by George Mann
* * *
Veronica reached for her teacup and turned it around in its saucer, tipping it towards her and peering inside as if expecting to discover that it had miraculously refilled itself while she wasn’t looking. As she’d suspected, it was still empty.
“That’s the third time you’ve looked at that empty cup in the last five minutes, Miss Veronica,” said the rotund, middle-aged woman who sat across the kitchen table from her. “Would you like me to make you a fresh pot?”
Veronica looked up, a wan smile on her lips. “No, thank you, Mrs. Leeson. Let’s wait for the others. They should be finished soon, and I’m sure they’ll both welcome a cup.”
Mrs. Leeson shrugged. Her eyebrows were raised and she looked somewhat startled, but Veronica knew this was only a symptom of the manner in which she insisted on wearing her platinum-grey hair, scraped back in the severest of buns. She was a kindly woman in her late forties, and had once been independently wealthy, but had fallen on hard times following the unexpected death of her husband a few years earlier. Veronica had come to rely on her enormously in Amelia’s care over these last few months.
They both turned at the sound of approaching footsteps from the hall. “Ah, Miss Amelia!” announced Mrs. Leeson happily, pushing her chair back on the tiled floor and standing to welcome her charge with an expansive gesture. “You do look sprightly. Whatever it is that Sir Maurice is treating you with, it’s certainly making a difference. I haven’t seen so much colour in your cheeks for weeks.”
Amelia, hovering in the doorway, smiled warmly in response. “Thank you, Mrs. Leeson. Sir Maurice is a remarkable man.” Her arms were folded across her chest and she rubbed them unconsciously, hugging herself as if cold. She glanced at Veronica. “I said I’d make him a pot of tea.”
“Oh, don’t you be worrying yourself with such things, young lady,” said Mrs. Leeson, bustling over to the stove. “I’ll see to that. You set yourself down with Miss Veronica here for a minute.”
Veronica nodded and beckoned Amelia over to join her while Mrs. Leeson set about filling the kettle. “You’d better leave her to it,” whispered Veronica, just loud enough that Mrs. Leeson herself wouldn’t hear. “If you start making the tea she’ll complain she has nothing left to do!”
Amelia laughed as she lowered herself into the chair opposite Veronica, placing her palms flat on the tabletop before her. Veronica could tell immediately that something was bothering her. “What is it?” she asked, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
Amelia’s face creased in concern. “I don’t know. It’s Sir Maurice. He … well, he collapsed in my arms after he completed the ritual. He’s not himself. I’m worried for him.”
Veronica put her hand on top of Amelia’s and squeezed it in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. “You shouldn’t worry, Amelia. Sir Maurice knows what his limits are. He’s probably just tired. He’ll be fine in a few hours. You just concentrate on getting better.” It didn’t sound as convincing as she’d hoped.
Amelia glared at Veronica in warning. “Don’t patronise me, sister,” she said. “I know how much he’s giving up for me, for you.”
Veronica suppressed a scowl. “Then you also know it’s far more complicated than that,” she replied, her tone level.
Amelia sighed. “Yes. I rather suppose I do.”
“But it’s working? Whatever it is he’s doing, it’s helping?” Veronica asked.
Amelia nodded. “Last year, when you brought me to Malbury Cross, I thought I had come here to die. But now … now I think I might have come here to live.” She leaned back in her chair. “Yet Sir Maurice is paying a grave toll for his efforts.”
Veronica eyed her younger sister. “You cannot be thinking of giving it up?” she said. “You don’t know the lengths he went to to retrieve that book, Amelia, the enemies he made. It would slight him if you turned away his help. More than that, it would make light of everything he’s been through—that we’ve been through. Not to mention what might happen to you. Don’t forget, everyone thinks you’re dead. There’s nowhere left to turn.”
