by Mann, George
Bainbridge sighed. "I'd prefer to be back in my warm office shuffling papers. But I suppose we should get to it. We'll go inside and take a look." He climbed to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane and muttering beneath his breath. "This cold weather will be the death of me."
They stepped down from the carriage into the crisp London morning. The horses were sweating profusely, their breaths fogging in the cold air. Newbury looked up at the house. It seemed quiet; different, somehow. He supposed it was simply the lack of lights and noise coming from inside, the fact that last time he'd been here, it had seemed warm and inviting, full of bustle and excitement. Now, instead, it seemed cold and dreary, and Newbury knew that inside, all that awaited him was the stink of death and corruption. His mood darkened. Winthrop had been rather a buffoon of a fellow — a buffoon with a great deal of money to throw at his hobbies — but whatever had happened to him, in there, it was unlikely he deserved it.
Glancing back at Charles and Foulkes, Newbury mounted the steps and made his way up to the grand entrance. There was no butler to show him in, this time, but one of the uniformed officers pushed the door aside to let him pass. Newbury nodded his thanks and stepped into the porch. Nothing there had been obviously disturbed. There were no signs of forced entry. The
stained-glass panels of the inner frame were still perfectly intact, beautifully refracting the light. He turned the handle on the inner door and pushed it open, stepping through into the grand hallway on the other side.
Immediately, it was clear that something devastating had occurred. Where there had previously been an arrangement of tall glass display cases, perfectly placed to allow people to move easily amongst them, there was now only a sea of glass: a shattered wave of splintered panes, broken frames and ancient artefacts, a landscape of devastation writ small. A few of the display cases were still standing, partially smashed, like buildings towering mournfully over the wreck of a city.
Newbury heard Bainbridge step through the door behind him, his cane clicking noisily on the tiles. There was a pause. "Good God! What a mess."
"Hmmm." Newbury rubbed a hand over his chin, thinking. He stepped further into the room. "This is no bungled robbery, Charles. I'm sure of it. This destruction was systematic. Whoever did this was looking for something specific, and they created this chaotic scene to throw us off the scent." He approached the nearest display case, his feet crunching on broken glass. "Look at this." He beckoned Bainbridge over to examine one of the artefacts that was still in situ, a necklace resting on a small black stand. "Ancient gold, inlaid gemstones... Charles, this piece is priceless. Why would they leave it here? Anyone —even the most common of thieves — would think to snatch this up on their way out of the door." He glanced at the ruination by their feet. "There's more of it there, too. A fortune's worth of ancient treasure. Whoever did this left most of the valuables, but took the time to smash the displays, regardless. What were they looking for? What didn't they want us to see?"
Bainbridge shrugged. "You tell me, Newbury. You were here. You saw the displays intact."
Newbury shook his head. "I didn't have time to look in any real detail. I remember noticing an unusual ushabti figure, over here..." He stepped over a heap of broken panes towards another partially intact display case. "I only recall seeing it because the inscriptions were so out of the ordinary. Most of these things carry a particular passage from the Book of the Dead. This one was inscribed with something different, something I'd never seen before." His voice was subdued, almost a whisper. He studied the remnants of the display. The small statuette was gone. He looked up at Bainbridge. "It's gone."
Bainbridge shrugged. "It could be anywhere in that mess, Newbury. It doesn't mean anything." He shook his head. "And I suppose that was the point of the exercise. It's going to take us days to work out what's missing. We'll have to match the artefacts to Winthrop's inventory, one-by-one, before we'll have any idea of what the killer has taken. Assuming Winthrop even had an inventory."
Newbury nodded, looking around himself at the mess. Behind him, he noticed all of the strange, Egyptian-like Automatons were still frozen in silent vigil on their pedestals behind the staircase. There was no sign of Winthrop's body. He caught Bainbridge's attention. "Where is Winthrop?"
"In the drawing room." Bainbridge sighed. "Come on. Let's get it out of the way. I'm told it's not pretty."
Newbury clambered out from the wreckage of the displays, being careful not to slice his hands on the broken glass. He followed Bainbridge silently across the hallway, towards the double doors that led to the drawing room.
