The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 18

“Is this how they found him?” said Veronica, with barely concealed disgust.

“Precisely,” muttered Bainbridge. “He was discovered this way in the early hours of this morning, and he hasn’t been moved. The verger who found him…” He trailed off, as if trying to find a delicate way of phrasing what he wished to say. “Well, let us just say that the body has not been disturbed. I rather think it would be clear to anyone that the man was beyond help or medical assistance.”

Veronica nodded, but kept her thoughts to herself.

They had rushed to the scene of the murder directly from Chelsea, Scarbright securing the services of a cab while Newbury took steps to make himself presentable. He’d done a remarkably good job, too: Ten minutes later he had emerged like a new man, washed and shaved, and with a glimmer of the old sparkle in his eyes. He was dressed in his customary black suit, white shirt, and green cravat, and he’d somehow managed to muster energy from some secret reserves. Veronica wished she knew how he did it, how he was able to shake off such dreadful, debilitating weariness so easily, as if all he had to do was chide himself in the mirror and pull himself together. When Amelia had suffered from such episodes it had taken her hours, if not days, to recover. Newbury had rallied in a matter of half an hour. Clearly, he was right about one thing: He was stronger than her sister.

Veronica didn’t yet know what that meant in terms of ongoing treatments for Amelia; how she felt about Newbury’s insistence that he be allowed to carry on, that it was not her decision to make. She was sure of one thing, though: that she most definitely would have a say in what happened next.

It was clear that Bainbridge attributed Newbury’s condition and general appearance of slovenliness to his propensity for opium abuse, and he made his opinions on the matter most keenly felt in the way he sighed and bustled about the place in an agitated manner, harrying Newbury and muttering curses beneath his breath. Veronica had wished that she could have disabused the man of such notions and outlined the truth of the matter for him then and there, but Newbury would not have thanked her for it. Besides, in so doing she would have had to tell him the truth about Amelia, and the Grayling Institute, and everything that had transpired since. She couldn’t risk taking that chance.

Newbury, however, had ignored any such jibes or disapproving looks, and, as soon as they were in the back of the hansom rattling across town, had set about unleashing a barrage of questions regarding the circumstances of the corpse’s discovery. Indeed, by the time they’d arrived at St. John’s Wood, he was beginning to show signs of impatience and agitation, anxious to be getting on with his exploration of the crime scene.

Now, he was hunched over the body of the dead vicar, murmuring intently to himself as he examined the man’s wounds.

Veronica tried not to look too closely, instead taking a moment to properly appraise their surroundings. It was an unusual sort of place for a murder, she decided, and didn’t fit with the pattern of the other deaths, which-as far as she understood from Bainbridge-had all taken place in the victims’ homes. Perhaps it was due to the man’s occupation that the killer had struck here, in the church.

The building itself was ancient and crumbling, more of a small chapel of worship than a place that would house a regular congregation. Nevertheless, it was lavishly bedecked with the gilded relics and icons typical of those larger establishments and their elaborate rituals. A large stained glass window adorned the west wall, depicting Saint George standing bold and victorious over the slain dragon. The afternoon sun was slanting through it now, pooling on the floor around the corpse in bright puddles of multi-coloured light. A statue of the Virgin Mary looked down upon the gathered crowd, too: plaintive, sombre, as if sitting in judgement. She had borne silent witness to whatever had occurred in this sacred place. Veronica could see the speckles of blood spattered on her marble robes.

Bobbies milled around the entrance to the small church, talking in hushed tones, while Inspector Foulkes waited in the wings for Newbury to finish his assessment of the victim.

The vicar himself, the Reverend Josiah Carsen, had suffered wounds that were congruent with those inflicted upon the other victims, leaving little doubt in Veronica’s mind-and, clearly, those of the other assembled investigators-that the same person was responsible.

He’d been run through with at least one blade. There were two ragged puncture wounds in his belly that indicated where the weapons had entered his body, and Veronica had no doubt that, when the body was eventually rolled over, the exit wounds would be pronounced and easily identifiable upon his back.

