The Executioner's Heart: A Newbury & Hobbes Investigation E-Book

George Mann

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

A serial killer is loose on the streets of London, murdering apparently random members of the gentry with violent abandon. The corpses are each found with their chest cavities cracked open and their hearts removed. Charles Bainbridge, Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, suspects an occult significance to the crimes and brings Newbury and Veronica in to investigate.

Leseprobe

Also by George Mann and available from Titan Books

Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

Coming soon

The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (September 2013)

Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead (November 2013)

Newbury & Hobbes: The Revenant Express (July 2014)

Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes (February 2014)

GEORGE MANN

TITAN BOOKS

NEWBURY & HOBBES: THE EXECUTIONER’S HEART

Print edition ISBN: 9781781160053

E-book edition ISBN: 9781781166444

Published by

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street

London

SE1 0UP

First edition: July 2013

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

George Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Copyright © 2013 George Mann.

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

FOR LIZ

Contents

Chapter 1: London, March 1903

Chapter 2: London, February 1903

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

LONDON, MARCH 1903

The ticking was all she could hear.

Like the ominous beating of a hundred mechanised hearts—syncopated, chaotic—it filled the small room, counting away the seconds, measuring her every breath. A carnival of clockwork, a riot of cogs.

She realised she was holding her breath and let it out. She peered further into the dim room from the doorway, clutching the wooden frame. The paintwork was smooth and cold beneath her fingers.

The room was lit only by the flickering light of a gas lamp on a round table in the centre of the space. A warm orange glow seeped from beneath the half-open lamp shutters, casting long shadows that seemed to carouse and dance of their own volition.

The air was thick with a dank, musty odour. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. The room probably hadn’t been aired for years, perhaps even decades. Most of the windows had long ago been boarded over or bricked up, hidden away to keep the outside world at bay. Or, she mused, to prevent whoever lived inside from looking out. Clearly, the hotel had fallen on hard times long before the accident had put it out of business.

The décor reflected the fashions of the previous century, an echo of life from fifty or a hundred years earlier. Now the once-elegant sideboard, the gilt-framed mirror, the sumptuous chaise longue, were all covered in a thick layer of powdery dust, which bloomed in little puffs as she crept into the room, particles swirling in the air around her. There was evidence that rodents had nested in the soft furnishings, pulling the downy innards from the cushions and leaving their spoor scattered like seeds across the floorboards. There was a sense of abandonment about the place, as if whoever had once lived here had up and left, leaving everything in situ for her to find years later. She could almost believe the place had remained like that, untouched until now, if it hadn’t been for the clocks.

All around her the walls were adorned with them. More clocks than she had ever seen, crowding every inch of space, their ivory faces looming down at her from wherever she looked. There were small clocks and large clocks, fine antiques and dirty, broken remnants. Spectacular, gilded creations from the finest workshops of Paris and St. Petersburg, discarded junk from the rubbish tips of London, each of them slowly meting out the seconds like chattering gatekeepers, each in disagreement with the others. To her there was something ominous about them, something wrong.

She crossed to the table in the centre of the room. The sounds of her movements were muffled by the constant, oppressive ticking, which threatened to overwhelm her, making her feel dizzy and unsure of herself. The noise rung in her ears, drowning out everything, even her thoughts. She fought the urge to flee, reaching instead for the gas lamp and flipping up the shutters.

Light erupted from the lamp in a bright halo, flooding the room. Everything became indistinct, hazy, as she waited for her gloom-adjusted eyes to grow accustomed to the light, and at first she had to squint to see. Ghostly shapes and hulking shadows took on new forms now that the darkness was dispelled: a dresser where a lurking presence had been, a chair where previously some nightmarish creature had crouched in wait. The light gave her strength. She absorbed it.

She sensed sudden movement behind her and spun around, but there was only a wide fan of dust drifting in the still air, most likely disturbed by her own frantic movements. Nevertheless, she felt uneasy. Was someone in the room with her? Were they skulking somewhere in the shadows, watching even now?

