As the carriage pulled away, she got her first glimpse of the passengers. The first was a tall, thin man with a drooping moustache wearing a top hat and a grey woollen overcoat that came down to his knees. He was carrying a black leather briefcase in his left hand and clung to his hat with his right, trying desperately to prevent it from blowing away.
The second man was slightly shorter and a little wider around the waist. He, too, wore a top hat, and was dressed in a black overcoat. Veronica could see that this man sported greying hair beneath the brim of his hat, and a bushy grey moustache. He was leaning on a cane, talking urgently with the other man. Then he turned in her direction and appeared to stare straight at her. For a moment her heart stopped. Had he seen her? But after a second he turned back to the other man and continued his conversation, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Nevertheless, she felt a flutter of excitement and trepidation. She would have recognised the man’s profile from a hundred yards. It was Bainbridge, arriving here at Angelchrist’s house less than an hour after leaving the scene of the Reverend Carsen’s murder. What was he doing here? And who was the other, unfamiliar man?
She watched with bated breath as Bainbridge approached the heavy black door of Angelchrist’s apartment building. He rapped on it with the end of his cane, and a moment later a man appeared to usher him and his associate in.
There’s something fundamental we’re missing, Newbury had said earlier that day, as they’d stood together over the corpse of the killer’s latest victim. He’d been right, in more ways than perhaps he realised. There was far more to Bainbridge’s relationship with Angelchrist than the chief inspector was prepared to admit. She’d thought he’d been taking a risk when he’d allowed the professor to openly join them at the church, but now, to be seen visiting the man’s home … well, either he was actively attempting to imperil his position with the Queen, or he thought whatever it was he hoped to achieve was worth the risk. Either way, Veronica knew she needed to get to the bottom of it.
She waited a few minutes longer to ensure the three men were not about to leave the apartment together, then she pushed herself away from the tree, bracing herself against the chill and the incessant rain. She considered waiting until their meeting had ended, but decided there was little more she could learn, and she was growing uncomfortable in the rain. Her clothes were plastered to her now, dragging at her skin as she moved, but she felt somewhat vindicated. She had not, after all, had a wasted trip.
Veronica set off in search of a cab, and a driver who’d be willing to take a fare that would leave his seats waterlogged for the rest of the day. She sighed. She supposed she’d just have to leave a good tip.
CHAPTER 21
If the attitude of one’s butler was in any way a representative of one’s outlook on life, then Newbury had clearly gotten the Prince of Wales all wrong. Newbury considered this as he sat once again in the drawing room of Marlborough House, waiting for the Prince to grant him an audience.
The man’s butler, Barclay, was an utter prig. He was, in Newbury’s heartfelt opinion, an example of the worst sort of man, out to undermine and coax, to insinuate and judge. He had about him the manner of a sly dog: slippery and oily. On both occasions Newbury had visited the Prince, he had observed Barclay lurking in passageways or hovering outside doors, listening to the Prince’s ostensibly private conversations, no doubt filing them away for later-probably defamatory-use. He wouldn’t be surprised to discover the man was a blackguard or a blackmailer, although he had to admit he’d met more genial examples of both.
Whatever the case, Newbury was thankful that he didn’t have to deal with Barclay for more than a few moments at a time, although he imagined the butler was most likely loitering in the hallway at that very moment, listening intently on the other side of the door.
He heard a cough in the distance, and stood as the now familiar tapping of the Prince’s cane came along the passageway, accompanied by all the bustle and grandeur he had come to expect.
“Fetch me a whisky soda, Barclay,” said Albert Edward, his voice booming in the confines of the corridor. “And whatever Newbury is having, too.”
“Sir Maurice declined my offer of a drink, Your Royal Highness,” wheedled the butler in reply. Newbury raised an eyebrow at the blatant lie. He had done no such thing-the offer had never been made in the first place.
The Prince apparently did not deem it necessary to grant the butler a reply. A moment later he erupted through the doorway, glancing around the room until his eyes settled on Newbury.
He was dressed in a black suit with a red silk cravat and carried a large cream-coloured envelope in his left hand. He looked more relaxed than other occasions when Newbury had seen him recently, but then, the first time had seen him bursting in upon Newbury during an opium-induced fugue, and the other had involved Newbury interrupting him during an important business meeting.
“Please go ahead and make yourself comfortable in my presence, will you?” said Albert Edward, smiling warmly. “I think we understand each other well enough now to encourage a little informality. After all, I foresee a time in the future when you and I shall be spending a good deal of time in one another’s company.”
Newbury hardly knew how to take this somewhat unexpected assertion, but he did what the Prince suggested and sought out a seat. Clearly Albert Edward had already begun to consider his options for the future, and, more specifically, the people with whom he wished to surround himself when he did finally ascend to the throne. Newbury didn’t know whether to feel flattered or amused. “I look forward to that time, Your Royal Highness,” he said, diplomatically.
The Prince nodded sagely, as if sharing a mutual understanding. He glanced at the envelope in his hand. “Ah, yes. The information you wanted,” he said, passing it over to Newbury.
“Thank you,” said Newbury, opening the flap and partially withdrawing the sheaf of papers within. There were five or six pages in the bundle, and each contained a long list of names, printed in neat copperplate. Beside each was an address, or, in some instances, the name of a club at which the person could be reached. A handful of the names were struck through with a thick black line.
Newbury pushed the papers back inside the envelope. “I’m sure this will be a great help with our inquiry,” he said.
The Prince nodded. He glanced behind him, took a step back and lowered himself heavily into a chair. For the first time, Newbury noticed there were dark rings beneath his eyes. “Yes. Pray tell, I am interested to hear how the investigation progresses.”
Newbury glanced around for somewhere to put the envelope, but there was nowhere to hand. He decided to hold on to it instead. “The investigation has, I fear, rather stalled in its tracks.”
“Stalled?” asked the Prince, his brow creasing. “I understood you were following the line of inquiry we had discussed, regarding the Kaiser’s agents.”
“Indeed,” said Newbury, quickly. “I can assure you, Your Royal Highness, that matter has been my primary concern. However, yesterday it became clear to me that the two investigations are not linked. It seems the German spies are not in fact responsible for the deaths of Her Majesty’s agents.”
The Prince’s frown deepened. “You’re quite certain of this, Newbury?”
“As certain as I can be, Your Royal Highness,” he replied, cautious not to intimate that the Prince had been wrong in any of his assertions. Newbury was not yet fully aware of the circumstances surrounding the German operation at the Crystal Palace, or what the Secret Service was planning to do with the information.