Renwick reached for one of the flasks on the still and raised it to his lips, taking a swig of the bubbling liquid. He grimaced, glanced at the contents of the flask, and put it back on the still with a shrug. He eyed Newbury, but didn’t say anything in response.
Newbury grinned. “I managed to obtain a copy of the book,” he said, knowing this would provoke a reaction.
Renwick frowned, his mechanical eye whirring-always a giveaway that Newbury had captured his attention. “The book?”
“Yes, the book,” replied Newbury.
“Have you got it with you?” said Renwick, with an urgency that surprised Newbury.
He shook his head. “No. It’s back at Cleveland Avenue.”
Renwick shook his head in mock offense. “So you’ve managed to obtain a copy of one of the rarest, most sought after books of ritualistic magick in the world, and you haven’t brought it to show me. Now I’m really hurt.”
Newbury laughed, but there was truth in what Renwick said. “Give me a week, Aldous, and you can come to Chelsea to visit. There are things I have to do first.”
Renwick nodded. “You’ve been using it, haven’t you? That’s why you look like such a damn mess. I’ve told you, Newbury, that’s a dangerous book. The things you’re dabbling with … you’ll end up getting yourself killed.”
“I have my reasons, Aldous. I’m trying to help someone,” said Newbury, softly, seriously.
“And I’m trying to help you!” said Renwick, evidently trying to contain his outrage. “Where did you get it from, anyway?” he asked. “There are only two known copies in existence.”
Newbury remained silent.
“Oh, no. You didn’t. You stole it from the Cabal, didn’t you?” said Renwick, with a heartfelt sigh.
“The only other copy is in Constantinople, under guard by a hundred clockwork warriors. This one was a mile across town, in the vaults of a band of devil-worshipping imbeciles. Of course I took their copy,” said Newbury, exasperated. “They didn’t even understand the significance of what they had.”
“It hardly matters,” said Renwick, “whether they understand or not. You might think them imbeciles, Newbury, but that makes them all the more dangerous. They won’t rest until they get it back. Their entire belief system is centred around the ritualistic practises in that book.” His good eye twitched erratically. “Have they sent you any threatening parcels yet? That’s their usual method.”
Newbury nodded. “Yes. A most unpleasant assortment of oddities it contained, too.”
“Newbury…” said Renwick, his voice strained. “You need to take this very seriously indeed. Get away for a while. They’re a dangerous enemy. You mustn’t underestimate them. Throw them off the trail. Head to the Continent for a few weeks.”
“What, and leave the book with you in the meanwhile?” said Newbury, laughing.
“I don’t want it!” said Renwick. “I want to see it … but I don’t want it here. I don’t want them sending one of their ghastly creations after me. I don’t have your nerve, Newbury, or your resources. I don’t want the Cabal as an enemy.”
Newbury shrugged. “They’ve already tried to get it back once, but even in that they failed miserably. They couldn’t even hold me prisoner for more than a day or two. They’re nothing but credible fools, Aldous.”
“Newbury…” stressed Renwick.
Newbury nodded. “Very well. I’ll heed your advice. Once I’ve dealt with this miserable affair of the missing hearts, I’ll give the Cabal my full and proper attention.”
“Make sure that you do,” said Renwick. “And I suppose if that’s what’s holding you up, I’d better get on and tell you what I’ve found out about your missing organs.” He reached for the stack of books on the stool and withdrew a volume bound in black leather from approximately halfway down the pile. “Although, I warn you, you’re not going to like it.”
“I didn’t imagine for a second I would,” said Newbury, sitting forward in the armchair and disturbing further clouds of billowing dust. He glanced down at the light layer of dust that covered his black jacket and trousers, and decided it wasn’t worth worrying about until he was home.
“In your note you described three corpses. Each of the victims were stabbed, their chests cracked open, and their hearts removed,” said Renwick. “The missing organs were not found at the scene, and have not been recovered as yet?”
“Yes,” said Newbury. “That’s correct. Except that there are now five victims.”
Renwick nodded. “You asked if there was any occult or ritual significance to the removal of the hearts. I presume this was because you’re hoping any such significance will help you to divine a motive.”
“Precisely,” said Newbury, beginning to wonder where this was leading. “I could think of no significance other than the sacrificial practises found in the Aztec civilisations, but the murders did not bear any other hallmarks that suggested this might be the case. We’re at a loss. I need ideas that might lead us to the killer. Anything at all is useful.”
Renwick shook his head. “There’s no need for ideas. I’ve already identified your killer.”
“You’ve what?” said Newbury, taken aback.
Renwick grinned, evidently pleased with himself. His left eye let out a grating whirr. Newbury could see the winking red light at the heart of the mechanism, deep inside Renwick’s skull.
“Allow me to tell you a story,” said Renwick, dragging out another stool and lowering himself onto it, “about ‘the Scourge of Paris.’”
Newbury sat back, making a steeple with his hands. “The Scourge of Paris?”
Renwick nodded. “In the early 1820s there was a spate of vicious murders in the streets of Montmartre. The victims came from all walks of life: nobles, peasants, soldiers, maids. Their bodies were found in a variety of despicable conditions, some of them with their throats cut, others disembowelled, others still with their limbs lopped off or garrotted. The locations varied, too. Some were killed in their homes; others down darkened alleyways, left amongst the detritus of the slums. Only one thing connected them: the fact that they’d all been brutally killed within the space of a couple of weeks. The authorities claimed it was the work of a single, insane killer, although no witnesses came forward. At least, not officially.”
“Like the Ripper,” said Newbury.
Renwick nodded. “Similar,” he said. “The newspapers of the time called this killer ‘the Executioner.’”
“The Executioner?” said Newbury, his voice cracking. He felt a sudden palpitation in his chest. The Executioner. The resonance of the word was like a physical blow.
Renwick frowned. “Does that mean something to you?” he asked.
“Possibly,” said Newbury, waving his hand and urging Renwick to continue. His mind continued to race, but he tried to focus on the rest of Renwick’s tale.
“Soon after, the final victim was discovered. He was an inventor named Monsieur Gilles Dubois. He had been dead for nearly two weeks, found stabbed to death in his drawing room. His adoptive daughter-an orphan he had taken in when his wife had died of a wasting disease ten years earlier-was missing. The girl had recently been diagnosed with a weak heart. They eventually gathered that Dubois had been carrying out unusual experiments on her, and she was now missing.”
“What kind of experiments?” asked Newbury.
“They found a workshop full of drawings and mechanical components. It seemed he’d been constructing a primitive clockwork heart to replace her failing organ. What’s more, they found evidence of occult practises, of rituals and spells conducted in the cellars of the house,” continued Renwick. “He’d been desperately trying to keep her alive, and it seems he was prepared to try anything.”
“And she killed him for it,” said Newbury. “She killed all of those people and disappeared.”