The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 5

Sometimes, Veronica caught herself wondering why it was that the majority of her encounters with Sir Charles Bainbridge involved a visit to the morgue.

Was it that she was simply a glutton for punishment? After all, she might simply choose to abstain from such distasteful pursuits and receive a report detailing all of the necessary findings later. Did she really need to force herself to attend these trips to that detestable place, with its thick stench of blood and carbolic and its grisly occupants, most of whom had died violent or miserable deaths, their remains mangled by weapons or disease?

Of course, both Newbury and Charles would have accepted her choice to stay away without comment. She was, after all, a woman, and the morgue was certainly no place for one of those. Indeed, she knew that both of them, while perhaps more accepting of her independence than many other men might have been, felt a need to protect her from the more gruesome elements of their shared profession. And that, she concluded, was precisely the reason that she did force herself to go through with it, despite the fact that it turned her stomach and left her feeling quite unwell.

The current situation was a case in point. There were three corpses in the chamber, each of them laid out on wooden trestles. The attendants hadn’t bothered to cover them with the thin cotton sheets they often used to preserve the dignity of the dead. The bodies had simply been wheeled out and dumped on the trestles like unwanted animal carcasses in a butcher’s shop, spoiled and riddled with decay.

Veronica couldn’t stop staring at them. She wanted to look away-to focus on anything except the grotesque cadavers-but she felt strangely compelled to look on regardless, unable to tear her eyes away. She supposed it was a form of macabre fascination, a reminder of one’s own tenuous grip on life. She’d come close to ending up like that herself on more than one occasion. She wondered who might have gathered around her butchered corpse to poke and prod at it in an attempt to tease information from its lifeless lips. Who might yet…?

The nearest of the corpses, a man who had been in his mid-twenties from the look of him, had a terrible fixed grin on his face. Veronica couldn’t help feeling he was laughing at her. It was as if-even dead-he knew some secret that she did not, and was lording it over her from beyond the grave, amused that she was so appalled to find herself in the presence of his battered, bloody corpse. She wondered what he’d been thinking when he died, and whether the bodies of the dead ever did retain the memories of the people who had once inhabited them. The thought gave her a chill.

Memories or not, a corpse could nevertheless tell a story. She’d seen Newbury examine them before, and was always amazed how much he could extrapolate from any given injury or mark, from an eviscerated belly to the pinprick of a needle in an upper arm. He could unravel what had happened to a victim simply by reading the direction of their wounds or the objects in their pockets.

Not that it was difficult to see what had happened here. Just like the others-the elderly man and the middle-aged woman with whom he now made uneasy bedfellows-the younger man’s chest had been cracked open and his heart ripped viciously from within. Even now his rib cage yawned open, split into a ragged-edged wound. Around the gaping hole the flesh was puckered, waxy, and spattered with gore. His hands were fixed like rigid claws by his sides, as if he’d been raking at something in the moments before he died, either in self-defence, or more likely in abject pain. Perhaps both. His shirt and jacket-now little more than ragged, bloodied strips-still hung loosely from his shoulders. They had clearly been torn open in a hurry to provide access to the flesh and bone beneath. It seemed to Veronica that the makeshift surgery had been performed while the man was still alive.

The smell, of course, was horrendous. The corpses had already begun to decompose, particularly those of the two men. The woman was a more recent addition, a victim from the prior evening, Veronica had been told, although her flesh had already lost its pinkish hue through so much blood loss, leaving the body looking pale and doll-like.

She wondered what Bainbridge had found at the scene. She could only begin to imagine the amount of spilled blood. It must have been everywhere, pooling on the floor, sprayed up the walls, dripping off the furniture. She shuddered as she thought about these pale, violated corpses in situ in their homes. Here, as harrowing as they were to look upon, they seemed to belong. Here in the morgue, that was where corpses like these were supposed to reside. But in their own homes, butchered like swine and surrounded by the accoutrements of their lives, they would have been utterly incongruous, somehow even more awful to witness.

She’d seen their like before, of course, more times than she cared to remember, and each and every occasion had left an indelible impression upon her.

Sometimes she wondered if her life would always be steeped in death.

She laughed at herself. Now she was just being maudlin. Although it was difficult not to be while surrounded by the remains of the recently deceased.

She tore her eyes away from the body of the young man, looking for Bainbridge. She needed a distraction.

