Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (29 page)

“It all makes sense,” said Newbury. “We agreed earlier this evening that the person behind the Executioner had to be someone with access to the list of agents. The Prince had that access. He’s the one who provided me with the list. He’s had it all along.”

“That’s hardly enough to incriminate the man,” said Bainbridge.

“Except there’s more. That first time I called on him at Marlborough House, he wasn’t expecting me, and I saw something I shouldn’t have. He was in the library when I arrived, talking in hushed tones with a woman. I only saw the back of her head, but it was distinctive enough for me to know it was the Executioner, now that I’ve encountered her in the flesh,” said Newbury, encouraged now by Angelchrist’s attention.

“But why would he send her after you, Newbury?” asked Bainbridge. “You, to whom he recently granted privileges of an unparalleled nature. I mean, he even went to the effort of calling on you himself, at Chelsea!”

“That’s precisely the point, Charles! He was attempting to throw me off the trail, sending me after the Germans so that I’d be distracted and wouldn’t look to where the real problem might be. He wanted me close, in order to manipulate me. When Archibald proved to us that the Germans weren’t, after all, involved in the murders, I swore to the Prince that I would see the real perpetrator brought to justice. At that point I—how did you put it?—I made myself a more pressing target.”

“But why? What has he possibly got to gain? You’re talking about him undermining his own mother!” said Bainbridge, although he could clearly see the merit in what Newbury was saying. It did make a horrible sort of sense.

“The throne! That’s what he has to gain. He made his feelings towards the Queen quite clear to me when he came to Chelsea. He feels that she has lost her way, and that the Empire needs a firmer hand to guide it—his hand. He believes there’s a war brewing on the Continent and that, if we’re not careful, it will spill over onto our shores. Most of all, he’s grown tired of waiting for his mother to die, and now that she’s strapped into that diabolical machine, there’s no end in sight for the man. He sees his time slipping away, and it’s driven him mad.”

Bainbridge glanced at Angelchrist, who nodded slightly.

“I don’t doubt it for a minute,” said Angelchrist. “I believe the Prince is perfectly capable of such a political manoeuvre. He claims to care for the good of the people. While that may be true in part, in reality, he cares more for himself. He’s worried he’ll miss his opportunity to rule. Something must have tipped him over the edge, persuaded him to act.”

“I think it’s time we told you a little more of what’s been going on, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, with a dour expression. He dropped into a seat. “The Secret Service has had the Royal family under observation for some months.”

Newbury frowned. “To protect them?” he said.

“No,” said Angelchrist, levelly. “To judge their intentions. It is our belief that the Queen has lost her way.”

“You’re not trying to tell me that you
are
mixed up in this business with the Executioner, are you?” said Newbury, his face creasing in concern.

“Indeed not!” said Bainbridge. “Nothing like that. Nevertheless, the Parliament has begun to question the real motivations of the monarch, and whether she truly has the best interests of the nation at heart.” He looked Newbury straight in the eye. “To be honest, Newbury, I’ve begun to doubt her intentions, too. Archibald, of course, feels the same. That’s why he’s here tonight. He came to collect a dossier I’ve assembled, containing observations of the Queen and her immediate family.”

“All of this subterfuge!” said Newbury, hotly. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I didn’t want to put you at risk, Newbury!” said Bainbridge.

“Well, it hardly worked, did it?” replied Newbury, shaking his head. “Quite the opposite. And besides, have you never considered that I might feel the same way? I’m only too aware of the Queen’s dubious, self-absorbed nature.”

“And Miss Hobbes?” asked Angelchrist.

“I assure you, Veronica has more reason to doubt the monarch than most. The Queen has woefully wronged her in recent months. We are forced to maintain a charade of servitude, to avoid exacerbating the situation,” said Newbury, wincing. Bainbridge noticed that he was nursing the wound on his forearm.

“What has the Queen done to so affront Miss Hobbes?” asked Bainbridge, concerned. He wondered why Newbury, in turn, had not spoken of the matter, but decided not to press him on that for the time being. He was still reeling from the shock of realising that Newbury shared his concerns regarding the monarch.

“It can wait,” countered Newbury. “Right now, my concern is to put a stop to the Prince’s plans. We can worry about the Queen later. We need to prevent any more people from dying.”

