by George Mann
Newbury glanced up at his old friend. Bainbridge looked as if he’d put up a good fight, which was entirely in keeping with what Newbury would have expected; Bainbridge wouldn’t have taken lightly to being set upon and bundled into a hansom in the dead of night. The front of his shirt was torn and he was sporting a bruised and swollen eyelid. Newbury felt a brief pang of remorse.
“I’m sorry, old chap. Miss Hobbes and I have been searching for you for days,” said Bainbridge. He sounded a little sheepish, and he unconsciously stroked his bushy moustache as he spoke; a nervous gesture Newbury had seen a hundred times before. “Thought you’d gone off on another of your... episodes. We imagined you’d eventually turn up in one of those blasted Chinese dens you seem so intent on inhabiting. Miss Hobbes and I have spent hours searching in back rooms all across the city, expecting to find you half dead, in a stupor, or worse.” He paused, looking Newbury up and down appraisingly. “Mind you, half dead appears to be a fairly fitting description. What the devil happened, Newbury?”
Newbury expelled a long, plaintive sigh. “Devil is quite the word, Charles,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Sit down and I’ll tell you everything.” He glanced at the door. “I don’t imagine we’ll be hearing anything more of our captors for a while yet.”
Bainbridge shrugged and—evidently realising there was no furniture in the room upon which to take a seat—lowered himself to the floorboards beside Newbury, groaning quietly at what Newbury took to be the result of another recent injury. He couldn’t help feeling responsible for Bainbridge’s suffering, and would have preferred to avoid involving his friend in the whole wretched affair, but in the end he’d felt he’d had no choice.
The room they were in had once been a bedchamber—and a grand one at that—but had long since been stripped bare and turned into a makeshift holding cell. The windows were boarded and barred, the oilcloths had been torn up and staunch bolts had been fitted to the other side of the door. There was nothing left in the room that could be used as a weapon. Newbury had checked. Even the fire grate had been emptied of coal. Every inch of the room was now familiar to Newbury, from the dark oak panelling to the untreated floorboards. Three days spent locked within its four walls had left him with little else to do but study his surroundings and try to conceive a means of escape. At least, now, things finally seemed to be coming to a head.
“Well? Are you going to enlighten me?”
Newbury turned his head to regard the chief inspector. “Tell me, Charles, what did you learn of our captors during your abduction?”
Bainbridge furrowed his brow in thought. “Very little. They came out of nowhere. Three of them, dressed in black robes, with hoods obscuring their faces. They set upon me on Wardour Street with a blackjack. I put up the best fight I could, but one of them caught me with a blow to the head and before I knew it I was being restrained and bundled into the back of a hansom. They forced a cowl over my head and went through my pockets as we barrelled off into the night. I’ve no idea how long I lay like that in the footwell. An hour, maybe more. None of them said so much as a word, and every time I made a sound I received a sharp boot in the ribs for my effort.” He shook his head. “Anyway, next thing I know, we’re in this big house and I’m being goaded along the passageway to this room.” He sighed. “I must admit, I’m relieved to see you here, Newbury. At least now I know it’s more than just an opportunistic robbery. I’d feared I might end up dumped in the Thames with a knife in my belly by the end of the night, all for the sake of the contents of my wallet. At least this way we have a fighting chance of effecting an escape. But who are these people? What do they want with us?”
Newbury steeled himself for his friend’s response before he spoke. “Cultists, Charles. They’re demon-worshipping cultists from an organisation known as ‘The Cabal of the Horned Beast’.”
“Cultists!” Bainbridge spat the word. “Good God! As if I hadn’t seen enough of this devil-worshipping claptrap in my time...”
Newbury raised his hand to still Bainbridge’s outburst and the chief inspector—red-faced—fell quiet. “They’re dangerous, Charles. They have very unusual beliefs, centred around the worship of obscure entities from ancient pagan mythology. This isn’t your typical, run-of-the-mill cult. They’re very serious, and they have money and influence. Their members number in the hundreds and their influence is felt far and wide. Do not underestimate them.”