He was standing beneath the tiled archway at the other end of the antechamber-really nothing more than a screened off section of passageway-deep in conversation with another man, a Professor Archibald Angelchrist.

Veronica wasn’t quite sure what the man was doing there at the morgue, but she harboured a growing sense of suspicion. He had never been properly introduced to her, and ever since he’d arrived he’d been speaking with Bainbridge in hushed tones, evidently intent on excluding her from the conversation. She’d gathered he was a government advisor, although she was not yet entirely sure in what capacity. She’d also gleaned that he already knew Newbury, which had come as something of a surprise. Newbury had never mentioned him, not even in passing. Whatever the purpose of his attendance, it was obscure and left her feeling a little uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable.

Clearly, though, he and Bainbridge were close. Veronica suspected the man had something to do with whatever secretive business Bainbridge had been getting up to with the Home Secretary these last few months. He was always heading off for meetings of an undisclosed nature, waving away her questions on the matter as if they weren’t important. This was despite the amount of time they had spent together over the summer while she’d assisted him on a number of unusual cases.

Newbury had been busy with that Lady Arkwell business-which, as far as she knew, remained unresolved-so Veronica had put herself forward to assist Bainbridge on a number of matters in Newbury’s stead. There’d been that whole scandal about the vicar who’d been disinterring freshly buried corpses to feed them to his son, who’d contracted the Revenant plague, and the matter of the Gozitan midget and his “spiritualist” automaton, who they’d caught fleecing gullible members of the gentry for hundreds of pounds. Those were just two of the more memorable cases they’d investigated together in the last few months. There were numerous others, besides. Yet, for some reason, Bainbridge was more distant from her now than he had ever been before. She couldn’t understand it, and she hated feeling suspicious. She wondered if perhaps she should discuss it with him, but dismissed the idea, at least for the time being. Bainbridge had never been particularly good at discussing such personal matters. He’d probably only take offence.

The two men turned suddenly at the sound of echoing footsteps in the adjoining room, and she turned to follow their gaze. Two figures were striding purposefully towards them: the willowy mortuary attendant-a weasely, odious man at the best of times, who seemed to revel in his disdain for the police-and Newbury, who looked immaculate in his freshly pressed black suit. He was clean-shaven and appeared to be bursting with energy as he hurried along beside the slightly taller man, beaming at Veronica despite the gloomy, funereal air of the place. She felt her spirits lifting.

Bainbridge stepped in to intercept Newbury’s path. “You took your time,” he said, morosely.

Newbury grinned, clapping a hand on Bainbridge’s shoulder as he came to a stop. He caught Veronica’s eye with a sly, mischievous look. “My apologies, Charles. I wouldn’t have kept you waiting in this miserable place if it hadn’t been for the Prince of Wales.”

Bainbridge raised an eyebrow. “The Prince of Wales? Have they finally managed to get you up to the palace?” The incredulity was evident in his voice.

Newbury shook his head. “No. He called on me, just a few hours ago.”

Veronica almost laughed out loud at the expression on Bainbridge’s face as he received this news. “What? At Chelsea?” he blurted out.

“Indeed so.”

“Good God. You’ve reduced the monarchy to making house calls, Newbury! What the devil did he want?”

Newbury smiled. “We can discuss that later. Let’s get this business over and done with first.” He turned to Angelchrist. “Good afternoon, Archibald,” he said.

“Likewise, Sir Maurice. Always a pleasure.”

Newbury glanced over at Veronica. “I take it you’ve been introduced to Miss Hobbes?”

Both Bainbridge and Angelchrist looked utterly crestfallen. “Oh … how utterly inconsiderate of me,” said Bainbridge, taking two strides towards her. “My dear, I’m so sorry. I’ve rather let myself down. I just got caught up in the conversation…”

“I fear we’ve neglected you, Miss Hobbes. We’ve been a little preoccupied, but nevertheless, it’s utterly unforgivable.” Angelchrist came to join her and Bainbridge, taking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Veronica lowered her handkerchief and smiled. “Indeed, Professor. I’ve heard a great deal about you,” she lied, studying his face to gauge his reaction. He nodded thoughtfully, as if the idea didn’t overly concern him.

Now that he was standing before her, she had to admit he didn’t seem all that sinister. He was a smart-looking man in his early to mid-fifties, just a little older than Bainbridge. His hair was thinning and grey, and his moustache was neatly trimmed and still mostly black with a few flecks of white. He was shorter than Bainbridge by a few inches, and his face was careworn and friendly and creased easily around the mouth when he smiled. His eyes were a deep, warm brown.