She hefted the lamp from the table and turned in a slow circle, considering the room. There was evidence that someone had slept there recently: a heap of scarlet cushions on the floorboards in the far left corner, the faint impression of a human body still evident upon them. Beside these lay a number of discarded food wrappers, cast aside and left for the rodents to nose through at their leisure. Whoever it was, they were clearly accustomed to sleeping rough, although how anyone could sleep at all with the constant chattering of the clocks, she did not know.

She was beginning to wish that she hadn’t come alone. This was not, she told herself, an admission of weakness, but simply a matter of practicality. If anything happened to her here, no one would come looking. Or rather, they would have no notion of where to find her. She might end up like one of those missing young women reported with alarming regularity in The Times, nothing but a brief description and a desperate plea for information, for witnesses, for hope. Or worse, like one of those artefacts announced in the columns of the lost and found, misplaced and much-lamented, but lost forever to the annals of time. She was adamant that this would not be her fate. She should have left word of her intentions and her whereabouts, but she no longer trusted the men she had once confided in. The men she had once considered incorruptible. Their duplicity had confounded her, had left her with few options of how to proceed. She no longer understood their motivations. There was an irony to be found in that, but she took no comfort from it.

Movement again. This time she was sure it was more than just the hands of the clocks describing their ceaseless, monotonous circles; there was another presence in the room. She twisted around sharply, the gas lamp still clutched in her left hand so that her sudden movement set it rocking wildly back and forth in her grip. One of the shutters snapped closed. Strobing columns of light flickered to and fro as she searched the room, creating stuttering snatches of light and dark, a series of jaunty stills that flashed before her eyes.

Her heart was in her mouth. She glanced nervously from side to side. And then she saw it. A glimpse of something half-expected, frozen for the briefest of moments as the lamp swung around, framing it, capturing it for a second in its shimmering rays.

There was a face in the darkness. It was ghostly white, stark in the orange lamplight, with terrifying black eyes that seemed to bore directly into her. There was accusation in that stare. Envy, even. As if the woman hated her simply for being alive.

The woman’s brown hair had been roughly hacked off, short and unkempt, and every inch of her exposed skin had been tattooed with elaborate whorls and eddies, with runic symbols and arcane pictograms. Thin traceries of precious metals had been inlaid in the soft flesh of her cheeks, glinting with reflected light.

One moment the face was there, the next it had gone, swallowed by the gloom as the lamp continued its pendulous motion, swinging back and forth, back and forth.

She braced herself, fighting panic, and raised the lamp in the vague hope that she might catch another glimpse of her quarry. She had come here in search of answers, but instead she had happened upon this murderess, the woman they had hunted through the mist-shrouded alleyways of London, from crime scene to exhibition hall, from the Revenant-infested slums to the splendour of Buckingham Palace itself. But now, somehow, she felt like she was the prey. It was as if their roles had been reversed, as if by coming here to this half-ruined hotel with its ticking, clockwork heart, she had altered the relationship between hunter and hunted.

She felt the ghost of movement to her left, of disturbed air currents brushing past her cheek. She turned, swinging the lantern around, but there was nothing to see, only darkness and clocks. The woman was toying with her.

A shiver passed unbidden down her spine. She felt for the grip of the pistol tucked in her belt. Her fingers closed around it and she tugged it free. The wooden butt was smooth and worn, the metal cold against her palm. She hated the thing, hated that she’d used it to kill people, harnessed its violence to snuff lives out of existence. No matter that she had done so to protect herself and others; it was still an odious tool for an odious job, a constant reminder of the terrible things she had done. Was she really any better than the woman who was lurking in the darkness? Did the fact that she had acted in pursuit of a just cause make any difference whatsoever?

She heard the scuff of a boot against the dusty floorboards behind her and knew it was time. She would bring an end to this now. She raised the pistol and swung around, launching the lamp in the direction of the sound, then snapping out two brisk shots. The lamp clattered noisily against the wall, missing its target and dislodging a cluster of timepieces, which skittered across the floorboards in a chaotic jumble. The light guttered and blinked out, shrouding the room in a heavy cloak of darkness.

She clutched the pistol, her hand trembling. Had she hit her mark? She didn’t think so. She couldn’t hear anything other than the strangely symphonic chattering of the clocks and the thumping of her own heartbeat, pounding relentlessly in her ears.