“Pah! Surely you’re not telling me these people are actually in possession of other-worldly powers? That’s too much, Newbury, even for you.”
Newbury raised an eyebrow. “Too much? Surely, Charles, your mind is no longer as closed to such matters as it used to be?” It was a rhetorical question, but he let it hang for a moment before continuing. “But no, that’s not what I’m saying at all. Whether they have genuinely harnessed occult power, or whether they simply believe they have, matters little. They’re just as dangerous regardless. Perhaps more so, because of their arrogance, because they’re driven by their beliefs. And besides, their wealthy patrons ensure the Cabal’s coffers are always brimming with funds enough to feed their arsenal. They have some bizarre and dangerous weapons. Some of them very unconventional indeed.”
“But why now, Newbury? What’s inspired them to take action against you now?”
Newbury sighed and rubbed at the three-day-old bristles that were beginning to irritate his throat. “Because I stole something from them, Charles, and they want it back very much indeed.”
“You what?” Bainbridge sounded utterly indignant. “Do I take it you were acting on behalf of Her Majesty?”
Newbury shook his head, slowly. “I was acting on behalf of a dear friend.”
Bainbridge exhaled slowly, and Newbury could tell he was struggling to contain his fury. “Well, I won’t even begin to attempt to decipher your motives, Newbury. I can only put my faith in your judgement and trust you would never endanger yourself and your friends without good reason.”
“I can assure you, Charles, it was for the very best of reasons.”
Bainbridge eyed him for a moment, as if weighing him up. “Very well.” He winced as he stretched his legs out before him. “So tell me, what is this mysterious object that’s caused these fools to become so agitated?”
“A book,” said Newbury. “A very old and very rare book.”
“All this for the sake of a book!” Bainbridge guffawed loudly. “I hope it’s a ruddy good read!”
“Hardly,” said Newbury, with a wry smile. “It’s in ancient Aramaic. A book of rituals and incantations, entitled The Cosmology of the Spirit, the only original copy known to exist. There are others, of course, but all of them are missing vital passages. This, the earliest surviving example of the text, was uncovered centuries ago by a crusader, who brought it back to Scotland from the ruins of Constantinople. It languished for half a century in the vaults of a highland church before passing into the hands of a hermeticist named John Charterton. Charterton was a pragmatic man, and realising what he had in his possession, he sold the book for a king’s ransom and retired on the proceeds. It’s said that when the true nature of the book came to light, the Vatican attempted to acquire it through means both legal and illicit. The stories claim they raised a small army of agents to act on their behalf, but by then it was too late, and the book had disappeared, along with the mysterious man who had purchased it.” He coughed and attempted to moisten his dry lips.
“The next thing anyone heard of the manuscript it had passed into the hands of an aristocrat named Henry Carvill almost a hundred years later. Carvill was a renowned occultist and went on to found the organisation that today is known as ‘The Cabal of the Horned Beast’, within whose headquarters we now sit. The manuscript has been held in their vault here in London ever since.”
“Fascinating, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, in a tone that made it clear he thought the lecture to be anything but. “You do have a taste for these musty old books.” He shook his head, indicatin
g that, in truth, he already knew the answer to his next question. “So, do I assume that you’ve had the good sense to copy these all-important missing passages, and that now you’ll be able to return the original book to its owners to secure our release?”
“No, no, Charles. I fear it’s not that simple. The book itself is the key, the true artefact. The words it contains are irrevocably entwined with the pages upon which they are written. The two are inseparable. Without the original manuscript, the words themselves mean nothing.”
Bainbridge expelled a heavy sigh. “I feared you’d say something like that,” he said. He offered Newbury a weary smile. “So, where is it now?”
“I told them that you had it.”
“You what?” Bainbridge exclaimed, looking utterly flabbergasted. He stammered for a moment. “You... you what?” he repeated.
