The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (27 page)

Wiping his eyes, Newbury stooped and retrieved the letter. He folded the pages and slid them carefully back into the envelope. Next, he picked up and opened the book, and placed the envelope carefully inside. He stood and crossed to his bookshelves.

“I’m sorry, Templeton,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, but I made my choice a long time ago, and now I have to live with it. People are depending on me. Veronica’s depending on me. I can’t let her down, no matter the consequences. I let
you
down...” He paused, taking a deep breath. “And I won’t allow it to happen again.”

He placed the book carefully back where it belonged on the shelf and returned to his seat.

He reached for his silver tin and sought out another cigarette, which he lit with an ember from the fire. He took a long, steady draw, and allowed the smoke to plume from his nostrils. The sweet taste of the opium was reassuring on the back of his tongue.

The past, he told himself, was a closed book. Now he needed to look to the future. What other choice did he have?

Sighing, he reached out his hand for the book at the top of the nearest pile—The
Cosmology of the Spirit
—but then stopped short, his fingers resting lightly upon the cover.

Something had caught his eye: another dusty old book, resting open and upside down on the hearth, sprinkled with soot from the fire. It had lain there for some months, abandoned in lieu of more pressing matters. Newbury grinned.

“Perhaps just for today, Templeton,” he said. He snatched up the other book enthusiastically—a copy of H.G. Wells’s
The Time Machine
—and stubbed out his cigarette on the arm of his chair. “Perhaps just for today.”

Chuckling, Newbury eased himself back into his Chesterfield, and settled down to read.

Winter had stolen across London. It had rushed in without warning to sweep away the mild, autumnal afternoons and leave deep drifts of crisp, white snow in their place. It had frozen pipes, sent animals scurrying to their seasonal hibernations and covered everything in a layer of thick, hoary frost.

At least, that was how it seemed to Sir Charles Bainbridge as he trudged steadily through the bitterly cold afternoon towards the home of his friend and companion, Sir Maurice Newbury. One moment the days had seemed long and mellow, orange leaves turning to mulch beneath his boots, the next they were short, dark and cold, and snowflakes were swirling on the icy gusts outside his window.

Perhaps, he reflected, he was just getting old. The days seemed to pass so much faster than they once had. Or perhaps it was simply because he was so damn busy. He preferred the latter option, but he feared the former was probably true. These days the cold made his bones ache and his blood freeze in his veins, and he longed for nothing more than a glass of brandy and a warm fire.

Today, however, was not a day for retreating from the world. Today he had more important things to see to than his own comfort.

Bainbridge had spent the last three days investigating—rather unsuccessfully, if he was honest with himself—one of the most brutal murders he had yet encountered in his long and onerous career. A man had been discovered stripped and bound to a lamp post, left as bait, Bainbridge had come to realise, for the roving Revenants that still plagued many of the deprived districts such as Whitechapel and Shoreditch. It was clear from the body—or at least, what remained of it—that the victim had been slashed at least once across the belly with a sharp knife, probably in an effort to draw enough blood to attract the dreadful creatures. It was evident, too, that the Revenants had come en masse, devouring much of the poor sod while he was still alive, rending the flesh from his bones with their savage, yellow teeth.

There hadn’t been much of him left when Bainbridge had arrived at the site the following morning, but the snow and the chill had largely preserved the scene, much to the chief inspector’s dismay.

There was no doubt it was anything but an execution—a particularly grisly one, at that—but Bainbridge had so far been unable to as much as identify the victim, let alone establish a motive or a perpetrator. The swarming Revenants had disturbed any tracks that might have been left in the snow as they’d set about their gruesome feast, and the uniformed constables he’d assigned to the task had not yet turned up the dead man’s clothes. Consequently, all he had to go on was a flayed, half-eaten corpse, so ravaged it was barely distinguishable as a human being at all. It could have been any of the hundreds of young men reported missing in the city every day.

Bainbridge gave a heavy sigh and brushed flakes of snow from where they’d settled on his bushy grey moustache. His breath was coming quick and sharp from the exertion of the walk, steaming in the frigid air before his face. He felt hot and bothered beneath his heavy black overcoat, despite the chill and the numbness in his extremities.

