The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 3

Sir Maurice Newbury lounged on the sofa like a listless cat, warming himself before the fire.

A smouldering cigarette dripped from his thin, pink lips, smoke twisting in lazy curlicues from its glowing tip. His expensive black suit was rumpled and creased, his shirt open at the collar, the cravat long since discarded. He was unshaven, and his flesh had taken on a deathly pallor, as if it hadn’t seen the sun in many days. His eyelids were closed and his breathing was shallow.

The pungent aroma of opium was heavy in the air, mingling with the tobacco smoke to form a thick, sweet fog that clung to the corners of the room as if Newbury’s Chelsea home was now a microcosm of the city, choking amidst the tendrils of yet another pea-souper.

The fire spat and crackled noisily in the grate. The only other sounds in the small room were the gentle rasp of Newbury’s breath and the clacking of his clockwork owl as it hopped nervously from foot to foot on its wooden perch by the window.

Books lay scattered about him: heaped on the floor, piled on the coffee table, balanced precariously on the arms of the green leather couch. Their gilded spines shone in the soft light of the gas lamps, resplendent with titles such as A Key to Physic and the Occult Sciences and The Cosmology of the Spirit. Newbury had surrounded himself with them as if they offered him sustenance, as if the mere presence of the leaning piles was enough to grant him strength, comfort. In some ways, they did.

Newbury’s eyes flickered open. His lids felt heavy and tired. He unfurled slowly, stretching his weary limbs. He had no idea what time of day it was. The heavy drapes were closed, shielding him from the sunlight, from all the cares and distractions of the outside world. In this haven, he was cocooned against the chaotic morass of humanity that swarmed through the rain-lashed streets of London. More so, he was distanced from their many designs and desires, their concerns and their problems, their petty squabbles and their crimes. In here, the outside world could not intrude, not unless he wished it to.

Newbury took a long, luxurious draw from his tainted cigarette, allowing the smoke to plume playfully from his nostrils. He felt ash dribble over his chin and brushed it away cursorily with the back of his hand.

He hadn’t left the house in days. He’d been holed up in the drawing room, buried in his books and the crimson depths of an opium dream. Scarbright had entered only to bring him meals, most of which had remained untouched. It was to the man’s credit that he’d continued to deliver the plates of steaming food, simply removing the uneaten remnants of the previous meal without judgement or comment. If the valet was reporting back to Bainbridge as he was supposed to, he’d clearly not said enough to concern the chief inspector, as Newbury had received no calls or summons from his friend.

That, in itself, was rather refreshing. As much as Newbury cared for his old friend, he could do without having his ear bent again about his “lackadaisical behaviour.” Bainbridge was in possession of only half of the facts. He couldn’t understand Newbury’s use of the Chinese weed because he didn’t-couldn’t-know of Newbury’s reasons. At least, not yet. Not until the situation with Veronica was fully resolved. Not until he had divined what terrors lay in the darkness, waiting.

Whatever the case, Newbury couldn’t deny that he was badly in need of a bath and a shave. He would see to them both just as soon as he could muster the energy.

His days had passed like this for some months, ever since the storming of the Grayling Institute and the supposed death of Veronica’s sister, Amelia Hobbes, ever since he had sworn to discover a means by which to heal the miraculously clairvoyant young woman, to halt her spiralling descent towards insanity and death. His time since then had been absorbed in ritual and the yellowing pages of ancient books, the hours drifting by in a warm, opium-inspired fugue.

There had, of course, been a number of cases over the course of the last six months that had vied for his attention. Some he had been forced to take on at the behest of the Queen, others simply because Bainbridge had needed his help. He’d been able to devote only a small amount of his time and energy to such matters, however, engaged as he was in his search for Amelia’s cure, as well as his own ongoing investigation: tracking the mysterious Lady Arkwell across London.

Arkwell was-apparently-a foreign agent, but Newbury was as yet unable to ascertain her nationality, despite the fact that he had met her in person at least half a dozen times, battled with her on three of those occasions, and formed a temporary alliance with her on another. Nevertheless, Lady Arkwell had continued to outwit him at every stage. It was at once infuriating and exhilarating, and he had vowed to bring the matter to a head.

