Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (32 page)

“What is it?” said Newbury, when he saw Scarbright’s brow crease in a deep frown.

“The letter has been opened, sir. When I placed it on the table it was sealed,” said Scarbright, perplexed.

Newbury took the envelope from him and slid the slip of paper out from inside. On it were printed the words:

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

CB

“Oh, no…” said Newbury, his heart sinking. “Oh, Veronica…”

“What is it, sir?” said Scarbright, alarmed.

“She’s gone to the hotel. She’s gone looking for me there.” He could hear the panic in his own voice. This was it. This was what he’d seen in his dreams. Veronica and the Executioner.

“The hotel, sir?” said Scarbright.

“It’s where the Executioner is hiding,” said Newbury, making a snap decision. “If she’s gone there alone…” He discarded the note on the floor. “I must go after her.”

“I’ll accompany you, sir,” said Scarbright, resolutely.

“No, I need you to stay here. If I’m wrong and she returns, you must keep her here. Keep her safe, Scarbright. Miss Hobbes is in grave danger.”

“Yes, Sir Maurice. You can count on me, sir,” said Scarbright, stoically.

“I know I can, Scarbright,” replied Newbury.

He turned and hurtled back out of the door towards the waiting hansom. If Veronica had gone to the hotel alone, he might already be too late.

He only hoped—beyond all hope—that he was wrong.

CHAPTER

28

The Fortescue Hotel, it transpired, was a building in a dire state of repair. Where once the corner of the structure had met the pavement, there was now a gaping hole, ragged-edged and open to the elements. Wooden scaffolds had been erected all around it, clambering over the damaged building like a coterie of bizarre, angular insects swarming to their nest.

In better days the hotel had been grand and opulent. That much was clear to Veronica as she approached from the opposite side of the road, searching for any signs of habitation. There were none. Not even the glimmer of a lamp in a window. The place had simply been abandoned. She could see that there were still decorations in the front windows, which themselves were framed by heavy velvet drapes, pulled back as if the receptionist had forgotten to draw them for the evening. It was as if the proprietors had simply up and left in the middle of the day; leaving everything perfect and in situ, save for the enormous hole in the wall.

Veronica recalled reading a newspaper report of an accident in the area, almost two years earlier. A runaway ground train had thundered into the side of a hotel, demolishing a large section of the wall and killing five people in the lobby, along with the train’s driver. The engine’s boiler had burst, badly injuring scores of passengers in the ensuing explosion, and the local hospitals had been flooded with burn victims, causing widespread panic and calls from politicians for the public to boycott the ground train services.

The proposed boycotts had never come to pass, of course, as Londoners proved far more concerned with their own ability to get to and from their homes than with making a statement to the train operators regarding public safety.

The Fortescue Hotel, then, must have been the site of the accident. The wreckage of the train had been removed, but the wound in the building remained, bleeding shadows. She wondered why nobody had made an effort to restore or secure the premises. Perhaps there was an ongoing legal dispute, or perhaps the owners had simply run out of money.

Veronica shuddered at the thought of entering such a place, and hugged herself unconsciously inside her coat. Even from the other side of the road, it felt strangely as if the place were repelling her, urging her to carry on walking in the opposite direction. She didn’t truly believe in ghosts, but she could swear that the Fortescue had something of a haunted air about it.

What business might Bainbridge and Newbury have at such a place, particularly in the dead of night? She could think only that it was some sort of trap—that Newbury was being coerced unknowingly into a situation from which he may not return. Although worrying away at the back of her mind was the poisonous notion that Newbury, too, might somehow be involved, that this meeting had been planned surreptitiously between the three men. She did not want to acknowledge even the possibility of such a thing.

Veronica could see no sign that the others had arrived. She checked her watch. It was approaching two in the morning. She sighed, feeling the energy seeping from her weary bones. However tired she was, she had to carry on. She had to protect Newbury, or at least get to the bottom of whatever Bainbridge was up to.

All she could do was wait.

She crossed the road, approaching the chasm-like hole in the wall. She hadn’t realised quite how large it was until she was standing before it, but the aperture was more than twice her height and half as wide again. Inside, she could see only darkness.

Bracing herself, she stepped gingerly over the heap of shattered bricks, picking through the rubble until she was standing in the gloomy lobby. There was a thick layer of dust on the marble floor, which swirled around her feet as she walked. She could see little in the gloom, other than an overturned potted plant, the vase shattered, the plant now dead and withered like a shrivelled hand.

She stood for a moment, listening intently for any sounds that might betray the presence of others in the ruins of the hotel. She became aware of the faint sound of ticking clocks, somewhere off in the darkness. Unsure what else to do, she followed it, her feet scuffing on the dusty floor.

*   *   *

Newbury leapt from the driver’s box of his temporarily commandeered hansom, dropping awkwardly to the pavement. The engine was still running, grinding noisily in protest. He’d put the vehicle through its paces, hurtling at speed through the quiet city streets, and now, after being damaged and abused, it sounded as if it was almost ready to give up the ghost.

He stretched. His limbs felt leaden and weary after the two sudden, explosive bolts of energy he’d been forced to expend that night. Nevertheless, he was spurred on by the thought that Veronica might be in danger. He had promised to be there for her if she needed him, and he would make good on that promise, no matter what it took.

He surveyed the building. He could see now why it had been abandoned; the shattered structure and gaping hole spoke volumes. He’d seen properties such as this before—damaged in an accident and forever after mired in legal disagreements over whose responsibility it was to pay for repairs. It was clear to him why the Prince should choose such a place to squirrel away a dirty secret like the Executioner. No one had been near the building for months, it seemed, and even now there was no sign of any activity from within.

He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him.