“Right,” said Newbury, coming up behind the two men and clapping his hands. The sound ricocheted off the tiled walls. “Tell me about your corpses, Charles.”

“You don’t have to sound so enthusiastic about it,” said Veronica, although she was careful to keep any disapproval out of her voice.

Newbury laughed as he followed Bainbridge over to the three trestle tables and their gruesome occupants. She decided to wait with Professor Angelchrist, who, like her, was content to watch the proceedings from a safe distance. She noted the mortuary attendant had slipped away during their conversation.

“Three victims,” Bainbridge began, indicating each of the corpses in turn with a swift chopping motion. “All killed in the same fashion within the space of a week. No obvious links between the victims, although we are continuing to explore that possibility. Each of them has been opened up in the same way, and their hearts removed.”

“Hearts removed?” Newbury echoed, leaning over so that he might peer into the open chest cavity of the nearest victim, the young man who had so fascinated Veronica earlier. He wrinkled his nose at the festering scene inside.

“Yes. We’re wondering if there’s any ritualistic or occult significance,” said Bainbridge. There was a tinge of hopefulness-even desperation-in his tone. Veronica felt for him. It was an awful job, and an even more awful responsibility, to be the one accountable for bringing the killer to justice. More so, for explaining to the victims’ families exactly why their loved ones had been so brutally executed.

“Where were they found?” asked Newbury, circling the grisly diorama, drinking in the facts. “Indoors, evidently.”

“In their own homes,” Bainbridge confirmed. “The first one, the young man, here, had been dumped in his bathtub for the servants to find the next morning. The makeshift surgery had clearly been performed in the same bathroom, too; the walls had pretty much been redecorated with the poor bastard’s blood.” He sighed heavily as he moved round to stand over the corpse of the older man. “This chap, Mr. Geoffrey Evans, was found in his kitchen by his wife, who woke up in the middle of the night, realised he wasn’t there beside her, and went downstairs to look for him. He was spread out on the tiles in a sea of his own blood. And this last woman was discovered by her maid this morning on the floor of her expensive library. This one’s slightly different, though. The victim clearly put up a fight. There were signs of a struggle at the scene, and you can see the wounds on her forearms where she raised them in self-defence.”

Newbury lifted the woman’s right arm and studied the crisscross pattern of gashes. “It looks as if the killer came at her with a long-bladed knife,” he said.

Bainbridge nodded.

“You mentioned the occult. Did you find anything at the scenes that might suggest as much? Any symbols marked out in chalk? Icons drawn in the spilt blood? Tatters of paper covered in strange runes and secreted upon the bodies?”

“No,” Bainbridge admitted. “No, none of that. I only thought there might be some significance behind the removal of their hearts.”

“So you have no motive, and nothing to connect the victims?” Newbury was chewing on his bottom lip, lost in thought.

“Nothing. The only thing I’m sure about is that it’s the work of the same killer,” replied Bainbridge.

“Well, you’re right about that. You can tell from these wounds that the victims were all hacked open with the same implement, cutting through the breastbone in the same direction. But why? Why would the killer take their hearts?” He tapped his foot in frustration, as if that might be enough to conjure up an answer.

Bainbridge sighed. “I was rather hoping you were going to tell me that,” he said, resignedly.

Newbury looked up from the corpse of the woman. “Well, I don’t think there’s a particular occult ritual being performed here, or at least not one that I’m aware of, but there’s definitely something ritualistic about the manner in which they all had their hearts removed. It may look like a crude job, but whoever did this took real care over the removal of the organs themselves. Yes, they’ve hacked open the chest cavities in a rather barbaric fashion, but they’ve shown a strange sort of respect for the hearts they were stealing.”

“Almost as if they wanted them for something else?” said Veronica from behind her handkerchief.

“Absolutely that,” replied Newbury, glancing at her. “Although for what, I’m not at all sure.”

“Witchcraft?” asked Bainbridge. “Some Godforsaken nonsense involving human sacrifice and dancing in the woods? Isn’t that usually the way? I thought it might have something to do with that cabal, the ‘horny beasts’ or whatever it was they called themselves.”

“The Cabal of the Horned Beast,” interjected Veronica, trying not to laugh.