For now, though, Newbury was content to lounge on his sofa, smoke his opium-tainted cigarettes, and contemplate the universe. And he had to admit that he was in no real hurry to rid himself of such a worthy adversary. He was sure she felt the same, and she would make the next move in their little game when she deemed the time to be right. Newbury, for his part, would bide his time.

There was a firm rap on the drawing room door. Newbury sighed. Scarbright. Time for another meal, no doubt. He glanced at the uneaten remains of his luncheon-a thick beef broth, now cold and congealing on the sideboard-and felt a sharp twinge of guilt. It did seem wrong to let so much food go to waste, particularly as Scarbright was such a superb culinary craftsman. He would make an effort, he decided, to consume at least some of Scarbright’s dinner, despite the fact that his appetite was practically non-existent.

“Come,” said Newbury, his voice a low drawl.

The door creaked open, and he heard Scarbright’s footsteps crossing the room towards him. Newbury felt more than saw the shadow of the valet as it fell upon him.

Scarbright cleared his throat pointedly, waiting for Newbury to acknowledge his presence.

Newbury turned slowly to peer up at the valet through half-open lids. The man looked a little peaky, as if he was feeling unwell or had just had a rather unpleasant surprise. He was not carrying a dinner tray.

Newbury raised one eyebrow and removed the stub of the cigarette from between his lips. “What is it, Scarbright?”

Scarbright took a deep breath before speaking. When he did, his tone was calm and measured, entirely at odds with his suspiciously nervous manner. “You have a visitor, sir.”

Newbury frowned. “If it’s Charles, tell him to go away.” He paused for a moment, considering. “In fact, tell him I’ll see him at the White Friar’s this evening.”

“It’s not Sir Charles, sir. It’s … well…”

“It’s alright, Scarbright. I’ll rouse the scoundrel myself!” The voice was deep, commanding, and terrifyingly familiar.

Newbury struggled to pull himself upright on the sofa. The sound of the man’s boots clacking on the floorboards was like an ominous drum roll as he strode purposefully into the room.

“Get up, you damn layabout!” Newbury caught only the briefest glance of Scarbright’s apologetic face before the newcomer snapped out another command and sent the valet scuttling away. “Scarbright, open a window. I can barely stand this damnable smoke.”

Newbury, head swimming, staggered to his feet and turned to regard his visitor. He groaned inwardly as his fears were confirmed: Standing there at the arm of the sofa, resplendent in a smart black suit, was Albert Edward of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, the Prince of Wales.

The Prince had a stately aspect, and he carried himself with enormous confidence and poise. His balding pate gleamed in the low light and his grey beard and moustache were neatly trimmed. He was watching Newbury from beneath hooded eyes, his disapproving expression so similar to that of his mother-and Newbury’s employer, Queen Victoria, herself-that Newbury couldn’t help but shudder under its glare.

For a moment the two men stared at one another, neither of them speaking. Finally, Newbury found his voice. “Good … afternoon, Your Royal Highness,” he said, hoping desperately that he’d at least managed to guess the time of day correctly. “You are most welcome. Although I fear you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Quite,” said the Prince, glancing around at the state of the drawing room.

Newbury winced, both at the sharpness of the Prince’s rebuke and the sudden intensity of the light as Scarbright pulled back the drapes, allowing sunlight to flood in through the tall windows. Disturbed puddles of stale cigarette ash swirled in the afternoon sun, dancing amongst the dust motes.

Newbury was beginning to wish that he’d paid more attention to the Queen’s summonses, which had been delivered to his door with increasing frequency in the preceding days, and were currently forming a neat little pile on the occasional table. Perhaps Victoria had sent her son to chase him out of his rooms. Surely not? Surely there was more important business with which the Prince of Wales might concern himself?

