“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.
CHAPTER 6
The incense was thick and heady, and it lodged in the back of Amelia’s throat, making it difficult for her to breathe. She had no idea what the perfume was: lavender, most definitely, but something else, too, something unfamiliar, herbal, sharp. Accompanying this floral bouquet was a cloying tang of iron, which she really hoped wasn’t blood, but fully suspected was.
Not that she would have been able to tell. The room was shrouded in darkness. The heavy drapes were pulled across the windows to banish the watery afternoon sunlight, and the only other light source came from the five white candles arranged in a star pattern around her. She was kneeling on bare wooden floorboards at the centre of a strange pattern marked out in chalk: a complex geometric shape encompassing a five-pointed star, with unfamiliar glyphs and runes etched around it in a wide outer circle. She’d been told that she should never break the chalk pattern or step outside of its barriers while the ritual was being performed.
As a result she sat stock-still, despite the fact that the rough floorboards hurt her knees and her back ached terribly. She was worried that, should she make even the slightest of movements or unknowingly break one of the fine chalk lines with her hand or foot, she might disturb the ritual. She hadn’t been told what the consequences of such an action might be, but she was anxious not to find out.
Newbury sat opposite her within the chalk pattern, murmuring gently as he read from the pages of an ancient, leather-bound book. Amelia had tried making sense of the incantation, but had so far been unable to understand a word of it. It sounded as if Newbury was speaking in an eastern tongue, all glottal stops and rasping sounds made in the back of his throat. The book’s spine read The Cosmology of the Spirit, and from what scant glimpses she’d gotten of its contents, she’d ascertained that its pages were covered in an impenetrable scrawl, along with diagrammatic sketches and patterns akin to the one on the floor they now sat on.
Newbury traced his finger across a page, reading from right to left as if working backwards through the text. The concentration on his face was intense, his forehead creased in a deep frown. His head was slightly bowed, meaning she couldn’t see his eyes in the candlelight, just deep, pooling shadows. The effect was a little eerie, particularly when combined with the bizarre nature of their situation.
Amelia had to admit that she’d doubted Newbury’s motives more than once. Why was he helping her, and at such great cost to himself? Every instance of the ritual left him utterly drained. Diminished, even. It was as if the act-or else some vital preparation for it-left Newbury depleted of all his strength. Veronica had told her he holed up in his rooms for days following each visit, refusing to see anyone, apparently subsisting on very little but absinthe, laudanum, and cigarettes. Then, when he had gathered his strength once again, he would return to Malbury Cross for another round of “treatment” and the cycle would begin anew. It had been like this for months; Newbury repeatedly giving himself over to the ritual, treating her successfully, but putting himself through great torment each time.
Amelia couldn’t help but wonder what that meant, what was causing such physical and mental expenditure. Was he somehow sustaining her at his own cost? She’d tackled him on it, tried to draw the truth out of him, but each time he had brushed her off, waving his hand dismissively and informing her that he was tired and did not wish to discuss it.
Truthfully, she was wary of pushing him too far on the matter, partly because she was deeply unsure of the methods he was employing, but mostly because she was scared he would eventually admit the truth. And if things were as she feared-that he really was giving up something of himself to heal her-then it would have to stop. At the moment she had nothing but suspicions-suspicions that both Newbury and Veronica were unwilling to entertain. Having these suspicions confirmed, however, would mean she would have no choice but to demand an end to the treatment.
Amelia feared that more than anything else, because the treatment was the only thing keeping her alive. As unlikely as it seemed, whatever strange ritual Newbury was performing, it was working. She felt better than she had in years. The visions were still plaguing her, but they were becoming controllable, or at least containable. The seizures had become increasingly less violent, and she felt strong, well, alive. For the first time in months, Amelia had begun to think of the future, and, more importantly, a future with herself in it. She dared not put that at risk. But nor could she knowingly condone Newbury harming himself on her behalf.
Perhaps Newbury was right after all-perhaps it was better that she didn’t know. All the same, she couldn’t help feeling that not knowing made her weak.
Veronica would tell her to stop worrying, that Newbury knew what he was doing. That she should trust him and enjoy the fruits of his labours, no matter how unconventional they might seem. Amelia saw something, however, that her sister did not … or rather, that Veronica was choosing not to see: that Newbury would do anything for Veronica, even if that meant giving up something of himself to save her sister.
Amelia watched Newbury as he stirred a bowl of pungent fluid with a wooden spatula, all the while continuing to read aloud from the book that was open on the floorboards before him. His lips moved almost silently, his voice just a low, monotonous murmur. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow despite the chill, and he looked pale, even in the warm yellow glow of the candlelight.
The only other sound in the room was the steady ticking of a carriage clock. It seemed to Amelia that time was passing differently in that room, with its fog of incense and ancient pagan rites. There was a sense of peacefulness, of stillness, a disconnection from the real world.