The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 9

The Queen, Newbury considered, was looking decidedly unwell.

This in itself should have come as no surprise. Her Majesty was now living a mechanically assisted half-life, confined to a life-preserving wheelchair that wheezed and hissed and groaned as it pumped air into her lungs and fed nutrients and preservative fluids into her bloodstream. Large coils of tubing erupted brazenly from her chest, snaking away to the twin canisters mounted on the rear of the machine. Her now-useless legs were bound together around the calves and ankles, and a metal rod supported her partially collapsed spine. Newbury had even heard talk that Dr. Lucien Fabian, the man responsible for developing the remarkable equipment, had built and installed a clockwork heart in Victoria’s breast. He had no way of knowing if this was anything other than idle speculation, but it wouldn’t have surprised him to discover that the monarch was, in fact, as heartless as she seemed.

Whatever the case, it could never be said that the Queen looked well. But today, even in the gloom of the audience chamber, Newbury thought her flesh had taken on an even more sickly pallor than usual, and her breathing was sounding progressively more laboured. This, he presumed, was a consequence of Dr. Fabian’s recent death, which meant that the physician was no longer on call to tend to his charge or the maintenance of his machine.

Unknown to the Queen, Newbury himself had played a significant role in Fabian’s demise. Now, seeing the consequences of his actions, he felt a sharp pang of guilt. He let the emotion pass. The Queen did not deserve his pity. Her own machinations were what had led her to this point: her constant scheming, her emotionless exploitation of others, her unrelenting desire for immortality. She was the architect of her own downfall, and he refused to repent for the choices he had made. Even if they meant that her life-giving machines would fail and she would die.

He stood over her now, both of them caught in a globe of orange lantern light in the midst of an eternal sea of black. She looked up at him from her chair, a sickly smile on her lips. “You took your time, Newbury.”

He nodded, but didn’t reply. There was a reason he’d been ignoring her summons for weeks: He’d been unsure if he could face her following the events that had led to Fabian’s death. Upon arrival at the palace that morning, however, Sandford, the agent’s butler, had explained that, while Victoria did wish to speak with both Newbury and Bainbridge regarding the case in hand, she first desired an audience alone with Newbury. Thus he faced her alone, Bainbridge having been ordered to wait outside until he was beckoned.

The Queen spluttered into a handkerchief. “We trust you have finished with your little rebellion?”

Newbury swallowed. “I was … indisposed.”

Victoria laughed. “Yes, chasing the dragon at Johnny Chang’s. Do not think your movements have gone unnoticed, Newbury. If we had suspected it was anything other than a temporary aberration, we would not have indulged you for so long.”

Newbury smiled inwardly. He knew exactly who was watching him, and precisely what she had reported back to the monarch. Victoria wasn’t as informed as she liked to imagine. Clearly, the Queen had no reason to suspect the truth about what had happened at the Grayling Institute, or the fact that Newbury and Veronica had smuggled Amelia out of there alive.

“I am at your service, Your Majesty,” he said, diplomatically.

The Queen raised an eyebrow in haughty disapproval. “Do not attempt to dazzle us with platitudes, Newbury. You are an agent of the Crown. It should not be necessary to remind you that we tolerate your indiscretions and excesses only because it serves us to do so. There must be results as well.” She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “We fear for your position.” Her tone gave little away, but Newbury heard this for what it was: a thinly veiled threat.

“I understand, Your Majesty,” he said, cautiously.

“We sincerely hope that you do,” she replied, licking her dry lips and narrowing her dark, beady eyes. “Our summons are not to be dismissed lightly. Nor our patronage. It has limits.”

Newbury remained silent, listening to the wheezing grind of the breathing apparatus as they forcibly inflated and deflated the monarch’s lungs. The moment stretched. Finally, the Queen spoke. “Now, fetch the policeman. We have business to discuss.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, his tone level.

The policeman? Newbury considered this as he crossed the audience chamber towards the thin strip of light emanating from beneath the door, behind which Bainbridge was waiting. He wondered if the Queen had ever called Bainbridge that to his face. It was appallingly dismissive. But then, those were the games she played. It was her way of maintaining control, of establishing her position. She would undermine her subjects to remind them that, despite the fact that she was strapped immobile into a grotesque life support machine, she was the one who held all of the power in their relationship. It might once have been an effective strategy, even on Newbury, but he knew this woman for what she was, and he, too, understood the rules of the game. As did Veronica-perhaps more than most.

Bainbridge, on the other hand, still struggled to reconcile her behaviour with the innate respect he held for the woman’s position. He made allowances for her because she was the monarch, whereas Newbury did not think such allowances should be granted. If anything, he believed the monarch should uphold the values and integrity of the nation even more resolutely than her subjects, to lead them by example.

