by George Mann
Gasping for breath, she looked around, searching the room for Newbury.
The first thing that struck her about the study was the sheer amount of bizarre paraphernalia that lined the shelves. Aside from the vast array of books, there were all manner of esoteric objects on display. Jars containing what looked like the amputated tentacles of an unidentifiable sea creature, the skull of a chimpanzee, bottles filled with strange-coloured liquids, arcane symbols cast in precious metals, little stone idols that appeared to date from sometime in prehistory; the list was endless. The second thing that struck her was that Newbury was lying face down on the floor, in the centre of an enormous pentagram that had been drawn on the bare floorboards in white chalk. The carpet had been rolled back to reveal the symbol, although it wasn't immediately clear if it was freshly drawn or had been hidden under the Turkish pile for some time. Objects lay all about the prone man: an empty glass and wine bottle, a sprig of rosemary, some matches and a brown medical bottle half-full of liquid.
She rushed to Newbury's side, kneeling on the floor and rolling him over onto his back. His breath was shallow and his face was cold and glistening with perspiration. She searched for his pulse, feeling around his unshaven throat until she found it, counting out the rhythm under her breath. She loosened his shirt and placed a hand on his cheek. "Oh, Newbury, what have you been up to?"
He moaned, his eyes flickering under their lids.
Veronica heard footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Bradshaw had obviously realised something was amiss. She called up ahead of her. "Everything alright up there, miss?"
Veronica knew immediately that she couldn't allow Mrs. Bradshaw to see Newbury in such a state, or let her see the inside his study, either. The contents of the room were alarming enough to Veronica herself, and she already had a very good notion of Newbury's expertise in the dark arts and all of the mysterious paraphernalia associated with them. The scene inside the room would probably be enough to send poor Mrs. Bradshaw running straight to the police.
Veronica propped Newbury's head on a cushion that she grabbed from the nearby daybed and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. She stood in front of the damaged lock, ensuring that Mrs. Bradshaw couldn't see where the frame had been splintered during her assault on the door.
"Everything is fine, Mrs. Bradshaw." She said, as calmly as possible. "You will be pleased to hear that I have managed to rouse Sir Maurice. He is suffering from a slight fever and has been dozing in his study. I'm attending to him now. I'm sure that he will shortly be anxious for some light food to aid him in his recovery." She smiled. "For now it would be of much benefit to him if you could fetch us another cup and saucer to go with that pot of tea."
Mrs. Bradshaw eyed her inquisitively. There was an awkward silence. Then, realising that it was probably better to go along with Veronica's instructions than defy her employer's wishes and enter the study herself, she nodded her head in assent. "Right you are, miss. I'll leave the tea on the landing for the two of you." She turned and made her way back down the stairs.
Veronica called after her. "Thank you, Mrs. Bradshaw. And if you could see yourself to fetching a flannel and a bowl of cool water that would be most helpful too." She slipped back into the room, not waiting for Mrs. Bradshaw's response.
Newbury hadn't tried to move. He was only semi-conscious, possibly even delirious. She bent over him, grabbing him firmly under the arms, and hauled him up onto the daybed a few feet from where he was lying. She paused for a moment, struggling to catch her breath after the exertion. Making sure he was comfortable, she set about collecting the objects from the floor, placing them neatly on the coffee table by the side of the fire. She picked up the little brown bottle and inspected the label. It was peeling, but she could easily make out what it contained.
"Laudanum." She shook her head. She had no idea what Newbury had been up to with the pentagram, but it was clear to her that the laudanum was responsible for his current state of ill health. She rolled the carpet back into place, hiding the elaborate chalk symbols. She had a lot of questions for her employer, but first she had to make sure she could bring him round. She crossed the room and went to his side. Taking her handkerchief from her sleeve she gently mopped his brow, brushing his hair back from his forehead with her other hand.
"So you do have an Achilles' heel, after all, Maurice." She dabbed tenderly at the beads of sweat running down his face.
