The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 13

Marlborough House, like so many of the grand houses of the eighteenth century, was an imposing, slab-like edifice that stood proud amongst its palatial siblings in the heart of Pall Mall. Flanked by St. James’s Palace and Clarence House, one might have been forgiven for dismissing Marlborough House as just another unnecessary Royal household, similar to numerous other properties that had been co-opted by the monarchy over the years.

What set Marlborough House apart was its occupant: Albert Edward, the future King of England.

It was, Newbury reflected, a most suitable abode for a Prince. The building had a grand, monumental air, with a sweeping approach and extensive, well-tended grounds. Serried ranks of tall sash windows looked out across the city, and a small balcony over the front portico provided the Prince with the means to make a formal address, should it be required.

The house was brightly coloured, and its red and white brickwork, particularly when compared to the grey austerity of Buckingham Palace, gave the place a sense of vibrancy and life. A statement, Newbury considered, that might be applied equally well to the palaces’ respective occupants.

He glanced at the gated entrance and was struck by a dawning sense of trepidation. How did one go about calling on the Prince of Wales? Should he simply walk right up to the front door and knock? Should he have sent ahead to enquire about making a formal appointment? He was confident the Prince would be willing to assist him, particularly given his unexpected call at Chelsea, but had the informality of that interview somewhat gone to Newbury’s head?

He couldn’t help but ponder these matters as he walked along the outer wall of the grounds, searching for a side entrance-perhaps if he made his presence known at the tradesmen’s entrance it might not be deemed such a liberty-but he found the side gate locked and threaded with a heavy chain, and was forced to resort to his earlier plan.

Steeling himself, he went back the way he had come, then followed the gravelled approach across the grounds, admiring the immaculate front lawns and the neat hedgerows. He was sure someone inside the vast house would have seen his approach and would be there to meet him when he arrived at the portico, but once again, his expectations were dashed. The house was shrouded in silence.

Newbury finally decided that he was there already and had little choice but to continue. He took the bell pull in his right hand and gave it a sharp tug. The resultant clanging from deep inside the house caused his stomach to turn as the gravity of what he was doing dawned on him.

He had, of course, been granted innumerable audiences with the monarch herself over the course of his career as an agent of the Crown, but the rules of engagement had always been clearly delineated. When he visited the palace, it was at the Queen’s behest. While he could never say he had grown comfortable in her presence, a certain familiarity with her means and methods had perhaps taken the edge off. On the rare occasions when he had needed to initiate a communication with the Queen, he had arranged it via Sandford, the agent’s butler, who had ensured everything was properly sanctioned, approved, and in order.

This, however, was entirely different. He had only met the Prince of Wales on a handful of occasions, and they had always been at the Prince’s instigation. Now, he was there on the steps of Marlborough House, calling without an invitation to beg a favour of the future king. Bainbridge would have said he was mad. For once, Newbury could find no logical way to disagree.

The Prince’s butler did not keep Newbury waiting for long. The massive oak door swung inwards with a perceptible sigh, and a finely dressed man-wearing a black suit, starched collar, and white gloves, and with a face as stern as chiselled ice-offered Newbury an appraising look, raised a single eyebrow, and drawled “Yes?” as if it were a word of ten syllables and not one.

Newbury drew himself up. “My name is Sir Maurice Newbury. I’m here to see the Prince of Wales.”

The butler was somewhat taken aback. “And do you have an appointment, sir?” he asked, his voice whistling nasally.

“Not as such,” said Newbury.

“Ah,” came the response. The butler moved as if to close the door.

“I do, however, have an invitation from the Prince himself,” interjected Newbury hurriedly, in an effort to prevent himself from being rejected forthwith. “He asked me to call.”

The butler offered him a speculative look. “Indeed?” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Sir Maurice Newbury, you say?”

“That’s correct,” responded Newbury, with as much gravitas as he could muster. He was not about to be intimidated by a servant with a trumped up opinion of his own role.

“Very well,” said the butler, inclining his head fractionally and opening the door a little wider. “You may wait here, in the hallway, while I enquire with His Royal Highness.”

Newbury glowered at the man as he crossed the threshold and stepped into the grandiose foyer. It was as impressive as any royal residence he had seen. The floor was a chequerboard of black and white marble tiles, polished until they gleamed like the mirrored surface of a lake. Huge fronds erupted from pots as tall as Newbury himself, and a sparkling glass chandelier hung low and magnificent, refracting the thin light that slanted in from the upper windows.

