Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (11 page)

“But why?” asked Veronica.

“I should have thought it was obvious,” snapped Bainbridge.

“Don’t be obtuse, Charles,” said Newbury, leaning forward in his chair. Around them the house was shrouded in utter silence, save for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock and the distant cawing of birds outside. “I believe the question Miss Hobbes is getting at is: Why did the Home Secretary decide it was necessary to set up his own bureau of operatives when the Queen already has a vast network of agents at her disposal, throughout not only the Empire, but all across the globe?”

Bainbridge sighed heavily. “Well … yes, I see your point, Miss Hobbes, and I apologise for my impassioned outburst.” He paused for a moment to regain his composure. “The notion behind the bureau was to create a network of specialist agents who were free from the … the …
constraints
of being sanctioned operatives of the Queen.”

“Constraints?” prompted Veronica, pushing for further explanation.

“Well, we all know what she’s like!” said Bainbridge, a hint of the former anger edging once more into his voice. “We know she has a very particular way of doing things, and a rather skewed opinion of her own worth.”

Newbury sat forward, shocked to hear such utterances from the mouth of his old friend. “Charles! You astound me.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re shocked, Newbury. You saw her today.” Newbury noticed that Bainbridge was clenching his fists in frustration. “Overall, I believe the Queen still acts in the interest of the Empire, but she has never allowed it to prevent her from acting for her own good. You know that as well as I do. The most important thing to the Queen is the Queen herself.” He sat back, folding his arms across his chest defensively.

“So you’re saying that the men and women working for the Secret Service are free from such petty concerns?” asked Veronica, doubtfully.

“Not at all. Simply that all decisions are made by a committee, so we are able to insulate ourselves against the singular will of one overriding egoist. Better decisions are made that way, Miss Hobbes, and the good of the nation is
always
paramount.”

“I’d never have marked you down as a democrat, Charles,” said Newbury, smirking, “but I applaud you wholeheartedly for it.”

Bainbridge shrugged dismissively. “So there you have it. I maintain wholeheartedly that the Secret Service is not in any way responsible for the murder of Her Majesty’s agents.”

“Even,” said Veronica, refusing to let the matter drop, “if the actions of those agents were, in the opinion of your committee, considered to be counter to the good of the British people?”

“Well … I … you’re asking me an impossible, hypothetical question!” replied Bainbridge.

“Am I?” ventured Veronica, quietly.

“Charles is not alone in his assertions, Miss Hobbes. I have not yet elaborated on the reason for the Prince of Wales’s visit to Chelsea yesterday afternoon. At this juncture he very much echoes the sentiments of the chief inspector here, in that he believes the Queen is becoming too self-involved and inward looking, and in so doing is allowing the enemies of the Empire to grow bolder.” Newbury glanced over at Bainbridge, who appeared to be listening to him intently. “He fears that operatives allied to hostile foreign agencies are currently in London, including those of his cousin, the Kaiser, who he suggests is spoiling for a war. If he can be believed—and I have no reason to think that he cannot—then perhaps those same foreign agents might be responsible for the recent deaths? They may be seeking to undermine the Queen’s power base so her position is weaker if it comes to war or a political coup.”

Veronica was frowning. “It’s certainly possible,” she said. “But forgive me, Sir Maurice, for asking why the Prince of Wales should come to you with such grave concerns?”

Newbury laughed. “Precisely my thought, Miss Hobbes. I asked him the very same question. He said that ever since the little affair we took care of for him in Cambridge, he’s felt he could come to me with his concerns. He asked only that I remain vigilant and report to him any activity that may come to light on the matter.”

“And will you report your theory that those foreign agents might be behind this rash of diabolical murders?” asked Veronica.

“Not yet,” replied Newbury. “I have nothing substantial to support the claim.”

“Angelchrist will have a better idea,” said Bainbridge, eyeing them both as he waited for their reaction. When they kept looking at him blankly, he continued. “I can’t think of another man who knows more about the political situation abroad. If there are foreign agents involved, he’ll be able to point us in the right direction.”

“You’re forgetting something, Charles,” said Newbury. “Her Majesty has forbidden you from speaking with Angelchrist, or any of the others who might be connected with him. Don’t think for a minute that she won’t be having you watched. If you put even a foot out of line … well, you saw how adamant she was.”

