Newbury took a swig of water and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. It was too late for bed and too early to rise. He would pass the time with another cigarette, waiting for the sun to bring its warming light through the window.
CHAPTER 12
“I received your note,” said Veronica, anxiously, “and came directly. What’s wrong?” She was breathless from rushing across the village green, and her clothes stank of engine fumes and soot. Within minutes of receiving the morning post, she’d hailed one of the odious steam-powered carriages and told the driver to take the most direct route to Malbury Cross.
“Calm yourself, sister,” said Amelia, standing and crossing the living room to take Veronica in a hearty embrace. She was wearing a concerned expression. “I didn’t mean for you to drop everything the moment you received my letter.”
“But you said you needed to speak with me as a matter of urgency?” said Veronica, confused. “I thought … well, I thought something was terribly wrong.” Her shoulders dropped as the tension she’d been carrying for the last couple of hours finally dissipated. She felt a curious mixture of relief and annoyance at discovering there wasn’t, after all, an emergency. She had immediate business to attend to back in London, and she was anxious to maintain a watchful eye on Bainbridge and Angelchrist. Whatever reasons the chief inspector had given the previous day for his involvement with the Secret Service, she was still wary of the intentions of that organisation. Perhaps Bainbridge was ignorant of their schemes, but she couldn’t help considering that perhaps he was not.
Veronica had learned to trust Bainbridge during the course of their association, but nevertheless had shied away from being entirely open with him when it came to her sister or her role as an agent of the Crown. She’d feared-and Newbury confirmed-that Bainbridge was too fixed in his beliefs of what constituted right and wrong, that he wouldn’t understand the decisions she had made to protect her family. For the last few months, however, he had been behaving suspiciously, attending scores of furtive meetings which he would not speak of or provide any details, and she had begun to wonder if she hadn’t got Bainbridge entirely wrong, after all. Now she was intent on discovering just what it was the chief inspector had gone and got himself involved in, and why it was causing the Queen such consternation and concern.
But whatever else was going on in Veronica’s life, Amelia came first, so she had come here to the village directly upon receiving her sister’s summons, fearful for Amelia’s fragile health and well-being. It seemed now that she might have acted in haste.
Amelia helped Veronica shrug out of her coat. “Look, I’ll go and tell Mrs. Leeson to put the kettle on. We do need to talk.”
Veronica nodded. “I was worried”-she almost choked on her words-“that perhaps there’d been some sort of side effect caused by Sir Maurice’s treatment, or that it had stopped working entirely; that you might have suffered another seizure.”
Amelia smiled. “No, nothing like that. The treatment is as effective as ever. It’s just … you know how I told you my episodes were becoming more controllable, easier to contain?”
“Yes?”
“Well, there are things I’ve seen, Veronica. Things you need to know.” Amelia sounded suddenly serious. She folded Veronica’s grey coat neatly over her arm, picking nervously at the bobbles of lint and refusing to meet Veronica’s gaze.
“Right. Well, I’m here now, so let’s see about that tea and you can tell me all about it,” said Veronica, with some trepidation.
* * *
A few minutes later, Veronica found herself ensconced by the fire in the living room, welcoming the warmth back into her weary bones. She still felt shaken from both her journey-the steam-powered carriage had jarred her most efficiently as they’d trundled through the cobbled lanes on the outskirts of the city-and the sudden fear for her sister’s health.
Mrs. Leeson was busying herself in the kitchen, seeing to the kettle, and Amelia was sitting opposite Veronica, perched upon the edge of a chaise longue. She looked thin and gaunt, but hauntingly pretty, her raven-black hair tied back from her forehead in a neat chignon. Her eyes were wide with concern.
“So, tell me-what’s this all about?” asked Veronica, not entirely sure that she wanted to know. It had been some time since Amelia had discussed the contents of her visionary episodes with her, and the last time, she’d warned Veronica that something dreadful was coming.
Veronica had absolute faith in her sister’s ability to see … if not into the future, exactly, then impressions of what was to come, and often, it terrified her. “I thought the seizures had stopped? That the treatment meant you were getting stronger?” she said.
Amelia nodded. “The seizures have stopped. And I’m certainly getting stronger. But the visions still come. They’re not as violent as they once were, and I’ve learned to anticipate when they’re coming. There’s a smell, a taste on the back of my tongue. It’s like the air before a thunderstorm, a prickle of anticipation…” She trailed off, taking a deep breath.
“Go on,” said Veronica, both fascinated and appalled.
“When it strikes, it’s like a waking dream. Images flickering through my mind, disjointed and fragmentary. Unbidden sounds. It’s over in seconds, and then I come to.”
“Just like that? It used to take hours for you to regain consciousness,” said Veronica, sitting forward in her chair.
Amelia smiled. “There’s nothing but a momentary disorientation,” she said. “Sir Maurice’s treatment is having a profound effect.”
“But…?” asked Veronica.
“But, the things I see.…” Amelia hesitated. “Do you remember when we first came here, to Malbury Cross?”
“Of course.”
“I told you something terrible was coming,” said Amelia, quietly.
Veronica swallowed. “Yes.”
“I still fear there is truth in that. I’m concerned you’re in grave danger, Veronica,” said Amelia, her voice cracking.
Veronica stiffened. She’d feared as much. “Back when I first brought you here, you said there was a word, too. A repeated word. ‘Executioner,’ I think it was?”
Amelia nodded. “Let me show you something.” She rose slowly from her perch on the chaise longue, crossing the room to a large writing bureau. She took a small key from a concealed pocket in her dress, inserted it into a matching lock on the face of the bureau, and turned it with a scrape. She allowed the wooden shelf to drop forward, revealing the disarrayed contents within: letters, scraps of paper, tatty quills and jars of ink; all of them shoved untidily-hurriedly, even-within.
Amelia withdrew a sheaf of rolled papers, and, clutching it close to her chest, returned to her seat. She handed the papers to Veronica. “There.”
“What is this?” said Veronica, mystified.
“Open it,” replied Amelia.
Veronica did as her sister asked, unfurling the curled pages and smoothing them carefully across her knees. As she looked over the hastily scratched letters and smudges of dry, spattered ink within, she felt her heart flutter in her chest. She studied the uppermost page. The word Executioner had been scrawled over every inch of its surface, repeatedly, in the same hand. She lifted the first page. Beneath it, the second was near identical. She shuffled through a sheaf of perhaps ten pages. All were the same. The writing was frantic, untidy-as if the writer had been scared or possessed, or possibly both. “You did these?” asked Veronica, her voice level. “Under the influence of one of your episodes?”