She set about making herself a pot of tea, and decided to take some notes, trying to put all of her haphazard thoughts about the case into some sense of order. That way, when she did finally manage to catch up with Newbury, she'd be able to present her ideas in something of a more coherent form.
An hour later it was past nine o'clock and there was still no word of Newbury. Veronica had filled two sheets of paper with copious notes on the case of The Lady Armitage, recounting not only her own thoughts on the matter but the chain of events that had led them to this point in the investigation. If she were asked to write a report on the case at a later date, the notes would prove an invaluable basis for the endeavour.
Glancing up at the clock again, she decided that it was time she tried to find out what had happened to her employer. She hoped that he hadn't been called away to another crime scene during the night, at least without attempting to get a message to her first. Even though she didn't relish the idea of encountering more cadavers, she also didn't want to find herself suddenly left out of proceedings. It wasn't like Newbury to leave her in the dark, though. She'd only known him for a matter of weeks, but already they had formed a mutual respect for one another, and no matter how secretive some of his pursuits may be she knew that he wasn't in the business of shutting her out. She'd just have to track him down and find out what it was that had delayed him.
Veronica gathered her things and scrawled a brief note, which she left on Newbury's desk, just in case they accidentally missed each other as she made her way over to Chelsea. She locked the office door behind her, climbed the stairs to the ground floor-where the exhibitions were already beginning to fill with the noisy hubbub of the public-and left through the main entrance in search of transport.
Newbury's home was a delightful terraced house in a quiet suburban district of Chelsea. The entire street in which it sat appeared comfortably middle-class, residential and relatively unassuming. As she stepped down from the cab and paid the driver, Veronica tried to reconcile this fact with her knowledge of the man himself. Everything about the look of the house, at least from the outside, seemed to represent exactly the opposite of what she had taken to be Newbury's taste. The place looked decidedly old-fashioned; a traditional English home, with a small rose garden at the front of the property and a door painted in bright pillar-box red. An ornate, black railing ran around the edges of the garden and a short path led up to the door itself, terminating in a series of tall steps. A bay window looked out onto the street below, although the light was reflecting brightly on the glass panes, making it difficult for Veronica to see if there was anyone inside. She shook her head. For a man so obsessed with the benefits of progress, the house seemed a trifle understated and traditional. Still, she supposed it was good to challenge stereotypes.
Hesitating for a moment, the thought flashed through her mind that she might have given the cab driver the incorrect address. She searched out her notebook and double-checked the number on the door. It was certainly the address Newbury had given her, written in her book in her own neat copperplate: 10 Cleveland Avenue, Chelsea. She shrugged to herself and approached the door, rapping the knocker briskly. Behind her, the cab rolled away down the road, its horse's hooves clattering noisily on the cobbles.
She waited for someone to answer the door. There was no response. She knocked again, louder this time. After a few more moments had passed and there was still no answer, she stepped away from the door and tried peering through the window instead, cupping her hands around her face to help her see. The room beyond the window had been dressed as a dining room, containing a long, oval-shaped table, a small fireplace, a teak sideboard and a series of bookshelves lined with numerous, leather-bound tomes. The door to the room was shut, and there was no evidence that the furniture had been disturbed that morning. She turned away, trying to decide what to do. It was clear that Newbury wasn't at home, and she had no idea where he may have gone, other than the office. She could head back there in the hope that he would eventually put in an appearance, or else she could make her way back to Kensington and await his call. She chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully. Then, just as she was about to take her leave, the door clicked open behind her and a rotund middle-aged woman, dressed in the black uniform of a housekeeper, appeared in the hallway, trying to catch her breath.
"Oh, I'm sorry, miss. I was out in the back dealing with the linens." Veronica noticed that the woman's sleeves were rolled up and her hands were still dripping with water. She smiled.
"I'm sorry to drag you away from your duties. You must be Mrs. Bradshaw? Sir Maurice has spoken very highly of you."
The woman looked perplexed. "Indeed I am, miss. And how can I be of service?" She spoke with a warm Scottish lilt. Her grey hair was scraped back severely from her face, worn in a black net, and whilst she certainly cast an imposing figure, it was clear she was a person of warmth and integrity. Veronica could see why Newbury liked her.
"My name is Miss Veronica Hobbes, Sir Maurice's new assistant. I was supposed to be meeting him at the museum this morning but he hasn't arrived, so I thought it best to call instead, to ensure everything was in order." She craned her neck to see past the housekeeper into the hallway beyond. It was gloomy inside, with deep burgundy wallpaper and dark wooden furnishings that added to the sense of the austere. There was no sign of Newbury, although she supposed he could have been elsewhere in the house, in the living room or working out of sight in his study.
Mrs. Bradshaw glanced from side to side, looking along the street. She fixed her eyes on Veronica. "Miss Hobbes, the master told me to make you welcome if you ever had reason to call. I think you'd better come inside."
Veronica frowned. The woman seemed strangely on edge, as if Veronica's presence in the house would somehow make her uncomfortable. Nevertheless, she mounted the steps to the door and made her way into the dark hallway beyond.
Newbury's coat and hat were still hanging on the stand beside a small table and mirror. The post was lying unopened on the table. Veronica turned to Mrs. Bradshaw. "Is Sir Maurice at home?"
"Yes, miss, although I'm not sure he is receiving visitors." She looked concerned, and it dawned on Veronica that something was not quite right. She decided to press the woman further for an explanation.
"Is Sir Maurice unwell? I assure you, Mrs. Bradshaw, that I only have his best interests at heart, and that you can rely on me to treat the matter with the utmost sensitivity."
Mrs. Bradshaw sighed. "Very well, miss. Let me take you to him now."
Veronica placed her hat beside Newbury's on the stand and unbuttoned her coat as they walked. Mrs. Bradshaw led Veronica up the creaking flight of stairs at the end of the hallway, past a small landing which branched off into a sizeable bathroom, and then up to the first floor where a series of doors opened on to what Veronica assumed were the bedchambers.
Veronica paused. "Is he resting in bed, Mrs. Bradshaw? I'm not sure that it would be entirely appropriate for me to see him in that way."
Mrs. Bradshaw shook her head. "No, miss. He's in there." She indicated a panelled door at the end of the landing. "That's his private study. The master has been holed up inside since yesterday morning. He stepped out, and when he returned he went directly to this room and locked himself inside. I've been unable to get a word out of him since."
Veronica looked puzzled. "Do you think he's unwell?"
Mrs. Bradshaw shrugged. "I can't say, miss. It's unusual behaviour, certainly. Not that I'm a stranger to that, these last few years." She looked circumspect. "But I worry he hasn't eaten, or taken anything to drink. I've tried knocking but I've had no reply."