by George Mann
He could not go on like this for long. She was fast and would overbear him, particularly in the semi-coherent state in which she had found him.
“Who sent you?” he said, between thrusts of the poker and ragged, gasping breaths. He fell back, lashed out with his makeshift weapon, and stepped away from the hearth, attempting to give himself some more room to manoeuvre.
Her face remained impassive. She struck out again, but he danced to the side—just a little too slow, so that the edge of the blade slashed his shirt and jacket and opened a thin, painful gash across the side of his belly. He felt warm blood ooze to the surface and grimaced in pain, but knew it was only a flesh wound.
He stared into the woman’s face, and she looked back with cold, dead eyes. She was a strange, mesmerising creature, trapped somewhere in the interstitial space between life and death, an unrelenting, inescapable limbo. She must have witnessed so much of history, so much of life, but seeing her here, now, seeing the coldness and indifference in her eyes, he wondered if she even understood how lucky she was. He could hardly conceive that this was the woman Aldous had described to him: almost a century old, bound by an ancient rite and powered by a clockwork engine devised long before his time.
She feinted to the left, came hard at him from the right. He misread her intention and lurched backwards to avoid the tip of a piercing scimitar. His foot caught on a stack of books and he went down, tumbling onto his back. He threw his hands out to break his fall, sending the poker skidding away across the carpet.
He cursed himself for his ineptitude. He was unprotected now. The Executioner saw her opportunity and her other blade fell, stabbing down towards his chest.
Newbury rolled and the weapon struck the floor. The second blade followed. His scrabbling fingers found purchase, grabbing hold of a thick, leather-bound book. He swung it around, grasping it with both hands and wielding it as if it were a shield.
The Executioner’s blade struck the hefty tome and bit deep, skewering the binding and the precious pages within. The tip erupted from the other side, only inches from Newbury’s face. She fell back, the book still stuck upon the end of her sword, wrenching it from his grasp.
“Be careful with that,” quipped Newbury. “It’s a rare first edition.” He scrambled to his feet as the woman wedged the book between the floor and the sole of her boot and yanked her sword free. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he continued, his flippant tone masking his fear. “I’m most interested to discover who sent you to visit.”
Still the Executioner did not speak, or even show a glimmer of interest in what he had to say. She was relentless, like a machine, intent only upon her goal: to end his life—and, no doubt, to claim his heart for her own. The notion did not appeal to him.
Newbury glanced around for anything he could use as a weapon, making a mental note that—should he survive this encounter—he should make a point of secreting more weapons around his house. His eyes settled on his prize automaton, the owl. There was little else to hand. “Sorry, old chap,” he said, scooping it up off its perch. It trilled mechanically, its brass wings twitching.
The Executioner twisted her lithe body, coiling like a snake about to strike. Newbury hefted the owl in his hand like a rugby ball, and then, turning to face the woman as she launched into a charge across the room towards him, he hurled it into her face.
She tried to duck, to alter her path, but the owl struck her hard in the chest, exploding in a flurry of metallic wings. She stumbled back, dropping one of her swords and sending a chair careening across the room. The owl tumbled to the floor with a heavy thud, and was still.
It didn’t stop her for long, however. She stooped to reclaim her dropped blade, and then leapt forward, planting her foot on the coffee table and launching herself through the air, sending empty glasses and papers careening across the floor.
Her momentum carried her towards him and she brought her right fist down across his face. He didn’t have time to get his hands up in defence, and the pommel of her sword smashed into his nose, causing blood to erupt in a fine spray. He stumbled and coughed, tasting it on the back of his tongue.
She pressed in for the attack, kicking him hard in the stomach and sending him sprawling once more onto the floor. She moved with the grace of a cat: taut, wiry, and powerful. Newbury couldn’t help but be impressed, despite the dire circumstances under which he was being granted this remarkable demonstration of prowess.
The Executioner swung her swords around in a flurry, and he swept out with his leg, trying to catch her by surprise, to unbalance her. She anticipated his movement, however, and pirouetted out of the way, slicing down with her left scimitar.