The staircase was impressive, too, seeming to flow up and around to a wide upper gallery. But what drew Newbury’s attention most of all was the scattering of small birds that fluttered, ducked, and wove above his head, darting around the furnishings, twittering noisily, wheeling and dancing in the lofty space. There must have been ten or twenty different varieties in a multitude of vibrant colours: pink, azure, jade, saffron. He watched them for a while as they fluttered from one perch to another, be it the chandelier, the banister, the potted leaves, the picture rail. He wondered why the Prince would keep such a bizarre and impressive collection there in the hallway, free to affect an escape any time the main door to the house was opened. He imagined the birds would turn up in unexpected places all over the house-the kitchens, the bedrooms, the dining room-perhaps even the grounds; sometimes lost and trilling loudly as they begged to be shepherded back to where they belonged, other times discovered only once they had already perished from hunger, exhaustion, or fright, or else the claws of a malign cat.

It was hardly a conventional way to keep animals. This shouldn’t, in itself, have surprised Newbury-after all, nothing about the Royal family appeared conventional, not in any sense that he could understand it. Certainly, the matriarch at the heart of the family was as far from decorous as one could imagine, and the relationships between her and her children appeared equally idiosyncratic. Even Albert Edward, publically a staunch supporter of his mother, had suggested to Newbury in private that relations between he and the Queen were somewhat strained. It hadn’t surprised Newbury, who was keenly aware of the Queen’s selfishness and conniving nature. If this extended to her relations with her children, then it was only to be expected that some of them might bear something of a grudge.

Newbury was still watching the birds a short while later when the butler returned. Newbury dragged his eyes away from the avian display to regard the man. The butler’s expression had not softened, although he did have about him the air of someone a little more contrite, yet still obstinate and unyielding.

“His Royal Highness is only too pleased to grant you an audience, Sir Maurice,” said the butler, hastily. “He extends his apologies”-he pursed his lips as he said this, as though the very thought of the Prince of Wales apologising to such a lowly subject as Newbury was utterly distasteful to the man-“but asks if you would kindly wait in the drawing room for a short while. He is currently engaged in the library with another visitor.”

Newbury grinned, enjoying the man’s discomfort despite himself. “Of course,” he said, genially. “I’d be happy to.”

He followed the butler as the man led him down a long passageway to the left of the stairs. Portraits loomed down at him from the walls, faces staring out blankly across the ages, unsmilingly offering their judgements to posterity.

The butler’s shoes creaked as they followed the passageway into the bowels of the great house, passing various unoccupied rooms. After a few moments, the butler came to a stop, beckoning Newbury towards an open door.

Newbury could hear the murmur of nearby voices-the deep baritone of Albert Edward, accompanied by the husky tones of a woman. He could not make out what they were saying, but as he paused before the entrance to the drawing room, he glanced over his shoulder at another door, which stood slightly ajar.

Inside he could see row upon row of dark mahogany bookcases, each of them lined with leather-bound tomes, and the back of a woman’s head. She was sitting in an armchair about halfway into the room, her back to him. Her dark hair was cut in a shabby, uncompromising style that fell loose around the base of her neck, the flesh of which was pale and stark. She was thin, and appeared to be dressed in black, although he could see only the tops of her shoulders and one sleeve, which rested upon the arm of her chair. She was talking in hushed, whispered tones, and the Prince was silent, perhaps intent on listening to her softly spoken words.

“In here, sir,” said the butler insistently, stepping forward to block the other room from view. Newbury nodded and proceeded into the drawing room as directed. He couldn’t help but wonder about the identity of the mysterious woman and the Prince’s business with her. It wouldn’t do to ask, of course-that really would be viewed as impertinence-but it intrigued him.

“Would you care for a drink, Sir Maurice?” said the butler in a manner that made it clear he did not wish to go to the trouble of preparing one.

Newbury didn’t want one, but for a moment he considered asking for one regardless, just to teach the fellow a lesson. In the end, however, reason won out and he decided against entering into such childish games. “No, thank you,” he said, levelly.

“Very good, sir,” said the butler, with a contumacious smile. “The Prince knows you are here and will be with you in a short while. Please make yourself comfortable in the meantime.” He turned on his heel and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

Newbury waited for the sound of the butler’s retreating footsteps, but they did not come. Clearly, the man had chosen to remain in the corridor outside, to keep an eye on Newbury and ensure he didn’t attempt to interrupt the Prince and his other visitor. Of course, Newbury had no intention of doing any such thing.