Newbury glanced down at his crumpled suit, with its oily streaks of smeared ash on the lapels and innumerable stains from where he’d carelessly sloshed absinthe and red wine. It was not the most salubrious of impressions to make upon a future monarch.

“If Your Royal Highness would like to take a seat…” Newbury paused as he realised there probably weren’t any seats in the room that weren’t piled high with occult grimoires, old newspapers, or full specimen jars, then decided that the best thing in the circumstances was to carry on regardless, “… I might just excuse myself for a moment.” He began to edge around the sofa towards the door, hoping he might stall things for a few minutes so that he could at least slip away and change while Scarbright saw to the immediate mess.

“Sit down, Newbury, and stop that infernal flapping. Don’t you think I knew what I was letting myself in for, coming here? You are notorious throughout the palace for your fondness for that dreadful weed, and no one has seen you for days. I half-expected to hear word that poor Bainbridge had once again been forced to haul your sorry carcass out of an opium den in the East End. It’s something of a relief to find you here at all.”

Newbury swallowed, but his mouth was dry. There was very little he could offer in response to the Prince’s words. After all, he had rather been caught red-handed.

Scarbright busied himself, freeing up two Chesterfields close to the fire by unceremoniously tossing heaps of Newbury’s precious books onto the floor in one corner. Both men watched him until he straightened his back, approached them, and-with some dignity, given the circumstances-bade them to their seats.

Newbury watched as the Prince lowered himself into one of the armchairs, filling it utterly with both his physical bulk and his voluminous presence. Scarbright took the Prince’s walking cane and hat, then swiftly withdrew with promises of tea.

Newbury eyed the Prince for a moment, attempting to gather himself. His head was still swimming with the effects of the opium he’d consumed, and for a moment he wondered if he were actually hallucinating-if it wasn’t simply his mind playing tricks on him, fabricating the encounter as a product of his guilt or fears or anxieties. But then the Prince turned and looked up at him, and Newbury knew the situation was all too real. He swallowed, attempting to relieve his dry mouth. He’d just have to carry on as best he could.

Newbury smiled genially, crossed to the Chesterfield opposite the Prince, and sat down. He was intrigued to discover the reason for the unusual-or, rather, positively unheard of-visitation.

“A relief, Your Royal Highness?” he said, his voice low and respectful.

“What?”

“You said, Your Royal Highness, that it was something of a relief to find me at home. I take it, therefore, that I am able to assist you in some way?”

The Prince narrowed his eyes for a moment before his face creased into a broad smile. “It’s good to see the Newbury I recognise is still in there, somewhere. Judging by the state of you, man, I had cause to doubt it.”

“I can only apologise. You find me engaged in more of my ongoing … studies.”

The Prince harrumphed at this and fixed Newbury with a knowing stare. “Occult science and paranormal philosophy. Hallucinogens and absinthe. Ritual and corruption.” He leaned back in his chair. “You understand, Newbury, that such things are tolerated only because you are able to deliver the desired results?”

Newbury nodded, but didn’t say anything in response. Was this the reason for the Prince’s visit? To warn him, to admonish him for his pursuits? It wouldn’t surprise him to discover it was. He knew the Queen found his esoteric studies extremely distasteful, but also essential to the well-being and protection of the Empire. She reasoned that she needed to maintain an expert in the field, someone who could understand and combat any threats of an occult nature that may arise. But she also feared the lure of it would prove too much, and that Newbury would be absorbed by the darkness. Recently, he’d begun to wonder if she was right.

“Anyway,” the Prince continued, “I didn’t come here to discuss your peculiar habits, Newbury. I came because I require your help, if you’ll give it.”

“I am at your disposal, Your Royal Highness.”

“Very good. As I hope you are aware, Newbury, I have always had great faith in your abilities, despite your … unusual methods.” The Prince narrowed his eyes as he delivered this last, and Newbury couldn’t help but cringe. “Ever since that affair with Lord Huntington in Cambridgeshire, during which you did me a great service.”

“I fear it was not quite the resolution to the matter that you’d wished for, Your Royal Highness.”

