The Executioner's heart nahi-4 Read online

  As the carriage pulled away, she got her first glimpse of the passengers. The first was a tall, thin man with a drooping moustache wearing a top hat and a grey woollen overcoat that came down to his knees. He was carrying a black leather briefcase in his left hand and clung to his hat with his right, trying desperately to prevent it from blowing away.

  The second man was slightly shorter and a little wider around the waist. He, too, wore a top hat, and was dressed in a black overcoat. Veronica could see that this man sported greying hair beneath the brim of his hat, and a bushy grey moustache. He was leaning on a cane, talking urgently with the other man. Then he turned in her direction and appeared to stare straight at her. For a moment her heart stopped. Had he seen her? But after a second he turned back to the other man and continued his conversation, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Nevertheless, she felt a flutter of excitement and trepidation. She would have recognised the man’s profile from a hundred yards. It was Bainbridge, arriving here at Angelchrist’s house less than an hour after leaving the scene of the Reverend Carsen’s murder. What was he doing here? And who was the other, unfamiliar man?

  She watched with bated breath as Bainbridge approached the heavy black door of Angelchrist’s apartment building. He rapped on it with the end of his cane, and a moment later a man appeared to usher him and his associate in.

  There’s something fundamental we’re missing, Newbury had said earlier that day, as they’d stood together over the corpse of the killer’s latest victim. He’d been right, in more ways than perhaps he realised. There was far more to Bainbridge’s relationship with Angelchrist than the chief inspector was prepared to admit. She’d thought he’d been taking a risk when he’d allowed the professor to openly join them at the church, but now, to be seen visiting the man’s home … well, either he was actively attempting to imperil his position with the Queen, or he thought whatever it was he hoped to achieve was worth the risk. Either way, Veronica knew she needed to get to the bottom of it.

  She waited a few minutes longer to ensure the three men were not about to leave the apartment together, then she pushed herself away from the tree, bracing herself against the chill and the incessant rain. She considered waiting until their meeting had ended, but decided there was little more she could learn, and she was growing uncomfortable in the rain. Her clothes were plastered to her now, dragging at her skin as she moved, but she felt somewhat vindicated. She had not, after all, had a wasted trip.

  Veronica set off in search of a cab, and a driver who’d be willing to take a fare that would leave his seats waterlogged for the rest of the day. She sighed. She supposed she’d just have to leave a good tip.

  CHAPTER 21

  If the attitude of one’s butler was in any way a representative of one’s outlook on life, then Newbury had clearly gotten the Prince of Wales all wrong. Newbury considered this as he sat once again in the drawing room of Marlborough House, waiting for the Prince to grant him an audience.

  The man’s butler, Barclay, was an utter prig. He was, in Newbury’s heartfelt opinion, an example of the worst sort of man, out to undermine and coax, to insinuate and judge. He had about him the manner of a sly dog: slippery and oily. On both occasions Newbury had visited the Prince, he had observed Barclay lurking in passageways or hovering outside doors, listening to the Prince’s ostensibly private conversations, no doubt filing them away for later-probably defamatory-use. He wouldn’t be surprised to discover the man was a blackguard or a blackmailer, although he had to admit he’d met more genial examples of both.

  Whatever the case, Newbury was thankful that he didn’t have to deal with Barclay for more than a few moments at a time, although he imagined the butler was most likely loitering in the hallway at that very moment, listening intently on the other side of the door.

  He heard a cough in the distance, and stood as the now familiar tapping of the Prince’s cane came along the passageway, accompanied by all the bustle and grandeur he had come to expect.

  “Fetch me a whisky soda, Barclay,” said Albert Edward, his voice booming in the confines of the corridor. “And whatever Newbury is having, too.”

  “Sir Maurice declined my offer of a drink, Your Royal Highness,” wheedled the butler in reply. Newbury raised an eyebrow at the blatant lie. He had done no such thing-the offer had never been made in the first place.

  The Prince apparently did not deem it necessary to grant the butler a reply. A moment later he erupted through the doorway, glancing around the room until his eyes settled on Newbury.

