The Executioner's heart nahi-4 Page 21

  “I understand your concern, Sir Maurice, and I rather think of it as an opportunity for us to look out for each other. I am, as you are only too aware, no shrinking violet, but I see the sense in your suggestion of strength in numbers.” She glanced over at Bainbridge, whose expression was one of scandalised amazement. “I shall take you up on your kind offer, on the understanding that I shall return to Kensington just as soon as the matter has been resolved.” She felt no small measure of relief at the chance to share her burden with Newbury. And, besides, it would give her an opportunity to judge precisely how frequent his recent spate of precognitive seizures had become.

  “Of course,” said Newbury, smiling. “I suggest you go immediately back to Kensington and collect an overnight bag. We can send Scarbright for the rest of your belongings in the morning.”

  “Very well,” said Veronica.

  “In that case, I urge you both to take precautions,” said Bainbridge. “This matter is far from over, and as we find ourselves drawn deeper into the affair, we risk making ourselves more pressing targets. Perhaps you’re right, Newbury, after all.”

  “I usually am,” replied Newbury, with a wry grin.

  Bainbridge pushed himself up from his chair and went to reclaim his coat and cane. Veronica stood, too, smoothing her skirts. She turned to Newbury. “We can talk later?” she asked, in hushed tones.

  “Indeed, we must,” he said. “I’ll be here when you return. I need some time to think. Perhaps Scarbright should come with you?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s only a short journey, and I don’t wish to alarm Mrs. Grant.”

  “Very well,” said Newbury. He seemed distracted. She decided to leave him to his thoughts, and joined Bainbridge in the doorway as he returned bearing her coat.

  “Forgive me, Sir Charles, but have you seen any more of Professor Angelchrist since we left the church?” she asked, trying to make it seem as if she weren’t interrogating him. She slipped her arms into her coat.

  Bainbridge frowned. “Why, is everything quite well?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Veronica, smiling. “It’s just that there was something I’d hoped to discuss with him.”

  Bainbridge smiled. “I’m glad to hear you’re finally warming to the fellow, Miss Hobbes. He’s a good man. One of us.” He tugged at the corner of his moustache as if in thought. “Alas, I haven’t seen him since we met at the church. I’ve taken your advice, Miss Hobbes, and I’ve been observing from a distance. Wouldn’t do to get Her Majesty all worked up. The professor and I have an understanding.”

  “You haven’t seen him since the church?” echoed Veronica, stifling her incredulity. She considered calling him out on his blatant lie right then and there, but decided against it. She needed to establish what he was up to, why he should wish to lie to her about his discreet visit to Angelchrist’s apartment. If she confronted him now, in front of Newbury, she risked being shot down. Not only that, but she’d be admitting outright that she’d been spying on the professor. “Well, I think you’re wise to take precautions, Sir Charles,” she said, diplomatically.

  She glanced at Newbury, who was still sitting in his armchair, staring vacantly into the crackling fire.

  “I think it’s best we give him some time to think,” said Bainbridge, under his breath.

  Veronica nodded. Newbury withdrew a tarnished silver cigarette tin from his jacket pocket and popped it open. He extracted one of the thin white sticks, balanced the end of it loosely between his moist lips, and slipped the tin back into his pocket, close to his heart.

  Bainbridge sighed. “Come along. I’ll help you find a hansom.” They pulled the door to the drawing room shut as they left.

  Outside, fortune favoured them with two horse-drawn cabs almost as soon as they stepped through the door. Bainbridge helped her up into the first, then bid her good night, assuring her that he would see her the following day with any further information or findings.

  “Where to, miss?” came the gruff voice of the driver, leaning down so he could hear her through the open window.

  “Kensington High Street,” she said, leaning back in her seat and watching as Bainbridge’s hansom pulled away from the kerbside, trundling off into the evening. She frowned, then made a snap decision. She leaned out of the window and caught the driver’s attention. “On second thought,” she said, “follow that cab.”

  * * *

  As the hansom trundled down the familiar streets, spraying dirty gutter water in its wake, it dawned on Veronica that Bainbridge was, in fact, heading directly for his own home.

  She couldn’t see the other cab from where she was sitting in the back of her own conveyance, but she’d promised the driver a half crown if he could follow behind at a respectful distance, no questions asked.

  Now, however, she was feeling somewhat conflicted about the whole endeavour. What would Newbury think if he knew that, instead of returning directly to Kensington as they’d agreed, she’d set off in pursuit of Bainbridge, with the express intention of spying on the man? He’d certainly have disapproved, claiming it was a gross betrayal of trust. She supposed, in many ways, it was.