He flicked his wrist out in defence and deflected the thrust, but opened a painful gash in his forearm as a result. She shifted, raising one foot and slamming her heel down hard into his shoulder, pinning him to the ground.
She was standing over him now, looking down upon him, her swords poised. There was no gleam of triumph in her eyes, however; no wicked smile. Her face remained cold and impassive, as if she were simply going through the well-trod motions of another kill, untouched by the enormity of what she was doing.
The realisation of this terrified Newbury. He’d faced death before, on numerous occasions. Each and every time, without fail, the person or beast he had stood against had showed some measure of emotion—anger, hunger, some level of investment in the kill. There was always a reason. The Executioner, however, demonstrated none of this. She might well have been an automaton, inhuman and unfeeling.
She brought her fists together, her twin blades side by side, and raised her hands above her head. The tips of her blades were pointed at his chest. Panicked, he tried walking back on his hands, dragging himself away from her. But she simply pressed down harder with her foot, crushing his shoulder, keeping him pinned to the ground. Besides, he was close to the wall, and there was nowhere left to go. He raised his arms in desperation, as if he might fend off the weapons for a moment longer—and then he heard the thud of running footsteps. He saw the Executioner hesitate. His eyes flicked to the door. And then Scarbright was there, slamming into the woman with his shoulder and sending them both crashing to the floor.
She cried out in frustration as she careened into the coffee table, causing an eruption of loose papers to billow into the air all around her. Scarbright thudded to the floor at Newbury’s feet, but sprang up again instantly, snatching up the poker that Newbury had dropped a few moments earlier and circling the woman.
Newbury leapt to his feet. The Executioner was backing away, her swords raised. Clearly, she wasn’t keen on the change of odds. Scarbright thrust forward with the poker and she battered it away with the end of a sword.
Newbury saw her eyes flick to the door. He started towards it, intent on slamming it shut, but she made her decision and bolted, throwing herself towards the opening before Newbury could make it there himself.
She disappeared into the darkened hallway.
“No! Stop her. Don’t let her get away!” bellowed Newbury, stumbling as he lurched towards the door. He swung himself around the door frame, almost losing his footing in the hall, and charged after her, Scarbright at his heels. He hurtled for the front door, which was swinging back and forth on its hinges in the darkness.
He burst out into the freezing night, skidding to a halt on the top step, glancing both ways along the street as he tried to establish which way she had run. He heard her footsteps and turned to follow, but when he finally caught sight of her, he knew he was too late. He’d never catch her. Not now. She was too fast and he was injured and weary.
He hung his head, panting for breath. Blood was streaming freely from his burst nose, soaking into his collar and down the front of his torn shirt. His hand was sticky where the gash in his forearm was weeping in time with the rapid beating of his heart.
Newbury watched as the Executioner charged into the foggy, frozen night. All he could see was the back of her head reced
ing into the distance. It was somehow familiar, dragging at a memory somewhere in the back of his mind.
And then it struck him where he’d seen it before. “It’s the Prince!” he exclaimed, suddenly.
“The Prince?” echoed Scarbright from behind him, confused, concerned. “He’s here?”
Newbury turned, hanging onto the door for support. “No. He’s not here. But he sent her,” he said, solemnly. “He sent her to kill me.”
The look on Scarbright’s face was a mix of incredulity and horror. “No. I can’t believe it. It can’t be…”
Newbury shook his head and spat blood into the flowerbed. “There’s no time to explain now,” he said, firmly. He clapped Scarbright on the shoulder, inadvertently smearing blood on the man’s dressing gown. “I owe you my life, Scarbright. If it wasn’t for your timely intervention.…” He trailed off.
“Think nothing of it, Sir Maurice. Anyone would have done the same,” said Scarbright, drawing himself up, perhaps a little uncomfortable with the praise, and with Newbury’s assertion of who was behind the attack.
