Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (12 page)

The other two objects contained within the box were a curved silver dagger with a jewel-encrusted hilt and a small leather pouch containing the putrid viscera of a small bird, probably a juvenile crow. There was no card or note accompanying them, or within the paper wrapping.

Newbury, of course, had known what it was at once. These were the elements of a ritual suicide, a death rite practiced by occultists since the Middle Ages. It was said to ensure prosperity in the afterlife, the trading of one’s living soul for the promise of eternal damnation. It could have been sent to him by any number of people or organisations he had crossed over the years, but the message was clear:
We’re offering you the opportunity to take your own life, before we come and take it for you
.

Newbury would take his chances with the living. For now, the threat itself meant very little. If anything, by attempting to frighten him, the sender had shown their hand, and Newbury would now be expecting them when they came for him. He’d beaten the Cabal once before, and, if necessary, he could do it again.

The stub of Newbury’s extinguished cigarette tumbled from his fingers, dropping onto the rug before the hearth. His eyes flickered open. He had no idea how much time had passed, but the fire in the grate was cold, and the room was chill and dark. The curtains were still open, revealing the fog-shrouded night beyond.

A smile played upon Newbury’s lips as he reached for the jug of now tepid water. He knew what he had to do. Bainbridge had told the Queen they needed a list of her agents to look for patterns in the selection of victims and to anticipate any further attacks. The Queen had refused, but Newbury had another potential avenue through which to obtain the information: Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales.

He would visit the Prince in the morning and seek his assistance in the matter. While he was there, he would apprise him of the situation regarding the murders, and his concerns that foreign agents might prove to be behind them. He was sure that the Prince would come to his aid. Then, assuming Bainbridge was successful in arranging a liaison with Angelchrist, they would meet to discuss the matter that afternoon.

Newbury took a swig of water and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. It was too late for bed and too early to rise. He would pass the time with another cigarette, waiting for the sun to bring its warming light through the window.

CHAPTER

12

“I received your note,” said Veronica, anxiously, “and came directly. What’s wrong?” She was breathless from rushing across the village green, and her clothes stank of engine fumes and soot. Within minutes of receiving the morning post, she’d hailed one of the odious steam-powered carriages and told the driver to take the most direct route to Malbury Cross.

“Calm yourself, sister,” said Amelia, standing and crossing the living room to take Veronica in a hearty embrace. She was wearing a concerned expression. “I didn’t mean for you to drop everything the moment you received my letter.”

“But you said you needed to speak with me as a matter of urgency?” said Veronica, confused. “I thought … well, I thought something was terribly wrong.” Her shoulders dropped as the tension she’d been carrying for the last couple of hours finally dissipated. She felt a curious mixture of relief and annoyance at discovering there wasn’t, after all, an emergency. She had immediate business to attend to back in London, and she was anxious to maintain a watchful eye on Bainbridge and Angelchrist. Whatever reasons the chief inspector had given the previous day for his involvement with the Secret Service, she was still wary of the intentions of that organisation. Perhaps Bainbridge was ignorant of their schemes, but she couldn’t help considering that perhaps he was not.

Veronica had learned to trust Bainbridge during the course of their association, but nevertheless had shied away from being entirely open with him when it came to her sister or her role as an agent of the Crown. She’d feared—and Newbury confirmed—that Bainbridge was too fixed in his beliefs of what constituted right and wrong, that he wouldn’t understand the decisions she had made to protect her family. For the last few months, however, he had been behaving suspiciously, attending scores of furtive meetings which he would not speak of or provide any details, and she had begun to wonder if she hadn’t got Bainbridge entirely wrong, after all. Now she was intent on discovering just what it was the chief inspector had gone and got himself involved in, and why it was causing the Queen such consternation and concern.

But whatever else was going on in Veronica’s life, Amelia came first, so she had come here to the village directly upon receiving her sister’s summons, fearful for Amelia’s fragile health and well-being. It seemed now that she might have acted in haste.

Amelia helped Veronica shrug out of her coat. “Look, I’ll go and tell Mrs. Leeson to put the kettle on. We do need to talk.”

Veronica nodded. “I was worried”—she almost choked on her words—“that perhaps there’d been some sort of side effect caused by Sir Maurice’s treatment, or that it had stopped working entirely; that you might have suffered another seizure.”

