She disappeared into the darkened hallway.
“No! Stop her. Don’t let her get away!” bellowed Newbury, stumbling as he lurched towards the door. He swung himself around the door frame, almost losing his footing in the hall, and charged after her, Scarbright at his heels. He hurtled for the front door, which was swinging back and forth on its hinges in the darkness.
He burst out into the freezing night, skidding to a halt on the top step, glancing both ways along the street as he tried to establish which way she had run. He heard her footsteps and turned to follow, but when he finally caught sight of her, he knew he was too late. He’d never catch her. Not now. She was too fast and he was injured and weary.
He hung his head, panting for breath. Blood was streaming freely from his burst nose, soaking into his collar and down the front of his torn shirt. His hand was sticky where the gash in his forearm was weeping in time with the rapid beating of his heart.
Newbury watched as the Executioner charged into the foggy, frozen night. All he could see was the back of her head receding into the distance. It was somehow familiar, dragging at a memory somewhere in the back of his mind.
And then it struck him where he’d seen it before. “It’s the Prince!” he exclaimed, suddenly.
“The Prince?” echoed Scarbright from behind him, confused, concerned. “He’s here?”
Newbury turned, hanging onto the door for support. “No. He’s not here. But he sent her,” he said, solemnly. “He sent her to kill me.”
The look on Scarbright’s face was a mix of incredulity and horror. “No. I can’t believe it. It can’t be…”
Newbury shook his head and spat blood into the flowerbed. “There’s no time to explain now,” he said, firmly. He clapped Scarbright on the shoulder, inadvertently smearing blood on the man’s dressing gown. “I owe you my life, Scarbright. If it wasn’t for your timely intervention.…” He trailed off.
“Think nothing of it, Sir Maurice. Anyone would have done the same,” said Scarbright, drawing himself up, perhaps a little uncomfortable with the praise, and with Newbury’s assertion of who was behind the attack.
“No, they wouldn’t,” said Newbury, quietly. He coughed on the blood that was still streaming down his throat. “Come on,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Help me clean up this mess. I need to speak to Charles as a matter of urgency.”
CHAPTER 26
“I’m not sure you quite grasp the gravity of what you’re saying, Archibald,” said Bainbridge, reaching for his cigar, which lay smouldering on the lip of the ashtray.
“Oh, I assure you I do, Sir Charles. That’s precisely my point. If Her Majesty the Queen continues to take us down this path-” He stopped short at the sound of a resounding thump on the front door, which set it rattling momentarily in its frame.
Bainbridge glanced at the clock. It was approaching midnight. Who could be calling at this hour? Clarkson was long retired for the evening. He rose slowly to his feet. There was another thump at the door, followed by a series of rapping thuds. “Open the door, Charles!” came the muffled shout from outside.
“Newbury?” said Bainbridge, hurrying into the hall. “Newbury, is that you?”
“It’s me, Charles,” confirmed Newbury. “Let me in, for goodness’ sake!”
Bainbridge unlocked the door and unthreaded the chain. He snatched the handle and pulled it open. “Whatever is the…” He trailed off when he saw the state of his friend. “Good Lord,” he said, shaken. “Get inside, now. Archibald’s in the sitting room.”
Newbury, gasping, nodded in acknowledgement and staggered into the hallway. He was smeared in blood and was clearly in pain. His suit was slashed open across his left arm and his right side, exposing the bloodstained flesh beneath. Bandages were expertly wrapped around his forearm, but blood continued to ooze out through the gauze.
“What the devil happened, man?” asked Bainbridge, urgently. “Who did this to you?”
“The Executioner,” said Newbury, between ragged breaths. “She came for me at Chelsea. With Scarbright’s help I managed to fend her off.”
“She got away?” prompted Bainbridge, as Newbury fell back against the wall, propping himself up. He’d evidently hurried across town directly from the scene of the attack.
He nodded. “Yes, she got away. But not before I worked out who’s behind all of this,” he said, wincing in pain. “That’s why I’m here.”
Bainbridge studied him for a moment, surprised. “Let’s get you a brandy and then you can explain,” he said, patting Newbury on the arm and urging him on into the sitting room.
For a moment he found himself considering what Isobel would think about the inevitable bloodstains on the carpet, then smiled sadly as he remembered she was no longer there to raise such concerns. It was about time he laid her ghost to rest.
Angelchrist was on his feet, pacing the room as he waited for them. “I overheard,” he said, hastily. “Are you sure you’re well enough, Sir Maurice? Perhaps we should get you to a hospital?”
“I’m fine,” said Newbury, resolute. “I’m fine.” Bainbridge thought it sounded as if Newbury were trying to convince himself as much as Angelchrist.
Newbury crossed the room and dropped heavily into a chair. He was still gasping for breath. Bainbridge went to the silver tray atop the sideboard and sloshed out a generous measure of brandy. He handed it to Newbury, who took a long, deep draw.
“You didn’t run all the way here, I take it?” said Bainbridge.
Newbury shook his head. “No. Although it was a struggle to get a cab to stop for me at this hour, in this condition,” he said. “So I set out, and managed to pick one up about halfway here.”
“I admire your determination,” said Angelchrist, sincerely.
“It’s my determination that almost got me killed,” replied Newbury, laughing.
“Go on,” prompted Bainbridge. “Tell us. What happened?”
“I’ll spare you the details,” said Newbury, “other than to say our murderess must have broken into my house after I’d fallen asleep in my chair. I woke to find her in the room. I’m lucky I did-a couple more minutes and I’d have been run through in my sleep.”
“Good Lord,” said Bainbridge, again. “And was she just as you described, half-mechanical, with all those dreadful tattoos?”
Newbury nodded. “Although ‘half-mechanical’ is something of an exaggeration. She has a mechanical heart, but it’s old and clumsy and she wears it on her shoulder, rather than carrying it inside her chest.”
“You said you’d determined who sent her?” said Angelchrist, leaning forward in his chair, his hands folded on his lap. He was wearing small reading spectacles that were perched neatly on the end of his nose. He peered over the top of them at Newbury.
“This is going to sound outlandish,” said Newbury, frowning in obvious discomfort at his wounds.
“More outlandish than a century-old killer with a clockwork heart?” said Bainbridge, with a grin.
“Perhaps,” said Newbury, resisting Bainbridge’s attempt to make light of the situation. “It’s the Prince of Wales.”
Bainbridge, who was still standing in the centre of the room, nearly dropped his own brandy glass in astonishment. “The Prince of Wales!” he barked. “Are you listening to yourself, Newbury?”
Angelchrist motioned for Bainbridge to calm himself. “Let the man speak, Sir Charles.”
Bainbridge nodded, feeling slightly aggrieved to be dismissed in such a way.
“It all makes sense,” said Newbury. “We agreed earlier this evening that the person behind the Executioner had to be someone with access to the list of agents. The Prince had that access. He’s the one who provided me with the list. He’s had it all along.”
“That’s hardly enough to incriminate the man,” said Bainbridge.
“Except there’s more. That first time I called on him at Marlborough House, he wasn’t expecting me, and I saw something I shouldn’t have. He was in the library when I arrived, talking in hushed tones with a woman. I only saw the back of her head, but it was distinctive enough for me to know it was the Executioner, now that I’ve encountered her in the flesh,” said Newbury, encouraged now by Angelchrist’s attention.