by Mann, George
Newbury shuddered, and then laughed at himself for allowing his mind to run away with him. It was clear the opium was still influencing his thoughts, much more than he had anticipated. He was not used to partaking of the drug in such a way, to such an extent, and had underestimated its effects. He took a deep breath, trying to cleanse his lungs. Everything that was happening had a dream-like quality about it, as if he perceived the world through some sort of hazy filter. He relished the feeling, the loss of control, but he also knew how dangerous that could be for a man in his position. Absently, he hoped that Charles would not be able to discern his condition over dinner.
There was another sound from behind him, this time over his right shoulder. Cautiously, he carried on walking so as not to give away the fact he had noticed. This time he was sure it was no hallucination. He'd heard the sole of a boot scuffing against the road. On his left was the dark frontage of a furrier's shop, the window display filled with shop dummies dressed in all manner of animal pelts, fashioned into coats, hats, scarves and more. Slowly, he approached the window, feigning interest. He studied his reflection in the glass. He looked pale and drawn, dark rings beneath his eyes. He put it out of mind. Newbury watched for a moment, looking for signs of the person who had been following him. Sure enough, a moment later he caught a glimpse of something moving in the reflected scene of the street: a large, hulking shape, bigger than an average man, its face hidden beneath the cowl of an ominous hood. It was shrouded in a thick, black cloak. Newbury spun around, quickly, hoping to catch the creature off guard, but just as before, there was nothing to see. The street was deserted. He heard footsteps padding away, up ahead, in amongst the shadows. Whoever had been following him had clearly realised he was on to them, and wasn't ready to make themselves known.
For a moment, Newbury considered giving chase, but he knew he wasn't up to a fight, and besides, he had to be across town to meet Charles. But this new development altered things, altered the plans he'd been conceiving. Perhaps he wouldn't need to go after William Ashford, after all. Perhaps Ashford was coming after him.
He needed to clear his head.
Slowly, Newbury set off, heading in the same direction as the footsteps. He hoped that Ashford — if it were, indeed, Ashford — was not lurking in the darkness up ahead, waiting to pounce on him as he made his unsteady way towards Piccadilly. He kept his hands free as he walked, ready to defend himself if the situation arose.
After a few hundred yards, however, Newbury allowed himself to relax. It seemed that the mysterious figure had bolted when Newbury had caught sight of him in the shop window. His fingers were growing numb in the biting cold, and although it wasn't far to Piccadilly, he decided that he would hail a cab at the next available opportunity. Further ahead, the road opened out into a large set of crossroads, and the thoroughfare there, even from this distance, seemed busy with people and vehicles, He quickened his pace, knowing that he would be likely to able to employ a hansom at the junction.
A shadow passed overhead, and Newbury looked up to see the dark underbelly of an airship sweeping low over the city, a rope ladder trailing, forgotten, off the port side. He watched it drift lazily across the sky, the growl of its engines a gravelly counterpoint to the sharp, biting howl of the wind. He dropped his eyes to the road ahead and stopped, with a start.
The hooded figure was standing by the corner of the road, about a hundred feet away, regarding him steadily, its face hidden beneath the wide, shadowy cowl of its cloak. The black fabric trailed in the wind, billowing up around its legs. Beneath the hood, from somewhere within the pool of darkness that hid the person's face, a small, round, bluish light flickered like blinking eye. It was a menacing sight, and caused Newbury to give an involuntary shudder. There was little else that Newbury , could discern from this distance, other than that the man —for ,given the figure's size and bulk, it had to be a man — was wearing black leather boots and matching gloves. It had to be Ashford
Newbury broke into a run, charging towards the solitary figure, his head bowed against the driving wind. The man remained stationary, watching, silently, as Newbury dashed towards him. Newbury had no idea what to expect, no notion of what he was letting himself in for. In his present state he knew he wouldn't be able to put up much resistance if Ashford was angling for a fight, but he couldn't turn down the opportunity to tackle the rogue agent and get the whole matter quickly resolved.
