Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (2 page)

She screamed, a deep, guttural scream of horror and frustration and shock. She screamed so loudly that her throat felt raw and hot and bloody, so loudly that it drowned out even the noise of the clocks and the pain in her chest and the pounding in her head.

She toppled, falling backwards into the darkness, barely aware of the ground coming up to meet her.

There was no sign of the woman, but she imagined those black eyes watching her, boring into her, standing over her.

“Veronica?”

Veronica Hobbes heard her name being called, but the frantic voice sounded distant, and the pain in her chest had bloomed in intensity until it was all she could see; a bright, white light of pain, blotting out everything else.

“Veronica?”

Somehow, Newbury had found her. Somehow, remarkably, he had known she was there. But her last thought before the white light swallowed her was that he was far too late.

Veronica was already dead.

CHAPTER

2

LONDON, FEBRUARY 1903

London had always been a place of death.

Sir Charles Bainbridge, Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, mulled this over as he considered his lot in life at six in the morning on a wet, dreary Wednesday.

Ever since the city was birthed on the banks of the Thames, since the Roman interlopers had destroyed the primitive settlements of the early Britons and founded the city proper, its streets had run red with blood. Oppression, suppression, festering rebellion, and bloodshed—each of them was key to understanding London’s history. And, some might say, its present, too.

Bainbridge wondered if there was something to the notion that it was the place itself that was rotten, haunted by the spirits of all those millions who had died within its boundaries. Did those spirits somehow exert their influence on the psyche of the modern populace? Was it this that drove people to commit such dreadful acts?

Newbury probably thought so. Bainbridge could imagine the argument now: both of them flushed with brandy, Newbury leaning across the table at his White Friar’s club, passionately gesticulating as he outlined his case. “Of course, Charles! Can’t you see it? There’s no doubt in my mind that the landscape plays a fundamental role in the development of a killer’s mind-set. And, in turn, that the history of that place also has a role to play. Spirits or not, the grisly biography of this city has a bearing on how its present populace behaves.”

Bainbridge, of course, would argue in favour of self-determinism, that people had a choice to behave however they wished to, but that wouldn’t wash with his friend. Newbury saw the world in ways that Bainbridge never could. It was this, Bainbridge believed, that gave Newbury his edge, the remarkable insight that had seen them both through so many scrapes. Bainbridge believed in absolutes—good and evil, right and wrong—but Newbury took a different, more complex view. He often berated the chief inspector for viewing the world in such simplistic terms, in plain black and white, and slowly, inch by painful inch, he was teaching Bainbridge to see in shades of grey.

Bainbridge grinned at the thought of his old friend. There hadn’t been many arguments in the White Friar’s of late, nor many other opportunities to spend time in each other’s company. Bainbridge had been busy—far
too
busy—and, if he was truthful, he’d been avoiding Newbury in recent weeks. It was cowardly to keep away, but it pained him to see his friend so in thrall to the dreadful weed to which he had pledged his allegiance.

The wastrel was intent on delving ever deeper into his addiction, despite assurances to the contrary. No amount of stiff conversation on the matter could dissuade him from his chosen path. As a consequence, he appeared to be growing weaker day by day: paler, drawn, his eyes bruised and sunken. When he wasn’t in the city engaged on a case, he spent all of his time locked away in his rooms, brooding.

Whether it marked him out as a coward or not, Bainbridge simply wasn’t prepared to watch while his friend slowly frittered away his life. And now even Scarbright—the valet Bainbridge had installed at Newbury’s Chelsea home to keep a watchful eye on him—had stopped reporting back.

Bainbridge only wished there was something more he could do, some way he could begin to understand the allure of the drug, the grip it exerted on his friend. Perhaps Newbury, too, was under the sway of malign spirits?

Bainbridge sighed. No, that would be too simple. And nothing was ever simple where Newbury was concerned.

Bainbridge glanced cursorily around the drawing room. Whoever lived here—or, rather,
had
lived here—had ostentatious tastes; the décor was of classical design, all white marble and gilded plasterwork. The walls were duck egg blue; the ceiling decorated with a large, elaborate rosette over a gaudy crystal chandelier. Ranks of portraits, showing gloomy-looking fellows in frilly shirts and plate armour, lined the walls.