“You don’t have to remind me of that,” replied Amelia hotly. Mrs. Leeson coughed politely over by the stove. As if on cue, the kettle began to whistle shrilly. Amelia lowered her voice. “Of course I’m not about to turn him away. I’m concerned for him, that’s all. You didn’t see him, Veronica. He didn’t seem at all well.”
Veronica nodded, relieved that she wasn’t going to have to persuade Amelia to continue with Newbury’s regime. “Look, I’ll go and check on him now. I’m sure he’s just tidying everything in there.” As she said this she felt the cold stirrings of concern in the pit of her stomach. Newbury never tidied anything. His life was a perfect merry-go-round of chaos and disorder. Perhaps something was wrong. Typically he would have emerged a few seconds behind Amelia to join them in the kitchen. What might have delayed him?
Veronica suppressed the urge to leap from her chair and dash to his side. It wouldn’t do to startle Amelia and Mrs. Leeson, and more importantly, to concern Amelia any further by demonstrating her own fear.
She stood, forcing herself to smile. “You stay here and keep Mrs. Leeson company. I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, coming around from behind the table and crossing the hallway as quickly as possible.
The door to the dining room was ajar. She pushed it open, stepping inside and allowing it to swing closed behind her. The room was still shrouded in darkness, the heavy drapes pulled down over the windows. No candles or lamps burned, and for a moment it reminded her uncomfortably of the Queen’s audience chamber, always cast in a murky, impenetrable gloom.
“Maurice? Are you in here?” She remained close to the door while she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She could make out very little, save for the edge of the drapes and the thin strip of pale light seeping in from behind them. It wasn’t enough to illuminate more than a foot or so of the room, in which she could see the silhouetted shapes of the paraphernalia used in the ritual: candlesticks, bowls, sprigs of holly.
Just as she reached for the light, there was a groaning sound from somewhere close to her, on the floor by her feet. “Maurice?” She stooped, reaching out until her outstretched fingers touched the fabric of his jacket. She dropped to her knees, clutching for him with both hands. Her eyes were finally beginning to adjust to the low light and she could just about make out the slumped form of Newbury on the floorboards. He tried to move, and she helped him, supporting him under the arms as he pulled himself upright. She propped him against the wall, his legs splayed out before him. She couldn’t see his face clearly enough to read his expression, but his head was lolling in clear exhaustion. He must have collapsed on his way to the door.
“It’s alright, Maurice,” she said, putting a hand against his forehead. It was clammy and cold. His pulse was slow and steady. Most likely it was exhaustion, then, rather than anything more fiendish. Nevertheless, Amelia was right. This wasn’t typical. Not by any means.
“Veronica,” said Newbury, the relief evident in his voice. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a few moments.”
“You need some rest,” she said.
“I need to write to Aldous first,” he replied, doggedly.
“No,” Veronica’s tone was firm. “That can wait another hour or so. I’ll set you up on the couch in the living room. You can sleep it off, and then write to Aldous later, before we return to London.” She cupped her hand on his right cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll see the letter on its way myself.”
He nodded slowly. His breath was coming in long, laboured gasps. “Alright,” he said, quietly. “I’ll rest for a while, but you might need to help me up.”
“Don’t I always,” she said, standing and offering her hands to help lever him up onto his feet. She heaved and took a step backwards, and a moment later he was standing unsteadily beside her, still semi-conscious. She draped his arm around her shoulder and led him to the door, staggering slightly beneath his weight.
CHAPTER
7
Newbury reclined in his chair by the fire, his head lolled to one side, his eyelids drooping heavily. He was tired, more so than he’d been in years, yet the night had passed and he’d proved unable to sleep; the unnatural effects of the ritual left him feeling physically drained and yet still mentally alert, restless. His mind kept on replaying his visit to the morgue from the previous day, running over each of the grisly details in turn, analysing, dwelling, considering. He was surprised to realise he was anxious to press on with the case. Something about the sight of the three corpses, each with their hearts so brutally removed, had caught his attention.