  She considered for a moment telling the driver to stop and turn around, but the uncertainty continued to gnaw at her. She couldn’t bear not knowing the truth, and she’d be unable to face Bainbridge the following day with that incertitude unresolved. More than that, if he were involved in something underhanded, it would be best to get to the bottom of it. Steeling herself, she decided she had to see it through.

  Nevertheless, her nagging doubts continued unabated as they raced down the rain-slicked street. It was the deep sense of disappointment, she realised, that a man she had until recently viewed as incorruptible might, in fact, be quite the opposite. That unease was coupled with the fear that if she did uncover something untoward, she’d feel compelled to tell Newbury about it, or possibly confront Bainbridge about it herself. The idea did not fill her with glee. She’d considered-she still considered-Bainbridge a good friend, a man she could rely on and who would go out of his way to protect the people he cared for, but all of that had been thrust into doubt in recent weeks. Now she felt as if she didn’t know him properly at all.

  She sighed, trying to suppress a feeling of nausea. There was a part of her that would rather have buried her head in the sand and ignored her suspicions. It would certainly have been easier.

  Still, however she felt about it, Bainbridge had clearly lied to her back at Newbury’s house. That fact in itself gave her cause for concern. He was continuing to work with Professor Angelchrist despite claiming he was not, which implied that he was actively and knowingly engaging in something suspicious. Why else would he choose not to divulge the truth to her and Newbury?

  With a sigh, Veronica leaned back in her seat and watched through the window as the amber-lit streets flitted by in a hazy blur.

  Presently, she heard the driver barking commands to the horses and felt the hansom slowly draw to a halt. She leaned forward, sliding the window open and peering out.

  They were, as she’d anticipated, close to Bainbridge’s house. The rain had abated, although water dripped from the roof of the cab, spotting Veronica’s cheek and trickling down her collar like icy fingers as she strained to see through the semi-darkness.

  They’d come to a stop a little way up the street from Bainbridge’s cab. She watched as he flung open the door and hurried down the steps of the cab, fished around in his pocket, withdrew some coins, and paid the driver in a hurry. Then, turning his back on the street, he walked abruptly to his front door and opened it. He stepped inside and the door swung shut behind him.

  Why was he in such a rush? Clearly, it wasn’t to get out of the rain. Was he late for an appointment? It was close to ten o’clock, and the night was closing in. Who would he be seeing at this hour?

  Veronica opened the door of her cab and stepped out into the cold night. She shivered as the damp breeze brushed her cheek. Once again, she fought an ur
ge to simply get back into the cab and tell the driver to take her home.

  “Oi, miss?” said the driver. She turned to see him leaning over from his dickey box, rubbing his thumb and index finger together suggestively. “’Alf a crown, you said.”

  She nodded. “I’ll throw in another shilling if you wait there for me,” she said, passing him up the promised coin.

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Spying on the old fella, are we?” he said, conspiratorially.

  “I said, no questions,” replied Veronica, firmly, turning her back on him and walking slowly up the street towards Bainbridge’s house.

  The light was on in the living room, and the curtains had not yet been drawn. She hesitated on the pavement, straining to catch a sight of what was going on in Bainbridge’s house. She almost gasped aloud as she saw Professor Angelchrist stand and turn around. He must have been waiting for Bainbridge to arrive home. She watched as Bainbridge opened the inner door from the hallway and strode in, still wearing his hat and coat. The two men shook hands and exchanged a few words. Then Bainbridge reached inside his coat and withdrew a large cream-coloured envelope, which he handed to Angelchrist. They both laughed. Angelchrist clapped Bainbridge on the back, then they turned and left the room together, Angelchrist still holding the envelope.

  Veronica barely knew what to do. She felt as if she wanted to retch. Had she really just witnessed Bainbridge handing the list of agents directly to the professor? Her own words echoed loudly in her mind: Who else beside the Queen and the Prince of Wales might have access to this information?

  Clearly, the Secret Service was now privy to the list. What else had Bainbridge given them? Enough to lead them to their first handful of victims?

  Almost without thinking, she turned and staggered back to the cab. She didn’t even glance at the driver as she clambered up the steps and slumped inside. Her mind was racing. She would have to tell Newbury. Of course she would. Then, together, they would work out what to do. Bainbridge, it seemed, had betrayed them both.

  “Kensington High Street?” called the driver, merrily.

  “Yes,” she said, giving an automatic reply. She closed her eyes as the cab lurched into motion, and wished that everything could just go back to the way it had been, before the Executioner and the Grayling Institute, before the Prince of Wales, Dodsworth House, and The Lady Armitage. Just for a moment, she wanted a simple life, but this was now something forever out of her reach.