The case was giving him sleepless nights. He had no idea who was responsible for the man’s death, and he was struggling to imagine who might have been able to even conceive of such a dreadful method of execution. He’d always found it difficult not to take these things personally—his failure to spot the means by which to approach the case, his inability to perceive a way around the lack of evidence. But he had to admit, as it stood, he was no closer to solving the case after three days than he’d been in the first few minutes after arriving on the scene.

Now, though, it was Christmas Eve, and he was on his way to visit Newbury, his feet crunching on the thick blanket of snow that had settled over large swathes of the city.

He wondered how his old friend was faring. Newbury had been avoiding him of late. Bainbridge was astute enough to see
that
, at least. He supposed he couldn’t blame Newbury. As close as they were, there was only so much berating a man could take, and Bainbridge had been free and forthcoming with his admonishment. He knew he shouldn’t do it—that it did neither of them any good—but he just couldn’t help himself. He simply couldn’t sit idly by and watch his dearest friend throw his life away through ritualistic drug abuse.

Not that his words ever seemed to get through. Newbury could be as stubborn as Bainbridge himself, and even less immovable when he wanted to be. Yet Bainbridge couldn’t help wondering whether there was more to it than simple addiction or rebellion. Was something—or some
one
—else exerting an influence on him? More recently, too, Newbury had retreated into one of his damnable black moods, locking himself away in his study and refusing to emerge for days at a time. Bainbridge simply didn’t know what to make of it. Perhaps that was simply the price of genius? Perhaps the
ennui
came hand in hand with the remarkable flashes of insight. He supposed he’d never know for certain.

Unconsciously, Bainbridge’s hand strayed to his overcoat pocket, patting it gently as if reassuring himself that the little package inside was still safe and secure. He couldn’t prevent a smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth as he imagined the look on Newbury’s face as his friend unwrapped it. It was the perfect Christmas gift. Perhaps it would be enough to cheer Newbury and stir him from whatever dark depression had taken hold of him.

The snow was swirling in dancing eddies all around Bainbridge, and he bowed his head against the icy gusts. The streets of Chelsea were near deserted, save for the occasional lonely figure drifting through the snow, featureless silhouettes against the sulphurous glow of the street lamps. A steam-driven carriage hissed by, its wheels creaking and thundering as they skittered and slid over the icy cobbles, its exhaust funnels belching black fumes that melted the snow in a wide trail behind it. Bainbridge found himself envying the occupants as their faces flickered past, wide-eyed as they took in the snowy scene all around them. He wished now that he’d taken one of the police carriages, but foolishly he’d sent the drivers home to their families to enjoy the festivities. Sometimes, he considered, altruism didn’t pay.

Still, he was nearly there now. He trudged on, his ankles damp from where his feet sank in the powdery snow.

Bainbridge felt his spirits lift as Newbury’s house hove into view a few moments later. Warm orange light spilled out into the street from the bay window at the front of the property, conjuring up thoughts of a crackling fire, a brandy and a rest. He forged on, plodding as fast as he could against the driving wind.

As he approached the house, Bainbridge could see that the curtains were half drawn against the inclement weather and the encroaching darkness. He hoped Newbury was at home and hadn’t suddenly been tempted away to his White Friar’s club. He wasn’t, after all, expecting Bainbridge until the morning, and Newbury did generally make an effort to celebrate the season.

Bainbridge mounted the red stone steps at the front of the house and rapped loudly on the door with the end of his cane. He noticed, with a faint smile, that the paintwork was marred with innumerable little indentations, each one a perfect crescent, the result of his prior visits. He brushed himself down as he waited for a response, shaking off the light dusting of snow that had settled over him as he’d walked.

A moment later, just as he was raising his cane impatiently to knock for a second time, he heard the creak of footsteps in the hallway. “Hurry along, Scarbright! It’s rather chilly out tonight.”

The door creaked open on hinges in need of a good oiling, and Bainbridge felt a welcome flood of warmth from within.

