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.
CHAPTER 10
“God damn it!”
Bainbridge swung his cane viciously at the side table in the hallway of his home, shattering a vase and sending a notebook and a sheaf of papers sprawling across the floor. “God damn it!” he repeated angrily.
He threw his cane on top of the heaped detritus and stormed off into the depths of the house, bellowing loudly for his housekeeper.
Newbury stood for a moment in the hallway, taking stock. He’d never seen his friend in such a foul mood, nor his face that particular shade of cerise, but then, he’d never seen him treated with such terrible disdain, either. Bainbridge’s reaction might have been funny if the circumstances were different, but the Queen-for whom Bainbridge had always maintained the utmost respect-had placed him in an impossible position.
Everything he was working for, the links he’d been building with men like Angelchrist for nearly a year, she had questioned. Worse, she had implied that Bainbridge had actively sought to associate with traitors. This left him no room to manoeuvre, since the Queen was not to be proven wrong, whatever the truth of the matter. Bainbridge would have to sever his links with the government agency, or else risk everything: not only his relationship with the Queen, but his career, and possibly even his life. Newbury fully expected Bainbridge to do as the Queen had commanded-he was a loyal man, and she had left him with little choice-but he would do it reluctantly.
He could hear Bainbridge now, barking at his valet, Clarkson, in the kitchen. The poor man wouldn’t know what had hit him. Newbury wasn’t overly familiar with the valet. In fact, it was rare that he found himself in Bainbridge’s home-he could probably count the occasions he had visited on both hands. Typically they met in Chelsea, or the White Friar’s, or else the Yard, or a crime scene. He did not know what that said of their relationship.
The house was an austere sort of place-barely lived in, really, since Isobel had died. It existed in a strange state of preservation, as if these past years Bainbridge had maintained it in the way that his late wife might have done. He had refused to change anything or alter the decor in any way.
The drawing room, for example, was entirely the opposite of Newbury’s own. Whereas Newbury’s was filled with the accoutrements of his profession and his life-everything from the cat skull on the mantelpiece to the leaning piles of books beside the battered old sofa-Bainbridge’s was pristine and quiet, devoid of any heart. It was as if the spirit of the place had died along with Isobel. Now the house existed merely as a tribute to her, a place for Bainbridge to eat and sleep, which he did there as little as possible. It wasn’t a place that was lived in.
Perhaps that was the reason Newbury was rarely invited to visit: Bainbridge wished to retain that sense of stasis, avoid bringing too much life and change into the house lest he disturb the spirit of his late wife, whose presence he had tried so hard to hold on to.
Sighing, Newbury stooped low, collecting Bainbridge’s cane and shuffling the scattered papers into a neat pile. He stood and arranged them once again on the side table.
He heard Bainbridge’s clomping footsteps echoing back up the hall towards him and glanced up. “Leave that, Newbury. Clarkson will see to it.”
“I fear Clarkson may already have his hands full,” said Newbury, with a smile.
Bainbridge’s shoulders sagged in resignation. “Yes, I did rather give him both barrels, didn’t I?” He sighed. “Anyway, he’s sent word for Miss Hobbes. She should be here within an hour.”
“Excellent,” said Newbury. “Then let us sit for a moment and regain our sensibilities. We need to approach this problem with a level head.”
“And a large brandy,” said Bainbridge, with a heavy sigh.
* * *
“This question may seem anathema to you, Sir Charles, but how do we know that the Queen isn’t actually right in her assertion?”
Newbury raised his eyebrows in surprise as Bainbridge blustered in response to Veronica’s question.
“Because … because … Gah!” He slammed his palm down hard upon the arm of his chair. “That’s a damned impertinent question, Miss Hobbes!”
“But nevertheless one that needs to be asked, Sir Charles,” said Veronica, firmly. “Like it or not, the question remains: How do we know what this new Secret Service is actually planning?”
“I count myself among their founding members, Miss Hobbes!” said Bainbridge, his voice raising an octave in sheer frustration.
“And do you play an active role in the assignment of each agent’s duties?” continued Veronica. “Are you aware of the nature of all of their current investigations or missions? I admit, Sir Charles, to knowing very little of how you’ve been spending your days of late.”
“Of course not!” said Bainbridge, hotly. “But I hardly think that means they’re waging a clandestine war against the agents of Her Majesty behind my back! I put my full trust in those men and women. Men such as Angelchrist are working tirelessly to protect this Empire from harm, in much the same way as you, Newbury, and I are.”
“But why?” asked Veronica.
“I should have thought it was obvious,” snapped Bainbridge.
“Don’t be obtuse, Charles,” said Newbury, leaning forward in his chair. Around them the house was shrouded in utter silence, save for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock and the distant cawing of birds outside. “I believe the question Miss Hobbes is getting at is: Why did the Home Secretary decide it was necessary to set up his own bureau of operatives when the Queen already has a vast network of agents at her disposal, throughout not only the Empire, but all across the globe?”
Bainbridge sighed heavily. “Well … yes, I see your point, Miss Hobbes, and I apologise for my impassioned outburst.” He paused for a moment to regain his composure. “The notion behind the bureau was to create a network of specialist agents who were free from the … the … constraints of being sanctioned operatives of the Queen.”