She twisted from side to side, drawing the nose of the pistol through the musty air as if it could somehow cleave a path through the darkness or divine the location of her adversary.

For a moment she did nothing, standing alert and still, waiting to see if the woman would make a move. There was nothing else she could do. She’d lost all sense of her bearings in the immaculate darkness. She had no idea of where the doorway might be, or which direction she was facing.

She started as she felt something touch her cheek: the cool, almost gentle caress of a metal blade. Involuntarily her arm came up in defence, knocking the other woman’s hand aside. She aimed a kick in the same direction, hoping to take the woman’s legs out from beneath her, but her enemy was still toying with her and had already danced off, melting away into the darkness.

She grunted in frustration. She had almost overbalanced with the momentum of her kick, and had to throw her arms out wide to stop herself from falling.

She righted herself a moment later, feeling a strange tightness in her chest. Was she having trouble breathing? It was as if she suddenly had a heavy weight bearing down on her, preventing her from drawing breath.

She gasped for air ineffectually and felt panic beginning to well up inside her. Her left hand went to her chest, exploring, as if drawn there, and she realised with dawning horror that something was protruding from it, right above her heart. With realisation came pain, a sharp, excruciating pain the like of which she had never experienced before. Her head swam, and she thought she was going to swoon. Her world began to close in around her. All she could think about was the blossoming pain and the long metal blade buried deep in her rib cage.

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 mindset. 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 Scarbrigh—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 decor 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 decor, 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.”

“Not that it did her much good in the long run,” replied Foulkes, levelly.

Bainbridge twisted around and glowered at the inspector. “Show a little respect, man.”

Foulkes looked momentarily taken aback. Then he nodded, his expression suddenly serious. “I mean to say that the killer was obviously relentless, despite the fact that the woman put up a tremendous struggle.”

Bainbridge sighed. He was taking out his frustration on the other man, and Foulkes didn’t deserve that. Three unsolved deaths in as many days, however, were starting to take their toll on Bainbridge. Three apparently linked deaths, at that, suggesting there were probably more to come. They’d all been virtually the same: each of the victims had been found in their own homes, their chests cracked open and their hearts removed. The organs themselves were nowhere to be seen, spirited away from the scenes, Bainbridge assumed, by the killer himself. The only differences this time were the fact that the victim was a woman, and that she’d clearly tried to defend herself against her assailant. But once again, there was no obvious motive, no clear links between the victims, and thus—much to Bainbridge’s chagrin—no leads.

“Was she married?” he asked, spotting the gold band on the woman’s ring finger and frowning. Nothing he’d seen since entering the house suggested a man might have shared her home.

“No. She was a widow. She lived alone. Had done so for the last fifteen years.”

Bainbridge nodded. That made sense. She still wore the ring for sentimental reasons. “A housekeeper?” He glanced up at Foulkes, who shook his head dolefully.

“Just a maid who came in once a day to see to the washing and cleaning. Either she was fiercely independent, or she’d run into financial difficulties.”

Well, at least that fit with what Bainbridge had already surmised, although he cursed himself for not even considering that the dead woman might simply have been deeply private and independent. It wasn’t impossible, especially in this age. After all, Bainbridge had spent a great deal of time in the company of Miss Veronica Hobbes, who, to his mind, was the epitome of a modern, independent woman. He should have at least considered the option before jumping to conclusions. Shades of grey.

Nevertheless, there was hardly a comparison to be made here. The victim in this instance was older, a widow, and about as far from Veronica Hobbes as one could imagine.

Bainbridge sighed. “The maid. Has she turned up for work yet this morning?”

Foulkes nodded. “She was the one who discovered the body. Her routine was to arrive early and take care of her errands before the victim rose for the day. She’d then move on to another household, where she’d carry out similar chores before lunch.”

Bainbridge nodded. “Where is she now?”

“She’s rather shaken, as you might imagine. She’s in the kitchen with Cartwright. There’s very little she can add. The entrance and exit point of the killer is obvious from the broken window at the back, and there’s no reason to suspect she played any role in her mistress’s death.”

