Veronica didn’t yet know what that meant in terms of ongoing treatments for Amelia; how she felt about Newbury’s insistence that he be allowed to carry on, that it was not her decision to make. She was sure of one thing, though: that she most definitely would have a say in what happened next.
It was clear that Bainbridge attributed Newbury’s condition and general appearance of slovenliness to his propensity for opium abuse, and he made his opinions on the matter most keenly felt in the way he sighed and bustled about the place in an agitated manner, harrying Newbury and muttering curses beneath his breath. Veronica had wished that she could have disabused the man of such notions and outlined the truth of the matter for him then and there, but Newbury would not have thanked her for it. Besides, in so doing she would have had to tell him the truth about Amelia, and the Grayling Institute, and everything that had transpired since. She couldn’t risk taking that chance.
Newbury, however, had ignored any such jibes or disapproving looks, and, as soon as they were in the back of the hansom rattling across town, had set about unleashing a barrage of questions regarding the circumstances of the corpse’s discovery. Indeed, by the time they’d arrived at St. John’s Wood, he was beginning to show signs of impatience and agitation, anxious to be getting on with his exploration of the crime scene.
Now, he was hunched over the body of the dead vicar, murmuring intently to himself as he examined the man’s wounds.
Veronica tried not to look too closely, instead taking a moment to properly appraise their surroundings. It was an unusual sort of place for a murder, she decided, and didn’t fit with the pattern of the other deaths, which-as far as she understood from Bainbridge-had all taken place in the victims’ homes. Perhaps it was due to the man’s occupation that the killer had struck here, in the church.
The building itself was ancient and crumbling, more of a small chapel of worship than a place that would house a regular congregation. Nevertheless, it was lavishly bedecked with the gilded relics and icons typical of those larger establishments and their elaborate rituals. A large stained glass window adorned the west wall, depicting Saint George standing bold and victorious over the slain dragon. The afternoon sun was slanting through it now, pooling on the floor around the corpse in bright puddles of multi-coloured light. A statue of the Virgin Mary looked down upon the gathered crowd, too: plaintive, sombre, as if sitting in judgement. She had borne silent witness to whatever had occurred in this sacred place. Veronica could see the speckles of blood spattered on her marble robes.
Bobbies milled around the entrance to the small church, talking in hushed tones, while Inspector Foulkes waited in the wings for Newbury to finish his assessment of the victim.
The vicar himself, the Reverend Josiah Carsen, had suffered wounds that were congruent with those inflicted upon the other victims, leaving little doubt in Veronica’s mind-and, clearly, those of the other assembled investigators-that the same person was responsible.
He’d been run through with at least one blade. There were two ragged puncture wounds in his belly that indicated where the weapons had entered his body, and Veronica had no doubt that, when the body was eventually rolled over, the exit wounds would be pronounced and easily identifiable upon his back.
What was more, just like the other victims, his chest had been viciously hacked open and his heart removed. The resulting spillage of blood was horrendous, like a scene from an abattoir. It surrounded the body now, congealed and lumpy, still glossy in places where it had been disturbed. It was everywhere: spattered across the altar and the front row of pews, sprayed across the pulpit, drenching the vicar’s robes. Veronica fought back rising bile in her throat as she took this in. Rarely had she been witness to something so ghoulish. Not since Aubrey Knox and the heap of abandoned corpses beneath the theatre had she felt quite so disgusted.
The stench, too, was near debilitating-the cloying scent of congealing blood, the acidic trace it left on the back of her tongue. Veronica glanced away, unable to stomach the sight of the butchered corpse any longer.
“Was he an agent of the Queen?” asked Newbury, glancing up at Bainbridge for a moment from his study of the corpse.
Bainbridge sighed. “We can only assume he was,” he replied, bitterly. “We have no way of knowing without taking the matter to Her Majesty the Queen. And you know what she said about it.…” He shook his head in frustration. “We need that list, Newbury.”
Newbury nodded. “Yes, indeed,” he said, distracted.
“So, black magic? Occult ritual?” asked Bainbridge. “Tell me what’s going on. You said you needed to see the body in context.”
Newbury stood, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. Veronica didn’t wish to consider where they had been. “I don’t think so, Charles, no. Ritualistic? Yes, most definitely. But occult? I can’t see it. I think there must be some other significance to the missing hearts. It’s as if the killer is taking trophies from his victims.”
“Trophies?” echoed Veronica, in disgust. “Stealing his victims’ hearts as trophies?” The very idea repelled her.
Newbury nodded. His expression was fixed and grim. “I fear so. I can see no other explanation. This is not a delicate surgical procedure. The hearts are being damaged as they’re removed. I cannot imagine how they might be being put to use. My only thought is that they might represent some form of abysmal memento, or else a calling card left by the killer, letting us know who’s responsible for the death. Perhaps there’s some other significance, too, some message that we cannot decipher. What’s clear to me, though, is that this murder was not performed as part of an occult rite. There must be another motivation behind the killings.” He shrugged. “Aldous, of course, may be able to offer a different perspective.”
“Have you heard from him yet?” asked Bainbridge.
“Not yet,” said Newbury. “He needs time to consult his books.”
“Time is one thing we don’t have,” said Bainbridge, testily.
“This isn’t simply a matter of looking something up in the Encyclopaedia Occultus, you understand, Charles. Aldous may even now be poring over pages and pages of ancient manuscripts, searching for references in obscure grimoires, referring to records of forgotten lore and myth from all over the world. Hopefully, if we’re lucky, he might be able to suggest some symbolic significance to what we’re seeing here, some clue that might help us gain a little understanding of what we’re dealing with. That’s all. Aldous isn’t going to give us all the answers here, and anything he does tell us might not actually prove to be of use.” Newbury fixed Bainbridge with a firm stare. “You do appreciate that, Charles?”
Bainbridge’s expression darkened. He looked as if he was biting back an angry retort, his face reddening, but he must have decided to give vent to it after all, as he rounded on Newbury. “Well, of course I appreciate that! What do you take me for? You can call me many things, Newbury, but I’m no imbecile. It’s simply that I’m damn well incandescent to find myself standing here over the mangled corpse of yet another sorry bastard knowing that we’re no closer-no closer-to having even the slightest idea of who is responsible.” He looked away, trembling with rage.