The room was still shrouded in darkness, the heavy curtains pulled across the windows, just as they had been the last time Newbury had visited the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Bainbridge coughed. There was a dry, musty odour, and Newbury realised immediately that the familiar smell originated from the exposed remains of the mummy, which was still laid out on the long table, just as it had been two nights before. Rolls of unravelled linen bandages surrounded it like a bed of ornamental reeds.
At first, Newbury couldn't see where Winthrop's corpse had keen left. There was nothing by the fireplace, or by the bookcase in the far wall. He frowned and looked over at Charles, who was staring, dumbfounded, at the empty casket of the mummy, which lay on the floor beside the table. Newbury followed his gaze.
Winthrop's body had been carefully placed inside the shell of the casket, his arms folded across his chest in an obscene parody of the mummy's burial pose. His throat had been slit, and blood had pooled behind his head, forming an oily, congealing puddle of red. His mouth was set in a terrible rictus grin.
Newbury crouched down beside the wooden coffin. "Someone has a ghastly sense of humour, Charles."
"I'll say. Poor sod. We mustn't let the press get hold of this."
"Quite." Newbury reached down and turned Winthrop's head slightly from side to side. The gash across his throat yawned open like a second mouth with the movement. There was blood everywhere; matted in Winthrop's beard and hair, soaked into his clothes. Gritty arterial spray had spattered the floor around the coffin, too. It had been a quick, effective murder. Not the sort of thing Newbury would expect to see as the result of a burglary. "Charles. Have you seen the precision with which his throat has been cut? This is not the sort of wound one would expect from your average ruffian. This is not a bungled robbery. It's an execution. And it's very much in the style of one of Her Majesty's agents."
"No, Newbury. I absolutely refuse to believe it. Why would Ashford do such a thing? What possible motivation could he have for murdering Winthrop in such a manner?"
Newbury stood, wiping the blood from his fingers with his handkerchief. "I have no idea. But it's clear from what Her Majesty said that Ashford is disturbed. And you've received the same basic training in the combative arts as I have, Charles. You know as well as I do that this is a textbook assassination."
Bainbridge shook his head, the distaste evident on his face. "I don't like it, Newbury. Ashford was a good man. And the grotesque way in which this body has been posed..."
"It's been a long time, Charles, and a lot of water has passed under the bridge. Ashford has been in Russia for five years, living hand to mouth. We have no idea what he's been through, what vile practices he's learned. He isn't the man you once knew. From what I gather, he isn't even a man at all. For all we know, someone else could be guiding his hand. He may have defected."
"Still, Newbury, we have to consider all of our options. There remains Blake, and the —"
There was a loud crash from out in the hall, the sound of glass shattering on marble. Both men rushed to the door, Bainbridge hefting his cane, ready to take on the intruder.
A young man was standing amongst the wreckage of the display cabinets, a sheepish expression on his face. His hair was wand-coloured, his eyes a bright, shining blue. He was dressed in a brown suit and tie, and he was clutching a notebook in his left hand. Bainbridge started forw
ard, but Newbury put a hand on his arm to hold him back.
"It's alright, Charles. This is Mr. George Purefoy, a young reporter from The Times."
"Good afternoon, Sir Maurice." Purefoy grinned. He stepped out from amongst the pile of debris and came towards the two men, his hand extended.
Bainbridge lowered his cane. "What is the meaning of this? This is the scene of a crime, Mr. Purefoy. You have no right to be here. I consider this a case of trespass."
Purefoy dropped his hand. "Ah... well, I..."
Newbury stepped forward. "Mr. Purefoy, how did you happen to find your way onto these premises?"
Purefoy clearly didn't know where to look. "An open window around the back." He glanced at the floor.
Newbury raised an eyebrow. He looked at Charles. "Perhaps that's the entrance used by our murderer? We should take a look."
"Murderer? So it is murder, then?"
Newbury smiled. "Do you think, Mr. Purefoy, that the Chief Inspector and I would be here if it were not?"
