The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 27

Veronica paced before the window of her drawing room, looking out across a damp, dimly lit stretch of Kensington High Street. It was mostly deserted now, with only the occasional hansom steaming past, funnels belching soot-coloured smoke into the grey night. Most of the horse-drawn cabs had retired for the evening, with only the hardy steam-powered variety still buzzing around the city, their drivers warmed by the proximity of their miniature furnaces and tanks of boiling water.

Try as she might, she still couldn’t believe what she had seen through the window of Bainbridge’s sitting room. She kept attempting to rationalise it, to explain away what she had witnessed.

However hard she tried, though, she could not find an alternative explanation. Bainbridge had lied to her, brazenly, about seeing Angelchrist, and almost immediately afterwards had returned home to find the other man waiting for him. It had not been an unexpected call, either: The manner in which Bainbridge hurried to greet him and hand over the envelope suggested it was a prearranged appointment. Angelchrist had been waiting for him to return with the list. No wonder Bainbridge had been so keen to take possession of it back at Chelsea.

Could it be that the Queen was correct about the Secret Service? It certainly appeared as if they were involved in something covert having to do with the Crown agents. And Bainbridge had clearly thrown his lot in with them. Could they really be the ones behind the Executioner? She didn’t want to believe it, but the facts were beginning to mount up.

Veronica decided it was time to tell Newbury the truth: that she had been spying on Angelchrist and Bainbridge, and that her worst fears had been confirmed. She could put it off no longer.

She glanced at the overnight bag she had placed by the door in readiness. Mrs. Grant had been in bed for hours, and she was used to Veronica coming and going at unsociable hours. She’d barely stir, if she even heard anything at all.

It was probably for the best. Veronica didn’t really want to have to explain that she was planning to spend the night-or, indeed, the next few nights-at Newbury’s house. Despite everything she had said to Newbury, she did fear for her reputation, if only in the eyes of her housekeeper, who would not approve. Newbury was, after all, ostensibly her employer, and the affection between them was hardly a secret.

Nevertheless, if she left now and hailed one of those dreadful steam-powered cabs, she could be at Newbury’s house within half an hour, then tomorrow she would make her excuses to Mrs. Grant and explain that she was staying with a friend for a few days.

In the meanwhile, she and Newbury could decide together how they might tackle Bainbridge and the professor. Assuming, of course, that Newbury could be persuaded to take her at her word. She still feared he would react badly to the news, and refuse to see ill of his friend.

Veronica grabbed her still-damp coat from where she’d left it flung over the back of a chair, and collected her bag. Quietly, she slipped out of the house, careful to lock the door behind her.

* * *

The house was shrouded in darkness, and no lamps appeared to be burning in the upper windows. The front door was still locked, however, and there was no sign that anyone had forced entry.

Newbury’s assumption, then, had been correct. Once home, Veronica must have changed her mind about spending the night at Chelsea, and instead taken to her own bed for the night. He admired her for her courage and independence, but wished, on this one occasion, that she’d adhered to the agreed plan.

Nevertheless, he’d have to wake her now. She’d want to be by his side as they stormed the abandoned hotel in a few hours’ time. More pertinently, it provided him with the chance to keep a watchful eye on her. Renwick’s revelations regarding the Executioner had terrified him, particularly when coupled with the horrifying things he had seen in his feverish dreams. Veronica was in danger, and it was up to him to protect her.

He stood for a moment in the front garden, catching his breath. The rain was a constant mizzle, soaking his clothes. They were already ruined, though, and he could change as soon as they’d returned to Chelsea. He’d need to prepare himself for another possible encounter with the Executioner, too. He’d seen what she was capable of, and fully intended to go into the situation armed with his pistol and sword.

He glanced behind him to see the driver of the steam-powered hansom he had flagged down waiting patiently for him at the roadside, huddled against the rain, a cigarette dripping from his lips.

Deciding there was no way to approach the matter with any degree of subtlety, he walked up to Veronica’s front door and rapped loudly with the brass knocker.

After a moment, a lamp flared in one of the upstairs rooms. He waited patiently on the doorstep, trying to ignore the rain. Shuffling footsteps sounded in the hall.

“Who is it?” came a suspicious voice from the other side of the door. It was Mrs. Grant, Veronica’s housekeeper.