Searching out a blanket was a relatively easy task. She laid it over him as he shivered, then set about stoking the fire, which had burned low in the grate without attention. Long ago, when her sister had first begun having seizures, the doctors had treated her with laudanum, and she knew all too well the pains of withdrawal, having spent long hours by Amelia's bedside as she came round from the large doses she'd had administered to her in an attempt to quell her visions. She watched Newbury as he laid there on the daybed, his breath still shallow as his lungs fought for air. He'd clearly taken too much of the dreadful stuff. Now it was just a waiting game as his body purged itself of the drug. Veronica, making herself comfortable in a chair by the fire, would stay by his side as it did so.
Chapter Thirteen
When Newbury woke he was appalled to find Veronica asleep in the chair by the fire. He had no idea how much time had passed. He sat up, bleary eyed, and then sank back into the warm confines of the daybed, unable to move. His head was spinning and he felt sick to his stomach. He ran a hand through his hair, which was damp with perspiration, and then rubbed at his eyes, trying to shake the feeling of lethargy. He'd lost track of events and couldn't remember how he'd ended up where he was. The physical symptoms, however, were entirely familiar; he knew he'd overdone it on the laudanum.
He glanced around the study. Everything had been restored to order. After propping him up on the daybed, Veronica must have rolled the carpet back into place to hide the chalk pentagram that he'd drawn on the floorboards. He wondered if that had been for Mrs. Bradshaw's benefit. If so, it suggested that she'd seen it herself. He could only think how shocked and appalled she must have been to see the items that he had on display in there. That, coupled with the fact that Veronica was sitting across the room from him, meant that he'd have a lot of explaining to do. Worse still, Veronica had seen him at his lowest ebb. He wondered if he'd ever be able to earn her respect again. He cursed himself for his weakness. Still, what was done was done, and he supposed it was his own foolish actions that had landed him in this position. Now he had to face his embarrassment with humility. He sighed.
Craning his neck, he tried to work out how Veronica had entered the room. His first thought was that Mrs. Bradshaw must have kept a spare key, one that he wasn't aware of, but then he saw that the doorframe was splintered and the lock was hanging loose where the screws had been torn out of their housing. The door itself was propped closed with a large stone vase that Veronica had taken from one of his displays. Absently, he wondered if she'd realised that it was nearly two thousand years old. Not that it mattered. She'd obviously used her shoulder to barge her way in. She was a strong woman, and he was thankful to her for the consideration she had shown. He'd underestimated her resourcefulness. He wouldn't allow himself to do it again.
Newbury shifted on the daybed, watching Veronica as she slept in the chair, the rise-and-fall of her chest as her breath came in little flutters, her head lolled gently to one side. The firelight cast dancing shadows all about her. He wanted to stay in that moment, for time to stand still so that he could lay there basking in the firelight and watching the pretty girl that had come to his rescue without having to face her when she woke and explain his failings. He imagined watching the light dying in her eyes as he revealed the truth; that aside from his more salubrious pursuits he was a habitual opium-eater and a dabbler in the occult. He had drawn the pentagram on the floor in an effort to divine a solution to the case, and when it hadn't worked, frustrated that he couldn't seem to find the clarity of mind that he had been searching for, h
e had given himself up to the drug, intent on dreaming his way to the solution. Of course, such is the delusion of the addict, and he had found no salvation m debauchery. He was no closer now to having a solution than he was when he set out from the palace that morning. If indeed it was still the same day; he had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, and whether, outside, it was even day or night. He coughed, fighting back nausea. The racking movement caused little explosions of pain in his head.
The sound of his coughing caused Veronica to stir. Her eyes (licked open. She looked dazed for a moment, before the sight of Newbury seemed to register and she realised where she was. In a moment she was out of the chair and had rushed to his side.
"Maurice. You're awake."
He looked up at her, and smiled. "Indeed. Although I fear I could hardly be further from my true self. I'm sorry you had to see me like this."
