The rear of the vehicle bucked like an angry horse as the front brakes fully engaged, flipping the man-thing forward and up into the air, sending it careening along the road. It hit the cobbles with a sickening thud and lay still, broken bones jutting through torn flesh and clothes.
The hansom shook as the rear end slammed back onto the road, venting hissing jets of steam. Another section of the roof collapsed into the passenger compartment.
Newbury stood, hesitantly, as the shuddering finally abated. He peered along the road.
The creature was nearly twenty feet in front of him, sprawled upon the cobbles. It was moving, its legs scrabbling ineffectually, its head lifting slightly, pathetically. Newbury could see that one of its arms was completely smashed, its torso was twisted out of shape, and half of its enamel jaw had been shattered. It was, without a doubt, dying.
Newbury felt a moment of deep sorrow for this thing that had once been a man. The Cabal had transformed him into a monster, removed all but the smallest traces of his humanity. And for what? So that they might construct their own army of patchwork soldiers? They would have to be stopped. But that didn’t mean he would let this one live.
Newbury grabbed the steering wheel and stamped on the accelerator again. He could not leave the thing to die in misery and pain, whatever it had done to him. He gripped the wheel firmly and held his course as the cab barrelled along, gaining speed. He closed his eyes and held on as the cab smashed into the prone man-thing, thundering over the top of its shattered body, crushing it utterly beneath its rumbling bulk.
He did not look back as he drove on down the street. The creature was dead, and he did not wish to dwell on the results of his decision.
Veronica would-he hoped-be waiting for him back at Chelsea, and he was desperately in need of a drink.
* * *
The front door was hanging off one broken hinge when Veronica arrived at Newbury’s house a short while later.
She stood at the bottom of the short flight of red stone steps, and felt utterly overcome by a dawning sense of dread. Was she already too late? Had Newbury been betrayed by his supposed friends? She wished that she hadn’t spent so long at Kensington considering her options.
She rushed up the steps two at a time and burst into the hallway, steeling herself against whatever she might find.
In this case, it was only Scarbright, who turned to regard her, a screwdriver in his hand. “Ah, Miss Hobbes. I fear you’ll find the place in a rather dreadful state, but please do come in.”
She offered him a quizzical look.
“A brief incident this evening involving an intruder,” said Scarbright, reading her expression. He moved to the door as he spoke and began tightening screws.
Veronica watched him work. “An intruder?” she said, unsure whether to be concerned or relieved, given the valet’s calm and understated manner.
“I fear I am not fully apprised of the circumstances, Miss Hobbes, and I’m sure it would be best explained by Sir Maurice himself, but in his absence I shall do my best to give as full an account as possible.” Scarbright cleared his throat. “It seems a woman, armed with two scimitars, managed to break into the building while we were both asleep and set upon Sir Maurice in the drawing room. He fought her off-most valiantly, I might add-but she managed to get away before we could entrap her.”
“The Executioner!” said Veronica. “Was he hurt?”
“He suffered a number of minor injuries from her blades, but I can assure you, he is quite well,” said Scarbright. He stood back from the door, admiring his handiwork. He swung it shut, and nodded as the latch gave a satisfying click.
“Where is he now?” demanded Veronica, feeling increasingly frustrated and helpless. She needed to be by his side.
“He went to call on Sir Charles,” said Scarbright.
Bainbridge. Veronica’s heart hammered in her chest. Their paths had practically crossed. And now he was there, with Bainbridge and Angelchrist.
“I gather from the late hour and the presence of your overnight case that Sir Maurice has invited you to spend the night in the spare room,” said Scarbright. “I’m sure he will return soon-he’s been gone for some time. Please, allow me to take your coat.”
Veronica shook her head. Her eyes alighted upon an envelope on the hall table, Newbury’s address written in Bainbridge’s familiar hand. “It looks to me as if you already have your hands full, Scarbright. I’ll make myself comfortable, thank you.”
“Very well, Miss Hobbes. Then perhaps you would care for a pot of tea?” replied Scarbright.
“Yes. Thank you. That would be lovely,” she said.
Scarbright smiled, and set off in the direction of the kitchen with a nod.
Veronica waited until his footsteps had receded down the hall, and then picked up the letter. She turned it over. It was sealed.
She placed it back on the table, just as she’d found it. She shouldn’t pry. This was Newbury’s personal correspondence. But then … what if it gave her insight into what was going on? Newbury had gone directly to see Bainbridge after the attack. Did he know something? Would the letter reveal it? Might Bainbridge even be attempting to involve Newbury in whatever he was plotting with Angelchrist?
Taking a deep breath and biting her bottom lip, she snatched the envelope up again and tore it open. Inside there was a small slip of cream-coloured paper. She quickly extracted it and glanced at the note inside:
THE FORTESCUE HOTEL, CHANCERY LANE, TWO O’CLOCK.
CB
She frowned, and then glanced at the ancient grandfather clock that stood like an attentive sentry in Newbury’s hallway. It was just after one. What was going on? Could Bainbridge be leading Newbury into a trap? Surely not … but why else would they meet at a hotel at such an unsociable hour? She reminded herself of what she had seen through Bainbridge’s window. Whatever it was, there was something going on that she did not understand, and all she could think about was preventing Newbury from unwittingly putting himself in harm’s way. He trusted Bainbridge completely. She wondered now if that trust was gravely misplaced.
Veronica stuffed the letter back into its envelope and returned it to the table. Her mind made up, she stooped to her bag and rifled around inside it until her fingers closed around the handle of her pistol. She withdrew it and tucked it safely into her belt, covering it with her coat, then she opened the front door and slipped out, quietly pulling the door to behind her.
* * *
Newbury drew the hansom to a jerking, erratic stop outside of his home.
He’d considered abandoning the vehicle in an alleyway a few streets away, but decided it might yet prove useful before the night was out. A bobby or passer by had probably discovered the corpses of the driver and the man-thing by now, and Newbury would need to explain the whole incident to Bainbridge later that day. He could turn the hansom over to the police at the same time.
For now, however, he had some temporary transportation at his disposal-assuming, of course, that he didn’t inadvertently run it into a wall. It wasn’t the simplest of contraptions to drive, and the journey across town was plagued by hazards and near misses. Newbury was forced to rely on his instincts, and wrestled with the machine until he managed to get it under some modicum of control.
He disengaged the engine, but the rear funnel continued to belch thick, black smoke into the damp night air.
Still smarting from his wounds, he swung himself down from the dickey box, dropping awkwardly to the ground. The rain had now abated to a gentle drizzle that matted his hair and beaded on the lapels of his jacket. His shoes were slicked with the driver’s blood, and he was chilled to the very core of his being. He hoped he’d have time to change and warm himself beside the fire before heading out to meet Bainbridge and Angelchrist, and that Veronica would be waiting for him within.