“Good work, Foulkes,” said Bainbridge, and he meant it. Foulkes had saved him a great deal of legwork, making sure all the basics were taken care of before Bainbridge had even arrived. He grunted as he pulled himself upright again. He turned away from the corpse to face the inspector. “There’s one thing you haven’t me told me, though.”

Foulkes looked perplexed. “What’s that, sir?”

“Her name,” said Bainbridge, indicating the body with a wave of his cane.

“Ah, yes. Right. Elizabeth Peterson, sir. She has one living relative, a son, who’s currently somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean on an airship bound for New York. We’ve sent word, so there should be a message awaiting him when he arrives there in a few days.”

Bainbridge nodded. Poor bastard. That was no way to find out about his mother’s death, especially in circumstances such as these.

“There’s one thing that’s been troubling me, sir,” continued Foulkes.

“Only one?” replied Bainbridge, and realised he was now being facetious. “I’m sorry, Foulkes. What is it?”

“The missing hearts, sir. There has to be some significance that we’re not seeing. Why does the killer take their hearts? He goes to a great deal of trouble to crack the victims’ chests like that. I just can’t work out what it’s all in aid of. I hesitate to say it... but do you think there might be some sort of ritualistic element to it?”

Bainbridge felt the corners of his lips twitch into a thin smile. Foulkes had been paying attention. “I think you’re right about the occult significance, Foulkes. The damn trouble is in working out what it might be.”

“And doing it before they strike again,” added Foulkes.

“Quite.”

“So...?”

“You never were very good at subtlety, Foulkes,” said Bainbridge, but there was an edge of levity in his voice.

“So you’re going to ask for his help?”

Bainbridge sighed. “Yes. I’m going to send for Newbury. If anyone can shed any light on the matter, he can. And, let’s face it: we’re not getting very far on our own, are we?”

Foulkes smiled for the first time that day, but he didn’t say another word as the two men filed out of the blood-spattered library, leaving the young bobbies to guard the corpse until dawn.

CHAPTER 3

Sir Maurice Newbury lounged on the sofa like a listless cat, warming himself before the fire.

A smouldering cigarette dripped from his thin, pink lips, smoke twisting in lazy curlicues from its glowing tip. His expensive black suit was rumpled and creased, his shirt open at the collar, the cravat long since discarded. He was unshaven, and his flesh had taken on a deathly pallor, as if it hadn’t seen the sun in many days. His eyelids were closed and his breathing was shallow.

The pungent aroma of opium was heavy in the air, mingling with the tobacco smoke to form a thick, sweet fog that clung to the corners of the room as if Newbury’s Chelsea home was now a microcosm of the city, choking amidst the tendrils of yet another pea-souper.

The fire spat and crackled noisily in the grate. The only other sounds in the small room were the gentle rasp of Newbury’s breath and the clacking of his clockwork owl as it hopped nervously from foot to foot on its wooden perch by the window.

Books lay scattered about him: heaped on the floor, piled on the coffee table, balanced precariously on the arms of the green leather couch. Their gilded spines shone in the soft light of the gas lamps, resplendent with titles such as A Key to Physic and the Occult Sciences and The Cosmology of the Spirit. Newbury had surrounded himself with them as if they offered him sustenance, as if the mere presence of the leaning piles was enough to grant him strength, comfort. In some ways, they did.

Newbury’s eyes flickered open. His lids felt heavy and tired. He unfurled slowly, stretching his weary limbs. He had no idea what time of day it was. The heavy drapes were closed, shielding him from the sunlight, from all the cares and distractions of the outside world. In this haven, he was cocooned against the chaotic morass of humanity that swarmed through the rain-lashed streets of London. More so, he was distanced from their many designs and desires, their concerns and their problems, their petty squabbles and their crimes. In here, the outside world could not intrude, not unless he wished it to.

Newbury took a long, luxurious draw from his tainted cigarette, allowing the smoke to plume playfully from his nostrils. He felt ash dribble over his chin and brushed it away cursorily with the back of his hand.

He hadn’t left the house in days. He’d been holed up in the drawing room, buried in his books and the crimson depths of an opium dream. Scarbright had entered only to bring him meals, most of which had remained untouched. It was to the man’s credit that he’d continued to deliver the plates of steaming food, simply removing the uneaten remnants of the previous meal without judgement or comment. If the valet was reporting back to Bainbridge as he was supposed to, he’d clearly not said enough to concern the chief inspector, as Newbury had received no calls or summons from his friend.