Amelia smiled. “No, nothing like that. The treatment is as effective as ever. It’s just … you know how I told you my episodes were becoming more controllable, easier to contain?”

“Yes?”

“Well, there are things I’ve seen, Veronica. Things you need to know.” Amelia sounded suddenly serious. She folded Veronica’s grey coat neatly over her arm, picking nervously at the bobbles of lint and refusing to meet Veronica’s gaze.

“Right. Well, I’m here now, so let’s see about that tea and you can tell me all about it,” said Veronica, with some trepidation.

*   *   *

A few minutes later, Veronica found herself ensconced by the fire in the living room, welcoming the warmth back into her weary bones. She still felt shaken from both her journey—the steam-powered carriage had jarred her most efficiently as they’d trundled through the cobbled lanes on the outskirts of the city—and the sudden fear for her sister’s health.

Mrs. Leeson was busying herself in the kitchen, seeing to the kettle, and Amelia was sitting opposite Veronica, perched upon the edge of a chaise longue. She looked thin and gaunt, but hauntingly pretty, her raven-black hair tied back from her forehead in a neat chignon. Her eyes were wide with concern.

“So, tell me—what’s this all about?” asked Veronica, not entirely sure that she wanted to know. It had been some time since Amelia had discussed the contents of her visionary episodes with her, and the last time, she’d warned Veronica that something dreadful was coming.

Veronica had absolute faith in her sister’s ability to see … if not into the future, exactly, then
impressions
of what was to come, and often, it terrified her. “I thought the seizures had stopped? That the treatment meant you were getting stronger?” she said.

Amelia nodded. “The seizures
have
stopped. And I’m certainly getting stronger. But the visions still come. They’re not as violent as they once were, and I’ve learned to anticipate when they’re coming. There’s a smell, a taste on the back of my tongue. It’s like the air before a thunderstorm, a prickle of anticipation…” She trailed off, taking a deep breath.

“Go on,” said Veronica, both fascinated and appalled.

“When it strikes, it’s like a waking dream. Images flickering through my mind, disjointed and fragmentary. Unbidden sounds. It’s over in seconds, and then I come to.”

“Just like that? It used to take hours for you to regain consciousness,” said Veronica, sitting forward in her chair.

Amelia smiled. “There’s nothing but a momentary disorientation,” she said. “Sir Maurice’s treatment is having a profound effect.”

“But…?” asked Veronica.

“But, the things I see.…” Amelia hesitated. “Do you remember when we first came here, to Malbury Cross?”

“Of course.”

“I told you something terrible was coming,” said Amelia, quietly.

Veronica swallowed. “Yes.”

“I still fear there is truth in that. I’m concerned you’re in grave danger, Veronica,” said Amelia, her voice cracking.

Veronica stiffened. She’d feared as much. “Back when I first brought you here, you said there was a word, too. A repeated word. ‘Executioner,’ I think it was?”

Amelia nodded. “Let me show you something.” She rose slowly from her perch on the chaise longue, crossing the room to a large writing bureau. She took a small key from a concealed pocket in her dress, inserted it into a matching lock on the face of the bureau, and turned it with a scrape. She allowed the wooden shelf to drop forward, revealing the disarrayed contents within: letters, scraps of paper, tatty quills and jars of ink; all of them shoved untidily—hurriedly, even—within.

Amelia withdrew a sheaf of rolled papers, and, clutching it close to her chest, returned to her seat. She handed the papers to Veronica. “There.”

“What is this?” said Veronica, mystified.

“Open it,” replied Amelia.

Veronica did as her sister asked, unfurling the curled pages and smoothing them carefully across her knees. As she looked over the hastily scratched letters and smudges of dry, spattered ink within, she felt her heart flutter in her chest. She studied the uppermost page. The word
Executioner
had been scrawled over every inch of its surface, repeatedly, in the same hand. She lifted the first page. Beneath it, the second was near identical. She shuffled through a sheaf of perhaps ten pages. All were the same. The writing was frantic, untidy—as if the writer had been scared or possessed, or possibly both. “You did these?” asked Veronica, her voice level. “Under the influence of one of your episodes?”

Amelia stared at her for a long moment. “No,” she said, finally. “Not me.”

“Then who?” prompted Veronica, although she felt a horrible suspicion welling up inside of her.