She laughed, obviously relieved. "You did give me an awful fright. But you'll be well soon enough. When you're feeling up to it, Mrs. Bradshaw will prepare some food and draw you a bath."
Newbury looked anxious. "Mrs. Bradshaw? Did she-"
"No." Veronica shook her head, cutting him off. "You need not worry about that. Mrs. Bradshaw didn't see a thing. She thinks you have a fever."
"And you?"
"I think you have a fever of your own devising." She smiled, tenderly. "Although I assure you that I'm in no position to judge.
We all have our secrets and vices." She paused. "I admit I have no idea what you were up to with that pentagram, however."
Newbury coughed again, easing himself back into the cushions. His eyes were glassy and tired. "I was searching for answers." He paused, and she listened to his ragged breath for a moment whilst he made up his mind about whether to tell her any more than that. His eyes flicked over her face. "I was trying to find out who or what was behind the crash."
Veronica narrowed her eyes, suspicious. "And?"
"And the exercise proved fruitless. I'm afraid we're no closer now than we were when we last spoke." He sighed. Veronica took his hand.
"What of the laudanum?"
Newbury grimaced. "A moment of weakness, is all." He met her gaze. "I shall take the matter in hand." He looked away again. "Now, did you say something about a bath?"
"Yes, I'll call down to Mrs. Bradshaw now." She rose from her knees and brushed herself down.
As she turned towards the door, Newbury sat forward, catching her hand. "Veronica?"
"Yes?"
He smiled, his face sincere. "Thank you." She nodded. "You're welcome."
Her fingers trailed in his as she walked away, leaving the room in search of Mrs. Bradshaw.
"Thank you, Mrs. Bradshaw."
Newbury smiled as his housekeeper presented him with a large plate piled high with a fluffy omelette and crisp bacon. On the table she placed a rack of toast, blackened to perfection. It was late to be having breakfast-almost three in the afternoon-but she was used to such irregularities and had been sure to offer Newbury her sympathies upon discovering he'd been unwell. Happy that she had discharged her duty, she slipped away from the dining room, casting a final glance at Veronica as she pulled the door shut behind her. It was clear that she didn't understand what Veronica's role in this whole matter had been, and that she had mixed feelings about the scenario. On the one hand, Veronica had proved indispensable in helping her to look after Newbury, and had been the one to finally rouse him from his study. On the other, it seemed somehow inappropriate for her employer to so freely allow his female assistant the run of his household, and for her to allow herself to be so familiar with the gentleman, particularly in company. Nevertheless, she had a great deal of respect for Newbury and had been in his employ for many years, so she had decided to trust his sense of propriety and say nothing that may cause offence. She took the stairs two at a time, anxious to get back to her chores, and some semblance of normality, before the day was out.
Veronica sipped at her tea, watching Newbury from across the table as he attacked his meal with vigour. He had spent the last hour taking a bath, shaving and then dressing in his private rooms. He looked almost restored to his former self, save for the dark rings that still sat heavily beneath his eyes. Veronica was sure that a hearty meal would be good for his constitution and aid in his recovery from the effects of the laudanum. She had passed the time whilst he washed and dressed by perusing the spines of the rare books in his study. It was a wide and varied collection, containing many books she had never heard of and was sure could not be found in the annals of the British Library. Whilst she had been aware of Newbury's speciality in dealing with the occult and paranormal, she hadn't been aware of the sheer intensity of his fascination. If finding him semi-conscious inside an enormous chalk pentagram hadn't been evidence enough, the esoteric volumes in his private library had proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was one of the foremost experts in the field throughout the whole of the Empire.
She placed her empty cup on the saucer. Newbury looked up.
"So, tell me, what came of your visit to the palace yesterday?"
Newbury finished chewing his food. "Very little, I'm afraid, although I did manage to tease out of Her Majesty the reason for her intense interest in the case." He reached for his coffee, taking a long draw. Veronica leaned forward, waiting for him to continue. "Apparently the body of a Dutch Royal was found aboard the wreckage. A cousin of the Queen, in fact." He paused, waiting for her reaction.