“A most unconventional entrance, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, his moustache twitching as he indicated the ruined shell of the cab. He was holding a lantern in his left hand, which cast his face in a warm orange glow. “What the devil’s going on?”

“Not now, Charles,” said Newbury, dismissively. He would explain everything later. For now, his only priority was Veronica.

Bainbridge furrowed his brow. “What is it, Newbury? What’s the matter?”

“Veronica,” said Newbury. “Have you seen her?”

“No,” replied Bainbridge, perplexed.

Angelchrist, who was standing to one side appraising the damaged hansom, looked over. “We’ve only just arrived,” he said. “Moments before you.”

“I thought she was back at Chelsea, with you?” said Bainbridge.

Newbury shook his head. “I fear she came here alone,” he said. “She was missing when I arrived home, and she’d discovered your note. Scarbright said she up and left without a word.” He started towards the hole in the side of the building. “If she’s in there, Charles…” he said, trailing off. The implication was obvious.

“We’d damn well better get in there after her, then,” said Bainbridge, determined, hefting his lantern and cane.

Angelchrist slid his revolver from his jacket pocket. “Lead on,” he said, quietly. But Newbury had already raced into the ruins and been enveloped by the darkness within.

*   *   *

She lay in the gloom upon a bed of scarlet cushions, listening to the clocks.

To her they were the heart of the building, beating out their weary, cacophonous rhythm. She had scavenged them from the homes of her victims and repurposed them, given them new life here in the ruins of this ancient hotel. The clocks were trophies; much like the organs she had ripped from her victims’ corpses, cracking open their chests to get to the soft, beating muscles inside. But they were something more, too. They bestowed life on a once-dead building, arousing it from its deathly slumber. The clocks imbued her with power, much like her weapons: with her scimitars she ended life, with the clocks she began it anew.

Tonight, for the first time in decades, she had failed to terminate the life of her target. It mattered little to her—she would make another attempt in the coming hours, and this time she would prove successful. She felt no sense of disappointment or ill ease at this recognition of her own failure, simply curiosity that a man should prove capable of defending himself so successfully. She had, of course, made an error of judgement; she had not expected to be interrupted by another. Next time she would kill them both.

She glanced over at her leather satchel, which rested on a chair a few feet away, empty. By dawn it would contain another heart.

She started at the scuff of a shoe, distinct amongst the undulating tick-tock of her clocks. Her head turned.

There was someone in the room.

She stood, slowly and silently, lifting her swords. She eased into the shadows, trying to get a look at the newcomer. Had someone come searching for her, or had they stumbled unwittingly into her lair? Either way, they would have to die.

She stilled her breathing, pursed her lips. She listened to the many clocks, meting out the seconds.

She caught a glimpse of movement.

The intruder was a woman. She was young and pretty, and scared. She did not appear to be armed.

The Executioner watched as the woman approached the shielded lantern on the table and took it in her hands, unsheathing the light.

Dazzling beams lanced through the gloom, and the Executioner moved swiftly to avoid being seen. Dust swirled in the air behind her, picked out by the light.

The woman watched, fascinated, attempting to decipher the secrets of the room. Had she sensed that she was not alone? Had she noticed the whirling trail of dust?

The Executioner circled the intruder, intrigued. The woman seemed to radiate life. Her panic and desperation were somehow vital, energising.

She touched the flat of her blade playfully against the woman’s cheek, and then danced away into the shadows. This was her domain: the dead of night, the darkness, the ghosting hours. The woman seemed to recognise this, and it terrified her. She trembled, and the lantern in her hand cast quivering shadows upon the walls and floor, illuminating the myriad clock faces that loomed out from the walls like grinning lunatics.

It was clear the woman had not come here looking for a murderess. There was something else, something she had lost. It did not matter what it was, but the irony of the situation would not be lost on the woman in the moments before she died. She had blundered into a trap of her own devising, walking blindly into the Executioner’s sanctuary. And now the Executioner would take her heart, so full of life, and feel it beat its last in her tightly clenched fist before excising it and adding it to the heap of rotting organs in the corner.

The woman moved suddenly, unexpectedly, flinging the lamp across the room and brandishing her pistol. She squeezed off a couple of shots, which barked and flared in the semi-darkness. The Executioner moved easily, fluidly, and the bullets sailed past, thudding into the furniture close by.

She stepped forward, raising her sword, and plunged it swiftly into the chest of the woman, feeling it slide through soft flesh and snapping bone, exiting through the woman’s back with a spray of dark blood.

The woman emitted a muffled wail as she recognised what had happened, and then crumpled to the floor, the Executioner’s blade still jutting proudly from her chest.

The Executioner knelt, tearing away the woman’s blouse. She ran her finger between the woman’s breasts, measuring her breastbone.

“Veronica?”

She heard the familiar voice echoing from the passageway on the other side of the door.

“Veronica?”

She would have to work quickly. She would not give up this heart.

She set about opening the woman’s chest with her blade, working by the feeble light of the near-extinguished lantern on the floor.

*   *   *

The ticking of the clocks was a discordant cacophony that echoed throughout the bowels of the ruined hotel, not unlike a flock of birds, each of them chattering at once. Newbury, Bainbridge, and Angelchrist crept on towards it, cautious and alert.

“Veronica?” called Newbury, more concerned with finding her than alerting the Executioner—if the murderess was, in fact, there in the hotel—to their presence.

“Veronica?”

He listened for a response, but there was none, only the constant ticking of the clocks.

“What was that?” said Angelchrist from behind him, startled.

“What?” said Newbury.

“I heard a—” He stopped suddenly, and Newbury heard it too: the breathless wail of a woman in pain.

“Charles, your cane,” said Newbury urgently, holding out his hand.