  CHAPTER 25

  Newbury stirred.

  He rubbed his neck and arched his back, realising that he must have drifted off in his armchair in the drawing room once again. His head was thick with the residue of too much brandy quaffed with Bainbridge, as well as the opium cigarettes he had imbibed upon his guests’ departure. His neck and shoulders ached from where he had lolled insensible in the chair.

  He opened his eyes. It was dark, but not yet the witching hour. Pale moonlight slanted in through the window, its silvery fingers probing inquisitively into the room. Everything was quiet, other than the distant rumble of traffic through the fog-shrouded streets.

  Veronica had not yet returned. He cursed himself for falling asleep. She was probably even now flaunting his advice, electing to sleep in her own bed rather than under the safety of his roof. He’d have to speak with her again in the morning.

  Newbury rubbed a hand across his face and leaned forward, blinking blearily. He had the sense that something had disturbed his sleep. He thought he sensed movement by the door and turned to look, but there were only shadows, gloomy and impenetrable. The moonlight and the dying embers of the evening’s fire were not enough to illuminate the far corners of the room.

  “Scarbright?” he said, his voice hoarse. It echoed loudly in the empty house. “Are you there?”

  There was no response.

  Newbury laughed quietly to himself. Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him, another spectre resulting from the drugs he’d consumed. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d imagined people in the room who weren’t really there.

  He stood, a little unsteadily, and crossed to the wall-mounted gas lamp to the left of the fireplace. He turned up the tap and the bulb blossomed with a soft, steady glow. Still, he had the sense that he was not alone. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with unease.

  He turned and caught sight of something shifting in the shadows. His heartbeat quickened, sending a sudden rush of blood to his head. He felt his dulled senses sharpen with fear. There was a dark figure standing in the doorway; the silhouette of a woman, her face obscured in the low light.

  She was about five foot two, of athletic build, and dressed in a revealing black bodysuit that clung to the shape of her body, accentuating her curves. Her hair was a ragged bob, hacked short around the base of her neck, and in her hands, hanging loosely by her sides, were the curving blades of twin scimitars.

  The Executioner. Newbury had no doubt. This was the woman Aldous had told him of. She was the instrument of death, the killer of the Queen’s agents, the stealer of hearts.

  She came at him, a sudden, startling whirlwind of motion, her blades scissoring through the air towards him. His reflexes kicked in and his hand shot out, snatching one of the pokers from the coal scuttle on the hearth. He swung it around in a wide arc so that it clattered against the two crossed blades, parrying her attack and sending painful reverberations along his forearm.

  She stepped back, lowering her blades. He could see now that her face was set in a hard, unforgiving expression. It might have been beautiful, if it wasn’t for the cold intensity, the emptiness in her dull, blue eyes.

  The bleached flesh of her cheeks and forehead were tattooed with an elaborate sequence of patterns, arcane designs that even he did not recognise. Hints of silver and gold glinted in the reflected light, describing whorls and accents where it had been intricately inlaid into her skin. The effect was entrancing, drawing his eyes so compellingly that he was almost caught off guard when she pressed her attack.

  The assassin grunted and came at him again, this time thrusting the blade in her right hand forward whilst the one in her left parried his poker as he raised it in defence, leaving him open and exposed. He stepped back, pivoting on one foot, narrowing her target.

  He blocked the blade on the left while the one on the right missed skewering his belly by less than an inch. He saw his opportunity and lashed out in response, but the window was narrow and the poker struck her left shoulder and rebounded with the dull clang of metal upon metal. He had struck her sword guard-or, in fact, what he had taken to be a sword guard, but was actually the housing of a form of primitive machine.

  As she circled, not taking her eyes from him, he was granted a better view of the porthole in the machine’s surface, and was surprised to realise that the shrivelled black mass at the centre of it was, in fact, the remnant of her heart. This, then, was the machine that was keeping her alive, working in concert with the occult ritual that preserved her flesh. He could hear the mechanism whirring faintly now, the clockwork components inside it turning as it channelled her blood, feeding it through her veins.

  The machine had fulfilled this duty for over eighty years. It was remarkable, and utterly fascinating. She looked no older than a twenty-year-old woman: striking and unique.

  “Beautiful,” said Newbury, breathless, as he raised the poker again, battering away her advances. She cocked her head slightly to one side, as if confused by his comment, but did not slow, did not alter the pattern of her attack.

  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 tha
t 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.”