Veronica frowned. "But wasn't The Lady Armitage a passenger-class vessel? Why would a member of the Royal Family take a second class transport to Dublin?"
Newbury smiled. "Precisely. But it's not much of a lead. We can't even begin to consider interviewing the family, and besides, they have even less of an idea about the whole thing than we do. The man had been missing in London for days before it happened. Her Majesty has promised the boy's mother an explanation, and it's up to us to find one, as soon as possible." He didn't look particularly confident. Taking his cutlery, he continued to tackle his breakfast. Veronica poured herself another cup of Earl Grey. They sat in silence for a few minutes, each of them wracking their brains for ideas.
Veronica was startled by a knock on the door. Newbury looked up, but didn't speak. A moment later Mrs. Bradshaw entered, bearing a silver tray that was covered in letters-the post Veronica had seen on the hall table when she'd first arrived. It seemed like days had passed since her arrival that morning.
"Your post, sir. I thought you may like to open it whilst you finished your breakfast?"
"Very thoughtful, Mrs. Bradshaw. Thank you." He watched her leave and then turned his attention to the tray she had placed on the table beside him, studying the contents intently. Five or six letters lay scattered upon it. He placed his cutlery on the side of his plate and poked at the envelopes, stopping when he saw one that bore a hand he didn't recognise.
He glanced up at Veronica. "Excuse me for a moment, my dear, whilst I take a look at this rather interesting missive." He used his finger to tear the envelope open and withdrew the letter he found inside. It was dated the previous day, and written in a perfect copperplate, with big, artistic flourishes, on plain white paper. Newbury scanned the short paragraph that comprised the body of the letter, then folded it in half and passed it to Veronica.
Veronica unfolded it and spread it out on the table before her.
Sir Maurice,
I request your presence at the Orleans Club, 29 King St, S. W., tomorrow at four. I find myself in possession of information that may pertain to your current investigation, regarding the crash of the passenger airship, The Lady Armitage. I would appreciate the opportunity to aid you in bringing the perpetrators in this matter to justice.
Yours,
Mr. Christopher Morgan
She looked up. "Do you know this man?"
"Indeed not. Although…" He thought for a moment. "I believe I know him by name and reputation." He took another sip of his coffee. "A speculator and a dilettant
e, if I'm not mistaken. I believe he owns an art gallery across town." He smiled, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. "Nevertheless, Miss Hobbes, we have our lead, and no time to spare. If we're to find our way to the Orleans Club by four, we should be on our way directly. Are you fit?"
Veronica smiled, delighted to see Newbury so engaged and full of energy once again. She nodded. "Are you?"
Newbury laughed, shrugging his shoulders. "Fortified by eggs and bacon. Let us not procrastinate any longer." He stood, pushing the remnants of his meal to one side. "Come on, let's fetch our coats."
Veronica watched Newbury's back as he left the room, calling for Mrs. Bradshaw. She hoped he was up to another sojourn, and whilst she admitted to herself it was wonderful to have the old Newbury back, she felt drained by the whirlwind that surrounded him. She'd rather, for his health, that they put the meeting off until the following day, but with no return address on the letter it would be difficult to get word to Morgan in time, and in truth it was too good an opportunity to miss. It was the only lead they had, and if they chose to enjoy the confines of Newbury's home for much longer, the trail would almost certainly grow cold again. Reluctantly, she climbed to her feet and followed after him, anxious to keep a watchful eye on proceedings, and on Newbury himself.
Chapter Fourteen
In their haste to get across town, Veronica had allowed herself to be subjected to the noise and bluster of one of the steam-powered carriages that Newbury appeared so heartily to enjoy. It had proved as uncomfortable as ever, and now, on the doorstep of the Orleans Club, she found herself rearranging her dress and trying to put herself hastily back in order. It was cold, and the fog was beginning to settle over the streets in wispy tendrils, slowly encroaching upon the city like ivy creeping across an old brick wall.