“No, they wouldn’t,” said Newbury, quietly. He coughed on the blood that was still streaming down his throat. “Come on,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Help me clean up this mess. I need to speak to Charles as a matter of urgency.”
CHAPTER
26
“I’m not sure you quite grasp the gravity of what you’re saying, Archibald,” said Bainbridge, reaching for his cigar, which lay smouldering on the lip of the ashtray.
“Oh, I assure you I do, Sir Charles. That’s precisely my point. If Her Majesty the Queen continues to take us down this path—” He stopped short at the sound of a resounding thump on the front door, which set it rattling momentarily in its frame.
Bainbridge glanced at the clock. It was approaching midnight. Who could be calling at this hour? Clarkson was long retired for the evening. He rose slowly to his feet. There was another thump at the door, followed by a series of rapping thuds. “Open the door, Charles!” came the muffled shout from outside.
“Newbury?” said Bainbridge, hurrying into the hall. “Newbury, is that you?”
“It’s me, Charles,” confirmed Newbury. “Let me in, for goodness’ sake!”
Bainbridge unlocked the door and unthreaded the chain. He snatched the handle and pulled it open. “Whatever is the…” He trailed off when he saw the state of his friend. “Good Lord,” he said, shaken. “Get inside, now. Archibald’s in the sitting room.”
Newbury, gasping, nodded in acknowledgement and staggered into the hallway. He was smeared in blood and was clearly in pain. His suit was slashed open across his left arm and his right side, exposing the bloodstained flesh beneath. Bandages were expertly wrapped around his forearm, but blood continued to ooze out through the gauze.
“What the devil happened, man?” asked Bainbridge, urgently. “Who did this to you?”
“The Executioner,” said Newbury, between ragged breaths. “She came for me at Chelsea. With Scarbright’s help I managed to fend her off.”
“She got away?” prompted Bainbridge, as Newbury fell back against the wall, propping himself up. He’d evidently hurried across town directly from the scene of the attack.
He nodded. “Yes, she got away. But not before I worked out who’s behind all of this,” he said, wincing in pain. “That’s why I’m here.”
Bainbridge studied him for a moment, surprised. “Let’s get you a brandy and then you can explain,” he said, patting Newbury on the arm and urging him on into the sitting room.
For a moment he found himself considering what Isobel would think about the inevitable bloodstains on the carpet, then smiled sadly as he remembered she was no longer there to raise such concerns. It was about time he laid her ghost to rest.
Angelchrist was on his feet, pacing the room as he waited for them. “I overheard,” he said, hastily. “Are you sure you’re well enough, Sir Maurice? Perhaps we should get you to a hospital?”
“I’m fine,” said Newbury, resolute. “I’m fine.” Bainbridge thought it sounded as if Newbury were trying to convince himself as much as Angelchrist.
Newbury crossed the room and dropped heavily into a chair. He was still gasping for breath. Bainbridge went to the silver tray atop the sideboard and sloshed out a generous measure of brandy. He handed it to Newbury, who took a long, deep draw.
“You didn’t run all the way here, I take it?” said Bainbridge.
Newbury shook his head. “No. Although it was a struggle to get a cab to stop for me at this hour, in this condition,” he said. “So I set out, and managed to pick one up about halfway here.”
“I admire your determination,” said Angelchrist, sincerely.
“It’s my determination that almost got me killed,” replied Newbury, laughing.
“Go on,” prompted Bainbridge. “Tell us. What happened?”
“I’ll spare you the details,” said Newbury, “other than to say our murderess must have broken into my house after I’d fallen asleep in my chair. I woke to find her in the room. I’m lucky I did—a couple more minutes and I’d have been run through in my sleep.”
“Good Lord,” said Bainbridge, again. “And was she just as you described, half-mechanical, with all those dreadful tattoos?”
Newbury nodded. “Although ‘half-mechanical’ is something of an exaggeration. She has a mechanical heart, but it’s old and clumsy and she wears it on her shoulder, rather than carrying it inside her chest.”