“I’m sorry, Charles,” said Newbury, his voice low and even. “I didn’t want to get you mixed up in all of this. But I needed to get a message out, to let you know where I was. I knew that you and Miss Hobbes would assume the worst, believing that I’d once again succumbed to the lure of the opium dens. As a consequence, I feared I might be dead before you discovered the truth. So, during one of the many beatings I’ve been forced to endure, I set them on your trail as a means of alerting you to what had occurred.”
“Well, a damn lot of good it’s done you, Newbury! Look at us both! I can hardly help you escape from in here. All you’ve actually managed to achieve is that we’re both now trapped in the lion’s den.”
Newbury smiled sadly. “I’m truly sorry, Charles. I couldn’t see what else to do.”
Bainbridge’s shoulders slumped. The fight had gone out of him. “You know I’ll always help you, Newbury, any way I can. But this is a dangerous game you’re playing...”
Newbury inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I know that, Charles.” He could tell that Bainbridge was furious with him, but also that, in a way, he understood. Newbury had taken the only option he’d had left. Well, almost the only option... he might have remained silent, therefore sealing his own fate but ensuring the safety of his friends. He wondered if Bainbridge would have made the same choices.
The chief inspector pulled himself up on shaky legs. “Well, there’s little use in sitting here like a pair of old men. Have you tried to prise the bars off that window?” He crossed the room, grasped hold of the iron grille and gave it a sharp tug. It didn’t budge.
“It’s no use, Charles. I’ve been over this room a hundred times. They have us trapped. There are no means of escape. But I need you to trust me. All will be well.”
“All will be well!” Newbury could hear the incredulity in Bainbridge’s voice. “People like this, Newbury, like these cultists—they’re not rational. I mean... what have they even got planned for us? Something diabolical, I imagine.”
“Well, eventually, I suppose, they’ll want to sacrifice us to their pagan gods. They hold a belief that the lifespan of every human being is predetermined, that the moment of a person’s natural death is a fixed point in time. They also maintain, however, that if the correct rites are observed, then the early death—the sacrifice—of a person can release the unspent potential of that life, the years that belong to that body but have not yet been lived. When they’re done with us, they’ll kill us for our remaining years, given the opportunity.”
“Well, they won’t get much from me!” said Bainbridge, finally forgoing his anger in favour of a hearty laugh. “They’d be better off with a younger model.” He was clearly astounded by the absurdity of it all. He crossed to the fireplace, gazing down at Newbury. “You see what I mean? Irrational poppycock!”
Newbury grinned, weighing his next words carefully. “They won’t kill us, so long as they believe we still have the book. The book is more important to them.”
Bainbridge shook his head. “So, truthfully, where is the book?”
Newbury frowned. “It’s better that you don’t know, Charles. For a whole variety of reasons.”
“I’m beginning to feel like there’s a lot I don’t know.” There was a warning note in his voice. The tone of their conversation had shifted once again.
“I could argue just the same, Charles,” said Newbury. “All that time you’ve been spending with the Home Secretary and his new bureau...”
“State business! There’s a difference, Newbury. You’re gambling with our lives over a triviality!”
Newbury clenched his fists in frustration. He wished he could tell his friend the truth: that he’d done it for Veronica, that he’d stolen the book to help her sister, Amelia, and that somehow, incredibly, the rituals it contained were helping to heal her, to calm her tempestuous, clairvoyant mind. But Bainbridge believed Amelia to have perished in the siege of the Grayling Institute earlier that year, and Newbury had given his word to Veronica that he would not reveal the truth to anyone—not even Bainbridge. “I can assure you, Charles, that it’s anything but a triviality...”
“That’s all well and good, Newbury, but what I was—” Bainbridge’s reply was cut short by a thunderous bang from further up the hallway, followed by angry shouting and cries of alarm. He glanced at Newbury with a quizzical expression.
“Ah, here comes the cavalry!” said Newbury, his face splitting into a wide grin.
“What? I’m not following you, man! What’s going on?” There was the sound of pounding feet from outside the cell door, accompanied by grunting and the soft thuds of blows being struck.
“Stand back, Charles!”