"I'm not sure what to think, to be truthful, Sir Maurice. Would you care to elaborate on your role in the matter? As I understand it you're an academic with an office at the British Museum?"
Newbury laughed. "You're bold, Mr. Purefoy. I'll give you that. And if you don't want Sir Charles here to have you charged with trespass, I recommend you be on your way forthwith."
Purefoy nodded. "I think I have enough for the time being."
Bainbridge coughed into his fist. "And I suggest you think carefully before you commit any of it to print, young man. I don't want to hear any of this liberal nonsense about 'the people having a right to know'. This, Mr. Purefoy, is a murder investigation, and I expect you to respect that before you go rattling off, your nonsense for the front page. It's difficult enough as it is to catch a villain these days, without having the details splashed all over the morning edition." It was evident that Bainbridge was feeling flustered by the appearance of the young man.
Newbury put an arm on Purefoy's shoulder and guided him to the door, avoiding the spilled fragments of glass as they walked. He lowered his voice. "Three things you need to be aware of, Mr. Purefoy. Firstly, if you're going to sneak around at the scene of a murder, it's preferable not to get caught. Secondly, there are more professional agencies at work in this Empire than simply Scotland Yard and Her Majesty's military. I belong to one of them. Thirdly, Winthrop was murdered because of his connection to the mummy he brought back from Thebes. Now, when you write about this morning's events, you will refrain from printing any details of the murder or any mention of Sir Charles or I." He looked the young reporter in the eye. "I don't expect to catch you like this again."
Purefoy took Newbury's hand and shook it firmly. "No, Sir Maurice. I don't expect you do." He pulled on the door handle and, without looking back, stepped out into the foyer and the street beyond.
Newbury turned back to Bainbridge. "One day, Charles, that boy will make an excellent agent."
Bainbridge shook his head, exasperated. "One day, Newbury, I'll have a notion of what goes on in that mysterious head of yours." He leaned heavily on his cane. "Now, what of Winthrop?"
Newbury ran a hand over his chin. "I'm not sure what else there is to say. Until we have a notion of what has or hasn't been taken... it's just another despicable murder of a society gentleman. You need to talk to Blake, of course. And I need to find out where Ashford is hiding. I can't help thinking he's at the heart of it, somehow."
"I usually trust your instincts, Newbury, but this time I can't help feeling that you're on the wrong track."
Newbury sighed. "Time will tell, I suppose, old man. Time will tell." He turned up the collar of his coat. "Dinner? There's a new chef at the White Friar's. Excellent Pigeons a la Duchesse..."
"What? You're leaving?"
Newbury looked pained. "There's little more I can do here, Charles, and I promised Miss Hobbes I'd assist her with this damnable situation of the missing girls. You have Foulkes. Have him and his men turn the place over. Then meet me at my club at seven and we'll talk it over. I need to give some thought to this situation with Ashford, too."
Bainbridge waved his cane at the door. "Very well. Tonight. Seven o'clock. I imagine I'll be needing a brandy."
Newbury laughed. "I imagine we both will." He inclined his head in farewell, and then quit the house, relieved to be putting some distance between himself and the horribly brutalised corpse of Lord Henry Winthrop. He had no real notion of what Ashford could be up to, or why he should have executed Winthrop in such a horrendous manner. He needed to uncover the significance of the missing ushabti figure and the strange engravings he'd noticed during the party. He also needed a way of discovering where Ashford was hiding, and what his connection to Winthrop might be. Most of all, he needed time to think. And he knew a place where he could find it.
First, he would call on Veronica at the office, to explain how he had found himself detained, and to make arrangements to assist her the following day. Then he would pay a visit to Johnny Chang's.
Chapter Ten
Newbury emerged at the top of the stone staircase to find the light was already beginning to wane. It was windy and cold— so cold that his breath fogged before his face — but the warm haze of the opium high was enough to dispel the effects of the bracing weather. The street was busy, criss-crossed with people coming and going, shutting up their store fronts and retiring to their homes for the evening. Newbury checked his pocket watch. It was nearly half past five. He'd need to head directly to the White Friar's if he wanted to keep his appointment with Charles.