He’d been slumped in the chair for most of the night, staring blankly into the gloom, seeing things that weren’t really there. Apparitions and shadows. Ghosts and memories. Lately, he’d found himself haunted by visions of the past, dredged up by his feverish mind and his chemical and occult experiments. At least, he’d reasoned them to be visions once the sunlight had come to banish them along with the darkness. Visions of Templeton Black, his former assistant, now dead and long sunk in the earth; of George Purefoy, the young reporter he had taken under his wing, only to lead him inadvertently to a brutal death at the hands of Aubrey Knox. And of Veronica, too, pleading with him to help her. Was she to be his next victim, killed because of her association with him, because of his failures? Were his visions somehow prophetic, or simply a product of his guilt? He was not entirely sure. Recently, the lines had become blurry.
Newbury shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His body craved more of the Chinese weed, but in his present condition it would do him little good, so he stilled his hand, resisting the temptation to reach for his cigarette case. At least for a while. He knew he’d be unable to resist for long, but he needed to clear his head.
The room was silent save for the fire crackling eagerly in the hearth beside him and the ominous ticking of the carriage clock on the mantel. The sound had become a constant reminder of his own mortality—a mortality that felt closer and more real to him than it ever had before. It seemed that with each shifting of its gears the device was somehow taking account of all that he had done; stealing away his remaining minutes as punishment, claiming them as its own.
He laughed at himself and opened his eyes. Even the clocks are judging me now. He knew he was only maudlin because of the ritual, because of the enormous effort it took, how spent it left him feeling. The irony, however, was not lost on him. The clock might in truth be benign, but other things certainly were eroding his existence, slowly and inexorably. The clock served simply as a reminder.
He stirred at the sound of footsteps on the path outside, which were followed by a brisk rap on the front door. It was a distinctive knock—the silver head of a cane striking the painted wooden panel. Bainbridge.
Newbury listened for Scarbright’s hasty footsteps in the hall, the creaking of the door hinges, the mumbled greetings. He closed his eyes again and leaned back in his chair, making the most of the few moments of peace he had left. Seconds later the door to the drawing room burst open unceremoniously and Bainbridge stalked in, heaving a heavy, melodramatic sigh.
“You do realise how much damage you do to my paintwork with that infernal stick of yours, don’t you, Charles?” said Newbury, peeling open his eyes once again. “It’s most inconsiderate. Poor Scarbright is forever complaining at having to touch up the dints in the wood.”
Bainbridge laughed half-heartedly. “Good morning, Newbury,” he replied, his voice strained.
Newbury noted that his friend was looking a little flustered and red about the face, and had not removed his coat in the hallway. “We’re going out, then?” he asked, nonchalantly.
Bainbridge frowned. “Yes,” he said, clearly refusing to be drawn. He crossed the drawing room, stepping over a heaped pile of papers covered in Newbury’s spidery scrawl, and perched on the arm of the chair opposite Newbury’s own. He leaned forward on his cane, then reached into his pocket and produced a small white notecard. He waved it at Newbury. “She’s sending them to me, now!”
“A summons?” asked Newbury, nodding towards the neat stack of identical cards on the sideboard. “Add it to the pile, Charles.”
Bainbridge shook his head. “No. This time she wants to see us both.”
Newbury coughed fitfully into his fist and leaned forward, taking the card from Bainbridge. The message, printed in Sandford’s neat copperplate, gave little away.
SIR CHARLES
YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED AT THE PALACE FORTHWITH. BRING NEWBURY.
VR
“You’re not getting out of it this time, I’m afraid, old man.”
Newbury shrugged and handed the card back to Bainbridge. “I suppose it’s time I put in an appearance,” he said, smiling, although his heart wasn’t in it.
Bainbridge nodded. “You look dreadful,” he said.
“Thank you, Charles,” Newbury replied smartly.
“I’m only telling you what you already know, Newbury. God knows someone has to.” Bainbridge’s voice was full of disdain. “Have you seen the black rings beneath your eyes? And you’re as white as a sheet. Anyone would think you were anaemic.”