What was more, just like the other victims, his chest had been viciously hacked open and his heart removed. The resulting spillage of blood was horrendous, like a scene from an abattoir. It surrounded the body now, congealed and lumpy, still glossy in places where it had been disturbed. It was everywhere: spattered across the altar and the front row of pews, sprayed across the pulpit, drenching the vicar’s robes. Veronica fought back rising bile in her throat as she took this in. Rarely had she been witness to something so ghoulish. Not since Aubrey Knox and the heap of abandoned corpses beneath the theatre had she felt quite so disgusted.

The stench, too, was near debilitating-the cloying scent of congealing blood, the acidic trace it left on the back of her tongue. Veronica glanced away, unable to stomach the sight of the butchered corpse any longer.

“Was he an agent of the Queen?” asked Newbury, glancing up at Bainbridge for a moment from his study of the corpse.

Bainbridge sighed. “We can only assume he was,” he replied, bitterly. “We have no way of knowing without taking the matter to Her Majesty the Queen. And you know what she said about it.…” He shook his head in frustration. “We need that list, Newbury.”

Newbury nodded. “Yes, indeed,” he said, distracted.

“So, black magic? Occult ritual?” asked Bainbridge. “Tell me what’s going on. You said you needed to see the body in context.”

Newbury stood, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. Veronica didn’t wish to consider where they had been. “I don’t think so, Charles, no. Ritualistic? Yes, most definitely. But occult? I can’t see it. I think there must be some other significance to the missing hearts. It’s as if the killer is taking trophies from his victims.”

“Trophies?” echoed Veronica, in disgust. “Stealing his victims’ hearts as trophies?” The very idea repelled her.

Newbury nodded. His expression was fixed and grim. “I fear so. I can see no other explanation. This is not a delicate surgical procedure. The hearts are being damaged as they’re removed. I cannot imagine how they might be being put to use. My only thought is that they might represent some form of abysmal memento, or else a calling card left by the killer, letting us know who’s responsible for the death. Perhaps there’s some other significance, too, some message that we cannot decipher. What’s clear to me, though, is that this murder was not performed as part of an occult rite. There must be another motivation behind the killings.” He shrugged. “Aldous, of course, may be able to offer a different perspective.”

“Have you heard from him yet?” asked Bainbridge.

“Not yet,” said Newbury. “He needs time to consult his books.”

“Time is one thing we don’t have,” said Bainbridge, testily.

“This isn’t simply a matter of looking something up in the Encyclopaedia Occultus, you understand, Charles. Aldous may even now be poring over pages and pages of ancient manuscripts, searching for references in obscure grimoires, referring to records of forgotten lore and myth from all over the world. Hopefully, if we’re lucky, he might be able to suggest some symbolic significance to what we’re seeing here, some clue that might help us gain a little understanding of what we’re dealing with. That’s all. Aldous isn’t going to give us all the answers here, and anything he does tell us might not actually prove to be of use.” Newbury fixed Bainbridge with a firm stare. “You do appreciate that, Charles?”

Bainbridge’s expression darkened. He looked as if he was biting back an angry retort, his face reddening, but he must have decided to give vent to it after all, as he rounded on Newbury. “Well, of course I appreciate that! What do you take me for? You can call me many things, Newbury, but I’m no imbecile. It’s simply that I’m damn well incandescent to find myself standing here over the mangled corpse of yet another sorry bastard knowing that we’re no closer-no closer-to having even the slightest idea of who is responsible.” He looked away, trembling with rage.

Newbury took a deep breath. “You’re right, Charles. Of course you are. I wish I had something more to give you, but there’s nothing here. No clue as to the nature of the killer, or what it is that’s driving him to commit such appalling acts of violence.” He sighed. “Nevertheless, I’ll see what I can do to hurry Aldous along.”

He glanced round at the sound of footsteps echoing upon the flagstones behind them. Veronica followed his gaze. Professor Angelchrist strolled hastily towards them, flanked by two uniformed bobbies. He looked a little dishevelled, as if he hadn’t managed much sleep the previous evening. He was still wearing the same clothes as the previous day. “Sorry I’m late, Sir Charles,” he said, a little out of breath. He stopped beside Newbury, joining them in their makeshift crescent around the corpse of the vicar. “Good Lord!” he said, appearing somewhat taken aback by the sheer horror of the scene. “And in a house of God, too.”

