The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 20

It was raining when the cab finally ground to a halt at Grosvenor Square, a relentless downpour that thrummed upon the thin wooden roof, drowning out the sounds of the outside world.

Veronica peered out of the window, wishing she’d had the foresight to bring an umbrella. The sky was a dark, brooding canopy of grey, a bruised smear across the rooftops of the city. Carriages churned the fast-flowing tributaries of gutter water with their wooden wheels as they raced past, the drivers huddled in thick coats against the inclement weather. The passengers inside stared blankly out of their temporary havens: pale, ghostly faces, briefly glimpsed.

Across the street, in the shadow of the towering tenement buildings, the door of the other cab opened and the figure of Professor Angelchrist emerged. He dipped his head and hunched his shoulders as if depressed by the onslaught from above. He glanced up and down the street, then hurried around to the driver and passed him up a handful of coins. The driver doffed his cap and pulled sharply on the reins, and the horses, their flanks glistening in the nimbus of a nearby streetlamp, whinnied and stamped their feet before starting off again, clopping away into the downpour. In a matter of moments the cab was completely swallowed by the shimmering curtain of rain.

Veronica watched Angelchrist withdraw a key from his jacket pocket, drop it, bend down to retrieve it, and then hurry to the door of one of the apartment buildings. He fiddled with the lock for a moment, pushed open the door with his shoulder, and then dashed inside. The heavy black door swung shut behind him. She made a mental note which building he had entered.

The rain was still drumming noisily on the roof of the cab, obscuring the view through the window. Reluctantly, she gathered her belongings. Just as she was about to reach for the door, there was another eruption of heavy drumming from above, and she realised that the driver was banging on the roof, attempting to hurry her along. No doubt he was getting soaked up there in his dickey box and wanted to make a dash for cover, or else he was intent on finding another sorry pedestrian looking to exchange their hard-won coppers for a brief respite from the rain.

She turned the handle and pushed open the door, struggling with it as a sudden gust almost blew it back in her face. Rain swept in, spattering her dress. She climbed down, cursing as she dropped into a puddle. The icy water ran into her boots, soaking through to her stockinged feet, drenching the hem of her skirts. She stepped up onto the kerb, squinting in dismay as the water lashed her face.

“Miserable day fer it,” said the driver, hulking down in his box, his cap pulled low over his brow. She could barely see his face past the upturned collars of his thick woollen coat.

“It certainly is,” she said, fishing around in her pocket and withdrawing a few coins. She passed them up to him.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, his voice as thick as treacle. “Good day.” He flicked the reins and the horses pulled away ponderously from the kerb.

Veronica glanced around. Behind her, the park appeared almost empty, the treetops swaying in the breeze. The street itself was nearly deserted, other than a handful of carriages trundling by in both directions. She could see the warm glow of lights through the windows of the row of tall tenement buildings.

Now that she was here, she wasn’t entirely sure what she intended to do. She’d followed Angelchrist on a whim, jumping into a cab at St. John’s Wood and ordering the driver to follow the professor’s own conveyance at a short distance. She’d been following her instincts, anxious to know more about what the man was really up to. Should she simply knock on his door and confront him?

She dismissed that idea almost as soon as it had formed. He was hardly likely to respond well to her admission that she’d followed him from the murder scene. It would beg the obvious question of why, and then she’d be forced to admit her reservations about his motives, and most likely find herself drawn into a protracted argument. Even if he accepted her concerns and invited her in out of the rain to discuss the matter with her civilly, she wasn’t likely to extract the truth. Better that she observe from the shadows, at least for a while. That way she might actually see something of use, something that might shed some light on his role in proceedings.

She was becoming slowly drenched as she stood there in the rain, and what was more, she risked being seen from one of the tenement windows.

There were precious few opportunities to take shelter. The park, she decided, represented her best chance at escaping the storm, so she pulled her overcoat tighter about her shoulders, dipped her head, and made a dash for the gates.

She passed a hooded figure hurriedly dragging a dog along on a lead. The poor creature looked sodden and downtrodden as it scurried along beside its owner, water streaming down its pugilist’s face. Otherwise, the park appeared utterly abandoned, desolate. The weather had driven everyone to their homes. Everyone sensible, at least.

Veronica took shelter beneath the boughs of an ancient oak tree, close to the boundary of the park and with a good view of the row of residential buildings on the opposite side of the street. At this time of year, the denuded branches tapered to spindly fingers that provided little cover from the gusting weather, but she huddled close to the gnarled trunk, leaning up against it beneath a fat, overhanging limb. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Across the road, the building that Angelchrist had entered a few moments before was quiet and still. She saw the warm glow of a lamp being turned on in a fourth floor window, and then a shadowy figure appeared, seeming to peer out at the street below. The figure remained there for a few moments, watching, and then pulled the curtains to, blotting out the view. It might possibly have been Angelchrist, but she could not be certain from the brief glimpse of the person’s build.

Another gust of wind blew stinging raindrops into her eyes. As she raised her arm to ward them off, she cursed herself for her interminable suspicion. If Angelchrist was now ensconced in his rooms for the afternoon, then she might as well strike out for Kensington and home. She’d succeeded only in allowing herself to be soaked to the skin, with perhaps the small victory of ascertaining where the professor lived. Although, in truth, that was information she might have gleaned easily from a five minute conversation with Newbury. She’d anticipated that Angelchrist might have been heading to another rendezvous, one that had a more pertinent bearing on the investigation, or at least her understanding of the man and his motives. Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that she’d been wrong.

Nevertheless, she was here now, huddled suspiciously beneath a tree, so she decided she might as well remain there for a short while. If nothing else, there was a chance the rain might abate, and then she could duck out from under her makeshift cover and hail another cab. She’d asked to call on Newbury that evening, but she’d be forced to return home and change out of her wet clothes before even considering heading back to Chelsea. A few more minutes wouldn’t make a great deal of difference either way.

As it transpired, however, her diligence bore the most unexpected fruit. Nearly half an hour after installing herself beneath the tree, her attention was drawn to a plain black carriage that rolled up outside the front door of Angelchrist’s apartment building. Both horses were frothing at the bit, as if they’d made a punishing journey across the city.

She heard the door open on the other side of the carriage, accompanied by the gentle murmur of voices. She couldn’t yet see the figures that climbed out, but it was clear from the glimpse she caught of their feet through the spokes of the carriage’s wheels that there were two of them.

The driver barely appeared to move as one of the carriage’s prior occupants spoke to him, giving instructions. No money changed hands, which told her it was a private carriage, and not one that had been hired for the occasion; the lack of a tip or fare suggested the driver was most likely salaried.

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.