“Sir Maurice,” said Amelia, quickly. “Sir Maurice wrote them.”

Veronica took a deep breath. What was going on here? “How? Why?”

Amelia shrugged. “He sees things, too, Veronica. Whatever he does, however it happens, he sees the same things as I do.”

Veronica shook her head. “No. He’s not like you. He doesn’t have your … talents.”

Amelia indicated the sheaf of papers in Veronica’s hands. “I’d argue that these papers suggest that he does.”

“But…” Veronica faltered. She shook her head. “No. Perhaps he thinks he does. All those rituals…” She trailed off again. “He must have heard you talking. Did you tell him about this word, this
Executioner
?”

Amelia shook her head. “No. I did not. I’ve told only you.”

Veronica glanced again at the pages in her grasp. Then, as if her hands refused to hold on to them any longer, she dropped them to the floor. They fell in a landslide across the burgundy rug before the hearth. “Tell me what it means,” she said, in a whisper.

Amelia looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “In my dreams I hear the same word repeated over and over, in a variety of voices. It’s accompanied by a sequence of flickering images, as if everything is taking place in a darkened room, with an inconstant light source. There’s a figure in black, the glint of a blade. And then there is you, lying on the floor. Your face is ashen white and you’re bleeding from a wound in your chest. In the background a thousand clocks are ticking.”

Veronica’s mouth was dry. She tried to swallow, but her tongue felt thick and swollen in her mouth.
If this were true …
“So, this Executioner … is coming for
me
?” Was she next on the list? Was this what had happened to the other agents?

Amelia was staring at the heap of spilt papers on the rug. “I think he might be.” She looked up, suddenly, imploringly. “You need to get away. Go somewhere safe, away from here, from London. Somewhere where they can’t get to you.”

“I can’t,” said Veronica. “I’m needed.”

“By the Queen?” said Amelia, barely suppressing a scoff. “Surely you can’t continue to harbour any sense of loyalty to that aged harridan?”

Veronica glanced away, searching the flames in the grate as if they might somehow provide her with guidance. “Not the Queen,” she said. “Not her. Maurice.”

“Sir Maurice can look after himself,” said Amelia. “He’d want you to go. To be safe.”

“It’s not as simple as that, Amelia. He needs me. There’s a chance he’s mixed up in something terrible, and there’s no one else he can turn to.”

“He would want you to get to safety,” said Amelia, her voice strained.

“He doesn’t have to know,” said Veronica, pointedly.

“Even if it means you might die?” replied Amelia, evenly.

“It’s a chance I’ll have to take.” She took a deep breath. “What have you told him? About your dreams. About the meaning of this,” she asked, pointing to the papers.

Amelia shook her head in dismay. “You must listen to me, sister!”

“What have you told him?” asked Veronica, firmly.

Amelia held her gaze for a moment in silence. All Veronica could hear was the crackle of the fire and the sound of Mrs. Leeson banging pots in the kitchen. “Very little,” said Amelia, finally. “I’ve told him very little. Only that I think you might be in danger. That doesn’t mean he won’t have formed his own conclusions, however.”

Veronica nodded. “Very well. We shall speak no more of this, Amelia. Do not even think of it.”

Amelia laughed, bitterly. “I only wish that were possible.” She sighed. “I wish you’d reconsider.”

Veronica shook her head, resolute. How could she? After everything that Newbury had done for Amelia. After what had passed between them in the cells beneath Packwood House, when he’d kissed her and told her how he truly felt about her. How could she abandon him now, at his lowest point, weakened by the rituals he was performing on her sister’s behalf, addicted to the poisonous weed that fed his understanding of the occult, possibly unable even to trust the word of his old friend, Sir Charles? How could she possibly leave him to cope with all of that, alone?

No. She would stay, and she would face whatever was coming. Amelia’s visions were not the truth. They were not the future. They were simply a
possible
future. And that meant it could be averted. Now that she was forewarned, she could prevent it from coming true. “You know I can’t reconsider,” she said, trying to sound confident, unruffled. “And besides, it’s my job. I face danger every single day. What’s the difference here?” She left the question hanging, knowing that it was inadequate. Both of them were aware of what she was doing—making light of Amelia’s revelations, brushing them under the carpet—and both of them knew the truth: that if Amelia had seen something troubling in her dreams, then it was surely lurking just around the corner.