“The killer knows no shame,” said Bainbridge, darkly.

Veronica looked from one man to the other. What the devil was Bainbridge playing at, inviting that man here? On top of what had happened at the exhibition, Newbury and Bainbridge were under definite instruction from the monarch herself to sever all ties with the Secret Service. By welcoming Angelchrist to a crime scene, Bainbridge was, effectively, colluding with the enemy-or at least Her Majesty’s perception of the enemy, which amounted to much the same thing. He was putting them all in very grave danger.

“Whatever the case, Archibald here was right,” said Newbury. “About the Germans, I mean.” The others turned to regard him. Veronica bit her tongue. “The corpse has been here for some hours. The cold weather and the atmosphere in this frigid church have helped to preserve the remains, but I have no doubt that he died yesterday, probably late in the afternoon.”

“At around the same time you were being chased by carnivorous birds at the Crystal Palace,” said Angelchrist.

“Yes. And the same time your men were engaged in an unnecessary gunfight with the German agents,” said Veronica, drily. “Do you know the full extent of the death toll yet?”

“Veronica, I really don’t think-” started Bainbridge.

Angelchrist cut him off with a wave of his hand, but wouldn’t meet her eye. “It’s alright, Sir Charles. I’m only too aware of my failure.” He raised his head, searching Veronica’s face. His eyes were limned with dark rings. “I can only assure you, Miss Hobbes, that it was never my intention to allow the operation to descend into such violence, nor to put the lives of any civilians in danger. Nevertheless, the risk of allowing the Kaiser to arm his flotilla of airships with such a weapon was too great to ignore. If he had been successful, I might well have many, many more deaths on my conscience.”

“And at least we’ve now discounted the Germans from our murder investigation,” added Newbury.

“It might still have been Germans,” said Veronica, levelly. “The incident at the exhibition could well have been a planned distraction.”

“Perhaps,” said Newbury, thoughtfully. “Although I find it unlikely they would draw attention to themselves in such a way if they were contemplating further, more clandestine operations throughout the city. Let’s face it: It’s not as if we were hot on their trail before the exhibition. Why put on such an obvious display if the real aim was to remain anonymous?”

Veronica nodded. At least this was in keeping with her thoughts on the subject. “Then perhaps the reverse was true. Perhaps they showed their hand to discredit themselves as suspects in the murders? If I were the Kaiser, I would certainly be taking steps to distance my agents from implication. Their attempt to steal the search lamp yesterday might in fact have been a statement of innocence, the Kaiser’s way of declaring his real interests in London and distancing himself from the murders.”

Bainbridge nodded. “I’m impressed with your reasoning, Miss Hobbes. There’s most definitely a subtext here that we’re missing. Someone is playing political games.”

“You think that people are being killed simply to make a point?” said Angelchrist.

“I don’t know,” replied Bainbridge. “I don’t know anything for certain. That’s what’s so damn infuriating. Someone is waging a campaign against the Queen’s agents, and I don’t have any real notion as to why.”

“There’s something fundamental we’re missing,” said Newbury, quietly.

“Why is there never a simple explanation?” said Bainbridge, his shoulders slumping.

“Oh, I have no doubt that there is, Charles. It’s only that-as yet-we’re unable to see it,” said Newbury. “Inevitably, these things come down to rivalry and petty jealousies.”

“I admire your optimism, Sir Maurice,” said Angelchrist, with a weak smile. The events of the previous day had clearly taken their toll on him. He shrugged. “So, have we learned anything from this new victim?”

“Only that Newbury doesn’t feel that there’s any occult significance to the theft of the organs. He believes the killer to be taking trophies,” said Bainbridge.

Angelchrist nodded. His expression did not give much away. “Yes, I’ve heard of such things,” he said. “Most disturbing.”