“You’re right,” said Bainbridge. He grabbed the brandy bottle off the sideboard and sloshed another measure into Newbury’s glass, which Newbury drank thirstily. Bainbridge hoped it would help to numb the pain. “Where might the Prince be harbouring her, this ‘Executioner’? We can hardly go storming up to Marlborough House and ask him.”

Newbury looked thoughtful. “He won’t be keeping her at Marlborough House. He wouldn’t want her under his roof any longer than is necessary, to avoid associations such as the one I made after my unexpected visit. He clearly doesn’t realise that I saw her in the library, or, if he does, he believes I won’t make the connection, at least until it’s too late.” He raised his hand, suddenly, as if an urgent idea had just come into his head. “Yes! That’s it!”

“What is?” asked Bainbridge, perplexed by Newbury’s sudden outburst.

“The Prince told me he was involving himself in the property market, purchasing an old, abandoned hotel with a view to restoring it to its former glory. I thought it odd at the time, but now I can see that there must have been an ulterior motive. I’ll wager that’s where we’ll find her,” replied Newbury, animated now.

“Where is this hotel?” asked Angelchrist.

Newbury shrugged. “I don’t know. It has to be fairly central. The murder scenes appear to have been spread evenly throughout the city.”

“We can find out,” said Bainbridge. “We have files on the Prince, observations gathered over the course of the last few months. Surely there must be something in there? If he’s purchased a property, it must be a case of public record.”

Angelchrist nodded enthusiastically. “The files are held in my safe, back at Grosvenor Square.”

Bainbridge stood. “Then we should go there immediately. We must strike while the iron is hot. If we’re correct and she’s hiding at this abandoned hotel, we may be in a position to catch her before the night is out. Once we have the Executioner, we’ll also have the Prince.”

Newbury stood, too. “Veronica didn’t return, Charles. She’s not at Chelsea. I need to go to her, to ensure she is safe. What if the Executioner goes after her while we’re busy looking for an address?”

Bainbridge nodded. “Yes, of course. Go to her. Get her back to Chelsea. We’ll send for you there once we have the address.”

Newbury nodded. “Excellent. We’ll await word, then meet you at the hotel before the night is out.”

“Shall I send for reinforcements from the Yard?” asked Bainbridge.

“No,” replied Newbury. “If there’re too many of us, we’ll frighten her off. But for all of that, remember: There’s strength in numbers. Do not attempt to tackle this woman without us. I’ve seen what she’s capable of. If it wasn’t for Scarbright, I’d be dead now, and she’d have walked away with my heart.”

Bainbridge nodded. “I knew I’d let a good one go in Scarbright, Newbury. Not only is he the best chef I’ve ever known, it seems he’s pretty handy in a fistfight, too.” He grinned, trying to make light of the situation. In truth, he was deeply concerned for Newbury. He didn’t look at all well, and his clothes were stained with blood. “Get some rest, if you can. You’re going to need your strength.”

Newbury nodded. “Until later, then,” he said, clasping Bainbridge on the shoulder and shaking Angelchrist’s hand. “Good hunting, gentlemen.”

“Until later,” said Bainbridge. He watched Newbury go, a little unsteady on his feet, then turned to Angelchrist. “Come on,” he said. “You heard the man. There’s a murderer to catch.”

Angelchrist grinned. “Two, in fact,” he said, rising to his feet. “Don’t forget the Prince of Wales.”

Bainbridge sighed. “Not likely,” he said, with feeling. He downed the last dregs of his brandy. “That’s one conversation with the Queen I’m truly dreading.”

Angelchrist laughed. “Makes me glad I only have to answer to the Home Secretary,” he said.

“Come on, you damn republican,” said Bainbridge, gruffly. “There’s work to be done.” He opened the door to the hall and ushered Angelchrist out.

CHAPTER

27

Veronica paced before the window of her drawing room, looking out across a damp, dimly lit stretch of Kensington High Street. It was mostly deserted now, with only the occasional hansom steaming past, funnels belching soot-coloured smoke into the grey night. Most of the horse-drawn cabs had retired for the evening, with only the hardy steam-powered variety still buzzing around the city, their drivers warmed by the proximity of their miniature furnaces and tanks of boiling water.

Try as she might, she still couldn’t believe what she had seen through the window of Bainbridge’s sitting room. She kept attempting to rationalise it, to explain away what she had witnessed.

