Angelchrist grinned. “Two, in fact,” he said, rising to his feet. “Don’t forget the Prince of Wales.”
Bainbridge sighed. “Not likely,” he said, with feeling. He downed the last dregs of his brandy. “That’s one conversation with the Queen I’m truly dreading.”
Angelchrist laughed. “Makes me glad I only have to answer to the Home Secretary,” he said.
“Come on, you damn republican,” said Bainbridge, gruffly. “There’s work to be done.” He opened the door to the hall and ushered Angelchrist out.
CHAPTER 27
Veronica paced before the window of her drawing room, looking out across a damp, dimly lit stretch of Kensington High Street. It was mostly deserted now, with only the occasional hansom steaming past, funnels belching soot-coloured smoke into the grey night. Most of the horse-drawn cabs had retired for the evening, with only the hardy steam-powered variety still buzzing around the city, their drivers warmed by the proximity of their miniature furnaces and tanks of boiling water.
Try as she might, she still couldn’t believe what she had seen through the window of Bainbridge’s sitting room. She kept attempting to rationalise it, to explain away what she had witnessed.
However hard she tried, though, she could not find an alternative explanation. Bainbridge had lied to her, brazenly, about seeing Angelchrist, and almost immediately afterwards had returned home to find the other man waiting for him. It had not been an unexpected call, either: The manner in which Bainbridge hurried to greet him and hand over the envelope suggested it was a prearranged appointment. Angelchrist had been waiting for him to return with the list. No wonder Bainbridge had been so keen to take possession of it back at Chelsea.
Could it be that the Queen was correct about the Secret Service? It certainly appeared as if they were involved in something covert having to do with the Crown agents. And Bainbridge had clearly thrown his lot in with them. Could they really be the ones behind the Executioner? She didn’t want to believe it, but the facts were beginning to mount up.
Veronica decided it was time to tell Newbury the truth: that she had been spying on Angelchrist and Bainbridge, and that her worst fears had been confirmed. She could put it off no longer.
She glanced at the overnight bag she had placed by the door in readiness. Mrs. Grant had been in bed for hours, and she was used to Veronica coming and going at unsociable hours. She’d barely stir, if she even heard anything at all.
It was probably for the best. Veronica didn’t really want to have to explain that she was planning to spend the night-or, indeed, the next few nights-at Newbury’s house. Despite everything she had said to Newbury, she did fear for her reputation, if only in the eyes of her housekeeper, who would not approve. Newbury was, after all, ostensibly her employer, and the affection between them was hardly a secret.
Nevertheless, if she left now and hailed one of those dreadful steam-powered cabs, she could be at Newbury’s house within half an hour, then tomorrow she would make her excuses to Mrs. Grant and explain that she was staying with a friend for a few days.
In the meanwhile, she and Newbury could decide together how they might tackle Bainbridge and the professor. Assuming, of course, that Newbury could be persuaded to take her at her word. She still feared he would react badly to the news, and refuse to see ill of his friend.
Veronica grabbed her still-damp coat from where she’d left it flung over the back of a chair, and collected her bag. Quietly, she slipped out of the house, careful to lock the door behind her.
* * *
The house was shrouded in darkness, and no lamps appeared to be burning in the upper windows. The front door was still locked, however, and there was no sign that anyone had forced entry.
Newbury’s assumption, then, had been correct. Once home, Veronica must have changed her mind about spending the night at Chelsea, and instead taken to her own bed for the night. He admired her for her courage and independence, but wished, on this one occasion, that she’d adhered to the agreed plan.
Nevertheless, he’d have to wake her now. She’d want to be by his side as they stormed the abandoned hotel in a few hours’ time. More pertinently, it provided him with the chance to keep a watchful eye on her. Renwick’s revelations regarding the Executioner had terrified him, particularly when coupled with the horrifying things he had seen in his feverish dreams. Veronica was in danger, and it was up to him to protect her.
He stood for a moment in the front garden, catching his breath. The rain was a constant mizzle, soaking his clothes. They were already ruined, though, and he could change as soon as they’d returned to Chelsea. He’d need to prepare himself for another possible encounter with the Executioner, too. He’d seen what she was capable of, and fully intended to go into the situation armed with his pistol and sword.
He glanced behind him to see the driver of the steam-powered hansom he had flagged down waiting patiently for him at the roadside, huddled against the rain, a cigarette dripping from his lips.
Deciding there was no way to approach the matter with any degree of subtlety, he walked up to Veronica’s front door and rapped loudly with the brass knocker.
After a moment, a lamp flared in one of the upstairs rooms. He waited patiently on the doorstep, trying to ignore the rain. Shuffling footsteps sounded in the hall.
“Who is it?” came a suspicious voice from the other side of the door. It was Mrs. Grant, Veronica’s housekeeper.
“It’s Sir Maurice Newbury, Mrs. Grant. I need to speak with Miss Hobbes as a matter of urgency,” he replied, trying to keep his tone level. He didn’t wish to worry her unduly.
He heard the bolt scrape in the lock and the jangle of keys, and then the door yawned open. Inside, the hallway was dark. Mrs. Grant stood there in a heavy quilted dressing gown, her greying hair scraped back beneath a net. “What sort of time is this to be calling on a young lady?” she said, briskly. She gave him a severe look.
“I’m sorry to rouse you from your bed, Mrs. Grant, but this really is a matter of urgency,” he said, pressing her. “I do need to speak with Miss Hobbes. It cannot wait.”
“Very well,” she conceded, with a sigh. “I suppose you’d better step in out of the rain.” She held the door open for him and he ducked into the hall, thanking her.
She looked him up and down. “Oh…” she exclaimed, as she fully appreciated the condition of his torn and blood-spattered clothes for the first time. “You appear to have been in the wars, Sir Maurice. Are you quite well?”
Newbury nodded. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Grant.”
She shook her head, in what Newbury took to be a gesture of exasperation. “Right. Well, if you’d be kind enough to wait there for a moment, I’ll see if Miss Hobbes is prepared to see you.”
“Thank you,” he said. She ascended the stairs to the next floor. Everything was quiet in the house other than the creak of her footfalls on the treads and the rattle of his own breath.
She reappeared a moment later wearing a frown, and hurried back down to join him in the hallway. “I’m afraid Miss Hobbes is not here,” she said, the concern evident in her voice. “Her bed is undisturbed, and she is not in the drawing room.”
Newbury smiled reassuringly, but his heart was hammering in his chest. Where was she? Perhaps he’d missed her, and she had returned to Chelsea as planned after all. If so, she’d be sitting with Scarbright now, awaiting his return. The alternative was almost unfathomable. “I’m sure it’s nothing to trouble yourself with, Mrs. Grant. I had, in fact, arranged to meet with Miss Hobbes at my house, but found myself otherwise engaged. I’d assumed she would return home for the evening, but I must have been mistaken. I imagine that she is awaiting me at Chelsea even now.”