The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 31

“How is she?” said Bainbridge, as he bustled through the door to Newbury’s drawing room, forgoing the usual formalities. He was anxious to hear word of Veronica, and also to check on his old friend, who was taking it very badly indeed. Two days had passed, and Bainbridge had been busy dealing with the aftermath of the whole affair: fighting off reporters, placating the Queen, informing the families of the Executioner’s victims.

He didn’t yet know what had happened to the Executioner’s corpse, which was missing from the scene, or what had become of the Prince of Wales, who had not been seen since the morning after the events at the abandoned hotel.

Newbury, however, was sitting cross-legged on the rug before the hearth, surrounded by an impressive spread of newspaper cuttings, open books, and sheaves of notepaper covered in his spidery scrawl. He’d pushed the furniture back to create a temporary space in which to work, researching-Bainbridge gathered-potential engineers who might be able to craft a new heart for Veronica.

“Is there anything to report?” Bainbridge prompted, when no response was forthcoming.

Newbury didn’t look up. “There’s been no change,” he said absently. He continued to study the open book on his lap. Bainbridge could see it contained diagrammatic illustrations of the inner workings of clockwork machinery.

Bainbridge sighed heavily. At least the room, for once, did not carry the stink of opium smoke. In fact, the window was slightly ajar, and the curtains open. For the first time in weeks, there was natural light spilling in. If there was one good thing about the whole affair, it was that it may have shaken Newbury from his more detrimental habits. For a while, at least.

“She’s stable, then,” said Bainbridge, for lack of anything else to say.

This time, Newbury did glance up. His expression was fierce. “She’s dying, Charles!” he said, angrily. “She has no heart, and she is dying.” He looked away, and the anger suddenly dispersed, replaced instead by an anguished, haunted look. “What’s worse is that there’s very little you or I can do about it,” he continued, after a short while.

The moment stretched. Bainbridge hardly knew what to say to the man. He couldn’t reassure him that everything was going to be well, because he fully suspected it might not. And he couldn’t tell him not to embark on some ill-fated folly to find a new heart for the girl, because all that would achieve was Newbury giving him the cold shoulder. The best thing he could do under the circumstances, he decided, was to offer his support and ensure that Newbury was at least looking after himself. “You cannot continue to blame yourself for what happened,” he said, in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.

“If I’d listened to Aldous, Charles … if I’d taken the threat of the Cabal seriously, then I might have arrived back here in time to stop her. I might have saved her life.” His voice cracked with emotion as he spoke.

“You did save her life, Newbury,” replied Bainbridge, softly. He could understand that deep sense of guilt, that need Newbury felt to replay those fateful events over and over in his mind, looking for things he might have done differently. Bainbridge had gone through a similar process with Isobel.

At least he was beginning to grieve now. It might make things more bearable later, when the inevitable happened.

“Temporarily, perhaps,” said Newbury. “But I will not rest, Charles. I’ll scour the Continent, or farther afield if necessary. I’ll find her a heart.”

Bainbridge shrugged out of his heavy overcoat and laid it across the back of the divan. He balanced his cane beside it. “Well, at least allow yourself a few moments to have a drink with a friend. You need a rest.”

Newbury nodded in silent acquiescence. He placed his book carefully on the floor and stood, trying to avoid disturbing the neat stacks of paper.

Bainbridge set about pouring them a drink, while Newbury pulled over two armchairs. They settled by the window, with the sound of bustling people and horses carrying through from the street outside.

“So, what of the Prince?” said Newbury, accepting his drink.

Bainbridge smiled. “Indeed. What of the Prince,” he echoed. “I know you went there, Newbury, to Marlborough House. There’s no use denying it. I heard about the butler’s unfortunate ‘accident.’”

“The damnable wretch deserved it,” said Newbury, taking a sip of his brandy.

“He wanted to press charges,” said Bainbridge.

“I’ll bet he did,” replied Newbury. “Although I doubt it would do him much good. I imagine there’s plenty of evidence that places him squarely in the dock alongside the Prince. He knew everything that was going on in that house. I’ll wager he was privy to the Prince’s plans. Probably even helped them along a bit, to curry favour.”

“Foulkes will be keeping an eye on him for the foreseeable future,” said Bainbridge. “But that wasn’t why you went there, was it? For the butler, I mean.”

Newbury glanced out of the window, as if avoiding the question. When he looked back, his expression was pained. He was searching for Bainbridge’s understanding. “I needed to hear him say it, Charles. I needed the Prince to admit what he’d done. I didn’t go there to threaten him, or strike him, as much as it might have granted me some satisfaction. I went there to see the expression on his face as he told me what he’d done.”

“To look for remorse?” asked Bainbridge, surprised.

“Perhaps,” said Newbury. “I don’t really know.”

“Well, it’s in the hands of the Queen now. It remains to be seen if she’ll send him to the gallows for treason,” said Bainbridge, before taking a long draught of his brandy. “Although it’s a rum business to have to face your own child in such circumstances. I’m not convinced I could do it.”

“The irony is,” said Newbury, “I think we might have been better off if he had succeeded. He might have changed things for the better. Under the circumstances, however, I cannot forgive him. I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done, whatever becomes of him.”

“If only he’d found another way,” said Bainbridge, morosely. “If he’d asked for our help, rather than making us his enemies.”

“He was consumed by his own hubris,” said Newbury. “And at the end, when it was all out in the open, he spoke of an abomination, a child grown in a laboratory. It was the thing that tipped the balance. He seemed to suggest that the Queen would favour this child over him, displacing him as the rightful heir to the throne.”

“He’s done a darn good job of ensuring that,” said Bainbridge, pointedly. “But it’s the first I’ve heard of this child. It may, of course, have simply been the ramblings of a deluded man. He cannot have been in his right mind.”

Newbury frowned. “No. I mean, you’re right-he was undoubtedly suffering from grave disillusionment, to the point of inducing madness-but the child bears investigating all the same. I think it might be the product of one of Dr. Fabian’s more unsavoury experiments at the Grayling Institute. I understand he was dabbling in such things.”

Bainbridge nodded. “I’ll brief Archibald on the matter,” he said.

“The investigation continues, then?” said Newbury, his interest piqued.

“For now,” replied Bainbridge, still unsure how much to say on the subject, “Archibald will continue to keep the Queen under observation.”

“And what about you, Charles? Where will this all end?” said Newbury, gulping down the last of his brandy.

“Who knows, Maurice?” replied Bainbridge, with a shrug. “For now I’m just content to carry on. Someone has to.”

“It’s a dangerous game,” said Newbury, “but when this business with Veronica is over and she’s back on her feet, I’d like to help.”

Bainbridge nodded. He couldn’t help but smile, despite everything, at his friend’s candour. “We’ll get through this, Newbury. Whatever happens.”

Newbury gave a fleeting smile, and stood, dusting himself off. “I must continue with my research,” he said, glancing over at the book he’d left lying open on the floor.

“Oh, right. Yes. I’d better be off, then,” said Bainbridge, levering himself up out of his chair.

Newbury stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “You can stay, if you like. Pour yourself another drink. It’ll be good to have company while I work.”

Bainbridge nodded. “For a little while, then,” he said. It was rare for Newbury to openly invite anyone to remain while he worked, and a signifier of precisely how much support he needed. “As long as you don’t mind if I smoke.”

Newbury laughed. “Of course not, you old fool. Now, go and tell Scarbright to put a kettle on the stove, will you? I’ve had enough of brandy and maudlin. I’m in need of a pot of tea.”

“Right you are, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, grinning. His friend returned to his spot by the hearth, reclaimed his book, and immediately lost himself in its pages. “Right you are.”