Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (31 page)

For a moment Newbury thought the thing was going to overbalance, but he spun the wheel back the other way and the vehicle shifted, the two right-hand wheels dropping back down to the ground heavily. The driver’s body slumped towards him with the motion, and Newbury fought to steady himself as the contents of its lacerated belly spilled out across the floor. A moment later, when the direction of the cab was somewhat under control, he grabbed the corpse by the belt and, with both hands, heaved it over the side of the box. It tumbled to the cobbles with a wet, dull thud, trailing sticky blood and entrails.

Newbury wiped the rainwater from his eyes with his sleeve. He heard a scraping noise from behind him and glanced over his shoulder. The creature was pulling itself up out of the hole in the roof. It must have clambered up on the seats to gain enough height to get leverage. Perhaps it wasn’t as dim-witted as he’d imagined.

His choices, however, remained limited. He could hardly maintain control of the vehicle and fight the creature at the same time. He decided his only hope was to shake it off. If he could strand it in the road while he still had control of the vehicle, he could get away.

He glanced at the road ahead, then looked back at the creature, which had just about hauled itself onto the roof. He braced himself, then yanked the steering wheel sharply to the right, and then hard to the left, causing the cab to veer wildly. It pitched and rocked as the wheels shifted beneath it, barely able to compensate for the exaggerated gestures. The man-thing slid across the roof, scrabbling for purchase, its legs dangling over the side. It didn’t, however, go over.

Newbury tried again, swinging the cab across the road, but realised that the creature had managed to dig its talons into the fabric of the cab, pinning itself in place. It clung on while the vehicle weaved from side to side, biding its time. He’d have to try a different approach.

Mercifully, the road ahead remained silent and empty. The rain and the late hour had driven the civilians home to their beds. Newbury found himself longing for the tranquillity of his drawing room, the peace of a book and a cigarette. He’d had his fill of being attacked by half-mechanical assailants for one night.

The man-thing issued a keening wail as it dragged itself up from where it was hanging off the side of the cab and thumped across the shattered roof towards him. Newbury didn’t look back, but could feel its presence only feet away. His every instinct told him to try to get away, but he held a firm grasp on the wheel.

He stabbed at the accelerator with his foot and the vehicle lurched forward, the engine roaring with power. They sped along the cobbled road, bouncing and juddering, gaining momentum with every passing inch. Newbury could practically feel the creature’s rancid breath on the nape of his neck, but still he did not turn.

He counted to five beneath his breath. It was now or never. He lifted his foot from the accelerator and slammed it hard upon the brake, releasing the steering wheel and ducking down into the driver’s box, covering his head with his arms.

The next few moments passed in slow motion. All Newbury could hear was the rush of blood in his ears, his heart thumping against his ribs. He was thrown heavily forward with the momentum, bashing his hip against the steering wheel.

The rear of the vehicle bucked like an angry horse as the front brakes fully engaged, flipping the man-thing forward and up into the air, sending it careening along the road. It hit the cobbles with a sickening thud and lay still, broken bones jutting through torn flesh and clothes.

The hansom shook as the rear end slammed back onto the road, venting hissing jets of steam. Another section of the roof collapsed into the passenger compartment.

Newbury stood, hesitantly, as the shuddering finally abated. He peered along the road.

The creature was nearly twenty feet in front of him, sprawled upon the cobbles. It was moving, its legs scrabbling ineffectually, its head lifting slightly, pathetically. Newbury could see that one of its arms was completely smashed, its torso was twisted out of shape, and half of its enamel jaw had been shattered. It was, without a doubt, dying.

Newbury felt a moment of deep sorrow for this thing that had once been a man. The Cabal had transformed him into a monster, removed all but the smallest traces of his humanity. And for what? So that they might construct their own army of patchwork soldiers? They would have to be stopped. But that didn’t mean he would let this one live.

Newbury grabbed the steering wheel and stamped on the accelerator again. He could not leave the thing to die in misery and pain, whatever it had done to him. He gripped the wheel firmly and held his course as the cab barrelled along, gaining speed. He closed his eyes and held on as the cab smashed into the prone man-thing, thundering over the top of its shattered body, crushing it utterly beneath its rumbling bulk.