“Poppycock to that!” said Bainbridge, brusquely. “She’s wrong, Newbury. Plain wrong, and I refuse to sever ties to a good man for obscure reasons, not when the security of the nation is at stake. She also told us to ensure there were no further deaths. We cannot be expected to work miracles!”

“No, but we
will
be expected to obey her wishes. It’s too much of a risk even for me or Miss Hobbes to pay him a visit.”

“Then we’ll arrange to meet with him clandestinely. He deserves to know the truth, Newbury. You must agree with that, at least? He’s proved a good friend to us over the last six months, and aside from any insight he may be able to offer into the Prince’s concerns, we need to warn him that the Queen is out for his blood.” Bainbridge tugged at the corners of his moustache anxiously, as if he was urging Newbury to grant him permission.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” said Veronica. “If—and I grant you, you make a good case that it does not—the Secret Service does have some hand in the murders, you’d be tipping them off that we’re on to them. Do you truly know we can trust Professor Angelchrist?”

“I would trust him with my life,” said Bainbridge.

“And I,” said Newbury.

“Good. Because that’s exactly what you’ll both be doing,” said Veronica. She didn’t need to add “and mine along with it.” The implication was clear.

For a moment the three of them sat in silence, allowing the tension to stretch. Finally, Bainbridge spoke. “I’ll have Clarkson make the necessary arrangements. He can get word to Angelchrist without arousing suspicion. We’ll meet somewhere out in the open, where there are lots of people.”

Newbury nodded. “Yes. Somewhere we can talk without being seen, and with a crowd sufficient to help us cover our tracks.”

“Very well. I’ll see to it forthwith.” Bainbridge was already heaving himself up out of his chair.

“Excellent,” said Newbury. “Then I think it’s time we were bidding you good day. There is much to consider.”

“Indeed. You’ll see yourselves out, won’t you?” said Bainbridge, reaching for his cane and crossing to the drawing room door.

“Of course,” said Veronica.

Newbury waited until Bainbridge’s footsteps had receded down the hallway before turning to Veronica. “Of course, there’s one other thing to consider, Miss Hobbes.”

“About Professor Angelchrist?”

“No, about the murders.” He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. “The possibility that the Queen herself is responsible. That she’s clearing out the ranks of her own operation for some reason, perhaps to minimise her risk of exposure to some piece of information that she doesn’t want to get out.”

“Surely not? I mean, I know what she’s capable of, but, really … would she kill her own agents just to protect a secret?” asked Veronica.

“Nothing would surprise me any more, not when it comes to Her Majesty the Queen,” replied Newbury solemnly. “And not after what we saw at the Grayling Institute.”

Veronica nodded. “You’re right, of course. But why not mention this in front of Sir Charles?”

“Because he’d never believe it,” said Newbury, “even with his newfound distaste for her methods. He hasn’t seen the things we have, and we’re not at liberty to explain why we did what we did.”

“No, but he seems to be coming to a similar conclusion all on his own,” said Veronica.

“And for that we should be grateful,” replied Newbury, laughing. “Provided, of course, that he doesn’t go and get us all executed for treason.”

Veronica grimaced. “That’s no laughing matter and you know it. If we’re caught fraternising with the professor she won’t be lenient on us.”

“In that case, my dear Miss Hobbes, we’ll simply have to ensure that we don’t go and get ourselves caught,” he said, still chuckling.

Veronica shook her head in mock exasperation. “Men,” she said, sighing, as she got to her feet.

“Shall we share a hansom?” asked Newbury.

“Only if you agree to find one of the traditional, horse-drawn variety,” replied Veronica.

“If we must,” he said, grinning and getting to his feet. He hooked his arm with Veronica’s and led her to the door. “If we must.”

CHAPTER

11

The spoon was solid silver, with a tapered head in the shape of a leaf and three lozenge-shaped slots in its bowl. It was dulled through use and had never been polished; he kept it in a small, velvet-lined box along with other, similar paraphernalia. Both superstition and ingrained routine meant that he never left the strange assortment of implements out for Scarbright to clean—he didn’t know what the valet would make of them, and had no desire to find out. The box resided amongst Newbury’s personal effects, nestled in a very particular spot amongst the ageing spines of his bookcase.