“It’s Sir Maurice Newbury, Mrs. Grant. I need to speak with Miss Hobbes as a matter of urgency,” he replied, trying to keep his tone level. He didn’t wish to worry her unduly.

He heard the bolt scrape in the lock and the jangle of keys, and then the door yawned open. Inside, the hallway was dark. Mrs. Grant stood there in a heavy quilted dressing gown, her greying hair scraped back beneath a net. “What sort of time is this to be calling on a young lady?” she said, briskly. She gave him a severe look.

“I’m sorry to rouse you from your bed, Mrs. Grant, but this really is a matter of urgency,” he said, pressing her. “I do need to speak with Miss Hobbes. It cannot wait.”

“Very well,” she conceded, with a sigh. “I suppose you’d better step in out of the rain.” She held the door open for him and he ducked into the hall, thanking her.

She looked him up and down. “Oh…” she exclaimed, as she fully appreciated the condition of his torn and blood-spattered clothes for the first time. “You appear to have been in the wars, Sir Maurice. Are you quite well?”

Newbury nodded. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Grant.”

She shook her head, in what Newbury took to be a gesture of exasperation. “Right. Well, if you’d be kind enough to wait there for a moment, I’ll see if Miss Hobbes is prepared to see you.”

“Thank you,” he said. She ascended the stairs to the next floor. Everything was quiet in the house other than the creak of her footfalls on the treads and the rattle of his own breath.

She reappeared a moment later wearing a frown, and hurried back down to join him in the hallway. “I’m afraid Miss Hobbes is not here,” she said, the concern evident in her voice. “Her bed is undisturbed, and she is not in the drawing room.”

Newbury smiled reassuringly, but his heart was hammering in his chest. Where was she? Perhaps he’d missed her, and she had returned to Chelsea as planned after all. If so, she’d be sitting with Scarbright now, awaiting his return. The alternative was almost unfathomable. “I’m sure it’s nothing to trouble yourself with, Mrs. Grant. I had, in fact, arranged to meet with Miss Hobbes at my house, but found myself otherwise engaged. I’d assumed she would return home for the evening, but I must have been mistaken. I imagine that she is awaiting me at Chelsea even now.”

“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Grant, a note of disapproval in her tone. “At this hour. You may be a gentleman, Sir Maurice, and I do not doubt your intentions, but you must think of Miss Hobbes’s reputation and well-being.”

“I understand,” said Newbury, patiently, “and your concern does you credit, Mrs. Grant. I assure you, I have only Miss Hobbes’s best interests at heart.” He smiled. “Now, I apologise profusely for waking you unnecessarily. If Miss Hobbes does happen to return before I’ve had chance to speak with her at Chelsea, I’d ask that you please explain to her that I called, and that I will call again first thing in the morning.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Grant, with a heavy sigh. “Good night to you, Sir Maurice.”

“Good night,” he replied, taking his leave. He signalled to the driver as he hurried down the garden path to the waiting cab. “Cleveland Avenue, Chelsea,” he said. “As quickly as you can.”

* * *

Newbury willed the cab to go faster, despite the fact that it was already churning through the wet streets at an undeniable pace. He desperately hoped that he’d return to Chelsea to find Veronica waiting for him there. It was late, and by his reckoning she’d been missing for some hours. Rationally, he knew there must be an explanation for her absence, but given his encounter with the Executioner earlier that evening and his epiphany regarding the Prince of Wales, he couldn’t deny that she was an obvious target. She was close to both Newbury and Bainbridge, for a start, and she was involved in the investigation into the Executioner’s murders. If the Prince wanted to tidy up after himself, she would be the next logical target after Newbury himself.

He stared out of the window, but could discern little of their location from the misty smear of houses as they rushed by in the darkness. He glanced at his pocket watch. They had to be halfway there by now.

He started at the sound of a heavy thud on the roof of the cab. The vehicle jolted slightly, as if the driver was struggling to keep it under control. Newbury leaned forward to open the window and call up to the man when the cab swerved suddenly to the left. He was thrown across the seat, banging his head painfully against the wooden frame. He righted himself, smarting, but the entire vehicle was rocking violently now as it continued to pelt along the cobbled lanes. He struggled to maintain his balance.

He heard a man cry out, followed by a piercing, inhuman shriek, an animalistic wail that caused his hackles to rise. The cab shuddered again as it struck the kerb and careened away, still barrelling along at speed, but clearly out of control.