Sighing, he strolled over to the fireplace. It was ostentatious in the extreme, hewn from white Cararra marble, with two darker supporting pillars to either side. Logs were piled in the grate, but were not lit. Above the fireplace was a huge gilt-framed mirror that reflected the sheer splendour of the room with almost dazzling effect. The door frames, too, were gilded, and the black and white chequerboard floor continued through from the hallway, giving Newbury the impression he was standing on a square of an enormous chessboard, a pawn waiting to be moved. Perhaps, he reflected, he was.

This thought gave him pause, and he glanced around, looking for somewhere to sit. He settled on a low chair, upholstered in red velvet and with gilded feet in the shape of lion’s paws. It looked impressive, but was not particularly comfortable.

His eyes were drawn to a series of large canvases on the opposite wall. They were landscapes, but the scenes they depicted were unfamiliar to him. The rolling hills were not the lush and verdant green of England, but scrubland and desert. Small groups of figures in peasant’s robes toiled in the fields, and in the foreground, characters from biblical myth acted out scenes from the famous stories. They were not very much to Newbury’s taste. Nevertheless, the surroundings were much more appealing than the agent’s waiting room at Buckingham Palace.

He started a moment later as he heard the door open.

“Newbury! This is unexpected,” came the booming, authoritarian voice. Newbury turned around to see the rotund figure stalking into the room. The Prince of Wales looked immaculate in his grey double-breasted suit. He walked with a wooden cane which scuffed against the tiled floor with every step he made. He was smiling, but appeared somewhat flustered, distracted even.

Newbury suddenly felt himself withdrawing beneath the Prince’s penetrating gaze. Had he misunderstood? Had he made a terrible social faux pas by coming here to Marlborough House? He jumped to his feet. “My apologies, Your Royal Highness. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“Nonsense, Newbury,” bellowed the Prince, stopping a few feet from him and leaning on his stick. “I told you to call if there was anything you needed. Now, take a seat, will you, and give it up.”

Newbury did as he was told, lowering himself into one of the other gilded chairs by the fireplace. Albert Edward did the same, sitting opposite Newbury and propping his cane on the glass-panelled fire screen.

“I fear I cannot give you long, Newbury,” said the Prince. “I’ve some other damnable business to attend to.” He inclined his head in the direction of the door. “Most pressing, I’m afraid.”

Newbury nodded. “If there’s anything I can do to help…?” he led, trying to ensure it didn’t come across as if he were digging for information.

“You are doing enough, Newbury. Assuming, that is, that you are here to talk of the situation I outlined for you the other day?”

“Quite so, Your Royal Highness. I’ve given some serious consideration to your words.”

Albert Edward smiled broadly. “I’m glad to hear it, Newbury. There is no one else I would rather have on the job. I’m delighted to know you’ve decided to occupy yourself with the matter. It’s one less thing to have to worry about.” He paused, fixing Newbury with his watery gaze. “So, you have news to that end?”

Newbury nodded again. “I believe so. I’ve been following that line of investigation. Tell me, Your Royal Highness, have you heard of the recent spate of murders taking place throughout the city? The victims have all been found with their hearts removed.”

The Prince blanched. “Indeed I have. A despicable business. You think there might be some connection?” he asked, dubious.

“I do. I believe the German agents may be responsible for the deaths. If not the Germans, then foreign agents of some kind,” replied Newbury. He was feeling a little hot around the collar, and he rubbed a hand self-consciously over his face.

“What makes you say that, Newbury?” prompted the Prince, evidently failing to see the connection.

“The fact that all of the victims so far have been agents of Her Majesty the Queen,” said Newbury, quietly.

“Indeed?” said the Prince, clearly shocked. “Then it does seem likely that they are being targeted. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover my cousin was behind it. If the Kaiser could undermine the Queen’s position, erode her power and her network of information, it would make a coup-or even an outright war-far easier to achieve.” He shook his head in dismay. “Have you considered, Newbury, that you might also be at risk?”

“Any or all of Her Majesty’s agents could be at risk, Your Royal Highness. That’s why I’m here,” said Newbury.

The Prince frowned. “Go on.”