Gasping, he flung himself forward as if to grapple the hooded figure, only to see him side-step around the corner at the last moment. Newbury caught hold of the wall, stopping himself from pitching over. He heaved against the brickwork, pulling himself around the corner after Ashford as if to continue the chase, but, bizarrely, the other man was gone.
Newbury, dumbfounded, glanced from side to side, looking for the means by which Ashford had made his escape. There were no obvious alleyways or doorways he could have dashed into, no ladders or vehicles by which he could have effected his disappearance. Just a series of dreary shop-fronts and red-brick walls. He looked up. The sky was a leaden canopy overhead, but there was no sign of Ashford atop the nearby buildings, either. He hadn't somehow managed to scale the wall. The man had simply vanished.
Panting, slowed by the opiate in his veins, Newbury fell back against the wall, attempting to catch his breath. There was a foul stench in the air, a rancid, carrion tang that made him splutter in disgust. Bile rose in his throat. The smell was immediately familiar, and there was no mistaking it. The man in the hooded cloak had most definitely been his quarry.
Newbury looked around, frustrated. Was everyone now able to simply disappear at will? Or was Ashford just fleet of foot, and Newbury, in his disorientated, half-delusional state, simply didn't have enough of a grip on the situation to be able to keep up with him? One thing was certain, though. Ashford was either teasing him, or was trying to tell him something.
Either way, the end result would be the same. Next time they met, Newbury would be ready.
Sighing, he pushed himself away from the wall and checked his pocket watch again. He was late for Charles. He looked along the street. A hansom cab was trundling slowly in his direction. He stepped out in the road and waved his arm to hail it over. He needed to get to the White Friar's Club before Charles gave up on him. They had much to discuss.
Chapter Eleven
You're late." Bainbridge's bushy grey moustache twitched as Newbury approached his table, a severe look on his face. "It's only by the good grace of Foster that I managed to get in at all." He indicated the butler on the door, who was standing by the door jamb, an implacable look on his face. "I'm not a member here, you know. I wish you'd had the foresight to —"
"Not now, Charles."
Bainbridge frowned. "What do you mean, not now? What the devil have you been up to, man?" He lowered his voice so as, not to be overheard. "Indulging in that blasted vice of yours, judging by the look of you. It's a despicable business, Newbury. You look terrible." He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, studying Newbury's face as he awaited a response.
Newbury waved his arm and dropped into a chair opposite his friend. There was resignation in his voice. "As I said — not now, Charles." He looked up and caught the attention of one of the waiters, who stepped forward, smiling, to take an order of drinks. "Usual, please, Williams." He glanced at Bainbridge's empty glass. "And whatever Sir Charles is drinking."
The waiter offered a polite nod of his head. "As you wish, sir." He retreated to the bar to place their order.
The White Friar's was a gentlemen's club on Arundel Street, and a second home for Newbury, who often visited the place to conduct meetings, dine with associates or friends and to otherwise escape the oppressive pressures of his life as an agent of the Crown. The club itself was a haven for literary types: writers, artists and intellectuals, and frequently Newbury left the establishment feeling invigorated, as much due to the stimulating conversation as the fine selection of brandy. The dining room, in which he had
found Charles, was a smallish room, panelled in dark oak and furnished with a smattering of round tables, which were each large enough to accommodate five or six people at a time. A fire roared in the grate on the far side of the room, causing shadows to dance haphazardly over every surface like mischievous pixies, and the murmur of conversation from the adjoining lounge was a constant background hum. The room was filled with the pleasant scent of roasting meat, wafting through from the kitchen.
It was quiet that evening, however, and aside from Charles and himself, there were only two other diners making use of the room, huddled over a table in the corner, deep in the midst of some deep, philosophical debate. Or so Newbury liked to imagine. Other than this, a small army of waiters and servants kept a watchful eye on the patrons, keen to cater to their every whim.
Newbury ran a hand over his face. He looked at Bainbridge from beneath hooded eyelids. He was coming down from his opium high. "You can save the lecture for another day, Charles. I apologise for my tardiness."