Newbury grasped the handrail by the left-hand door and steadied himself. Then, with a huge effort, fighting against the momentum of the bouncing vehicle, he pulled himself upright and slid the window open. The cold night wafted in, blasting his face with rainwater. He could see now that the cab was describing a zigzag pattern up the street, thudding against the kerb on one side, then careening into the other and bouncing back again, over and over.

He twisted, glancing up at the dickey box, and recoiled in horror at the sight. The driver swayed back and forth with the movement of the vehicle, but only the lower half of the man’s torso was visible. His head, one arm, and most of his chest were missing. What remained was still propped up in the driver’s box, blood spurting from the ragged wound. The man had literally been torn in half. Whatever had done that to him was capable of immense strength.

Newbury felt something shift on the roof, and slid back into the main compartment of the cab. He had to get out there and take charge of the vehicle’s controls before they careened into the side of a building or another oncoming vehicle. He considered jumping out, but at this speed he’d be dashed across the cobbles, or at the very least would sustain numerous shattered bones, leaving him injured and prey to whatever was up there on the roof.

Could it be the Executioner? He didn’t think so. The manner in which the driver had been killed was far too feral-primal, even-and lacked the finesse of her previous kills. What, then?

His question was answered a second later when a fist slammed down through the wooden roof in a hail of splinters. Newbury covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow as the fragments rained down upon his face and shoulders, stinging where they punctured his flesh.

He staggered back as a clawed hand thrashed about in the cab for a moment, before withdrawing and punching through the roof again, widening the aperture. Newbury ducked from side to side to avoid the creature’s curving black talons as they swept back and forth, searching for him. He dropped into the footwell, out of reach, and peered up through the hole, trying to get a sense of what it was that had set upon the cab.

His first thought was of a revenant-the pale, ragged flesh, the unnatural strength, the elongated black talons-but when he saw the thing lower its face into the hole and peer through at him, everything suddenly became clear.

The creature had, indeed, once been a man, but unlike a revenant it was not the victim of an unpredictable microscopic plague, but the result of an appalling experiment in surgical augmentation. This man had been afflicted by design, not by an accident of nature. His lower jaw had been replaced with a brace of enamel tusks, and one eye had been entirely excised, a strange, mechanical lens affixed in its place. Black tubing erupted in a knot from its throat, then curled away over its shoulders and out of sight. The remaining human eye was jaundiced and watery, and was fixed on Newbury, radiating hatred.

This was the work of the Cabal. He had seen these minions before, half-transformed into monsters through their unwavering devotion to their insane masters. Aldous was right. The Cabal did want their book back, and enough to send one of their abominations to kill him for it. Clearly, they’d decided he’d had long enough to accept their invitation to commit ritual suicide, and had decided to take matters into their own hands.

The man-thing screeched, working its false jaw up and down in a gnashing motion. It began scrabbling at the sides of the hole, ripping free large chunks of wood and casting them away into the road. It was as if the creature were peeling away the layers of an onion, with Newbury trapped inside, awaiting the inevitable.

All the while, the cab continued to veer out of control, the dead driver’s foot still pressed firmly upon the accelerator.

If he remained where he was, Newbury was going to die. He wasn’t strong enough to take on the creature unarmed in such a cramped space, and if he didn’t deal with the out-of-control cab in the next few moments, it would all be over regardless.

He glanced at the door. He could force it open and climb out onto the footplate. From there he’d have a chance to leap up onto the roof and scrabble across to the dickey box, provided the cab didn’t hit something in the meantime and throw him off completely. It was a chance he’d have to take.

The creature was on the roof, though, between him and the dickey box. He didn’t fancy his chances against it up there.

He needed to swap places with it. If he could trap it inside the cab, even if just for a moment, he’d have a chance to get to the controls. After that, he had no idea.

He watched it gouging away more of the wooden roof and shuddered. It was more animal than man. It would rip him apart within moments if he gave it the opportunity, just as it had the driver. He had to strike first, to take the initiative and catch it unawares. It was his only chance. It didn’t feel like much of a plan, but it was all he had.

Newbury crept forward, keeping low.

The scrabbling stopped, and the man-thing returned to swiping for him, its glossy black talons-each about three inches long, formed from spears of iron-only inches from his head. It grunted as it leaned forward, shifting its weight, and the shattered wood around the hole creaked in protest, threatening to cave in. Newbury was breathing hard, trying to pick his time.