The three of them-Veronica, Newbury, and Bainbridge-had encountered members of this strange devil-worshipping cult just a few months earlier. Newbury had liberated a rare book of rituals from them, from which he derived his unusual treatment for Veronica’s sister, Amelia. As an act of reprisal, the cultists had taken Newbury and Bainbridge prisoner. Veronica had been forced to mount a rescue, posing as a cultist and battling one of their abysmal half man, half machine creations to gain entry to the manor house in which they’d established their lair.

Newbury sighed. “I only wish the world were that simplistic, Charles,” he said, sadly.

“Or perhaps the killer is reusing the organs, like those automatons with the ‘affinity bridges’ in their craniums. Could the killer be using them to power some sort of infernal machine?” Bainbridge continued, hopefully.

“It’s all possible, Charles,” said Newbury, “but at present I have no means of even theorising. There’s simply not enough information to go on.”

“There are three corpses!” protested Bainbridge. “How much information do you need? Have you even examined them properly?”

Newbury shrugged. “Context is everything. I need to see the victims in situ. If there was anything more to be gleaned from the manner of their deaths, it was lost the moment they were moved. You know that, Charles. There’s nothing else for me to see here. Sometimes a corpse is enough. This time … well, I’m afraid not.”

Bainbridge’s shoulders dropped as he recognised the truth in Newbury’s words. “Then there’s very little we can do. We’ll have to wait to see if the killer strikes again.”

“I fear so,” said Newbury. “I can carry out some research, and I can speak to Aldous Renwick in the hope that we can find some significance behind the missing hearts. Otherwise, we’re impotent until the killer shows their hand. I wish I could offer you more, but I have nothing. Not yet.”

Bainbridge gave a curt nod. He was clearly frustrated, although it was clear he didn’t blame Newbury for being unable to offer up a neat solution.

“Would it help if you were to visit the scene of the most recent murder?” offered Angelchrist, who’d otherwise remained silent throughout the proceedings.

“Perhaps,” said Newbury. “It really depends on how much has already been disturbed.” He glanced at Bainbridge questioningly.

Bainbridge shook his head. “They’ve already started to clean up. The place was a terrible mess. Abominable. I’d never have imagined so much blood could have been contained in a single human body.” He issued a long, heartfelt sigh. “You’ll talk to Aldous, then?”

“I will,” replied Newbury. “If there’s anyone who can find a ritual involving human hearts, it’s Aldous. It may take him some time, however. And it may come to nothing. We don’t know yet that there is any occult or ritual significance to the theft. It may simply be an obscene fetish that’s driving the killer to act as he is, taking trophies from his victims for his own gratification.”

“Let us hope you’re wrong,” said Angelchrist, darkly. “Otherwise we have even less to go on than we thought.”

The four of them stood in silence for a moment, as if weighing the implications of Angelchrist’s words. A killer with no motives other than simple self-gratification. A murderer who chose his victims at random, leaving no clear pattern behind, no evidence besides a brutalised corpse without a heart. Veronica knew it would be like searching for a needle in a proverbial haystack.

“I’ll send word to Aldous as a matter of urgency,” said Newbury, coming around from behind the trestle table that bore the corpse of the woman. He looked to Veronica. “First of all, however, I have some business I must attend to with Miss Hobbes.”

“My thanks to you, Newbury,” said Bainbridge. “I feel as if our chances of success have improved tenfold, simply by virtue of having your assistance. It’s been too long.” He patted Newbury on the shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”

“See that you are, you old fool,” replied Newbury, chuckling as Bainbridge affected mock hurt. He turned to Angelchrist. “Until next time, Archibald.”

“Indeed, Sir Maurice. I trust we’ll speak again soon. And you, Miss Hobbes. I hope you will forgive me for capitalising so much of Sir Charles’s time this afternoon.”

“Of course,” said Veronica, diplomatically. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

Newbury held out his arm for Veronica and she took it gratefully, keen to put some distance between herself and the cadavers. He led her towards the exit.

“We have business to attend to?” she asked quietly, so that the others would not catch her trailing words as they walked.

“Indeed we do, Miss Hobbes. I believe it’s high time we paid another visit to your sister.”

Veronica squeezed his arm in grateful acknowledgement. “To Malbury Cross, then. I have a hansom waiting outside. Once you’ve attended to Amelia, I’ll see that you have time to write to Aldous, too.”

She leaned a little closer into Newbury, ignoring the imperious look of the mortuary attendant as they bid him good afternoon and stepped out into the drizzly late afternoon.