  He was dressed in a black suit with a red silk cravat and carried a large cream-coloured envelope in his left hand. He looked more relaxed than other occasions when Newbury had seen him recently, but then, the first time had seen him bursting in upon Newbury during an opium-induced fugue, and the other had involved Newbury interrupting him during an important business meeting.

  “Please go ahead and make yourself comfortable in my presence, will you?” said Albert Edward, smiling warmly. “I think we understand each other well enough now to encourage a little informality. After all, I foresee a time in the future when you and I shall be spending a good deal of time in one another’s company.”

  Newbury hardly knew how to take this somewhat unexpected assertion, but he did what the Prince suggested and sought out a seat. Clearly Albert Edward had already begun to consider his options for the future, and, more specifically, the people with whom he wished to surround himself when he did finally ascend to the throne. Newbury didn’t know whether to feel flattered or amused. “I look forward to that time, Your Royal Highness,” he said, diplomatically.

  The Prince nodded sagely, as if sharing a mutual understanding. He glanced at the envelope in his hand. “Ah, yes. The information you wanted,” he said, passing it over to Newbury.

  “Thank you,” said Newbury, opening the flap and partially withdrawing the sheaf of papers within. There were five or six pages in the bundle, and each contained a long list of names, printed in neat copperplate. Beside each was an address, or, in some instances, the name of a club at which the person could be reached. A handful of the names were struck through with a thick black line.

  Newbury pushed the papers back inside the envelope. “I’m sure this will be a great help with our inquiry,” he said.

  The Prince nodded. He glanced behind him, took a step back and lowered himself heavily into a chair. For the first time, Newbury noticed there were dark rings beneath his eyes. “Yes. Pray tell, I am interested to hear how the investigation progresses.”

  Newbury glanced around for somewhere to put the envelope, but there was nowhere to hand. He decided to hold on to it instead. “The investigation has, I fear, rather stalled in its tracks.”

  “Stalled?” asked the Prince, his brow creasing. “I understood you were following the line of inquiry we had discussed, regarding the Kaiser’s agents.”

  “Indeed,” said Newbury, quickly. “I can assure you, Your Royal Highness, that matter has been my primary concern. However, yesterday it became clear to me that the two investigations are not linked. It seems the German spies are not in fact responsible for the deaths of Her Majesty’s agents.”

  The Prince’s frown deepened. “You’re quite certain of this, Newbury?”

  “As certain as I can be, Your Royal Highness,” he replied, cautious not to intimate that the Prince had been wrong in any of his assertions. Newbury was not yet fully aware of the circumstances surrounding the German operation at the Crystal Palace, or what the Secret Service was planning to do with the information.

  “And what has led you to this conclusion?” continued the Prince. It was clear he was not entirely enamoured with Newbury’s revelation.

  “Yesterday there was a bungled operation at an exhibition at the Crystal Palace,” said Newbury.

  “Yes, I read about it in The Times,” interjected the Prince. “I understand one of the exhibits broke free and set out on a murderous rampage. Something to do wi
th a new species of carnivorous bird they discovered in the Congo last year?”

  Newbury couldn’t help but smile. Once again, Bainbridge had worked his magic with the press, and the stories had focused on the rampant giant birds instead of the gun battle that had preceded, and indeed enabled, their escape. “I rather think The Times is reporting only a small portion of the truth, Your Royal Highness,” he said. He measured his next words carefully. “I was in attendance with Miss Hobbes and Sir Charles Bainbridge. I saw what happened. The birds escaped because the Secret Service stepped in to foil the machinations of the Kaiser. There was a gun battle, and a stray shot damaged the bird’s enclosure, providing the beasts with the opportunity to break free. The real story-the one I imagine has been kept out of the news-is that the German agents showed their hand, and the Secret Service prevented them from gaining possession of a dangerous weapon.”

  Albert Edward leaned back in his chair. He studied Newbury’s face, chewing thoughtfully on his lip. He was about to speak when there was a polite rap on the door. They both looked round to see Barclay enter with a small silver tray bearing the Prince’s drink, along with a box of cigars and a cutter.