The cab lurched again, suddenly, and he fell back, the creature splaying its hands across the roof to help it hold on. It recovered faster than Newbury, and its next swipe caught the back of his collar, shredding the fabric and drawing large welts across the nape of Newbury’s neck. He howled in pain and dropped low, rolling out of its reach. He drew to his knees just as the man-thing was straining forward with its arm extended. Then he saw his chance. He leapt up, grabbing it firmly by the wrist and yanking down, hard, throwing all of his weight behind the motion.

Newbury fell backwards towards the door, and the creature, unable to slow its momentum, came crashing forward through the hole in the roof, tumbling face down onto the floor of the cab.

Newbury didn’t wait to see if it had survived the fall. Instead he twisted around, grabbed the handle of the door, and leaned against it. It opened and he fell through.

For a moment he hung dangerously from the door, his feet trailing inside the main compartment of the cab. Rain lashed his face, and the shuddering of the cab as it bounced unattended over the cobbled road threatened to shake him free.

He saw the creature shifting inside, and swung his legs out, mercifully finding purchase on the footplate. He pulled himself up so that he was once again vertical, clinging to the side of the cab, and shuffled to the edge of the footplate, giving him room enough to slam the door shut on the creature inside. He didn’t imagine it would offer him much extra time, but he was unsure if the man-thing would be able to work the handle in its rabid frenzy.

He glanced along the street. They were approaching a junction. He had only moments to get to the controls before the cab careened into the side of an office building, or was struck by traffic coming from another direction.

The remains of the driver’s body were still rocking back and forth with the motion of the cab, moving spasmodically like a suffocating fish in the last of its death throes.

Gritting his teeth, Newbury reached up and felt for the rim that ran around the edge of the cab’s roof. He could hear the creature shifting about inside, prowling in circles as it tried to work out how to get to him.

He took the strain in his fingers and heaved himself up, crying out in pain as he bloodied his fingertips in the process. His damaged forearm protested, but he clung on for dear life as the cab swayed and shook, threatening to overbalance. He got the tip of his shoe on the window frame and finally managed to push himself the last few inches up, until his chest was over the lip. He scrabbled up and wound up spread-eagled on the roof, close to the ragged edge of the hole. His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps.

He was close, now. He had no idea how to operate the contraption, of course, but hoped he’d be able to work it out when he got there. He heaved himself up onto his knees, his palms still pressed flat to the roof. He started forward, but felt his trousers catch on something. He tugged, but there was no give. He glanced back, and realised in horror that it wasn’t his trousers at all, but that the man-thing’s left hand was wrapped tightly around his ankle.

Newbury growled in frustration and lashed out with his other foot, kicking at the creature’s forearm. It refused to let go, pulling down sharply on his leg, dragging him inexorably back towards the lip of the hole.

Newbury thrashed around, trying to find something to grab on to, but there was nothing there. He felt himself slide back, heard the creature howl in triumph. His legs were over the hole now, and he allowed himself to be pulled further back, slipping deeper into the nightmare maw of the cab. Then, at the last moment, he stamped down blindly with his right foot, hammering again and again with his heel. He felt something crunch as he connected with the creature’s face. It screeched in pain, releasing its grip on his ankle.

Swiftly, Newbury hauled himself up out of the hole again and scrambled across the roof towards the controls. He spun around and dropped feet first into the driver’s box, nudging the flapping remains of the driver to one side.

The controls consisted of two pedals, a lever, and a small, round steering wheel. He grabbed the wheel first, fighting the bucking vehicle as they careened towards the office building. He leaned to the left and pulled the wheel around hard, causing the vehicle to bank sharply. The cab veered out of the path of the building but tipped wildly in the process, two wheels lifting entirely off the ground.

For a moment Newbury thought the thing was going to overbalance, but he spun the wheel back the other way and the vehicle shifted, the two right-hand wheels dropping back down to the ground heavily. The driver’s body slumped towards him with the motion, and Newbury fought to steady himself as the contents of its lacerated belly spilled out across the floor. A moment later, when the direction of the cab was somewhat under control, he grabbed the corpse by the belt and, with both hands, heaved it over the side of the box. It tumbled to the cobbles with a wet, dull thud, trailing sticky blood and entrails.

Newbury wiped the rainwater from his eyes with his sleeve. He heard a scraping noise from behind him and glanced over his shoulder. The creature was pulling itself up out of the hole in the roof. It must have clambered up on the seats to gain enough height to get leverage. Perhaps it wasn’t as dim-witted as he’d imagined.

