He left the cab parked by the kerb and hurried up the garden path to the front door. Scarbright had evidently reattached it in Newbury’s absence. He was still unsure precisely how the Executioner had managed to tear it from its hinges without waking him, but he was impressed all the same by her stealth. It would serve him well, in future, to pay more attention to his personal safety. For a start, Aldous was correct about the Cabal. They were clearly more dangerous than Newbury had given them credit for. He would have to deal with them as soon as the situation with the Prince was successfully resolved.
He searched his pockets for his key and realised he hadn’t stopped to claim it as he’d rushed out to see Bainbridge, so he rapped loudly with the knocker instead.
Scarbright was at the door within moments, wearing a concerned expression. “Sir Maurice…” he said, as Newbury staggered up the steps and into the lobby.
“I’m fine, Scarbright,” he said, leaning against the wall with his left hand, catching his breath. “Just another little altercation on the way home. Nothing to trouble yourself with.” He spotted Veronica’s overnight bag in the hallway, beside the narrow table, and sighed with relief.
“No, it’s not that,” said Scarbright. “It’s Miss Hobbes.”
“She’s here, then?” said Newbury. “I’m sorry I didn’t have chance to explain. She’s going to be staying in the spare room for a few days.”
Scarbright shook his head, and Newbury frowned. “She was here, Sir Maurice, but now she’s … well, she’s gone.”
“Gone?” said Newbury, perplexed. “But her bag is just there.…” He searched Scarbright’s face for an answer. The man was clearly embarrassed.
“Well? Where is she?” asked Newbury, exasperated.
“That’s just it, sir. I don’t know. Miss Hobbes arrived about thirty minutes ago. I showed her into the hall. She was most dismayed to learn of your encounter with that dreadful woman this evening, but she said she would make herself comfortable while I fetched a cup of tea, so I left her here in the hall while she removed her coat and gloves. When I returned a few minutes later, she was gone.” He looked shamefaced. “I’m terribly sorry, sir.”
Newbury sighed and shook his head in defeat. “I fear Miss Hobbes and I have unwittingly found ourselves engaged in a rather fruitless game of cat and mouse this evening, Scarbright. I don’t imagine there was anything you could have done.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Scarbright. “I shall, of course, remain alert for any sign of her return.”
“When exactly did she leave?” said Newbury.
“It can’t have been more than twenty minutes ago,” replied Scarbright.
Newbury nodded. “Very well.” He couldn’t see what else he could do. Hopefully, she’d simply popped out for a walk and would return shortly. “Anything else?” he asked.
“A letter, sir. It arrived shortly before Miss Hobbes, delivered by a cabbie. I left it on the table there.” Scarbright turned, retrieving the small cream envelope. As he turned it over, his face fell.
“What is it?” said Newbury, when he saw Scarbright’s brow crease in a deep frown.
“The letter has been opened, sir. When I placed it on the table it was sealed,” said Scarbright, perplexed.
Newbury took the envelope from him and slid the slip of paper out from inside. On it were printed the words:
THE FORTESCUE HOTEL, CHANCERY LANE, TWO O’CLOCK.
CB
“Oh, no…” said Newbury, his heart sinking. “Oh, Veronica…”
“What is it, sir?” said Scarbright, alarmed.
“She’s gone to the hotel. She’s gone looking for me there.” He could hear the panic in his own voice. This was it. This was what he’d seen in his dreams. Veronica and the Executioner.
“The hotel, sir?” said Scarbright.
“It’s where the Executioner is hiding,” said Newbury, making a snap decision. “If she’s gone there alone…” He discarded the note on the floor. “I must go after her.”
“I’ll accompany you, sir,” said Scarbright, resolutely.
“No, I need you to stay here. If I’m wrong and she returns, you must keep her here. Keep her safe, Scarbright. Miss Hobbes is in grave danger.”
“Yes, Sir Maurice. You can count on me, sir,” said Scarbright, stoically.
“I know I can, Scarbright,” replied Newbury.
He turned and hurtled back out of the door towards the waiting hansom. If Veronica had gone to the hotel alone, he might already be too late.
He only hoped-beyond all hope-that he was wrong.
CHAPTER 28
The Fortescue Hotel, it transpired, was a building in a dire state of repair. Where once the corner of the structure had met the pavement, there was now a gaping hole, ragged-edged and open to the elements. Wooden scaffolds had been erected all around it, clambering over the damaged building like a coterie of bizarre, angular insects swarming to their nest.
In better days the hotel had been grand and opulent. That much was clear to Veronica as she approached from the opposite side of the road, searching for any signs of habitation. There were none. Not even the glimmer of a lamp in a window. The place had simply been abandoned. She could see that there were still decorations in the front windows, which themselves were framed by heavy velvet drapes, pulled back as if the receptionist had forgotten to draw them for the evening. It was as if the proprietors had simply up and left in the middle of the day; leaving everything perfect and in situ, save for the enormous hole in the wall.
Veronica recalled reading a newspaper report of an accident in the area, almost two years earlier. A runaway ground train had thundered into the side of a hotel, demolishing a large section of the wall and killing five people in the lobby, along with the train’s driver. The engine’s boiler had burst, badly injuring scores of passengers in the ensuing explosion, and the local hospitals had been flooded with burn victims, causing widespread panic and calls from politicians for the public to boycott the ground train services.
The proposed boycotts had never come to pass, of course, as Londoners proved far more concerned with their own ability to get to and from their homes than with making a statement to the train operators regarding public safety.
The Fortescue Hotel, then, must have been the site of the accident. The wreckage of the train had been removed, but the wound in the building remained, bleeding shadows. She wondered why nobody had made an effort to restore or secure the premises. Perhaps there was an ongoing legal dispute, or perhaps the owners had simply run out of money.
Veronica shuddered at the thought of entering such a place, and hugged herself unconsciously inside her coat. Even from the other side of the road, it felt strangely as if the place were repelling her, urging her to carry on walking in the opposite direction. She didn’t truly believe in ghosts, but she could swear that the Fortescue had something of a haunted air about it.
What business might Bainbridge and Newbury have at such a place, particularly in the dead of night? She could think only that it was some sort of trap-that Newbury was being coerced unknowingly into a situation from which he may not return. Although worrying away at the back of her mind was the poisonous notion that Newbury, too, might somehow be involved, that this meeting had been planned surreptitiously between the three men. She did not want to acknowledge even the possibility of such a thing.
Veronica could see no sign that the others had arrived. She checked her watch. It was approaching two in the morning. She sighed, feeling the energy seeping from her weary bones. However tired she was, she had to carry on. She had to protect Newbury, or at least get to the bottom of whatever Bainbridge was up to.