That, in itself, was rather refreshing. As much as Newbury cared for his old friend, he could do without having his ear bent again about his “lackadaisical behaviour.” Bainbridge was in possession of only half of the facts. He couldn’t understand Newbury’s use of the Chinese weed because he didn’t—couldn’t—know of Newbury’s reasons. At least, not yet. Not until the situation with Veronica was fully resolved. Not until he had divined what terrors lay in the darkness, waiting.

Whatever the case, Newbury couldn’t deny that he was badly in need of a bath and a shave. He would see to them both just as soon as he could muster the energy.

His days had passed like this for some months, ever since the storming of the Grayling Institute and the supposed death of Veronica’s sister, Amelia Hobbes, ever since he had sworn to discover a means by which to heal the miraculously clairvoyant young woman, to halt her spiralling descent towards insanity and death. His time since then had been absorbed in ritual and the yellowing pages of ancient books, the hours drifting by in a warm, opium-inspired fugue.

There had, of course, been a number of cases over the course of the last six months that had vied for his attention. Some he had been forced to take on at the behest of the Queen, others simply because Bainbridge had needed his help. He’d been able to devote only a small amount of his time and energy to such matters, however, engaged as he was in his search for Amelia’s cure, as well as his own ongoing investigation: tracking the mysterious Lady Arkwell across London.

Arkwell was—apparently—a foreign agent, but Newbury was as yet unable to ascertain her nationality, despite the fact that he had met her in person at least half a dozen times, battled with her on three of those occasions, and formed a temporary alliance with her on another. Nevertheless, Lady Arkwell had continued to outwit him at every stage. It was at once infuriating and exhilarating, and he had vowed to bring the matter to a head.

For now, though, Newbury was content to lounge on his sofa, smoke his opium-tainted cigarettes, and contemplate the universe. And he had to admit that he was in no real hurry to rid himself of such a worthy adversary. He was sure she felt the same, and she would make the next move in their little game when she deemed the time to be right. Newbury, for his part, would bide his time.

There was a firm rap on the drawing room door. Newbury sighed. Scarbright. Time for another meal, no doubt. He glanced at the uneaten remains of his luncheon—a thick beef broth, now cold and congealing on the sideboard—and felt a sharp twinge of guilt. It did seem wrong to let so much food go to waste, particularly as Scarbright was such a superb culinary craftsman. He would make an effort, he decided, to consume at least some of Scarbright’s dinner, despite the fact that his appetite was practically non-existent.

“Come,” said Newbury, his voice a low drawl.

The door creaked open, and he heard Scarbright’s footsteps crossing the room towards him. Newbury felt more than saw the shadow of the valet as it fell upon him.

Scarbright cleared his throat pointedly, waiting for Newbury to acknowledge his presence.

Newbury turned slowly to peer up at the valet through half-open lids. The man looked a little peaky, as if he was feeling unwell or had just had a rather unpleasant surprise. He was not carrying a dinner tray.

Newbury raised one eyebrow and removed the stub of the cigarette from between his lips. “What is it, Scarbright?”

Scarbright took a deep breath before speaking. When he did, his tone was calm and measured, entirely at odds with his suspiciously nervous manner. “You have a visitor, sir.”

Newbury frowned. “If it’s Charles, tell him to go away.” He paused for a moment, considering. “In fact, tell him I’ll see him at the White Friar’s this evening.”

“It’s not Sir Charles, sir. It’s... well...”

“It’s alright, Scarbright. I’ll rouse the scoundrel myself!” The voice was deep, commanding, and terrifyingly familiar.

Newbury struggled to pull himself upright on the sofa. The sound of the man’s boots clacking on the floorboards was like an ominous drum roll as he strode purposefully into the room.

“Get up, you damn layabout!” Newbury caught only the briefest glance of Scarbright’s apologetic face before the newcomer snapped out another command and sent the valet scuttling away. “Scarbright, open a window. I can barely stand this damnable smoke.”