His choices, however, remained limited. He could hardly maintain control of the vehicle and fight the creature at the same time. He decided his only hope was to shake it off. If he could strand it in the road while he still had control of the vehicle, he could get away.

He glanced at the road ahead, then looked back at the creature, which had just about hauled itself onto the roof. He braced himself, then yanked the steering wheel sharply to the right, and then hard to the left, causing the cab to veer wildly. It pitched and rocked as the wheels shifted beneath it, barely able to compensate for the exaggerated gestures. The man-thing slid across the roof, scrabbling for purchase, its legs dangling over the side. It didn’t, however, go over.

Newbury tried again, swinging the cab across the road, but realised that the creature had managed to dig its talons into the fabric of the cab, pinning itself in place. It clung on while the vehicle weaved from side to side, biding its time. He’d have to try a different approach.

Mercifully, the road ahead remained silent and empty. The rain and the late hour had driven the civilians home to their beds. Newbury found himself longing for the tranquillity of his drawing room, the peace of a book and a cigarette. He’d had his fill of being attacked by half-mechanical assailants for one night.

The man-thing issued a keening wail as it dragged itself up from where it was hanging off the side of the cab and thumped across the shattered roof towards him. Newbury didn’t look back, but could feel its presence only feet away. His every instinct told him to try to get away, but he held a firm grasp on the wheel.

He stabbed at the accelerator with his foot and the vehicle lurched forward, the engine roaring with power. They sped along the cobbled road, bouncing and juddering, gaining momentum with every passing inch. Newbury could practically feel the creature’s rancid breath on the nape of his neck, but still he did not turn.

He counted to five beneath his breath. It was now or never. He lifted his foot from the accelerator and slammed it hard upon the brake, releasing the steering wheel and ducking down into the driver’s box, covering his head with his arms.

The next few moments passed in slow motion. All Newbury could hear was the rush of blood in his ears, his heart thumping against his ribs. He was thrown heavily forward with the momentum, bashing his hip against the steering wheel.

The rear of the vehicle bucked like an angry horse as the front brakes fully engaged, flipping the man-thing forward and up into the air, sending it careening along the road. It hit the cobbles with a sickening thud and lay still, broken bones jutting through torn flesh and clothes.

The hansom shook as the rear end slammed back onto the road, venting hissing jets of steam. Another section of the roof collapsed into the passenger compartment.

Newbury stood, hesitantly, as the shuddering finally abated. He peered along the road.

The creature was nearly twenty feet in front of him, sprawled upon the cobbles. It was moving, its legs scrabbling ineffectually, its head lifting slightly, pathetically. Newbury could see that one of its arms was completely smashed, its torso was twisted out of shape, and half of its enamel jaw had been shattered. It was, without a doubt, dying.

Newbury felt a moment of deep sorrow for this thing that had once been a man. The Cabal had transformed him into a monster, removed all but the smallest traces of his humanity. And for what? So that they might construct their own army of patchwork soldiers? They would have to be stopped. But that didn’t mean he would let this one live.

Newbury grabbed the steering wheel and stamped on the accelerator again. He could not leave the thing to die in misery and pain, whatever it had done to him. He gripped the wheel firmly and held his course as the cab barrelled along, gaining speed. He closed his eyes and held on as the cab smashed into the prone man-thing, thundering over the top of its shattered body, crushing it utterly beneath its rumbling bulk.

He did not look back as he drove on down the street. The creature was dead, and he did not wish to dwell on the results of his decision.

Veronica would-he hoped-be waiting for him back at Chelsea, and he was desperately in need of a drink.

* * *

The front door was hanging off one broken hinge when Veronica arrived at Newbury’s house a short while later.

She stood at the bottom of the short flight of red stone steps, and felt utterly overcome by a dawning sense of dread. Was she already too late? Had Newbury been betrayed by his supposed friends? She wished that she hadn’t spent so long at Kensington considering her options.

She rushed up the steps two at a time and burst into the hallway, steeling herself against whatever she might find.

In this case, it was only Scarbright, who turned to regard her, a screwdriver in his hand. “Ah, Miss Hobbes. I fear you’ll find the place in a rather dreadful state, but please do come in.”

She offered him a quizzical look.