He did not look back as he drove on down the street. The creature was dead, and he did not wish to dwell on the results of his decision.

Veronica would—he hoped—be waiting for him back at Chelsea, and he was desperately in need of a drink.

*   *   *

The front door was hanging off one broken hinge when Veronica arrived at Newbury’s house a short while later.

She stood at the bottom of the short flight of red stone steps, and felt utterly overcome by a dawning sense of dread. Was she already too late? Had Newbury been betrayed by his supposed friends? She wished that she hadn’t spent so long at Kensington considering her options.

She rushed up the steps two at a time and burst into the hallway, steeling herself against whatever she might find.

In this case, it was only Scarbright, who turned to regard her, a screwdriver in his hand. “Ah, Miss Hobbes. I fear you’ll find the place in a rather dreadful state, but please do come in.”

She offered him a quizzical look.

“A brief incident this evening involving an intruder,” said Scarbright, reading her expression. He moved to the door as he spoke and began tightening screws.

Veronica watched him work. “An intruder?” she said, unsure whether to be concerned or relieved, given the valet’s calm and understated manner.

“I fear I am not fully apprised of the circumstances, Miss Hobbes, and I’m sure it would be best explained by Sir Maurice himself, but in his absence I shall do my best to give as full an account as possible.” Scarbright cleared his throat. “It seems a woman, armed with two scimitars, managed to break into the building while we were both asleep and set upon Sir Maurice in the drawing room. He fought her off—most valiantly, I might add—but she managed to get away before we could entrap her.”

“The Executioner!” said Veronica. “Was he hurt?”

“He suffered a number of minor injuries from her blades, but I can assure you, he is quite well,” said Scarbright. He stood back from the door, admiring his handiwork. He swung it shut, and nodded as the latch gave a satisfying click.

“Where is he now?” demanded Veronica, feeling increasingly frustrated and helpless. She needed to be by his side.

“He went to call on Sir Charles,” said Scarbright.

Bainbridge.
Veronica’s heart hammered in her chest. Their paths had practically crossed. And now he was there, with Bainbridge and Angelchrist.

“I gather from the late hour and the presence of your overnight case that Sir Maurice has invited you to spend the night in the spare room,” said Scarbright. “I’m sure he will return soon—he’s been gone for some time. Please, allow me to take your coat.”

Veronica shook her head. Her eyes alighted upon an envelope on the hall table, Newbury’s address written in Bainbridge’s familiar hand. “It looks to me as if you already have your hands full, Scarbright. I’ll make myself comfortable, thank you.”

“Very well, Miss Hobbes. Then perhaps you would care for a pot of tea?” replied Scarbright.

“Yes. Thank you. That would be lovely,” she said.

Scarbright smiled, and set off in the direction of the kitchen with a nod.

Veronica waited until his footsteps had receded down the hall, and then picked up the letter. She turned it over. It was sealed.

She placed it back on the table, just as she’d found it. She shouldn’t pry. This was Newbury’s personal correspondence. But then … what if it gave her insight into what was going on? Newbury had gone directly to see Bainbridge after the attack. Did he know something? Would the letter reveal it? Might Bainbridge even be attempting to involve Newbury in whatever he was plotting with Angelchrist?

Taking a deep breath and biting her bottom lip, she snatched the envelope up again and tore it open. Inside there was a small slip of cream-coloured paper. She quickly extracted it and glanced at the note inside:

THE FORTESCUE HOTEL, CHANCERY LANE, TWO O’CLOCK.

CB

She frowned, and then glanced at the ancient grandfather clock that stood like an attentive sentry in Newbury’s hallway. It was just after one. What was going on? Could Bainbridge be leading Newbury into a trap? Surely not … but why else would they meet at a hotel at such an unsociable hour? She reminded herself of what she had seen through Bainbridge’s window. Whatever it was, there was something going on that she did not understand, and all she could think about was preventing Newbury from unwittingly putting himself in harm’s way. He trusted Bainbridge completely. She wondered now if that trust was gravely misplaced.