  The butler scuttled over without a word, swept up a small occasional table with his left hand, and laid everything out neatly before the Prince. His eyes never met Newbury’s as he quit the room moments later, pulling the door nearly closed-but not shut-behind him.

  The Prince reached for his drink and gulped down a generous draught. He eyed Newbury over the top of the glass. “So, what you’re telling me, Newbury, is that some of the Kaiser’s agents were involved in a plot to steal … what? A weapon from the exhibition?” He sounded more than a little sceptical.

  “An electric search lamp designed to be mounted on the underbelly of an airship. It’s thought that they hoped to magnify its beam through a glass lens to turn it into a weapon. When fired from above, the concentrated beam of light would-they hoped-work to incinerate the city below,” said Newbury.

  “Good Lord,” said Albert Edward. “This works precisely to prove my point, Newbury. The Kaiser is arming himself with a view to laying waste to London. He intends to make a play for control of the Empire.”

  “My contacts assure me, Your Royal Highness, that the Kaiser’s operation was intended to secure the weapon only for the purposes of defence,” said Newbury, cautiously.

  “Balderdash!” said the Prince. “When examined in concert with the murders, there is only one logical conclusion. The Kaiser is planning war.”

  “But that’s just it, Your Royal Highness,” said Newbury, stifling his exasperation. “I do not believe that the German agents are responsible for the murders.”

  “On what grounds?” demanded the Prince.

  Newbury took a deep breath, attempting to steady his nerves. “Firstly, I do not believe the Kaiser would show his hand so willingly at the exhibition if his real motive was to undermine Her Majesty’s power by murdering her agents. Surely he would have more success in that regard if his operation remained clandestine. Secondly-and more importantly-I attended the scene of one of the deaths this very morning, and I’m convinced there is a ritualistic significance to the excision of the victims’ hearts. The killer is taking them as trophies, leaving his victims heartless as some form of symbolic gesture. I have yet to ascertain what the precise significance of this macabre exercise is, but I feel I am drawing closer.”

  The Prince was frowning again. “I urge you not to be too hasty in your conclusions, Newbury,” he said. “I fear you may miss something of fundamental importance if you pursue these concerns over a potential German plot. It would not do to leave ourselves vulnerable to attack.”

  “Rest assured, Your Royal Highness, I shall not allow the matter to rest. You made your feelings regarding the Secret Service very clear to me during my previous visit, but I can attest to the integrity of their agents’ handling of the affair at the Crystal Palace. They, too, are independently attempting to discover the truth regarding the Kaiser’s intentions. When combined with my own efforts towards the same end, I believe we can keep the matter under strict observation. In the meanwhile, I shall continue to pursue any leads I have into the murders of Her Majesty’s agents, and I shall aid Scotland Yard in bringing the perpetrator to justice. I will not fail.”

  “No,” said Albert Edward, resignedly, draining the last of his drink. “I do not doubt it.”

  Newbury offered him a quizzical expression, but the Prince did not elaborate any further. The moment stretched. “Did you manage, Your Royal Highness, to resolve your little problem?” asked Newbury, hoping to alleviate the tension somewhat by changing the subject.

  The Prince, however, offered him the darkest of looks in reply. “My … little problem?” he said, urging Newbury to explain. Clearly, Newbury had unwittingly touched a nerve.

  “Forgive me, Your Royal Highness. I meant no offense. I was merely enquiring after your success in the matter of the condemned hotel.”

  The Prince’s frown turned almost immediately into a jovial smile. “Oh, that. Yes, I’d almost forgotten. The matter is in hand. There’s very little in this world that cannot be resolved by the judicious application of money, Newbury.”

  Newbury laughed, but he couldn’t help feeling that the Prince appeared somewhat relieved to discover Newbury was referring to his recent endeavours in the property market and not some other, undisclosed affair. Something it was clear he’d be uncomfortable discussing with Newbury.

  The matter left Newbury with a rather unsavoury feeling, but he tried his best to put it out of mind. After all, he supposed there were many things of a sensitive nature that the Prince might find himself involved in. It was not Newbury’s place to pry.