“A brief incident this evening involving an intruder,” said Scarbright, reading her expression. He moved to the door as he spoke and began tightening screws.

Veronica watched him work. “An intruder?” she said, unsure whether to be concerned or relieved, given the valet’s calm and understated manner.

“I fear I am not fully apprised of the circumstances, Miss Hobbes, and I’m sure it would be best explained by Sir Maurice himself, but in his absence I shall do my best to give as full an account as possible.” Scarbright cleared his throat. “It seems a woman, armed with two scimitars, managed to break into the building while we were both asleep and set upon Sir Maurice in the drawing room. He fought her off-most valiantly, I might add-but she managed to get away before we could entrap her.”

“The Executioner!” said Veronica. “Was he hurt?”

“He suffered a number of minor injuries from her blades, but I can assure you, he is quite well,” said Scarbright. He stood back from the door, admiring his handiwork. He swung it shut, and nodded as the latch gave a satisfying click.

“Where is he now?” demanded Veronica, feeling increasingly frustrated and helpless. She needed to be by his side.

“He went to call on Sir Charles,” said Scarbright.

Bainbridge. Veronica’s heart hammered in her chest. Their paths had practically crossed. And now he was there, with Bainbridge and Angelchrist.

“I gather from the late hour and the presence of your overnight case that Sir Maurice has invited you to spend the night in the spare room,” said Scarbright. “I’m sure he will return soon-he’s been gone for some time. Please, allow me to take your coat.”

Veronica shook her head. Her eyes alighted upon an envelope on the hall table, Newbury’s address written in Bainbridge’s familiar hand. “It looks to me as if you already have your hands full, Scarbright. I’ll make myself comfortable, thank you.”

“Very well, Miss Hobbes. Then perhaps you would care for a pot of tea?” replied Scarbright.

“Yes. Thank you. That would be lovely,” she said.

Scarbright smiled, and set off in the direction of the kitchen with a nod.

Veronica waited until his footsteps had receded down the hall, and then picked up the letter. She turned it over. It was sealed.

She placed it back on the table, just as she’d found it. She shouldn’t pry. This was Newbury’s personal correspondence. But then … what if it gave her insight into what was going on? Newbury had gone directly to see Bainbridge after the attack. Did he know something? Would the letter reveal it? Might Bainbridge even be attempting to involve Newbury in whatever he was plotting with Angelchrist?

Taking a deep breath and biting her bottom lip, she snatched the envelope up again and tore it open. Inside there was a small slip of cream-coloured paper. She quickly extracted it and glanced at the note inside:

THE FORTESCUE HOTEL, CHANCERY LANE, TWO O’CLOCK.

CB

She frowned, and then glanced at the ancient grandfather clock that stood like an attentive sentry in Newbury’s hallway. It was just after one. What was going on? Could Bainbridge be leading Newbury into a trap? Surely not … but why else would they meet at a hotel at such an unsociable hour? She reminded herself of what she had seen through Bainbridge’s window. Whatever it was, there was something going on that she did not understand, and all she could think about was preventing Newbury from unwittingly putting himself in harm’s way. He trusted Bainbridge completely. She wondered now if that trust was gravely misplaced.

Veronica stuffed the letter back into its envelope and returned it to the table. Her mind made up, she stooped to her bag and rifled around inside it until her fingers closed around the handle of her pistol. She withdrew it and tucked it safely into her belt, covering it with her coat, then she opened the front door and slipped out, quietly pulling the door to behind her.

* * *

Newbury drew the hansom to a jerking, erratic stop outside of his home.

He’d considered abandoning the vehicle in an alleyway a few streets away, but decided it might yet prove useful before the night was out. A bobby or passer by had probably discovered the corpses of the driver and the man-thing by now, and Newbury would need to explain the whole incident to Bainbridge later that day. He could turn the hansom over to the police at the same time.

For now, however, he had some temporary transportation at his disposal-assuming, of course, that he didn’t inadvertently run it into a wall. It wasn’t the simplest of contraptions to drive, and the journey across town was plagued by hazards and near misses. Newbury was forced to rely on his instincts, and wrestled with the machine until he managed to get it under some modicum of control.

He disengaged the engine, but the rear funnel continued to belch thick, black smoke into the damp night air.