“You said you’d determined who sent her?” said Angelchrist, leaning forward in his chair, his hands folded on his lap. He was wearing small reading spectacles that were perched neatly on the end of his nose. He peered over the top of them at Newbury.
“This is going to sound outlandish,” said Newbury, frowning in obvious discomfort at his wounds.
“More outlandish than a century-old killer with a clockwork heart?” said Bainbridge, with a grin.
“Perhaps,” said Newbury, resisting Bainbridge’s attempt to make light of the situation. “It’s the Prince of Wales.”
Bainbridge, who was still standing in the centre of the room, nearly dropped his own brandy glass in astonishment. “The Prince of Wales!” he barked. “Are you listening to yourself, Newbury?”
Angelchrist motioned for Bainbridge to calm himself. “Let the man speak, Sir Charles.”
Bainbridge nodded, feeling slightly aggrieved to be dismissed in such a way.
“It all makes sense,” said Newbury. “We agreed earlier this evening that the person behind the Executioner had to be someone with access to the list of agents. The Prince had that access. He’s the one who provided me with the list. He’s had it all along.”
“That’s hardly enough to incriminate the man,” said Bainbridge.
“Except there’s more. That first time I called on him at Marlborough House, he wasn’t expecting me, and I saw something I shouldn’t have. He was in the library when I arrived, talking in hushed tones with a woman. I only saw the back of her head, but it was distinctive enough for me to know it was the Executioner, now that I’ve encountered her in the flesh,” said Newbury, encouraged now by Angelchrist’s attention.
“But why would he send her after you, Newbury?” asked Bainbridge. “You, to whom he recently granted privileges of an unparalleled nature. I mean, he even went to the effort of calling on you himself, at Chelsea!”
“That’s precisely the point, Charles! He was attempting to throw me off the trail, sending me after the Germans so that I’d be distracted and wouldn’t look to where the real problem might be. He wanted me close, in order to manipulate me. When Archibald proved to us that the Germans weren’t, after all, involved in the murders, I swore to the Prince that I would see the real perpetrator brought to justice. At that point I—how did you put it?—I made myself a more pressing target.”
“But why? What has he possibly got to gain? You’re talking about him undermining his own mother!” said Bai
nbridge, although he could clearly see the merit in what Newbury was saying. It did make a horrible sort of sense.
“The throne! That’s what he has to gain. He made his feelings towards the Queen quite clear to me when he came to Chelsea. He feels that she has lost her way, and that the Empire needs a firmer hand to guide it—his hand. He believes there’s a war brewing on the Continent and that, if we’re not careful, it will spill over onto our shores. Most of all, he’s grown tired of waiting for his mother to die, and now that she’s strapped into that diabolical machine, there’s no end in sight for the man. He sees his time slipping away, and it’s driven him mad.”
Bainbridge glanced at Angelchrist, who nodded slightly.
“I don’t doubt it for a minute,” said Angelchrist. “I believe the Prince is perfectly capable of such a political manoeuvre. He claims to care for the good of the people. While that may be true in part, in reality, he cares more for himself. He’s worried he’ll miss his opportunity to rule. Something must have tipped him over the edge, persuaded him to act.”
“I think it’s time we told you a little more of what’s been going on, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, with a dour expression. He dropped into a seat. “The Secret Service has had the Royal family under observation for some months.”
Newbury frowned. “To protect them?” he said.
“No,” said Angelchrist, levelly. “To judge their intentions. It is our belief that the Queen has lost her way.”
“You’re not trying to tell me that you are mixed up in this business with the Executioner, are you?” said Newbury, his face creasing in concern.
“Indeed not!” said Bainbridge. “Nothing like that. Nevertheless, the Parliament has begun to question the real motivations of the monarch, and whether she truly has the best interests of the nation at heart.” He looked Newbury straight in the eye. “To be honest, Newbury, I’ve begun to doubt her intentions, too. Archibald, of course, feels the same. That’s why he’s here tonight. He came to collect a dossier I’ve assembled, containing observations of the Queen and her immediate family.”
