The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 24

Veronica was relieved to discover, upon arrival at Newbury’s house, that Angelchrist had not been invited to join the evening’s conference. She’d half expected to discover the three men-Newbury, Bainbridge, and Angelchrist-already ensconced in the drawing room, deep in conversation. Instead, she found the two old friends hunkered down over a brandy, and couldn’t help but smile as she was instantly reminded of old times.

She stood in the doorway for a moment, leaning against the jamb. The two men looked dour and serious, yet it was the first time she had seen either of them so comfortable in each other’s presence for quite a while. Gone was Bainbridge’s blatant frustration over Newbury’s opium use, replaced by a shared concern that had rendered all other issues between them insubstantial. The way they sat together, brooding and silent, was reminiscent of the way they had acted when she’d first taken her post as Newbury’s assistant, just a year and a half earlier. So much had changed in the intervening months.

Newbury looked healthier than he had for some months, with colour in his cheeks and a gleam in his eyes, though his expression was dark and worrisome. She tried not to recall the sight of him curled up on the rug in the upstairs room, twitching and seizing as he suffered the repercussions from his treatment of her sister.

He must have sensed her standing there, for he looked up, smiling with evident relief. He placed his drink on the coffee table and stood to greet her.

Bainbridge followed suit, crossing the room to take her hand. “Good evening, Miss Hobbes,” he said.

“Good evening, Sir Charles,” she replied. She glanced at Newbury. “Sir Maurice.”

“We must talk,” said Newbury, hurriedly. He looked concerned, distracted.

“Yes, yes, Newbury. Let the woman get through the door,” said Bainbridge. He raised an eyebrow at Veronica, and she smiled. “Would you care for a drink, Miss Hobbes?” he continued.

“No, thank you,” she said, looking for a place to sit down. The sofa was still piled high with precarious towers of books. She decided she’d be better off perching on the footstool between the two armchairs than risk shifting anything. She’d only end up sending something priceless crashing to the floor. She settled herself on the low stool, enjoying the warmth of the fire at her back. “I take it, then, that you’ve had some success in obtaining the list of agents from the Prince?” she asked, searching Newbury’s face for any clue as to the nature of what was troubling him.

“Indeed,” he said, returning to his seat and producing an envelope from beneath his chair. He held it out to her. She took it and opened it, withdrawing the thin sheaf of papers from inside. As she’d anticipated, it was a long list of names and addresses, written in small print on around eight sheets of paper. “There are more names here than I’d anticipated,” she said. She passed half of them to Bainbridge, who took them and glanced through them eagerly.

“Quite,” said Newbury. “I doubt any one of us were aware of the extent of Her Majesty’s network of agents and spies.”

“Some of them have been struck through in black,” said Bainbridge, pointedly.

“I gather they are all deceased. Killed in the line of duty, presumably,” replied Newbury. He glanced at Veronica, his expression dark. Clearly, he thought there were other, more sinister reasons behind some of those deaths. It was entirely possible that the Queen had removed them to suit her own obscure whims. “The recent murder victims are all present on the list, but not struck through.”

“We’re all named,” said Veronica, scanning the list. She pointed to Newbury’s name, holding the page up for him to see.

He nodded. “Remember, it’s a list of agents, not a list of targets.”

“Which might yet amount to the same thing,” said Bainbridge, bitterly.

“Well, yes. I suppose you have a point,” Newbury conceded. “All the same, we must look for patterns. Were the dead agents all part of a single investigation, for example? There are annotations in the margins denoting key operations. Do they have something in common that might point to a motivation? Revenge, perhaps, from a villain they thwarted? Any or all of these things might point to a reason for their deaths.”

“I can hardly conceive of understanding the motivations of a killer who removes his victims’ hearts as trophies,” said Bainbridge, balefully.

“Ah,” said Newbury, “but it is not the motivations of the killer herself that we’re interested in, but the person who is pulling her strings.”

“Her?” said Veronica, surprised. “You have some notion of the killer’s identity, then?”

Newbury nodded. “There’s more. I’ve been to see Aldous.”

Bainbridge glanced up from the pages on his lap. “He’s found something, hasn’t he? Well, give it up, Newbury!”

“Aldous believes he has identified our murderer,” said Newbury. “A hired killer from Paris, brought over by some enterprising person-or, perhaps, a faction or organisation-with the express purpose of eradicating the Queen’s operatives in London. It has all the hallmarks of a certain individual. A woman.”

“A woman!” echoed Bainbridge, shaking his head. “Did Renwick give you a name?”

“Not a name,” said Newbury, his jaw tightening. “A moniker. She’s known as the Executioner.” He glanced pointedly at Veronica, who felt herself growing suddenly pale.

The Executioner. Was it true, then? Everything that Newbury and Amelia had seen, had told her? That this woman, this killer-for-hire, was to come after her? Was she the next target on the list? She had dreaded this moment since the first time Amelia had uttered that name.