Bainbridge was waiting in the passageway, a respectful distance from the closed door, so as to make it clear he had not been eavesdropping on the conversation within the audience chamber. He was staring up at a portrait of the Tsar. Newbury was struck once again by the Russian monarch’s resemblance to Albert Edward. The royal family had connections all across Europe, forming an intricate web with Victoria at its heart, matriarch and dictator. That was what had struck Newbury about the Prince’s words of warning the previous day: If foreign agents were indeed swarming over London, wouldn’t it be at the will of the Prince’s relatives?

Bainbridge glanced over questioningly as Newbury stepped into the passageway.

Newbury gave the briefest of nods to indicate that all was well-or, at least, as well as could be expected. He beckoned Bainbridge forward.

Silently, Bainbridge joined him, limping a little without the aid of his stick. Newbury had rarely been to the palace alongside his friend, and always found it somewhat ungracious of the monarch to demand that the chief inspector leave his cane with Sandford. She was clearly growing more anxious about having anything in her presence that might be construed as a weapon.

At the sound of their footsteps, Victoria hoisted her lantern to shoulder height. Her sagging, pale face was cast in harsh relief, taking on a ghostly aspect in the gloom.

“Ghost” is right, thought Newbury. This once-great woman had been reduced to a shadow, trapped in the interstitial place between life and death. She went about her days in this miserable darkness, refusing to let go, refusing to relinquish her ever-tightening grip on the Empire. The Prince of Wales was right to question her validity as ruler.

“Come closer,” she said. Newbury and Bainbridge approached, their footsteps echoing into the black void that surrounded them.

“What progress has there been in your investigation, Sir Charles?” she asked.

“My investigation, Your Majesty?”

“Do not patronise me, policeman.”

So, thought Newbury, she does call him that to his face.

“The bodies found with their hearts removed, of course.”

“Little progress as yet, I fear, Your Majesty,” replied Bainbridge, his tone altering slightly, becoming more clipped, more restrained. “There are few leads, and we have yet to ascertain the significance of the stolen organs. We are concerned there may be some occult significance to the deaths. I have asked Sir Maurice to assist with the investigation for that reason.”

The Queen’s eyes glittered as she glanced from one of them to the other. They settled on Bainbridge. “Very good. There may be political significance to the deaths. This is a line of inquiry we urge you to explore.”

“A political motivation, Your Majesty?” asked Bainbridge, his exasperation barely concealed.

“Indeed so. At first we assumed it was a coincidence, but it has since become clear that a coincidence is unlikely. All four of the victims have been agents of the Crown.”

“All four?” echoed Bainbridge. “Your Majesty, there have only been three reported deaths that match the modus operandi of the killer.”

Victoria emitted a wet, rasping cackle. “Quite so, Sir Charles. The fourth victim was killed while sequestered for an … operation. Due to the nature of that operation, it was paramount that the corpse was removed from the scene and swiftly disposed of. We cannot have everyone knowing our private business.”

Newbury silently considered the Queen’s words. This changed everything. If the victims were all, in fact, agents of the Crown, then a motive had suddenly appeared. It didn’t explain the strange manner of the deaths or the significance of their splayed chests or stolen organs, but it was clearly the link that they were looking for. Once again, Newbury found himself astounded by this woman. He’d worked closely with her for a number of years now, but still had no real notion just how extensive her network of agents was. She was a master manipulator, a matriarchal spider at the heart of her vast and intricate web, guiding her myriad operatives throughout the Empire.

“I fear this puts an entirely different complexion on the situation, Your Majesty,” said Newbury. “Were the dead agents all engaged in the same operation? Or could their murders have been revenge for past endeavours?”

Victoria turned her head slowly to regard him. Her eyes narrowed. “None of the agents knew each other, if that is what you’re asking, Newbury. And no, they had never been engaged against a common foe, simultaneously or otherwise.”

“Then they may have been killed simply because of their status as your operatives,” said Bainbridge.

“Quite,” intoned the Queen, huskily. “You should tread carefully,” she continued. “It may be that the two of you are also at risk.”

Was this another veiled threat? Newbury didn’t think so. The Queen seemed genuinely threatened by this assassin who was intent on relieving her of her agents. For once, she appeared not to be playing games.

“We are not alone in this,” said Bainbridge, quietly. “It seems as if all of your agents are at risk. Unless you have reason to suspect that we or others may be favoured as targets?” Victoria shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “Then perhaps, Your Majesty, you might have Sandford provide us with a list of possible targets? I can have my men work to safeguard them.”

The Queen let out another almighty cackle that threatened to break into a heaving cough. “Sir Charles, you test our patience. We could not trust even you with that. A list of all our agents? If it fell into the wrong hands…”

“With respect, Your Majesty,” said Bainbridge, shortly, “it sounds as if it already has.”

“Watch your words, policeman. You would do well to remember that you are far from irreplaceable.” The bellows on the back of Victoria’s chair concertinaed noisily in tandem with her rising anger.