Bainbridge did as he was told, stepping to one side just in time to avoid being caught in the wake of the splintering door as it caved inward and a body came tumbling through, sprawling to the floor at Newbury’s feet.
The body belonged to a thing that had once been a man, but had been so debased, so altered, as to no longer resemble a human being in any conventional sense. Both of its hands had been replaced by lethal-looking steel pincers, and its lower jaw had been removed, exchanged for a brace of fierce enamel tusks that had been wired directly into its skull. They opened and closed spasmodically as the man-thing struggled to right itself.
Transparent tubing erupted from six evenly spaced points on its chest, coiling round beneath its arms and disappearing into two metal panels on its back. Strange, pinkish fluid coursed and bubbled through the pipework, and what flesh remained was covered in scrawled runes and wards.
The creature twisted its head to glare at Newbury, and he was struck by the sheer terror in its eyes. He couldn’t help feeling a deep sense of pity for this thing that used to be a man. He wondered if there was enough intelligence left for it to be aware of its situation, if the former human being knew to what atrocious depths it had sunk. Clearly the creature had been somehow manufactured by the Cabal to guard their lair.
Newbury watched in appalled fascination as the man-thing rolled on to its back and used its pincers to lever itself up on to its feet once again.
Simultaneously, a black-robed figure leapt through the ruins of the shattered doorway. It looked identical to those who had set upon Newbury in Chelsea and the others he had encountered at the house since his incarceration. In its right hand the cultist was brandishing what looked—to all intents and purposes—like Bainbridge’s missing cane. Its face was shrouded in the shadows of the hood.
For a moment the two figures circled one another, the man-thing’s vicious jaws snapping open and closed, its deadly pincers raised. Then, seeing an opening, it rushed forward, charging the cultist. The robed figure demonstrated lightning-fast reactions, ducking and weaving out of the way of the snapping pincers, which threatened to decapitate it at any moment, slashing at the air where the cultist’s head had been only seconds before.
In response the cultist lashed out with a sharp kick, striking the man-thing on the left knee and causing it to buckle over and howl in pain. An elbow followed swiftly to the side of its head and it staggered woozily, almost losing its balance.
T
he robed figure wasted no time, taking its opponent’s momentary disorientation as an opportunity to bring its weapon to bear.
The cultist twisted the head of the walking cane in its hand, causing the wooden shaft to begin to unpack itself with unerring mechanical precision. Four thin panels levered open, beginning to revolve at speed, spinning around a central glass chamber that began to pulse with blue electrical light. Newbury smiled. So it was Bainbridge’s cane.
Seeming to recover itself, the man-thing lurched forward, again raising its right pincer and opening its jaws as if it intended to pin and gore the cultist. The robed figure was too quick, however, and danced out of the way, raising the shimmering lightning cane, thrusting it forward and down so that the sharp metal tip penetrated the soft flesh of the man-thing’s gut. There was a terrifying clap as the weapon discharged its ferocious electrical storm directly into the creature’s belly. Its body shuddered violently as the power coursed through it, causing its pincers to spasm open and closed, dancing electric light sparking between them.
After a moment, the charge dissipated and the man-thing’s corpse slumped back to a heap on the floor, the shaft of Bainbridge’s cane still protruding from its midriff. The stench of charred meat filled the room.
Newbury grinned. Bainbridge was staring at the scene, mouth agape. The hooded figure turned towards them and with one swift movement, raised their hands and folded back their cowl, revealing the pretty face beneath.
“Miss Hobbes!”
Veronica offered Bainbridge a lopsided grin, shaking out her long brown hair. “Hello, Sir Charles.” She reached down, grabbed the handle of the lightning cane and wrenched it free from the still-smouldering corpse of the abomination on the floor. She twisted the head sharply to the left and the cane repacked itself, becoming once again nothing but an ornate walking stick. She held it out to Bainbridge. “I think you must have dropped this.”
Bainbridge took the cane from her, staring at it in bewilderment as if he didn’t recognise it or know what to say. “I’m... I’m astounded, Miss Hobbes. Thank you.”