“Well, that does rule out a second possibility,” said Newbury. “It means the Cabal of the Horned Beast can’t be behind this,” he continued.

“They’re not?” said Bainbridge, looking increasingly crestfallen.

“No,” said Newbury. “At least, I don’t think so. None of their hallmarks are apparent here, the little touches or occult references I would have expected if they were responsible. People such as that, with those sort of fanatical beliefs, don’t try to obscure their involvement in such things. They revel in them. I know you considered them a likely party in these murders, Charles, but it just doesn’t appear to be the case. Besides which, I understand they have somewhat more particular plans in mind.”

Veronica raised a questioning eyebrow, but Newbury shook his head, refusing to elaborate. “Something for another day,” he said. “For now, we must concentrate on the matter in hand. We must think of nothing else.” He glanced at Veronica, and she realised that last point was aimed directly at her. Did he mean to dismiss her concerns over Angelchrist? Or was it a reference to what she had witnessed back at Chelsea? Either way, she felt a kernel of frustration at Newbury’s offhand remark.

“Professor, is there anything that your investigations have revealed that may help shed some light?” asked Veronica, careful to monitor her tone.

“Not as yet, I fear,” replied Angelchrist, with an apologetic smile, “although I shall endeavour to help where I can. Rest assured, I have my best men on it. Now that the German situation is under control, we will work with you to bring an end to this reign of terror.”

“My thanks to you, Archibald,” said Bainbridge. “Right now I fear we need all the help we can get.”

There was a moment of awkward silence that stretched almost to breaking. Finally, Bainbridge spoke. “So, what next?” he said, leaning heavily on his cane. He looked exhausted, as if he were carrying the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

“I shall return to Marlborough House to see the Prince of Wales, in the hope of obtaining the list of agents he has promised to procure for us. Following that, I shall pay a visit to Aldous and see if I can’t jolly him on a little in his investigations.”

“Very good,” said Bainbridge. “I shall return to the Yard and try to keep the damn journalists at bay. And, of course, someone will have to talk to his family,” he said, indicating the corpse with the end of his cane, and grimacing. “Cartwright?” he said, glancing around for any sign of the uniformed constable.

“Yes, sir?” said the young man, stepping forward out of the shadows. His jaw was set firm as he tried to avoid displaying any emotion at the sight of the corpse.

“Have this body removed to the morgue directly,” he ordered. “Tell them to put it with the others.”

“Yes, sir. Right away,” said Cartwright, melting back into the shadows. His footsteps echoed in the empty space as he left the church, no doubt to despatch a messenger for a cart and litter.

Newbury turned to Veronica. “And you, Miss Hobbes?”

Veronica glanced at Angelchrist. “I fear I have a personal matter to attend to,” she said. “Can we talk later?”

“Of course,” said Newbury, with the slightest of frowns. “Call round when you’re free.” He offered her an inquisitive look, but she refused to meet his eye. He thinks I’m going to see Amelia, she realised. But that was not at all her intention.

“Very well,” said Newbury, after a moment. “Do you need transportation?”

“No, thank you,” she replied. She wanted to tell him not to worry, that she wasn’t about to rush off to Malbury Cross to divulge everything to her sister, but now was not the time. In fact, it was probably for the best if he did imagine that to be the case, at least for the time being. He would be even less thrilled to learn what she was really planning, especially after his warning a few moments ago.

They turned and quit the church as one, leaving the eviscerated corpse of the Reverend Josiah Carsen for the singular attentions of the mortuary attendants.

Outside, the afternoon sun cast a diffuse bronze glow across the small graveyard. Uniformed policemen were milling about in small clusters. They looked up as Bainbridge and the others emerged from the grandiose doorway and quickly stood to attention.

Veronica loitered for a moment in the shadow of the doorway as their small group parted company. She smiled warmly at Newbury as he glanced at her over his shoulder, walking with Bainbridge towards the row of waiting conveyances. They bade one another farewell and climbed into separate carriages.

Then, catching sight of Professor Angelchrist, who had quietly slipped from the graveyard on foot, as if hoping not to draw too much attention to himself, she set out after him at a safe distance.