“Sir Charles?” Newbury’s valet—Scarbright—sounded utterly incredulous, as if taken aback that the chief inspector might actually be out there in the swirling snowstorm on Christmas Eve. He stood for a moment in the doorway, staring at Bainbridge as if he couldn’t quite take it in.

“Well, don’t just stand there, man! Step aside so I might come in!”

Scarbright blinked at him, and then realisation seemed to dawn on his face and he stepped back, beckoning Bainbridge inside. “Of course, my apologies. It’s only that I believe Sir Maurice wasn’t expecting you until the morning, sir.”

Bainbridge grinned as he handed over his hat and cane and began unbuttoning his coat. “Oh, don’t fret so, Scarbright. I’m not staying. I simply have something for Sir Maurice that couldn’t wait.”

“Even on Christmas Eve, sir?”

“Quite so, Scarbright,” replied Bainbridge, failing to entirely hide his displeasure at the fact the valet considered it appropriate to question his motives. He shook out his coat, spattering water and ice droplets over the polished floorboards. Then, having extracted the small package from inside one of the pockets and dropping it into his jacket pocket instead, he handed the still-dripping garment to the valet. “Now, be a good chap, Scarbright, and organise some tea.”

Scarbright smiled wryly as he folded the coat over his arm. “Of course, Sir Charles. Sir Maurice is...
relaxing
in the drawing room.”

“Ah, like that, is it?” replied Bainbridge. “Well, I’ll get in there and stir him up a bit. It doesn’t do to let him fester, Scarbright.”

The valet raised a single eyebrow in response. “I’ll see to that tea, Sir Charles,” he said, before turning and sloping off down the passageway towards the kitchen.

Bainbridge smiled to himself. Scarbright had always shown an unerring sense of loyalty, and it was obvious he liked Newbury. It was for this reason that Bainbridge had acquiesced to him remaining indefinitely at Cleveland Avenue, instead of returning to Bainbridge’s own employ.

Of course, Newbury thought it was all his doing, and often ribbed Bainbridge about the way in which he had stolen the chief inspector’s servant from under his nose, turning Bainbridge’s “spy”—given to Newbury on loan after his housekeeper had walked out on him—into a loyal, dedicated valet. Bainbridge had allowed this little myth to grow, aware that Newbury needed this victory if he were to ever truly accept Scarbright as anything other than Bainbridge’s informant. The irony was, of course, that Scarbright had long since ceased to inform Bainbridge of anything useful at all. Not that Bainbridge had wanted to spy on his friend in the first place. It was simply that he wished to keep a watchful eye on Newbury, in order that he might intervene if the situation needed him to, or if Newbury went and got himself into trouble with his employers. Which, Bainbridge considered, had happened on more than one memorable occasion in recent months.

“Stop loitering in the hallway and come and warm yourself by the fire, Charles. And tell Scarbright not to bother with that tea. I need brandy!” Newbury’s bellowing voice carried down the passageway from the drawing room, eliciting a loud guffaw from Bainbridge. So much for the surprise. He might have known Newbury would have anticipated the identity of his unexpected caller. There’d be some obvious giveaway, no doubt; the
click-clack
of his cane, the way he rapped on the door, the simple odds that Bainbridge would be the only one of Newbury’s friends to call at such an hour, on Christmas Eve, in the snow.

Bainbridge wasted no time in accepting Newbury’s invitation, and, still feeling damp and cold from his excursion, swiftly made his way along the passageway to the drawing room. He didn’t bother to knock before pushing open the door and stepping over the threshold.

Inside, it was warm and welcoming, although filled with the thick, syrupy aroma of opium. Smoke hung in the air like a viscous shroud, clinging to the ceiling and causing Bainbridge to splutter and cough, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

A fire burned heartily in the grate, and the curtains were drawn against the weather. The room was in some disarray, with scattered newspapers and leaning piles of leather-bound books covering every conceivable surface. Specimen jars filled with things that Bainbridge had no desire to identify nestled amongst these towering stacks, and Christmas presents wrapped in gaudily coloured paper were heaped in a pile in one corner, ready for the festivities the following day. Very much unlike Newbury himself, Bainbridge mused, who looked as if he had no intention of engaging with the seasonal cheer.