“Yes, yes, Charles,” said Newbury dismissively. “None of this is new. Besides, I came to the morgue. I’m helping you, aren’t I?”
“Yes, I suppose,” said Bainbridge, his moustache twitching. “So you’ll come, then? To the palace, I mean?”
“Yes,” said Newbury. “I’ll come.”
“Good man,” said Bainbridge, straightening his back. He was wearing a satisfied expression. Clearly, he’d been expecting a row. He lifted his cane and opened his mouth as if to continue, but then rocked back in sudden surprise as a large brass object came swooping down from a nearby bookcase, emitting a metallic squawk and eliciting a curse from the chief inspector. It landed neatly upon his shoulder, folded its wings with the clacking of metal plates, and cocked its head in mimicry of the barn owl it was modelled on.
“Good God!” said Bainbridge, loudly. “This ruddy … creature of yours just gave me the fright of my life!”
The owl chirruped noisily, as if giving a satisfied laugh at Bainbridge’s expense. He waved his hand at it in annoyance, attempting to shoo it away, but it simply shifted its position on his shoulder with an accompanying chirp, its tiny clawed feet gathering up little folds of his overcoat.
“I think he likes you,” Newbury said, laughing.
“I don’t know why I ever agreed to let you keep this damnable thing,” Bainbridge said, although Newbury could tell he wasn’t genuinely aggrieved. The clockwork owl was a trophy from a previous investigation, the former property of Lord Carruthers, who’d been poisoned by his estranged sibling at Christmas a couple of years earlier. The owl had been instrumental in helping to solve the case, and Bainbridge had allowed the “evidence”—with the permission of the family, of course—to be rehomed with Newbury. It had been a fixture of his drawing room ever since.
The bird trilled merrily, spread its gleaming wings, and hopped down from Bainbridge’s shoulder onto the arm of the chair. It stamped its feet a few times—puncturing the leather covering of the seat with its claws as it did so—then turned to regard Bainbridge, watching him intently. Its eyes blinked as Bainbridge held its gaze for a moment, before shaking his head and offering Newbury an exasperated look.
“I take it there have been no further developments in the case?” asked Newbury, changing the subject.
Bainbridge shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m damned if I can find a link between the suspects, let alone a motive for the killer. I keep coming back to this ritualistic nonsense, hop
ing that your friend Renwick is going to turn up something useful.”
Newbury sat forward, stifling a groan as his tired muscles pulled in protest, threatening to mire him there in his comfortable armchair before the fire. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair, planning to lever himself free. “If there’s anything to be found, Charles, Aldous will find it,” he said, hauling himself upright. “I sent word yesterday, and Miss Hobbes took charge of delivering the letter.” He stood there for a moment, a little unsteady on his feet. “Look,” he said, “I need to make myself presentable. Give me half an hour. Scarbright will make tea, if you ask him nicely.”
Bainbridge looked up at him, his expression softening. “It’s only because I couldn’t stand it if you killed yourself, Maurice. You realise that?”
“I do, Charles,” replied Newbury, quietly, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I wish you could understand.”
“As do I,” said Bainbridge, morosely.
Newbury sighed, leaving the chief inspector by the fire so he could make himself look a bit more respectable before heading out to see the monarch. It wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience—it rarely was, these days—but he’d been putting it off long enough. It was time to face his demons.
Or one of them, at the very least.
CHAPTER
8
The girl never knew her parents.
She had been told that her father had been trampled by a horse two months prior to her birth, and that her mother had died in the throes of bringing her into the world, in the dank, underground cell of an asylum somewhere on the outskirts of Paris.
She had erupted into the world in an orgy of agony and anguish—or so she’d been told by the crooked-backed old woman in the orphanage, who seemed to delight in describing the young girl’s misfortune, cackling mercilessly and exposing the blackened stumps of her teeth.