Veronica swallowed, but her mouth was dry. She suppressed her urge to bombard Newbury with questions. She had made her decision, and she would stick to it. She would not flee. The future was not fixed and settled, despite this alarming revelation.

“Is that all?” asked Bainbridge, frowning now over his empty brandy glass. He had evidently downed the contents while she’d been distracted, as he assimilated the new information. “What about the missing hearts? Is there any relevance?”

“That’s her hallmark,” said Newbury. “That’s what led Aldous to the conclusion it was her. It’s said that she never leaves a corpse without first removing its heart. And, as we suspected, they mean something to her. They are symbols of a life she cannot have.”

He glanced from Bainbridge to Veronica. “This is the difficult bit to stomach. According to Aldous, the Executioner is nearly a century old. She’s almost mythical. She appears in the footnotes of history, all across the Continent. Aldous showed me the stories, drawn from esoteric books and papers, woodcuts and etchings. She looms large in the shadows of all the important events that have shaped the world for the last eighty years. She’s always there, in the background, operating on behalf of the highest bidder.”

Bainbridge sighed, placing his empty glass upon the table. “This is ridiculous, Newbury. Utterly ridiculous.”

Newbury held up his hand, staying Bainbridge’s objections. “Hear me out, Charles. I have every reason to believe that Aldous is correct in his assertion.” He took a swig of his own brandy. “The story goes that this woman, who appears as if she’s in her early twenties, wears a substantial metal construction on her left shoulder, and is covered from head to toe in elaborate tattoos”-Veronica raised an eyebrow at the bizarre description-“is actually as much a machine as a human being. Just like the Queen herself, she is part mechanical. The Executioner’s heart has been replaced by a clockwork mechanism that feeds her blood through her veins. Occult enchantments and runic rituals have prevented her flesh from withering, leaving her locked in a sort of permanent stasis. But she has lost something in the process. By becoming something more than human, she has somehow given up her humanity. So now she walks throughout history, massacring people for money and removing their hearts as a reminder of the one thing she can no longer have: a real life of her own.”

Bainbridge was frowning. “Say this is true, that this woman actually exists and is responsible for the deaths. Who is pulling her strings? Who’s this enterprising person you spoke of?”

Newbury shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s what we need to find out. It’s one thing to stop the Executioner herself-and at the moment, I’m no clearer on how we might achieve that; it’s another entirely to identify her employer.”

“Well, let’s consider the facts,” said Veronica. “We have a string of deaths, apparently related only by the fact that the victims are all agents of the Queen. If we assume that’s why they’re being murdered-reasonable enough under the circumstances-then we’re looking for someone who has access to that sort of information.” She held up the sheaf of papers in her hand. “After that, it’s a case of identifying any further links between the victims, just as you suggested. If they were all part of the same operation, for example, that in itself might suggest a potential perpetrator. Otherwise, we may be looking at a person or organisation that has something to be gained by undermining the Queen’s position. In that case, the targets may in fact be chosen at random, and we’re back to the beginning again. Who else besides the Queen and the Prince of Wales might have access to this list of names? A servant? No one would suspect someone such as Sandford, for example. He might be swayed by untoward pressure from a third party.”

“I cannot believe that of Sandford,” said Newbury, frowning. “But you may have a point, nonetheless.”

“Astute as always, Miss Hobbes,” said Bainbridge, passing her the rest of the papers. She shuffled them together and returned them to the envelope. “I think it best, under the circumstances, for me to take possession of the list. As you’ve both established, we can go no further until we’ve ruled out whether there are any significant patterns to the choice of victims. I will spend some time this evening analysing the list and applying what I know of Her Majesty’s prior operations. Clearly, I am not aware of everything,” he said, with a shrug, “but I may be able to glean some insight from my years of service.”

Newbury nodded. “Good idea.” He glanced at Veronica. She passed the cream-coloured envelope across to Bainbridge, who accepted it with a weary smile. “There’s one other matter we need to address,” said Newbury, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I have reason to believe that Miss Hobbes may be in danger.”

“From the killer? This Executioner character?” asked Bainbridge. “Whatever gives you that idea, Newbury? If you know something more, you should spit it out. Now’s the time.”

“It’s just … a feeling I have.” He looked at Veronica as he spoke. “A concern.”

“And what do you propose we do, Sir Maurice?” she asked.

“I know you will not be persuaded to leave London, but I suggest that you temporarily move into the spare room here, at Cleveland Avenue. That way, I can protect you if my fears prove to be justified,” he replied.

Bainbridge frowned. “It’s hardly proper, Newbury! You don’t wish to sully the woman’s good reputation, surely?”

“Not at all, Charles. But I do wish to protect her from a murderous assassin who may be hell-bent on eradicating us all. Is it really worth the risk, just to protect a reputation?” said Newbury, firmly.

Veronica felt herself going red in the face. “I am here, you know, gentlemen! I rather think this decision should be made by me!”

Newbury sighed. “Quite so, Veronica. Of course. I apologise if I seem forward. It’s simply that I’m concerned for your well-being.”

“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 urge 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.