Bainbridge leaned across the table towards him, toying with his fork. "Newbury." His voice was firm. "You're the only friend I have left in this Godforsaken city. I won't lose you, not to something so ridiculous as that dreadful Eastern weed."
Newbury smiled, a sad, knowing smile. He stared at the fire. When, a moment later, he looked back at Bainbridge, he didn't meet the other man's eye. "What are you drinking?"
Bainbridge sighed. "A tolerably good Cognac. But my belly is in dire need of sustenance. Let's order some ruddy food."
Newbury grinned. "Yes, in a minute. I need to talk to you first."
Bainbridge looked concerned. "What's happened, Newbury?"
Newbury unfolded his napkin and, placing it on his knee, looked up at his friend. "Don't be alarmed, Charles. I need some more information regarding William Ashford, is all. I've been wondering: what became of his family after he died?"
Bainbridge shrugged. "They were moved. To a house near Cheapside. Dreadful place. It was one of the worst things I've ever had to do, Newbury, telling that woman her husband had been killed, and then, to compound it, that she and her family were being uprooted as a consequence. She broke down on my shoulder. Begged me to let her keep the house. But I had my orders." He fingered the rim of his empty glass. "Now, to learn that it was all a lie. Well, it casts things in a different light, doesn't it?"
Newbury furrowed his brow. He'd rarely seen Bainbridge in such a reflective mood. "I'm sure those things were done for the right reasons, Charles. It's been five years." He paused to accept his brandy from the waiter. "Do you think Ashford will go looking for them?"
"Wouldn't you?"
"I suppose that's what I'm getting at I imagine that's as good a place as any to start my search."
Bainbridge shook his head. "No. You mustn't, Newbury. Don't go dragging up the past. Ashford may well be looking for his family — and I feel sorry for the man, I truly do — but the last thing his wife needs is to know that he's been alive all this time, turned into some sort of half-mechanical monster. Besides, he'll never find them. And even then we're assuming that the family is still there, in that Cheapside hovel. As you say, it's been five years. They've probably moved on." He lowered his voice. "God knows, I hope they have."
Newbury took a pull on his brandy. He felt fingers of warmth spreading down through his chest as the alcohol banished his chill. It was clear that something about this case had touched a nerve with his friend. "Very well, Charles. I'll look elsewhere —for now. It may not be necessary to search him out, anyway."
Bainbridge leaned back in his chair. He took up the dinner menu. "How so?"
"I believe I find myself in the midst of a game of cat and mouse, and I'm unsure which of us is enacting which role — the hunter or the hunted."
Bainbridge looked up from the top of his menu. "Stop speaking in riddles, Newbury."
Newbury laughed, for the first time that evening. "I have reason to believe that Ashford has been following me. I encountered him in the street earlier this evening, but he gave me the slip."
"What? Where?" Bainbridge was frowning.
"Not far from here, as I made my way over to meet you. I had the curious notion that I was being followed, but for quite some time I was unable to ascertain by whom. I thought it may have been... well, I thought it may have been my mind playing tricks on me."
"But it was Ashford?"
"I believe so."
"Well, why the devil should he be following you?"
"A good question, Charles, and one for which I intend to find an answer. With any luck, this may not turn out to be the protracted affair I had initially feared." Newbury regarded the menu on the table before him. "Venison and creamed potatoes, I should say."
" Well, just be careful, Newbury."
Newbury offered his friend a sly look. "Of the venison?"
Bainbridge shook his head, exasperated. "Look, the Ashford I recall was a decent man, but having seen Winthrop today... I don't know any more. Just look after yourself. I'll help however I can."
"So, you've changed your mind about the nature of our suspect, have you, Charles? Does that mean Wilfred Blake has an alibi?" Newbury offered the Chief Inspector an amused grin.
Bainbridge nodded. "Indeed. And a solid one at that. He was in the company of a lady, dining out in full public view. He cannot be considered a suspect for the murder." He sighed again. "It looks like you may be right about Ashford, unless we have a-foreign agent in our midst, someone who knows our ways."
