Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (8 page)

“It’s alright, Maurice,” she said, putting a hand against his forehead. It was clammy and cold. His pulse was slow and steady. Most likely it was exhaustion, then, rather than anything more fiendish. Nevertheless, Amelia was right. This wasn’t typical. Not by any means.

“Veronica,” said Newbury, the relief evident in his voice. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a few moments.”

“You need some rest,” she said.

“I need to write to Aldous first,” he replied, doggedly.

“No,” Veronica’s tone was firm. “That can wait another hour or so. I’ll set you up on the couch in the living room. You can sleep it off, and then write to Aldous later, before we return to London.” She cupped her hand on his right cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll see the letter on its way myself.”

He nodded slowly. His breath was coming in long, laboured gasps. “Alright,” he said, quietly. “I’ll rest for a while, but you might need to help me up.”

“Don’t I always,” she said, standing and offering her hands to help lever him up onto his feet. She heaved and took a step backwards, and a moment later he was standing unsteadily beside her, still semi-conscious. She draped his arm around her shoulder and led him to the door, staggering slightly beneath his weight.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” she said determinedly, but she knew it was more for her own benefit than Newbury’s. She waited for his confirmation, for him to assure her that she was right. But he said nothing, simply allowed himself to be led, in a daze, to the couch, where he could rest and attempt to regain his strength.

CHAPTER

7

Newbury reclined in his chair by the fire, his head lolled to one side, his eyelids drooping heavily. He was tired, more so than he’d been in years, yet the night had passed and he’d proved unable to sleep; the unnatural effects of the ritual left him feeling physically drained and yet still mentally alert, restless. His mind kept on replaying his visit to the morgue from the previous day, running over each of the grisly details in turn, analysing, dwelling, considering. He was surprised to realise he was anxious to press on with the case. Something about the sight of the three corpses, each with their hearts so brutally removed, had caught his attention.

He’d been slumped in the chair for most of the night, staring blankly into the gloom, seeing things that weren’t really there. Apparitions and shadows. Ghosts and memories. Lately, he’d found himself haunted by visions of the past, dredged up by his feverish mind and his chemical and occult experiments. At least, he’d reasoned them to be visions once the sunlight had come to banish them along with the darkness. Visions of Templeton Black, his former assistant, now dead and long sunk in the earth; of George Purefoy, the young reporter he had taken under his wing, only to lead him inadvertently to a brutal death at the hands of Aubrey Knox. And of Veronica, too, pleading with him to help her. Was she to be his next victim, killed because of her association with him, because of his failures? Were his visions somehow prophetic, or simply a product of his guilt? He was not entirely sure. Recently, the lines had become blurry.

Newbury shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His body craved more of the Chinese weed, but in his present condition it would do him little good, so he stilled his hand, resisting the temptation to reach for his cigarette case. At least for a while. He knew he’d be unable to resist for long, but he needed to clear his head.

The room was silent save for the fire crackling eagerly in the hearth beside him and the ominous ticking of the carriage clock on the mantel. The sound had become a constant reminder of his own mortality—a mortality that felt closer and more real to him than it ever had before. It seemed that with each shifting of its gears the device was somehow taking account of all that he had done; stealing away his remaining minutes as punishment, claiming them as its own.

He laughed at himself and opened his eyes.
Even the clocks are judging me now
. He knew he was only maudlin because of the ritual, because of the enormous effort it took, how spent it left him feeling. The irony, however, was not lost on him. The clock might in truth be benign, but other things certainly were eroding his existence, slowly and inexorably. The clock served simply as a reminder.

He stirred at the sound of footsteps on the path outside, which were followed by a brisk rap on the front door. It was a distinctive knock—the silver head of a cane striking the painted wooden panel.
Bainbridge
.

Newbury listened for Scarbright’s hasty footsteps in the hall, the creaking of the door hinges, the mumbled greetings. He closed his eyes again and leaned back in his chair, making the most of the few moments of peace he had left. Seconds later the door to the drawing room burst open unceremoniously and Bainbridge stalked in, heaving a heavy, melodramatic sigh.