Still smarting from his wounds, he swung himself down from the dickey box, dropping awkwardly to the ground. The rain had now abated to a gentle drizzle that matted his hair and beaded on the lapels of his jacket. His shoes were slicked with the driver’s blood, and he was chilled to the very core of his being. He hoped he’d have time to change and warm himself beside the fire before heading out to meet Bainbridge and Angelchrist, and that Veronica would be waiting for him within.

He left the cab parked by the kerb and hurried up the garden path to the front door. Scarbright had evidently reattached it in Newbury’s absence. He was still unsure precisely how the Executioner had managed to tear it from its hinges without waking him, but he was impressed all the same by her stealth. It would serve him well, in future, to pay more attention to his personal safety. For a start, Aldous was correct about the Cabal. They were clearly more dangerous than Newbury had given them credit for. He would have to deal with them as soon as the situation with the Prince was successfully resolved.

He searched his pockets for his key and realised he hadn’t stopped to claim it as he’d rushed out to see Bainbridge, so he rapped loudly with the knocker instead.

Scarbright was at the door within moments, wearing a concerned expression. “Sir Maurice…” he said, as Newbury staggered up the steps and into the lobby.

“I’m fine, Scarbright,” he said, leaning against the wall with his left hand, catching his breath. “Just another little altercation on the way home. Nothing to trouble yourself with.” He spotted Veronica’s overnight bag in the hallway, beside the narrow table, and sighed with relief.

“No, it’s not that,” said Scarbright. “It’s Miss Hobbes.”

“She’s here, then?” said Newbury. “I’m sorry I didn’t have chance to explain. She’s going to be staying in the spare room for a few days.”

Scarbright shook his head, and Newbury frowned. “She was here, Sir Maurice, but now she’s … well, she’s gone.”

“Gone?” said Newbury, perplexed. “But her bag is just there.…” He searched Scarbright’s face for an answer. The man was clearly embarrassed.

“Well? Where is she?” asked Newbury, exasperated.

“That’s just it, sir. I don’t know. Miss Hobbes arrived about thirty minutes ago. I showed her into the hall. She was most dismayed to learn of your encounter with that dreadful woman this evening, but she said she would make herself comfortable while I fetched a cup of tea, so I left her here in the hall while she removed her coat and gloves. When I returned a few minutes later, she was gone.” He looked shamefaced. “I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

Newbury sighed and shook his head in defeat. “I fear Miss Hobbes and I have unwittingly found ourselves engaged in a rather fruitless game of cat and mouse this evening, Scarbright. I don’t imagine there was anything you could have done.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Scarbright. “I shall, of course, remain alert for any sign of her return.”

“When exactly did she leave?” said Newbury.

“It can’t have been more than twenty minutes ago,” replied Scarbright.

Newbury nodded. “Very well.” He couldn’t see what else he could do. Hopefully, she’d simply popped out for a walk and would return shortly. “Anything else?” he asked.

“A letter, sir. It arrived shortly before Miss Hobbes, delivered by a cabbie. I left it on the table there.” Scarbright turned, retrieving the small cream envelope. As he turned it over, his face fell.

“What is it?” said Newbury, when he saw Scarbright’s brow crease in a deep frown.

“The letter has been opened, sir. When I placed it on the table it was sealed,” said Scarbright, perplexed.

Newbury took the envelope from him and slid the slip of paper out from inside. On it were printed the words:

THE FORTESCUE HOTEL, CHANCERY LANE, TWO O’CLOCK.

CB

“Oh, no…” said Newbury, his heart sinking. “Oh, Veronica…”

“What is it, sir?” said Scarbright, alarmed.

“She’s gone to the hotel. She’s gone looking for me there.” He could hear the panic in his own voice. This was it. This was what he’d seen in his dreams. Veronica and the Executioner.

“The hotel, sir?” said Scarbright.

“It’s where the Executioner is hiding,” said Newbury, making a snap decision. “If she’s gone there alone…” He discarded the note on the floor. “I must go after her.”

“I’ll accompany you, sir,” said Scarbright, resolutely.

“No, I need you to stay here. If I’m wrong and she returns, you must keep her here. Keep her safe, Scarbright. Miss Hobbes is in grave danger.”

“Yes, Sir Maurice. You can count on me, sir,” said Scarbright, stoically.

“I know I can, Scarbright,” replied Newbury.

He turned and hurtled back out of the door towards the waiting hansom. If Veronica had gone to the hotel alone, he might already be too late.

He only hoped-beyond all hope-that he was wrong.