"It's possible. But unlikely, I think. The simplest explanation is often the correct one, Charles, and here we have a rogue agent loose in London, and a corpse with all the hallmarks of a swift, purposeful execution. I do not think it is too much of a stretch to assume that we know the identity of our quarry, if not his motivation."
"Perhaps." Bainbridge drummed his fingers on the table. "Now, however, I believe I must eat, or I shall waste away to nothing and you shall have to find yourself another dining companion."
"Well, that, of course, would never do!" Newbury, laughing, turned and gestured for the waiter, Williams, to return to their table to take their order. His stomach was growling, and his head was finally beginning to clear. Soon, he'd need sleep. But first, he needed food, drink and the company of a good friend.
Chapter Twelve
THE CURSE OF THE SCREAMING MUMMY
BY MR G. PUREFOY
DEATH AND DESPAIR SURROUND THE DISCOVERY OF THE MYSTERIOUS "SCREAMING MUMMY", AS LORD HENRY WINTHROP IS FOUND DEAD AT HIS ALBION HOUSE MANSION, ONLY TWO DAYS AFTER RECEIVING SOCIETY VISITORS FOR A GRAND UNROLLING PARTY. WHILST SCOTLAND YARD STRUGGLE FOR LEADS, TALK OF AN ANCIENT CURSE IS RIFE AMONGST THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION, NOW FEARING FOR THEIR LIVES.
TURN TO PAGE 3 TO READ THE FULL STORY.
Newbury dropped the morning newspaper on the table with a hearty laugh, causing his housekeeper, Mrs. Bradshaw, to jump with a start and nearly miss the teacup she was pouring into, sloshing a small amount of the pungent brown liquid into the saucer. Newbury eyed her warily as, clearly flustered by the experience, she swept the offending china up into her arms and left the room, her only acknowledgement of the entire incident a short "tut" under her breath as she stomped out into the hallway. Newbury couldn't help but smile.
Reaching for another slice of toast, he scanned the front of the newspaper again with a chuckle. Purefoy had taken him at his word, anyway. When he'd told the boy to desist from sharing any details of the murder, or mentioning him or Charles by name, the reporter had evidently concocted some sort of elaborate story to explain away the lack of facts. Newbury wondered if the young man wouldn't be better off turning his talents to the writing of fiction. He clearly had an eye for it. Still, Newbury supposed it would sell newspapers, and besides, Purefoy had done him a favour. At least this way the public had something trivial and sensational to focus on, rather than dwelling on the more disturbing fact that a rogue agent was on the loose somewhere in the city. If the
real details of the case had been splashed across the front page that morning, he supposed he and Charles would have been hauled up before Her Majesty with any number of her own difficult questions. At least this way most people would dismiss the story as supernatural claptrap, assuming it was just another botched robbery, of the type they read about almost daily in the assorted national press. With luck, Purefoy's actions would enable him and Charles to continue unimpeded with their investigations. He made a mental note to thank the young reporter at the next available opportunity.
Newbury had left Charles in the doorway of the White Friar's the previous evening, having retired to the drawing room after dinner to enjoy a conversation and a pipe. It hadn't been late, but Newbury had known that, after the trials of his day, he would have been ill-advised to make a night of it. Sure enough, upon returning to his Chelsea home, he had slept for a good nine hours, and was currently sitting at his breakfast table in his red silk dressing robe, picking at the remnants of the morning's feast. He could always rely on Mrs. Bradshaw for a hearty breakfast, no matter what time of the day he actually found himself in need of it.
Pushing the newspaper to one side, Newbury turned his attention to the small silver tray of post that Mrs. Bradshaw had brought up with his tea. Idly, he flicked through the smattering of envelopes, ignoring anything that looked like correspondence from abroad. He was expecting a number of letters from Venezuela, pertaining to a private matter involving his deceased father, but he could deal with those later, when the whole Ashford matter had been resolved. Reaching the bottom of the pile, he gave a brief exclamation, pulling free a small white envelope that had been scrawled upon in black ink. The handwriting was scratchy and ill-formed. A large, oily thumbprint blighted the otherwise crisp envelope in one corner, and there was no stamp upon it, suggesting the letter had been sent round to the house via courier.