Bainbridge thought it was all terribly gauche and embarrassing, as if the owner was trying desperately to cling to some former aristocratic heritage, a proud dream now long forgotten by the rest of the world. He supposed there were plenty of people who had found themselves in that position in recent years; the former scions of society, now fallen on hard times and replaced by the wash of self-made industrialists and opportunists who had identified their niche in the changing, modern Empire.

So much for the frilly shirts and the glory days of old.

Bainbridge laughed at himself. He was grumpy at having to haul himself from his bed at so unsociable an hour. This, of course, was nothing new to such a seasoned man of the Yard, but he was presently nursing a thick head, the result of a late night spent drinking port and conversing with a government man, Professor Archibald Angelchrist. He and Angelchrist had been meeting regularly over the last six months, ever since the beginning of Bainbridge’s association with the Secret Service. Angelchrist worked as an advisor to the government in some capacity, chiefly pertaining, Bainbridge had gathered, to matters of a scientific bent. He was a good man, but—as Bainbridge had discovered, to his detriment—Angelchrist liked his liquor. He hoped, perhaps a little unkindly, that Angelchrist was currently suffering as much as he was, but then he remembered the time and realised the other man would most likely still be tucked up snugly in his bed. Just as, if there was any justice left in the world, Bainbridge himself would have been.

He stood for a moment longer, leaning heavily on his cane and staring blankly into the cold grate of the fire. He was growing impatient. Had the constable failed to inform Foulkes that he was here?

He was just about to set out in search of the man, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and turned to see Foulkes striding briskly across the room towards him. He was wearing a harried expression and looked deathly tired. Well, that made two of them, then.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. I was taking steps to secure the scene, as per your instructions. Nothing has been moved.” Foulkes tugged at his dark, bushy beard and stared at Bainbridge expectantly.

Bainbridge had always liked Foulkes. He spoke his mind and wasn’t afraid of the consequences. There were few men like that in the force these days, and although his frankness had probably stifled his progress through the ranks in some ways, it made him a better policeman, and far more useful to Bainbridge than the many yes men who typically plagued his days.

“Morning, Foulkes,” he said, wearily. He already knew what to expect, but he raised a questioning eyebrow anyway. “Well?”

Foulkes nodded. “It’s exactly the same, sir. Same as all the others.” He pulled a disconcerted face and lowered his voice, as if concerned that someone might overhear his familiarity with the chief inspector. “It’s a ruddy great mess in there. There’s blood everywhere.”

Bainbridge tried to keep his grimace to himself. “They took it again?”

“Yes. It’s nowhere to be found. Ripped the chest right open and tore it out, just like the others. It’s bloody disgusting.”

“Quite literally,” said Bainbridge, drily. “Alright, show me the way.”

“She’s in the library,” said Foulkes, gesturing back the way he had come. “Made a terrible mess of the books.”

Bainbridge wasn’t sure whether Foulkes was being sarcastic or not, but he let it wash over him regardless. Foulkes was most likely as aggrieved as he was at being dragged from his bed into the cold and dark. And, to add insult to injury, both of them knew there was a long day full of questions ahead.

Resignedly, Bainbridge trudged after Foulkes, deeper into the big house, on towards the grim scene that awaited them in the dusty stacks of the library.

*   *   *

The scene itself was just as Foulkes had described. Worse, in fact. It was as if Bainbridge had suddenly found himself in an abattoir rather than a library. There were spatters of blood
everywhere
, as if the killer had made it their sole purpose to ensure that no surface remained untouched by the crimson rain they had unleashed. The stench was foul, too; cloying and thick, it made the air seem humid, metallic, and uncomfortable to breathe. Bainbridge felt his stomach turn and fought the urge to vomit.

If anything, the scene here was even more atrocious than the previous two. It was somehow more flamboyant, more grotesque, as if the killer was showing off. There was certainly something theatrical in the manner in which the body was positioned behind the desk.