“You do realise how much damage you do to my paintwork with that infernal stick of yours, don’t you, Charles?” said Newbury, peeling open his eyes once again. “It’s most inconsiderate. Poor Scarbright is forever complaining at having to touch up the dints in the wood.”

Bainbridge laughed half-heartedly. “Good morning, Newbury,” he replied, his voice strained.

Newbury noted that his friend was looking a little flustered and red about the face, and had not removed his coat in the hallway. “We’re going out, then?” he asked, nonchalantly.

Bainbridge frowned. “Yes,” he said, clearly refusing to be drawn. He crossed the drawing room, stepping over a heaped pile of papers covered in Newbury’s spidery scrawl, and perched on the arm of the chair opposite Newbury’s own. He leaned forward on his cane, then reached into his pocket and produced a small white notecard. He waved it at Newbury. “She’s sending them to me, now!”

“A summons?” asked Newbury, nodding towards the neat stack of identical cards on the sideboard. “Add it to the pile, Charles.”

Bainbridge shook his head. “No. This time she wants to see us both.”

Newbury coughed fitfully into his fist and leaned forward, taking the card from Bainbridge. The message, printed in Sandford’s neat copperplate, gave little away.

SIR CHARLES

YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED AT THE PALACE FORTHWITH. BRING NEWBURY.

VR

“You’re not getting out of it this time, I’m afraid, old man.”

Newbury shrugged and handed the card back to Bainbridge. “I suppose it’s time I put in an appearance,” he said, smiling, although his heart wasn’t in it.

Bainbridge nodded. “You look dreadful,” he said.

“Thank you, Charles,” Newbury replied smartly.

“I’m only telling you what you already know, Newbury. God knows someone has to.” Bainbridge’s voice was full of disdain. “Have you seen the black rings beneath your eyes? And you’re as white as a sheet. Anyone would think you were anaemic.”

“Yes, yes, Charles,” said Newbury dismissively. “None of this is new. Besides, I came to the morgue. I’m helping you, aren’t I?”

“Yes, I suppose,” said Bainbridge, his moustache twitching. “So you’ll come, then? To the palace, I mean?”

“Yes,” said Newbury. “I’ll come.”

“Good man,” said Bainbridge, straightening his back. He was wearing a satisfied expression. Clearly, he’d been expecting a row. He lifted his cane and opened his mouth as if to continue, but then rocked back in sudden surprise as a large brass object came swooping down from a nearby bookcase, emitting a metallic squawk and eliciting a curse from the chief inspector. It landed neatly upon his shoulder, folded its wings with the clacking of metal plates, and cocked its head in mimicry of the barn owl it was modelled on.

“Good God!” said Bainbridge, loudly. “This ruddy …
creature
of yours just gave me the fright of my life!”

The owl chirruped noisily, as if giving a satisfied laugh at Bainbridge’s expense. He waved his hand at it in annoyance, attempting to shoo it away, but it simply shifted its position on his shoulder with an accompanying chirp, its tiny clawed feet gathering up little folds of his overcoat.

“I think he likes you,” Newbury said, laughing.

“I don’t know why I ever agreed to let you keep this damnable thing,” Bainbridge said, although Newbury could tell he wasn’t genuinely aggrieved. The clockwork owl was a trophy from a previous investigation, the former property of Lord Carruthers, who’d been poisoned by his estranged sibling at Christmas a couple of years earlier. The owl had been instrumental in helping to solve the case, and Bainbridge had allowed the “evidence”—with the permission of the family, of course—to be rehomed with Newbury. It had been a fixture of his drawing room ever since.

The bird trilled merrily, spread its gleaming wings, and hopped down from Bainbridge’s shoulder onto the arm of the chair. It stamped its feet a few times—puncturing the leather covering of the seat with its claws as it did so—then turned to regard Bainbridge, watching him intently. Its eyes blinked as Bainbridge held its gaze for a moment, before shaking his head and offering Newbury an exasperated look.

