Veronica eyed her younger sister. “You cannot be thinking of giving it up?” she said. “You don’t know the lengths he went to to retrieve that book, Amelia, the enemies he made. It would slight him if you turned away his help. More than that, it would make light of everything he’s been through-that we’ve been through. Not to mention what might happen to you. Don’t forget, everyone thinks you’re dead. There’s nowhere left to turn.”
“You don’t have to remind me of that,” replied Amelia hotly. Mrs. Leeson coughed politely over by the stove. As if on cue, the kettle began to whistle shrilly. Amelia lowered her voice. “Of course I’m not about to turn him away. I’m concerned for him, that’s all. You didn’t see him, Veronica. He didn’t seem at all well.”
Veronica nodded, relieved that she wasn’t going to have to persuade Amelia to continue with Newbury’s regime. “Look, I’ll go and check on him now. I’m sure he’s just tidying everything in there.” As she said this she felt the cold stirrings of concern in the pit of her stomach. Newbury never tidied anything. His life was a perfect merry-go-round of chaos and disorder. Perhaps something was wrong. Typically he would have emerged a few seconds behind Amelia to join them in the kitchen. What might have delayed him?
Veronica suppressed the urge to leap from her chair and dash to his side. It wouldn’t do to startle Amelia and Mrs. Leeson, and more importantly, to concern Amelia any further by demonstrating her own fear.
She stood, forcing herself to smile. “You stay here and keep Mrs. Leeson company. I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, coming around from behind the table and crossing the hallway as quickly as possible.
The door to the dining room was ajar. She pushed it open, stepping inside and allowing it to swing closed behind her. The room was still shrouded in darkness, the heavy drapes pulled down over the windows. No candles or lamps burned, and for a moment it reminded her uncomfortably of the Queen’s audience chamber, always cast in a murky, impenetrable gloom.
“Maurice? Are you in here?” She remained close to the door while she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She could make out very little, save for the edge of the drapes and the thin strip of pale light seeping in from behind them. It wasn’t enough to illuminate more than a foot or so of the room, in which she could see the silhouetted shapes of the paraphernalia used in the rituaclass="underline" candlesticks, bowls, sprigs of holly.
Just as she reached for the light, there was a groaning sound from somewhere close to her, on the floor by her feet. “Maurice?” She stooped, reaching out until her outstretched fingers touched the fabric of his jacket. She dropped to her knees, clutching for him with both hands. Her eyes were finally beginning to adjust to the low light and she could just about make out the slumped form of Newbury on the floorboards. He tried to move, and she helped him, supporting him under the arms as he pulled himself upright. She propped him against the wall, his legs splayed out before him. She couldn’t see his face clearly enough to read his expression, but his head was lolling in clear exhaustion. He must have collapsed on his way to the door.
“It’s alright, Maurice,” she said, putting a hand against his forehead. It was clammy and cold. His pulse was slow and steady. Most likely it was exhaustion, then, rather than anything more fiendish. Nevertheless, Amelia was right. This wasn’t typical. Not by any means.
“Veronica,” said Newbury, the relief evident in his voice. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a few moments.”
“You need some rest,” she said.
“I need to write to Aldous first,” he replied, doggedly.
“No,” Veronica’s tone was firm. “That can wait another hour or so. I’ll set you up on the couch in the living room. You can sleep it off, and then write to Aldous later, before we return to London.” She cupped her hand on his right cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll see the letter on its way myself.”
He nodded slowly. His breath was coming in long, laboured gasps. “Alright,” he said, quietly. “I’ll rest for a while, but you might need to help me up.”
“Don’t I always,” she said, standing and offering her hands to help lever him up onto his feet. She heaved and took a step backwards, and a moment later he was standing unsteadily beside her, still semi-conscious. She draped his arm around her shoulder and led him to the door, staggering slightly beneath his weight.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” she said determinedly, but she knew it was more for her own benefit than Newbury’s. She waited for his confirmation, for him to assure her that she was right. But he said nothing, simply allowed himself to be led, in a daze, to the couch, where he could rest and attempt to regain his strength.
CHAPTER 7
Newbury reclined in his chair by the fire, his head lolled to one side, his eyelids drooping heavily. He was tired, more so than he’d been in years, yet the night had passed and he’d proved unable to sleep; the unnatural effects of the ritual left him feeling physically drained and yet still mentally alert, restless. His mind kept on replaying his visit to the morgue from the previous day, running over each of the grisly details in turn, analysing, dwelling, considering. He was surprised to realise he was anxious to press on with the case. Something about the sight of the three corpses, each with their hearts so brutally removed, had caught his attention.
He’d been slumped in the chair for most of the night, staring blankly into the gloom, seeing things that weren’t really there. Apparitions and shadows. Ghosts and memories. Lately, he’d found himself haunted by visions of the past, dredged up by his feverish mind and his chemical and occult experiments. At least, he’d reasoned them to be visions once the sunlight had come to banish them along with the darkness. Visions of Templeton Black, his former assistant, now dead and long sunk in the earth; of George Purefoy, the young reporter he had taken under his wing, only to lead him inadvertently to a brutal death at the hands of Aubrey Knox. And of Veronica, too, pleading with him to help her. Was she to be his next victim, killed because of her association with him, because of his failures? Were his visions somehow prophetic, or simply a product of his guilt? He was not entirely sure. Recently, the lines had become blurry.
Newbury shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His body craved more of the Chinese weed, but in his present condition it would do him little good, so he stilled his hand, resisting the temptation to reach for his cigarette case. At least for a while. He knew he’d be unable to resist for long, but he needed to clear his head.
The room was silent save for the fire crackling eagerly in the hearth beside him and the ominous ticking of the carriage clock on the mantel. The sound had become a constant reminder of his own mortality-a mortality that felt closer and more real to him than it ever had before. It seemed that with each shifting of its gears the device was somehow taking account of all that he had done; stealing away his remaining minutes as punishment, claiming them as its own.
He laughed at himself and opened his eyes. Even the clocks are judging me now. He knew he was only maudlin because of the ritual, because of the enormous effort it took, how spent it left him feeling. The irony, however, was not lost on him. The clock might in truth be benign, but other things certainly were eroding his existence, slowly and inexorably. The clock served simply as a reminder.
He stirred at the sound of footsteps on the path outside, which were followed by a brisk rap on the front door. It was a distinctive knock-the silver head of a cane striking the painted wooden panel. Bainbridge.
Newbury listened for Scarbright’s hasty footsteps in the hall, the creaking of the door hinges, the mumbled greetings. He closed his eyes again and leaned back in his chair, making the most of the few moments of peace he had left. Seconds later the door to the drawing room burst open unceremoniously and Bainbridge stalked in, heaving a heavy, melodramatic sigh.