the green leather couch. Their gilded spines shone in the soft light of the gas lamps, resplendent with titles such as
A Key to Physic and the Occult Sciences
and
The Cosmology of the Spirit
. Newbury had surrounded himself with them as if they offered him sustenance, as if the mere presence of the leaning piles was enough to grant him strength, comfort. In some ways, they did.

Newbury’s eyes flickered open. His lids felt heavy and tired. He unfurled slowly, stretching his weary limbs. He had no idea what time of day it was. The heavy drapes were closed, shielding him from the sunlight, from all the cares and distractions of the outside world. In this haven, he was cocooned against the chaotic morass of humanity that swarmed through the rain-lashed streets of London. More so, he was distanced from their many designs and desires, their concerns and their problems, their petty squabbles and their crimes. In here, the outside world could not intrude, not unless he wished it to.

Newbury took a long, luxurious draw from his tainted cigarette, allowing the smoke to plume playfully from his nostrils. He felt ash dribble over his chin and brushed it away cursorily with the back of his hand.

He hadn’t left the house in days. He’d been holed up in the drawing room, buried in his books and the crimson depths of an opium dream. Scarbright had entered only to bring him meals, most of which had remained untouched. It was to the man’s credit that he’d continued to deliver the plates of steaming food, simply removing the uneaten remnants of the previous meal without judgement or comment. If the valet was reporting back to Bainbridge as he was supposed to, he’d clearly not said enough to concern the chief inspector, as Newbury had received no calls or summons from his friend.

That, in itself, was rather refreshing. As much as Newbury cared for his old friend, he could do without having his ear bent again about his “lackadaisical behaviour.” Bainbridge was in possession of only half of the facts. He couldn’t understand Newbury’s use of the Chinese weed because he didn’t—couldn’t—know of Newbury’s reasons. At least, not yet. Not until the situation with Veronica was fully resolved. Not until he had divined what terrors lay in the darkness, waiting.

Whatever the case, Newbury couldn’t deny that he was badly in need of a bath and a shave. He would see to them both just as soon as he could muster the energy.

His days had passed like this for some months, ever since the storming of the Grayling Institute and the supposed death of Veronica’s sister, Amelia Hobbes, ever since he had sworn to discover a means by which to heal the miraculously clairvoyant young woman, to halt her spiralling descent towards insanity and death. His time since then had been absorbed in ritual and the yellowing pages of ancient books, the hours drifting by in a warm, opium-inspired fugue.

There had, of course, been a number of cases over the course of the last six months that had vied for his attention. Some he had been forced to take on at the behest of the Queen, others simply because Bainbridge had needed his help. He’d been able to devote only a small amount of his time and energy to such matters, however, engaged as he was in his search for Amelia’s cure, as well as his own ongoing investigation: tracking the mysterious Lady Arkwell across London.

Arkwell was—apparently—a foreign agent, but Newbury was as yet unable to ascertain her nationality, despite the fact that he had met her in person at least half a dozen times, battled with her on three of those occasions, and formed a temporary alliance with her on another. Nevertheless, Lady Arkwell had continued to outwit him at every stage. It was at once infuriating and exhilarating, and he had vowed to bring the matter to a head.

For now, though, Newbury was content to lounge on his sofa, smoke his opium-tainted cigarettes, and contemplate the universe. And he had to admit that he was in no real hurry to rid himself of such a worthy adversary. He was sure she felt the same, and she would make the next move in their little game when she deemed the time to be right. Newbury, for his part, would bide his time.

There was a firm rap on the drawing room door. Newbury sighed. Scarbright. Time for another meal, no doubt. He glanced at the uneaten remains of his luncheon—a thick beef broth, now cold and congealing on the sideboard—and felt a sharp twinge of guilt. It did seem wrong to let so much food go to waste, particularly as Scarbright was such a superb culinary craftsman. He would make an effort, he decided, to consume at least some of Scarbright’s dinner, despite the fact that his appetite was practically non-existent.

“Come,” said Newbury, his voice a low drawl.

The door creaked open, and he heard Scarbright’s footsteps crossing the room towards him. Newbury felt more than saw the shadow of the valet as it fell upon him.

Scarbright cleared his throat pointedly, waiting for Newbury to acknowledge his presence.

Newbury turned slowly to peer up at the valet through half-open lids. The man looked a little peaky, as if he was feeling unwell or had just had a rather unpleasant surprise. He was not carrying a dinner tray.

Newbury raised one eyebrow and removed the stub of the cigarette from between his lips. “What is it, Scarbright?”

Scarbright took a deep breath before speaking. When he did, his tone was calm and measured, entirely at odds with his suspiciously nervous manner. “You have a visitor, sir.”

Newbury frowned. “If it’s Charles, tell him to go away.” He paused for a moment, considering. “In fact, tell him I’ll see him at the White Friar’s this evening.”

“It’s not Sir Charles, sir. It’s … well…”

“It’s alright, Scarbright. I’ll rouse the scoundrel myself!” The voice was deep, commanding, and terrifyingly familiar.

Newbury struggled to pull himself upright on the sofa. The sound of the man’s boots clacking on the floorboards was like an ominous drum roll as he strode purposefully into the room.

“Get up, you damn layabout!” Newbury caught only the briefest glance of Scarbright’s apologetic face before the newcomer snapped out another command and sent the valet scuttling away. “Scarbright, open a window. I can barely stand this damnable smoke.”

Newbury, head swimming, staggered to his feet and turned to regard his visitor. He groaned inwardly as his fears were confirmed: Standing there at the arm of the sofa, resplendent in a smart black suit, was Albert Edward of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, the Prince of Wales.

The Prince had a stately aspect, and he carried himself with enormous confidence and poise. His balding pate gleamed in the low light and his grey beard and moustache were neatly trimmed. He was watching Newbury from beneath hooded eyes, his disapproving expression so similar to that of his mother—and Newbury’s employer, Queen Victoria, herself—that Newbury couldn’t help but shudder under its glare.

For a moment the two men stared at one another, neither of them speaking. Finally, Newbury found his voice. “Good … afternoon, Your Royal Highness,” he said, hoping desperately that he’d at least managed to guess the time of day correctly. “You are most welcome. Although I fear you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Quite,” said the Prince, glancing around at the state of the drawing room.

Newbury winced, both at the sharpness of the Prince’s rebuke and the sudden intensity of the light as Scarbright pulled back the drapes, allowing sunlight to flood in through the tall windows. Disturbed puddles of stale cigarette ash swirled in the afternoon sun, dancing amongst the dust motes.

Newbury was beginning to wish that he’d paid more attention to the Queen’s summonses, which had been delivered to his door with increasing frequency in the preceding days, and were currently forming a neat little pile on the occasional table. Perhaps Victoria had sent her son to chase him out of his rooms. Surely not? Surely there was more important business with which the Prince of Wales might concern himself?