“Nevertheless, you did what was necessary. What was needed. One can ask for no more.” The Prince leaned forward in his chair, his eyes searching Newbury’s face. “Would you do it again, Newbury? Whatever was necessary?”

Newbury was momentarily taken aback by the Prince’s sudden intensity. “I…” he stammered. “Yes, of course. Without hesitation.” Increasingly, this was becoming Newbury’s mantra: that he would do whatever was necessary, whatever he deemed to be right, irrespective of the Queen’s directives. The Crown, he had discovered, was not beyond egoism, self-absorption, and corruption, just like anyone else. As a consequence, he had learned to apply his own moral standards, to make his own decisions.

That said, Newbury had nothing but the utmost respect for the Prince of Wales. “I take it, then, that there is something I might assist you with, Your Royal Highness?”

The Prince nodded approvingly and leaned back in his chair. His eyes hadn’t strayed from Newbury’s expectant face. “I believe I can trust you, Newbury. God knows, I need to trust someone…” He trailed off at the sound of Scarbright rapping loudly on the door, before the valet bustled through with a silver tea tray in his arms and an apologetic expression written on his face. He took measured steps as he crossed the room, careful not to slosh the hot water or rattle the saucers. With a brief, panicked glance at Newbury, he set the tray down on the low table between the two men, bowed to the Prince, and got out of the room as swiftly as his legs would carry him.

The Prince smiled indulgently at Newbury. “There are agents abroad in London, Newbury. Foreign agents. The great houses of Europe are intent on bringing the British Empire to her knees. They circle like vultures, waiting impatiently for the Queen to die. They bicker and snipe at one another, pledging their undying support to my mother, even as they plot to pick over her remains. They would see her dead and buried, see the Empire broken up and their own pockets lined with the fruit of our labours. What is more, they have allies. Even here in London-in the Houses of Parliament, no less-our enemies abound.”

Newbury frowned. Was it really that bad? Had the dissent spread that far?

“I can see from your expression, Newbury, that you doubt the veracity of my words, that you believe me to be exaggerating. But allow me to assure you, I speak the truth. Even now, the enemies of Britain are at work, sowing seeds of dissent, tirelessly endeavouring to destroy the very fabric of our nation.”

Newbury waited until he was sure the Prince had finished. His words of warning hung in the air between them, almost tangible. “Do you anticipate war?”

The Prince smiled sadly. “I fear that I do. My nephew, the Kaiser, is inquisitive and impatient. He is hungry for power, and unsatisfied with what he already has. His greed will bring war to these shores before long, Newbury. Mark my words.”

War? In the streets of London? The notion was barely conceivable, and yet here was the Prince of Wales himself, sitting in Newbury’s drawing room, delivering an impassioned warning of what was to come.

“So … how may I be of assistance, Your Royal Highness? I fear I know very little of war.”

The Prince turned, staring at the impish yellow flames that flickered and danced amongst the coals in the grate. “I fear my mother is unwell. Too unwell to continue to rule as she has. Her decisions are … compromised. While she sits in state at the heart of the Empire, unseen by her people, her enemies scheme. I fear if something is not done, her legacy will be eroded. Slowly, the Empire will retract, become inwardly focused, until we can no longer sustain our boundaries. And then the vultures will come, and we will not be strong enough to fend them off.”

“Surely, Your Royal Highness cannot be considering a pre-emptive strike against the Kaiser?”

“I’ve considered it, Newbury,” he said, gravely. “To instigate a full blown conflict, however, would seem somewhat premature. No, I’m talking about making a stand. About positive action. The enemies of Britain cannot be allowed to consider us weak. We might divert a war by demonstrating to those nations that their subterfuge and duplicity is known to us, and that it will not be tolerated. Their agents must be found and ejected from London. That would send a clear and definite message.”

Newbury nodded slowly as he considered the Prince’s words. “And what of the Queen?” he asked, his voice low.

The Prince gave him a hard stare in response. “The Queen has a great deal to worry her already, Newbury, without adding this to her burden. We should act on her behalf, for the benefit of the Empire.”