“I take it there have been no further developments in the case?” asked Newbury, changing the subject.

Bainbridge shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m damned if I can find a link between the suspects, let alone a motive for the killer. I keep coming back to this ritualistic nonsense, hoping that your friend Renwick is going to turn up something useful.”

Newbury sat forward, stifling a groan as his tired muscles pulled in protest, threatening to mire him there in his comfortable armchair before the fire. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair, planning to lever himself free. “If there’s anything to be found, Charles, Aldous will find it,” he said, hauling himself upright. “I sent word yesterday, and Miss Hobbes took charge of delivering the letter.” He stood there for a moment, a little unsteady on his feet. “Look,” he said, “I need to make myself presentable. Give me half an hour. Scarbright will make tea, if you ask him nicely.”

Bainbridge looked up at him, his expression softening. “It’s only because I couldn’t stand it if you killed yourself, Maurice. You realise that?”

“I do, Charles,” replied Newbury, quietly, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I wish you could understand.”

“As do I,” said Bainbridge, morosely.

Newbury sighed, leaving the chief inspector by the fire so he could make himself look a bit more respectable before heading out to see the monarch. It wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience—it rarely was, these days—but he’d been putting it off long enough. It was time to face his demons.

Or one of them, at the very least.

CHAPTER

8

The girl never knew her parents.

She had been told that her father had been trampled by a horse two months prior to her birth, and that her mother had died in the throes of bringing her into the world, in the dank, underground cell of an asylum somewhere on the outskirts of Paris.

She had erupted into the world in an orgy of agony and anguish—or so she’d been told by the crooked-backed old woman in the orphanage, who seemed to delight in describing the young girl’s misfortune, cackling mercilessly and exposing the blackened stumps of her teeth.

Later, she would understand this for what it was: the old woman’s attempt to rationalise the unfathomable ways of the world, and perhaps to remind herself that there existed people whose circumstances were far worse than her own. The old woman consoled herself in this manner, by averting her own face from the looking glass and turning its scrutiny upon the young orphan who had never known anything better. It allowed the woman to focus on something other than her own lowly lot in life, her pauper’s existence.

At the time, however, the old woman terrified her. She thought her a witch, an avatar of the devil himself. She cowered from that cavernous mouth and its spittle-flecked lips that spewed only poison and fear, trying to shut out the woman’s spiteful words. The onslaught was relentless, however, and by the age of seven she found herself believing what the woman said: that she had killed her own mother upon quitting the womb, that her very soul was inhabited by evil, and that she would never amount to anything in this life. All that awaited her was an eternity in the fiery pits of Hell.

One day the woman described this terrifying place to her, told her of the torture she was likely to endure, of the demons with their silky forked tongues and pitchforks, the way they would force her to live out her worst fears for all eternity. The girl asked the woman if she, too, would go to Hell, since she knew this place so well. The woman reached out and cuffed her brutally across the back of the head for her insolence.

She wished the old woman dead, then, and not for the first time. She balled her fists and could almost see the woman’s wizened old face contorting in pain as she collapsed upon the hearth, near where she sat in perpetual, indolent repose. Her hair would catch alight like dry tinder, and with a whoosh of flame she would ignite, blazing suddenly bright in the grainy dimness of the parlour. The chair would catch fire, and the flames would spread, licking at the table legs, engulfing the wooden shelves, and finally spreading throughout the orphanage. The entire building would be razed to the ground in the purifying inferno, and all of the nannies and maids and tutors would burn incandescent like tallow candles.

The girl would be free, then, to escape a diabolical future in the acrid pits of Hell.

It did not happen quite as she’d hoped. When the old woman finally did drop dead, almost a year later, the young girl was peeling potatoes in the kitchen with two other orphans. They heard a wheezing grunt from the adjacent parlour. The girl put down her paring knife and—with some hesitation—tiptoed through to the parlour to investigate what had become of the old woman.