Newbury, head swimming, staggered to his feet and turned to regard his visitor. He groaned inwardly as his fears were confirmed: standing there at the arm of the sofa, resplendent in a smart black suit, was Albert Edward of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, the Prince of Wales.

The Prince had a stately aspect, and he carried himself with enormous confidence and poise. His balding pate gleamed in the low light and his grey beard and moustache were neatly trimmed. He was watching Newbury from beneath hooded eyes, his disapproving expression so similar to that of his mother—and Newbury’s employer, Queen Victoria, herself— that Newbury couldn’t help but shudder under its glare.

For a moment the two men stared at one another, neither of them speaking. Finally, Newbury found his voice. “Good... afternoon, your Royal Highness,” he said, hoping desperately that he’d at least managed to guess the time of day correctly. “You are most welcome. Although I fear you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Quite,” said the Prince, glancing around at the state of the drawing room.

Newbury winced, both at the sharpness of the Prince’s rebuke and the sudden intensity of the light as Scarbright pulled back the drapes, allowing sunlight to flood in through the tall windows. Disturbed puddles of stale cigarette ash swirled in the afternoon sun, dancing amongst the dust motes.

Newbury was beginning to wish that he’d paid more attention to the Queen’s summonses, which had been delivered to his door with increasing frequency in the preceding days, and were currently forming a neat little pile on the occasional table. Perhaps Victoria had sent her son to chase him out of his rooms. Surely not? Surely there was more important business with which the Prince of Wales might concern himself?

Newbury glanced down at his crumpled suit, with its oily streaks of smeared ash on the lapels and innumerable stains from where he’d carelessly sloshed absinthe and red wine. It was not the most salubrious of impressions to make upon a future monarch.

“If your Royal Highness would like to take a seat...” Newbury paused as he realised there probably weren’t any seats in the room that weren’t piled high with occult grimoires, old newspapers, or full specimen jars, then decided that the best thing in the circumstances was to carry on regardless, “...I might just excuse myself for a moment.” He began to edge around the sofa towards the door, hoping he might stall things for a few minutes so that he could at least slip away and change while Scarbright saw to the immediate mess.

“Sit down, Newbury, and stop that infernal flapping. Don’t you think I knew what I was letting myself in for, coming here? You are notorious throughout the palace for your fondness for that dreadful weed, and no one has seen you for days. I half expected to hear word that poor Bainbridge had once again been forced to haul your sorry carcass out of an opium den in the East End. It’s something of a relief to find you here at all.”

Newbury swallowed, but his mouth was dry. There was very little he could offer in response to the Prince’s words. After all, he had rather been caught red-handed.

Scarbright busied himself, freeing up two Chesterfields close to the fire by unceremoniously tossing heaps of Newbury’s precious books onto the floor in one corner. Both men watched him until he straightened his back, approached them, and—with some dignity, given the circumstances—bade them to their seats.

Newbury watched as the Prince lowered himself into one of the armchairs, filling it utterly with both his physical bulk and his voluminous presence. Scarbright took the Prince’s walking cane and hat, then swiftly withdrew with promises of tea.

Newbury eyed the Prince for a moment, attempting to gather himself. His head was still swimming with the effects of the opium he’d consumed, and for a moment he wondered if he were actually hallucinating—if it wasn’t simply his mind playing tricks on him, fabricating the encounter as a product of his guilt or fears or anxieties. But then the Prince turned and looked up at him, and Newbury knew the situation was all too real. He swallowed, attempting to relieve his dry mouth. He’d just have to carry on as best he could.

Newbury smiled genially, crossed to the Chesterfield opposite the Prince, and sat down. He was intrigued to discover the reason for the unusual—or, rather, positively unheard of—visitation.

“A relief, your Royal Highness?” he said, his voice low and respectful.

“What?”

“You said, your Royal Highness, that it was something of a relief to find me at home. I take it, therefore, that I am able to assist you in some way?”

The Prince narrowed his eyes for a moment before his face creased into a broad smile. “It’s good to see the Newbury I recognise is still in there, somewhere. Judging by the state of you, man, I had cause to doubt it.”

“I can only apologise. You find me engaged in more of my ongoing... studies.”