“I’m hoping to obtain a list of the Queen’s agents, to look for patterns and potential victims.” He sighed. “At present we have very little to go on. I’m working closely with Sir Charles Bainbridge of Scotland Yard, and we’re attempting to identify, if not a motive, then at least a pattern in the deaths, so that we might act to prevent further incidents. I fear there must be a double agent in our ranks, someone who is able to identify targets for the Kaiser. I wish to weed them out.”

“Have you spoken to the Queen?” asked Albert Edward, his brow creased in thought.

“Yes,” said Newbury, wondering precisely how he might broach the subject of the Queen’s reluctance to provide the necessary information. The Prince might have spoken honestly to Newbury about his mother back at Chelsea, but that was his prerogative, as her son and the future monarch. Newbury had to avoid causing insult. “I rather fear … well, I fear that Her Majesty does not trust me enough to grant me access to that list of names.”

Albert Edward threw back his head with a deep, rumbling bellow of laughter. “Ah, it’s like that, is it?” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course, she doesn’t trust me much, either. Thankfully there are others at the palace who do.” He nodded, as if weighing his options. His composure returned. “I can get you what you require, Newbury. And if it helps bring an end to the constant threat of war with the Germans, well, then you’ll be doing us all a great service. It’ll take some time,” he said, glancing absently at the grandfather clock in the far corner of the room. “Can you return tomorrow evening? I’m sure I can have it for you by then.”

“Of course,” said Newbury. “I’m most grateful to you, Your Royal Highness.”

“Good to have an ally, eh?” said the Prince, jovially. “Well, I feel the same, Newbury. Let’s just say Her Majesty has been a little … confused, of late. She sees enemies where there are none, and doesn’t see the assassins that are already lurking in plain sight.”

“She believes the Secret Service is out to undermine her,” said Newbury.

“Well, she might yet have a point there,” replied the Prince. “But it remains to be seen. I’d tread carefully where the Secret Service is concerned, Newbury. I advise you to let that little drama play itself out without your involvement.”

Newbury wasn’t sure how to respond to this particular revelation. So the Prince, too, had concerns about the legitimacy of the Secret Service. Perhaps there was more to the Queen’s comments than irrational fear, after all? But then, everything Newbury had said to Veronica about Angelchrist was true. He had no reason to doubt the man, and every reason to trust Bainbridge with his life. Surely they wouldn’t be mixed up in something so nefarious.

Nevertheless … Newbury himself had allowed the Bastion Society’s attack on the Grayling Institute to go ahead. He’d allowed everyone to think that the renegades were targeting the palace, when, in fact, they were out to kill the Queen’s physician, Dr. Fabian, and destroy his work. Newbury was acutely aware that this might have been a death warrant for the Queen, but he did it anyway, knowing what part she played in the foul, depraved experiments being carried out at that facility, and the impact they had on Amelia-and, by extension, Veronica. Perhaps it wasn’t so outlandish a claim as he’d first thought-perhaps the Secret Service, and by extension Angelchrist and Bainbridge, had aligned themselves against the Queen.

“I must say, Newbury,” said the Prince, mercifully changing the subject. “It’s good to see you looking more … yourself.”

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” replied Newbury, unsure what else to say. He couldn’t very well admit that he’d soon be returning to Chelsea to mix a draught of laudanum, or that within the week he’d be back at Malbury Cross, conducting occult healing rituals on a woman everyone thought was dead.

“Very good. Well, I’m afraid I have urgent business to attend to, Newbury,” said Albert Edward, reclaiming his cane and levering himself up from his chair. “Trying to rescue an abandoned hotel. Historic interest and all that. Barclay will show you out.”

Newbury heard the door creak open on its hinges, and looked up to see the butler waiting in the passageway outside. Clearly, he’d had his ear to the door throughout the whole of the conversation. What was more, it appeared the Prince himself had given the man leave to do so.

“My thanks to you, Your Royal Highness,” said Newbury. “I shall return tomorrow evening as you suggest.” He flicked a quick glance at Barclay, whose expression gave nothing away. “Your assistance in this matter is very much appreciated.”

“Likewise, Newbury,” said the Prince, distracted again, as if his mind had already returned to the subject of his prior conversation. “Likewise.” He turned his back on Newbury, crossed the room, and once again disappeared into the library. This time, the door clicked decidedly shut behind him.

“I’ll show you out, Sir Maurice,” said Barclay, pointedly holding open the door.

With a sigh, Newbury nodded in affirmation. He had a great deal to consider before his meeting with the others that afternoon.