Newbury’s head was swimming. He wanted more than anything to return to the warm embrace of his sofa and his opium fugue, to escape this conversation of war, spies, and subterfuge. But he could hardly tell the Prince of Wales to leave him in peace. “And how may I be of assistance in this matter, Your Royal Highness?” he said, trying to keep the reluctance out of his voice.

“For now, Newbury, by keeping your eyes and ears open. Seek out those who may not have the Empire’s best interests at heart. Help to identify the enemies in our midst. Nothing more.” He glanced down at the tea tray as if considering whether he wanted to consume anything on it, but apparently decided not to. “Although I’d urge you very strongly to watch your back,” he added.

Newbury suppressed a frown. What was the Prince getting at? A witch hunt? With Newbury as Witchfinder General? And that last comment seemed purposefully loaded. Was Newbury himself somehow at risk? “Because of the foreign agents?” he asked.

The Prince left the question hanging, unanswered, but Newbury could read the response in the man’s face. Because of my mother, the look in his eyes seemed to suggest. Because of the Queen.

A shudder passed unbidden through Newbury’s body. It seemed Albert Edward was aware of his mother’s scheming tendencies. The thought left a sour taste in Newbury’s mouth. Even the woman’s own son-and future heir to the Empire, no less-was not immune from her plotting and politicking.

The Prince caught Newbury’s eye. “If you ever need me, Newbury, you need only call.” He paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I only hope that I might do the same.”

“Of course, Your Royal Highness. Consider me at your disposal.”

“You’re a good man, Newbury. Find a way to rid yourself of this blasted habit. It does you no credit. Your talents are needed, and you owe it to yourself and your country not to fritter them away like some common wastrel.” The Prince stood, heaving himself up out of the Chesterfield with a heartfelt groan. “I’ll say no more on the subject. You know what you must do.”

If only it were that easy, thought Newbury as he levered himself up, his limbs protesting, his mind still woozy. If only he could explain that people’s lives depended on this blasted habit. But he knew he could not. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”

“Thank you, Newbury. I knew that I would be able to rely on you. We will speak again soon.” The Prince gave the briefest of smiles before turning towards the door. “Scarbright?” he bellowed, so loud that Newbury was sure he felt the room itself tremble in surprise.

Newbury heard Scarbright’s footsteps thundering on the stairs. He appeared in the doorway, red-faced, a moment later. “How might I be of assistance, Your Royal Highness?”

“I’m leaving, Scarbright. My coat and hat.”

“Quite so. Please allow me to escort you to your carriage.”

And with that, Albert Edward of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha swept out of Newbury’s drawing room as swiftly as he had arrived.

Newbury waited until he heard the creak of the carriage’s wheels and the clatter of the horse’s hooves in the street below before he allowed himself to exhale. He slumped back into his armchair before the fire, his head spinning as he contemplated the gravity of what had just occurred. He was just about to reach for another cigarette when Scarbright came barrelling back into the room.

“There was a message for you, sir, while you were engaged with the Prince of Wales.”

Newbury raised an eyebrow. Surely not another summons from the palace? “Indeed?”

“It’s from Sir Charles, sir. He says he needs your help. He and Miss Hobbes are awaiting you at the morgue.” Scarbright winced as he delivered this news, as if in anticipation of Newbury’s response.

“Does it never end?” Newbury replied, wearily, slipping his silver cigarette case back into his jacket pocket unopened. His heart sank. The morgue. Once more, he was to surround himself with the death and detritus of other people’s sordid lives. Further distractions from the work at hand. Yet he couldn’t very well allow their call for help to go unheeded. “Very well. Run me a bath, would you, Scarbright? It’s time I made myself presentable. Even the dead deserve that.”

“Indeed, sir,” replied Scarbright, and for the first time that day, the valet smiled. “Even the dead,” he echoed, before dashing off again to make the necessary arrangements.

Newbury leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He issued a long, heavy sigh. The real world was once again tugging on his sleeve, and it was time he stopped ignoring it.