  “Well, if that is all…” ventured the Prince. “I imagine we both have our hands rather full.” The tone of the interview had changed. Gone now was the playful informality of earlier. It was clear the Prince had something on his mind, and that he wished to be left alone.

  “Yes, thank you, Your Royal Highness. Once again, your support in this matter has been most appreciated,” said Newbury, getting to his feet. He clutched the envelope tightly by his side. He looked round to see the door to the hall already open, and Barclay waiting for him on the threshold, a tight smile on his lips.

  “Good day, Newbury,” said the Prince. “And let me just say how much I admire your tenacity. Observing you at work is a lesson for us all.”

  “Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” said Newbury. He gave a short bow, then left the room, refusing to acknowledge the sneering butler on his way out.

  CHAPTER 22

  It had been months since Newbury had last visited Aldous Renwick at his unusual bookshop off Tottenham Court Road. As he approached unannounced at this late hour in the afternoon, he couldn’t help but feel a stirring of guilt. Renwick was a friend as much as he was a source of information and rare, specialist books, and Newbury had ignored him of late, just as he’d ignored so much of import in his life in recent months. Or, more truthfully, he’d ignored Renwick until he’d needed something, at which point he’d sent the man an apologetic note, requesting his urgent help. No wonder he was feeling guilty, he chided himself. It was no way to treat a friend.

  Renwick would understand. The man was not the sort to judge. Nevertheless, Newbury reprimanded himself for his ignoble behaviour, and decided he would make an effort to remain in touch. He had few enough real friends, and he recognised that he abused them terribly.

  The small emporium was still open, so Newbury stopped for a moment to examine the cluttered, leaning piles in the window. Renwick had long ago given up on using the space for any sort of cohesive display, and had taken to using it as room to pile more of the musty old books that burst from the heaving shelves inside.

  How the man ever made a sale, Newbury didn’t know. He adored the shop, however; the almost-vanilla scent of the ancient, dusty books, the sight of so much knowledge, adventure, and opinion huddled together in t
hat small space; the sense of triumph at finding something unexpected printed on a gilded, leaning spine. He could have spent hours in there losing himself amongst the maze-like stacks. Indeed, every time he visited the shop he promised himself he’d make time to return during more leisurely hours to do just that. There were few finer things in life, in Newbury’s humble opinion, than spending time perusing the shelves of a good bookshop.

  Newbury’s particular interest in the premises, however, lay out of sight, in Renwick’s private back room. That was where he kept his real treasures: the books that weren’t for sale.

  Renwick had one of the most extensive-if not the most extensive-libraries of obscure occult writing in the world. It was unrivalled, in Newbury’s experience, containing riches from all the many corners of the globe. On numerous occasions he had found reason to peruse the rare tomes in Renwick’s possession, and on nearly as many Renwick had been able to help him to ascertain the nature of a particular problem or the meaning of some esoteric symbolism. His hope now was that his friend had been successful in identifying the meaning behind the missing hearts, and whether there truly was a ritualistic significance behind them.

  Newbury, steeling himself for some well-deserved jibing, pushed open the door to the shop and stepped inside.

  Renwick was-for once-standing behind the counter, but if he’d noticed the door open and close, or the jingling of the tiny bell instigated by the action, he showed no sign of it such as looking up from his work.

  He was perhaps one of the most eccentric men Newbury had ever met, and his appearance mirrored perfectly his chaotic attitude to life. He was scruffy and shambolic, with untidy grey hair that defied taming. It burst from his head in wild tufts, matted and wiry. He wore a stained white shirt-or rather, a shirt that had once been white, but was now more of a dirty pale brown-and a worn leather smock around his waist. The fingers of his right hand were stained yellow from the excessive smoking of cigarettes, and his teeth had a similar, dirty hue, although Newbury hesitated to assume it was for the same reasons. He had a plethora of unusual-and somewhat antisocial-habits, including the brewing of his own disgusting beverages, which he consumed with hearty abandon.