Bainbridge inched into the room, taking care to avoid the puddles of blood on the paisley carpet—more because he didn’t wish to get his shoes dirty than because he was concerned with preserving the murder scene. It was already obvious what had happened here, and if the prior murders were anything to go by, no amount of tiptoeing around the spilled blood was going to help shed any light.

The room was exactly how Bainbridge imagined a library in a posh London town house should look. Row after row of towering oak bookcases were crammed into every available space, their innards stuffed with serried ranks of musty, leather-bound tomes. A large globe sat in its mount in one corner, a stag’s head glared down at him balefully with its beady glass eyes, and a large, antique writing desk with a burgundy leather surface dominated the centre of the room. Beside it, a captain’s chair had been overturned and sheaves of paper spilled across the floor in a stark white avalanche, covered with scratchy black script, as if the pages were home to an army of scurrying ants.

So, the dead woman had put up a fight. That was interesting. That was different.

From the doorway, Bainbridge could see nothing of the dead woman save for one of her hands, jutting out from behind the desk as if beckoning for help that had never arrived. The skin was pale, papery and wizened, the hand of someone who had lived, who had seen life. Bainbridge could see little flecks of blood upon the fingers, like ladybirds on a clutch of white lilies.

He rounded the desk, wrinkling his nose at the foul smell. The woman lay sprawled upon the carpet in a pose that might have been comical if it hadn’t been for the expression of sheer terror that contorted her face, and the fact that her rib cage had been cracked and splayed open to reveal her internal organs. She was still wearing her skirt, stockings, and shoes, as well as most of her jewellery, but her top half had been stripped naked, exposing her milky-white breasts and her ample belly.

The killer had made an incision at the base of her throat, cutting deeply into bone, gristle, and cartilage, as well as severing a line of pearls, the constituents of which now lay scattered around the body like miniature planets in orbit around a floundering giant. Many of them now nestled in congealing puddles of blood, dulled and strangely obscene amongst the carnage.

The incision continued down to the belly, where it terminated abruptly above the navel. The rib cage had been pulled open like two halves of a cantilever bridge, or two hands of splayed, skeletal fingers clutching unsuccessfully for one another. This, too, was just like the others, and Bainbridge was still no clearer about what kind of cutting device had been used to hack through the bone.

Around the corpse, dark, glistening blood described two distinct leaf shapes, like crimson wings beneath the woman’s out-flung arms. The nearest bookcase had taken the brunt of the arterial spray, and even now some of the spines were still dripping ponderously, their titles obscured, their authors rendered anonymous by the bloodshed.

The woman had been in her late fifties, Bainbridge judged, although he’d have to take steps to confirm that in the coming hours. She looked in good health—putting aside the gaping rent in her chest for a moment—and she had a full, stocky figure, suggesting she was well accustomed to fine dining. It was clear from the property that the woman’s family had once been well-to-do: The lavish interior décor, the ancient portraiture, the well-appointed library were all indicators that the family had once rubbed shoulders with the upper classes. There were signs, however, that the woman had recently fallen on harder times. There were no servants, for a start, and anything more than a cursory glance at the furnishings betrayed the fact that they were mostly nothing but threadbare relics of a more affluent time.

Leaning heavily on his cane, Bainbridge dropped to his haunches to examine the body more closely. He could sense Foulkes standing over his shoulder, and for the first time since entering the room he registered the fact there were two uniformed men standing in the corner, trying their best not to look at the corpse. He supposed he could understand that—they were young and this was probably one of the worst things they had ever had the misfortune to see. But they had a job to do, and they needed to get used to it. It wouldn’t be the last violent death they’d encounter during the course of their careers, and Bainbridge would be doing them no favour by going easy on them now. They would stay with the body until it was safely removed to the morgue.

“She must have put up quite a fight,” he said a moment later, taking the woman’s right hand and turning it over to expose her wrist. There were multiple gashes crisscrossing the soft flesh on the underside of her forearm, where she’d clearly raised it to protect her face. “The killer must have come at her with a long-bladed knife. I’d wager he didn’t expect her to defend herself so vehemently.”