Newbury blinked as a ground train rolled by, its large, iron wheels groaning beneath the considerable weight of the engine. Steam billowed from a wheezing funnel. Carriages clattered along behind the huge machine, filled with passengers making their way home from any number of manufactories and offices, their faces dour after hours spent relentlessly pursuing an incalculably small wage. The driver looked cold and exhausted in his open-sided cab. Newbury shivered. He hadn't been near one of the vehicles since his encounter with the man posing as "the glowing policeman" a few months earlier. He'd sustained serious injuries fist-fighting with the man on the roof of one of the trains, and now, any time he found himself in close proximity to one of them, he couldn't help but recall the fate of the other man, his head cracked open on the cobbles after Newbury had caused him to tumble over the side. It was no more or less than the man had deserved — Newbury knew that — but the look of horror on his face as he fell to his death was something that would stay with Newbury forever. Such, he supposed, was the life he had chosen to live.
Sighing, he pulled his coat a little tighter around his shoulders, and set out, hoping the crisp air would help to clear his head before dinner.
He had called for Veronica after leaving Winthrop's house earlier that afternoon, but found she had already left for the day. A small, terse note printed in her immaculate handwriting had been waiting for him on his desk:
Sir Maurice,
I have taken leave to visit Amelia in your absence. I trust I shall see you in the office tomorrow morning so that we may continue with our investigations.
Miss Veronica Hobbes
It pained him to think that he had let her down. Moreover, it pained him to consider the missing girls and their plight. He knew, in his heart, that they were probably already dead, slung into the Thames like broken ragdolls or else dumped unceremoniously into hastily dug graves somewhere on the east side of the city. But he had a job to do, and presently Her Majesty considered it necessary for him to curtail the exploits of the rogue agent, William Ashford. It didn't sit well with Newbury to consider that the life of a lord should take precedence over the lives of innumerable working-class women, but he also knew that he wasn't yet in full possession of the facts. He didn't know what Ashford was looking for, nor what he was capable of. He might yet pose an even greater threat. And besides, it wasn't just a matter of bringing him in for the death of Winthrop. I
t was a matter of stopping a traitor — a traitor who knew everything about the innermost workings of Her Majesty's operations — from doing any more damage, at the very heart of the Empire itself, no less.
So, instead of chasing after his headstrong assistant, Newbury had retreated to the clandestine haven of Johnny Chang's, where he had passed the afternoon in a heady opium dream, cogitating on all of the disparate threads of the case, searching the annals of his mind for a possible solution. A part of him could see the hypocrisy in that line of thinking, but he knew himself better than that. The drug had enabled him to relax, to recede into his own quiet world, where his instincts had come to the fore and he was able to seek a different perspective of the chaotic mess of leads and clues and mysteries that faced him. And, as a result, he had formulated a plan. He knew how he was going to deal with Ashford. He was going to lay a trap. All he needed was a little —
Newbury turned sharply at the sound of a scuffed heel from close behind him. He made a fist in his gloved hand, expecting someone to be upon him at any moment. His breath became shallow, his heart hammering hard in his chest. He spun around on the spot, seeking out his assailant. But there was no one nearby. The street behind him was almost deserted, the bustle of earlier gone, as if the shopkeepers and passers-by had simply melted away into the shadows. Now, there were just a handful of people on the other side of the road, heading in the opposite direction.
Newbury glanced from side to side. The shadows of the terraced houses loomed large and uninviting, a few gas-lamps giving off an amber glow in the wan evening light. The wind whistled ominously through some nearby railings.
Perplexed, Newbury carried on walking. He had the sense of someone there, on the periphery of his vision, but each time he looked back over his shoulder he could see no evidence that he was being followed. He wondered if it were the opium, playing tricks with his mind, causing the shadows to come to bizarre, hallucinatory life. Worse, he knew better than most that the shadows of London did contain creeping things that were better avoided; things that lurked in the darkness, preying on the ignorant and unwary; things from children's nightmares, fashioned from both the flesh and the spirit, or more recently, from the steam-powered manufactories of men.