However hard she tried, though, she could not find an alternative explanation. Bainbridge had lied to her, brazenly, about seeing Angelchrist, and almost immediately afterwards had returned home to find the other man waiting for him. It had not been an unexpected call, either: The manner in which Bainbridge hurried to greet him and hand over the envelope suggested it was a prearranged appointment. Angelchrist had been waiting for him to return with the list. No wonder Bainbridge had been so keen to take possession of it back at Chelsea.

Could it be that the Queen was correct about the Secret Service? It certainly appeared as if they were involved in something covert having to do with the Crown agents. And Bainbridge had clearly thrown his lot in with them. Could they really be the ones behind the Executioner? She didn’t want to believe it, but the facts were beginning to mount up.

Veronica decided it was time to tell Newbury the truth: that she had been spying on Angelchrist and Bainbridge, and that her worst fears had been confirmed. She could put it off no longer.

She glanced at the overnight bag she had placed by the door in readiness. Mrs. Grant had been in bed for hours, and she was used to Veronica coming and going at unsociable hours. She’d barely stir, if she even heard anything at all.

It was probably for the best. Veronica didn’t really want to have to explain that she was planning to spend the night—or, indeed, the next few nights—at Newbury’s house. Despite everything she had said to Newbury, she did fear for her reputation, if only in the eyes of her housekeeper, who would not approve. Newbury was, after all, ostensibly her employer, and the affection between them was hardly a secret.

Nevertheless, if she left now and hailed one of those dreadful steam-powered cabs, she could be at Newbury’s house within half an hour, then tomorrow she would make her excuses to Mrs. Grant and explain that she was staying with a friend for a few days.

In the meanwhile, she and Newbury could decide together how they might tackle Bainbridge and the professor. Assuming, of course, that Newbury could be persuaded to take her at her word. She still feared he would react badly to the news, and refuse to see ill of his friend.

Veronica grabbed her still-damp coat from where she’d left it flung over the back of a chair, and collected her bag. Quietly, she slipped out of the house, careful to lock the door behind her.

*   *   *

The house was shrouded in darkness, and no lamps appeared to be burning in the upper windows. The front door was still locked, however, and there was no sign that anyone had forced entry.

Newbury’s assumption, then, had been correct. Once home, Veronica must have changed her mind about spending the night at Chelsea, and instead taken to her own bed for the night. He admired her for her courage and independence, but wished, on this one occasion, that she’d adhered to the agreed plan.

Nevertheless, he’d have to wake her now. She’d want to be by his side as they stormed the abandoned hotel in a few hours’ time. More pertinently, it provided him with the chance to keep a watchful eye on her. Renwick’s revelations regarding the Executioner had terrified him, particularly when coupled with the horrifying things he had seen in his feverish dreams. Veronica was in danger, and it was up to him to protect her.

He stood for a moment in the front garden, catching his breath. The rain was a constant mizzle, soaking his clothes. They were already ruined, though, and he could change as soon as they’d returned to Chelsea. He’d need to prepare himself for another possible encounter with the Executioner, too. He’d seen what she was capable of, and fully intended to go into the situation armed with his pistol and sword.

He glanced behind him to see the driver of the steam-powered hansom he had flagged down waiting patiently for him at the roadside, huddled against the rain, a cigarette dripping from his lips.

Deciding there was no way to approach the matter with any degree of subtlety, he walked up to Veronica’s front door and rapped loudly with the brass knocker.

After a moment, a lamp flared in one of the upstairs rooms. He waited patiently on the doorstep, trying to ignore the rain. Shuffling footsteps sounded in the hall.

“Who is it?” came a suspicious voice from the other side of the door. It was Mrs. Grant, Veronica’s housekeeper.

“It’s Sir Maurice Newbury, Mrs. Grant. I need to speak with Miss Hobbes as a matter of urgency,” he replied, trying to keep his tone level. He didn’t wish to worry her unduly.

He heard the bolt scrape in the lock and the jangle of keys, and then the door yawned open. Inside, the hallway was dark. Mrs. Grant stood there in a heavy quilted dressing gown, her greying hair scraped back beneath a net. “What sort of time is this to be calling on a young lady?” she said, briskly. She gave him a severe look.