Veronica stuffed the letter back into its envelope and returned it to the table. Her mind made up, she stooped to her bag and rifled around inside it until her fingers closed around the handle of her pistol. She withdrew it and tucked it safely into her belt, covering it with her coat, then she opened the front door and slipped out, quietly pulling the door to behind her.

*   *   *

Newbury drew the hansom to a jerking, erratic stop outside of his home.

He’d considered abandoning the vehicle in an alleyway a few streets away, but decided it might yet prove useful before the night was out. A bobby or passer by had probably discovered the corpses of the driver and the man-thing by now, and Newbury would need to explain the whole incident to Bainbridge later that day. He could turn the hansom over to the police at the same time.

For now, however, he had some temporary transportation at his disposal—assuming, of course, that he didn’t inadvertently run it into a wall. It wasn’t the simplest of contraptions to drive, and the journey across town was plagued by hazards and near misses. Newbury was forced to rely on his instincts, and wrestled with the machine until he managed to get it under some modicum of control.

He disengaged the engine, but the rear funnel continued to belch thick, black smoke into the damp night air.

Still smarting from his wounds, he swung himself down from the dickey box, dropping awkwardly to the ground. The rain had now abated to a gentle drizzle that matted his hair and beaded on the lapels of his jacket. His shoes were slicked with the driver’s blood, and he was chilled to the very core of his being. He hoped he’d have time to change and warm himself beside the fire before heading out to meet Bainbridge and Angelchrist, and that Veronica would be waiting for him within.

He left the cab parked by the kerb and hurried up the garden path to the front door. Scarbright had evidently reattached it in Newbury’s absence. He was still unsure precisely how the Executioner had managed to tear it from its hinges without waking him, but he was impressed all the same by her stealth. It would serve him well, in future, to pay more attention to his personal safety. For a start, Aldous was correct about the Cabal. They were clearly more dangerous than Newbury had given them credit for. He would have to deal with them as soon as the situation with the Prince was successfully resolved.

He searched his pockets for his key and realised he hadn’t stopped to claim it as he’d rushed out to see Bainbridge, so he rapped loudly with the knocker instead.

Scarbright was at the door within moments, wearing a concerned expression. “Sir Maurice…” he said, as Newbury staggered up the steps and into the lobby.

“I’m fine, Scarbright,” he said, leaning against the wall with his left hand, catching his breath. “Just another little altercation on the way home. Nothing to trouble yourself with.” He spotted Veronica’s overnight bag in the hallway, beside the narrow table, and sighed with relief.

“No, it’s not that,” said Scarbright. “It’s Miss Hobbes.”

“She’s here, then?” said Newbury. “I’m sorry I didn’t have chance to explain. She’s going to be staying in the spare room for a few days.”

Scarbright shook his head, and Newbury frowned. “She was here, Sir Maurice, but now she’s … well, she’s gone.”

“Gone?” said Newbury, perplexed. “But her bag is just there.…” He searched Scarbright’s face for an answer. The man was clearly embarrassed.

“Well? Where is she?” asked Newbury, exasperated.

“That’s just it, sir. I don’t know. Miss Hobbes arrived about thirty minutes ago. I showed her into the hall. She was most dismayed to learn of your encounter with that dreadful woman this evening, but she said she would make herself comfortable while I fetched a cup of tea, so I left her here in the hall while she removed her coat and gloves. When I returned a few minutes later, she was gone.” He looked shamefaced. “I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

Newbury sighed and shook his head in defeat. “I fear Miss Hobbes and I have unwittingly found ourselves engaged in a rather fruitless game of cat and mouse this evening, Scarbright. I don’t imagine there was anything you could have done.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Scarbright. “I shall, of course, remain alert for any sign of her return.”

“When exactly did she leave?” said Newbury.

“It can’t have been more than twenty minutes ago,” replied Scarbright.

Newbury nodded. “Very well.” He couldn’t see what else he could do. Hopefully, she’d simply popped out for a walk and would return shortly. “Anything else?” he asked.

“A letter, sir. It arrived shortly before Miss Hobbes, delivered by a cabbie. I left it on the table there.” Scarbright turned, retrieving the small cream envelope. As he turned it over, his face fell.