Newbury balanced the spoon carefully over a glass tumbler and, using a pair of matching silver tongs, placed a brown sugar cube upon it. He reached for the jug of iced water on the table beside him and held it above the spoon, tilting it fractionally so that only the tiniest trickles of liquid splashed upon the sugar cube, eroding it slowly and steadily so that the sugary water blended easily with the rich, green liquor below. As he watched, the liquid in the glass took on an opaque, cloudy aspect.

He allowed the water to continue trickling until the glass was half full and the sugar cube had completely dissolved. Then, removing the spoon, he dried it with a handkerchief and placed it carefully back into the box alongside the tongs.

Sighing to himself in satisfaction, he leaned back in his Chesterfield and drained the drink in one go, shuddering slightly at the sharpness of the alcohol and the sweetness of the anise. He returned the empty glass to the occasional table and collected one of his opium-tainted cigarettes from the silver case in his pocket. He struck a match and played the flame across the tip of the cigarette, enjoying the slight crackle of burning paper and tobacco as it hungrily caught the heat. He took a long, deep draw, filling his lungs with the sweet-scented smoke, and then closed his eyes, shutting out the world and her many distractions.

This was another of Newbury’s rituals; the process by which he retreated inside his own mind, withdrawing from the world around him. It was his means of seeking clarity. In this fugue state he would replay the many sights, smells, and conversations of the previous two days, reordering them in his mind, searching for connections amongst the minutiae. This was how he chose his path through a problem, how he fathomed the meaning of the things he had seen and heard.

Newbury’s breath became shallow and his shoulders slumped as the alcohol and narcotics took effect. His head lolled against the back of the chair. Snatches of images and broken sentences began to swirl up from the darkness. He encouraged them, urging them forward so that he might tease out the information he required.

The process would take hours, and he would spend them lost in a distant opium dream. He had much to consider.

That afternoon, after seeing Veronica safely to her Kensington abode, he had ordered the cab driver to take him home to Chelsea, where a most mysterious parcel awaited him.

It was wrapped in innocuous brown paper and tied with string. His name and address were printed on the label in neat capitals, although he could tell from the slight smudges around the edges of the label that the writer had been a little heavy-handed with the ink, and the label had still been wet when the package was collected for delivery. It hadn’t come far—there was no postmark, meaning it had been delivered by hand, probably by the driver of a hansom cab at the behest of the sender. That led him to believe that the parcel’s point of origin was somewhere within the bounds of the city.

Scarbright, regrettably, had not been there to receive it, but had found it waiting upon the doorstep when he had returned from the market earlier that afternoon. Unsuspecting, the valet had carried it in, placing it upon Newbury’s desk to await his return. This suggested that either the delivery man had called at a time when Scarbright was out, or that the sender was aware of Scarbright’s habit of walking to the market for provisions at the same time every week, and had chosen that time purposefully to ensure the valet was not there to receive the parcel in person. Newbury—having now seen the contents of the box—suspected the latter option. It was most definitely a message, and whoever had sent it had wished to avoid leaving any clues whatsoever as to their identity.

Warily, Newbury had cut the string and sliced into the brown paper, peering at the small wooden box within. He’d received parcels like this before and they had inevitably contained either threatening gifts or booby traps. As he’d soon come to realise, this particular parcel was no exception.

Newbury had placed the plain, lacquered box upon the table and circled it suspiciously, looking for signs of tampering. There had been no outward evidence of any mechanism contained within—a spring-loaded dart, perhaps, or a small bomb—so he had carefully lifted the box’s lid with the tip of his letter opener, standing as far back as he was able.

Nothing untoward had occurred in the seconds that followed, so he’d stepped closer to the table to examine the contents of the box. He had to admit, it was a most fascinating assortment. The human skull was perhaps the most disturbing of the three objects, fashioned as it was into a grotesque mask: the lower jaw was missing and the brain cavity removed with a series of neat cuts. The bone appeared to have been boiled or bleached to remove the last remnants of flesh and muscle, and a series of occult runes and symbols had been etched into the surface with a fine blade. Finally, a mixture of blood and ink had been worked into these etchings, staining them a deep, dark red.