The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 11

The spoon was solid silver, with a tapered head in the shape of a leaf and three lozenge-shaped slots in its bowl. It was dulled through use and had never been polished; he kept it in a small, velvet-lined box along with other, similar paraphernalia. Both superstition and ingrained routine meant that he never left the strange assortment of implements out for Scarbright to clean-he didn’t know what the valet would make of them, and had no desire to find out. The box resided amongst Newbury’s personal effects, nestled in a very particular spot amongst the ageing spines of his bookcase.

Newbury balanced the spoon carefully over a glass tumbler and, using a pair of matching silver tongs, placed a brown sugar cube upon it. He reached for the jug of iced water on the table beside him and held it above the spoon, tilting it fractionally so that only the tiniest trickles of liquid splashed upon the sugar cube, eroding it slowly and steadily so that the sugary water blended easily with the rich, green liquor below. As he watched, the liquid in the glass took on an opaque, cloudy aspect.

He allowed the water to continue trickling until the glass was half full and the sugar cube had completely dissolved. Then, removing the spoon, he dried it with a handkerchief and placed it carefully back into the box alongside the tongs.

Sighing to himself in satisfaction, he leaned back in his Chesterfield and drained the drink in one go, shuddering slightly at the sharpness of the alcohol and the sweetness of the anise. He returned the empty glass to the occasional table and collected one of his opium-tainted cigarettes from the silver case in his pocket. He struck a match and played the flame across the tip of the cigarette, enjoying the slight crackle of burning paper and tobacco as it hungrily caught the heat. He took a long, deep draw, filling his lungs with the sweet-scented smoke, and then closed his eyes, shutting out the world and her many distractions.

This was another of Newbury’s rituals; the process by which he retreated inside his own mind, withdrawing from the world around him. It was his means of seeking clarity. In this fugue state he would replay the many sights, smells, and conversations of the previous two days, reordering them in his mind, searching for connections amongst the minutiae. This was how he chose his path through a problem, how he fathomed the meaning of the things he had seen and heard.

Newbury’s breath became shallow and his shoulders slumped as the alcohol and narcotics took effect. His head lolled against the back of the chair. Snatches of images and broken sentences began to swirl up from the darkness. He encouraged them, urging them forward so that he might tease out the information he required.

The process would take hours, and he would spend them lost in a distant opium dream. He had much to consider.

That afternoon, after seeing Veronica safely to her Kensington abode, he had ordered the cab driver to take him home to Chelsea, where a most mysterious parcel awaited him.

It was wrapped in innocuous brown paper and tied with string. His name and address were printed on the label in neat capitals, although he could tell from the slight smudges around the edges of the label that the writer had been a little heavy-handed with the ink, and the label had still been wet when the package was collected for delivery. It hadn’t come far-there was no postmark, meaning it had been delivered by hand, probably by the driver of a hansom cab at the behest of the sender. That led him to believe that the parcel’s point of origin was somewhere within the bounds of the city.

Scarbright, regrettably, had not been there to receive it, but had found it waiting upon the doorstep when he had returned from the market earlier that afternoon. Unsuspecting, the valet had carried it in, placing it upon Newbury’s desk to await his return. This suggested that either the delivery man had called at a time when Scarbright was out, or that the sender was aware of Scarbright’s habit of walking to the market for provisions at the same time every week, and had chosen that time purposefully to ensure the valet was not there to receive the parcel in person. Newbury-having now seen the contents of the box-suspected the latter option. It was most definitely a message, and whoever had sent it had wished to avoid leaving any clues whatsoever as to their identity.

Warily, Newbury had cut the string and sliced into the brown paper, peering at the small wooden box within. He’d received parcels like this before and they had inevitably contained either threatening gifts or booby traps. As he’d soon come to realise, this particular parcel was no exception.

Newbury had placed the plain, lacquered box upon the table and circled it suspiciously, looking for signs of tampering. There had been no outward evidence of any mechanism contained within-a spring-loaded dart, perhaps, or a small bomb-so he had carefully lifted the box’s lid with the tip of his letter opener, standing as far back as he was able.

Nothing untoward had occurred in the seconds that followed, so he’d stepped closer to the table to examine the contents of the box. He had to admit, it was a most fascinating assortment. The human skull was perhaps the most disturbing of the three objects, fashioned as it was into a grotesque mask: the lower jaw was missing and the brain cavity removed with a series of neat cuts. The bone appeared to have been boiled or bleached to remove the last remnants of flesh and muscle, and a series of occult runes and symbols had been etched into the surface with a fine blade. Finally, a mixture of blood and ink had been worked into these etchings, staining them a deep, dark red.

The other two objects contained within the box were a curved silver dagger with a jewel-encrusted hilt and a small leather pouch containing the putrid viscera of a small bird, probably a juvenile crow. There was no card or note accompanying them, or within the paper wrapping.

Newbury, of course, had known what it was at once. These were the elements of a ritual suicide, a death rite practiced by occultists since the Middle Ages. It was said to ensure prosperity in the afterlife, the trading of one’s living soul for the promise of eternal damnation. It could have been sent to him by any number of people or organisations he had crossed over the years, but the message was clear: We’re offering you the opportunity to take your own life, before we come and take it for you.

Newbury would take his chances with the living. For now, the threat itself meant very little. If anything, by attempting to frighten him, the sender had shown their hand, and Newbury would now be expecting them when they came for him. He’d beaten the Cabal once before, and, if necessary, he could do it again.

The stub of Newbury’s extinguished cigarette tumbled from his fingers, dropping onto the rug before the hearth. His eyes flickered open. He had no idea how much time had passed, but the fire in the grate was cold, and the room was chill and dark. The curtains were still open, revealing the fog-shrouded night beyond.

A smile played upon Newbury’s lips as he reached for the jug of now tepid water. He knew what he had to do. Bainbridge had told the Queen they needed a list of her agents to look for patterns in the selection of victims and to anticipate any further attacks. The Queen had refused, but Newbury had another potential avenue through which to obtain the information: Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales.

He would visit the Prince in the morning and seek his assistance in the matter. While he was there, he would apprise him of the situation regarding the murders, and his concerns that foreign agents might prove to be behind them. He was sure that the Prince would come to his aid. Then, assuming Bainbridge was successful in arranging a liaison with Angelchrist, they would meet to discuss the matter that afternoon.

Newbury took a swig of water and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. It was too late for bed and too early to rise. He would pass the time with another cigarette, waiting for the sun to bring its warming light through the window.