“Then could it perhaps be a rogue such as Aubrey Knox? A former agent who knows the identity of some of our number, and who to target to most effectively get your attention?” Newbury noted the slight crack in Bainbridge’s voice as he spoke these words in hushed tones, as if he did not wish to give voice to his fears. The name of Aubrey Knox invoked bad memories for all of them.

The Queen fixed Bainbridge with a stern look. “Doubtful,” she proclaimed dismissively. “We have learned to keep a closer eye on our former or more errant agents,” she said, glancing pointedly at Newbury as she spoke. “We keep them gainfully employed. We should know if any of them were not fulfilling their obligations.”

Newbury felt the words sting like darts.

“Don’t forget, it might still be the Cabal of the Horned Beast, or some other such cult,” said Bainbridge. “The ritualistic elements seem too pronounced to be ignored. Perhaps they tortured one or more of their victims, eliciting names…?”

“Or perhaps it’s foreign agents?” interjected Newbury. The thought suddenly bloomed in his mind. This was what Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales had suggested: that London was swarming with foreigners keen to undermine the Queen’s power. If this were true, surely they could be responsible for the recent spate of deaths. “Could this represent clandestine activity by another nation? Are we at peace with the Kaiser?”

“The Kaiser?” barked Victoria, surprised. “We cannot believe that Wilhelm has any interest in this filthy business,” she stated, firmly, and Newbury saw her left hand open and close into a fist in frustration or anger. Clearly he had touched a nerve. “Although we accept it is possible that foreign agents representing other factions may be at work, we believe that it is far more likely that the problem is home-grown.”

“Home-grown?” asked Bainbridge.

“This so-called Secret Service,” said Victoria, with venom. “Upstarts with ideas above their station.”

Newbury felt Bainbridge bristle beside him. “Your Majesty, I hardly feel-”

“We care little for what you feel, policeman,” she interrupted, savagely.

Newbury could imagine Bainbridge growing redder in the face by the second. “It is my understanding, Your Majesty, that this government agency has been established to aid in the protection of the Empire, not to undermine it. Their stated aim is to ensure the peace and prosperity of our nation and her interests abroad.”

“But, what if, Newbury,” challenged the Queen, “they feel that the interests of the country would be best served by dethroning the monarch, or, at the very least, undermining our power base?” She paused, fixing him with her jaundiced eyes. “What then?”

Bainbridge began to stammer something in response, but wisely bit his tongue. It wouldn’t do to become agitated with the monarch in her presence, and Bainbridge knew it.

“Treat those ‘spies’ as potential enemies of the Crown. Begin your investigations there. We fear they may be plotting a coup. These unfortunate deaths may yet prove to be a symptom of it,” said Victoria.

“Your Majesty, some of their agents are known to me. Indeed, a number of them have assisted Scotland Yard in unravelling some particularly high-profile cases. I myself was involved in establishing the bureau,” said Bainbridge, the exasperation evident in his voice.

“It has not gone unnoticed,” said Victoria, coldly. “But now you will sever all links and treat all of their activity with suspicion. We shall uncover the truth regarding their motives.”

Bainbridge took a deep breath, but didn’t respond.

The Queen looked to Newbury. “Now go. Bring this matter to a swift resolution. No more deaths.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” replied Newbury, his tone neutral. He knew how to play this game. He bowed briefly, putting his hand on Bainbridge’s shoulder and urging him to bow as well. He could feel his friend trembling in anger. He gripped his shoulder all the more firmly, reassuring, but cautionary, too.

Without another word, the two men turned and left the audience chamber, leaving the Queen to revel in her solitude in the heart of her slowly receding globe of lantern light.

* * *

Bainbridge did not say another word until they were standing in the courtyard of the palace beside their brougham cab, not even a civil word to Sandford as he collected their coats and ushered them out with a strained smile. Sandford had once been an agent himself. He had long since retired from active duty, but Newbury knew that he understood all too well the Queen’s temperamental nature and what it was like to be on the receiving end of her wrath.

Bainbridge shot a glance at Newbury, his moustache quivering with barely concealed rage. “I … I…” he stammered loudly, struggling to give shape to his words.

“Contain yourself, Charles. The walls here have ears. Let us repair to Chelsea where we can discuss the matter in private,” said Newbury, his voice firm.

“Must we?” said Bainbridge, bristling with frustration. “That damnable opium fog that lingers in your rooms leaves me feeling quite queasy, Newbury. I don’t know how you live with it.” He banged his cane decidedly on the ground. “No. Let us repair to my house, where at least there’s clean air and somewhere to actually sit down.”

Newbury raised a single eyebrow in surprise. “Very well,” he said, “But we must send for Miss Hobbes when we arrive.”

“Quite so, Newbury,” replied Bainbridge, yanking open the door of the cab and bustling up the iron steps. “Quite so.”

With a sigh, Newbury spoke a few hasty words with the driver and then followed Bainbridge into the conveyance, closing the door behind himself. Bainbridge was glaring out of the window at the palace, his fists clenched on his lap.

It was going to be an interesting afternoon.