The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (5 page)

“I... I...” he stammered, searching for words.

“Can you walk?” asked Black, getting to his feet. He kept his back stooped to avoid the thick pall of smoke that was settling over the room.

“I think so,” replied Newbury. Black grabbed him by the forearms and pulled him up, taking care to steady him as he tottered.

It was difficult now to discern the opening of the door from the walls of angry flame that surrounded it; difficult even to be clear about which direction they were facing. Black decided he would have to trust his instinct. Any longer at the heart of the inferno and the two of them would be asphyxiated or roasted alive.

“This way,” he said, grabbing Newbury’s upper arm and leading him carefully—but swiftly—towards where he thought the door to be. The interior of the cottage now resembled a Hellish inferno, and the two men were forced to run a gauntlet around blazing stumps, flaming coffee tables and collapsing timbers from above.

“There!” bellowed Newbury from beside him, pulling free and staggering towards the door. Black stumbled after him, gasping for breath. The heat of the fire was searing his lungs, the smoke making it almost impossible to see. He watched, his eyes streaming, as Newbury almost fell out into the clearing beyond, and then paused on the threshold to glance over his shoulder at the burning form of Old Mab, still poised in her armchair at the heart of the conflagration as the flames utterly engulfed her.

Then, with every inch of his body screaming at him to get as far away from the burning cottage as possible, he turned and ran.

It was hours later when the two men—tired, dishevelled and aching—tramped their way along the gravel driveway to Sir Geoffrey’s manor. They’d barely spoken during the long walk back, despite numerous attempts by Black to engage Newbury in conversation. Newbury was brooding, Black realised, distracted as he mulled over the day’s events, and so they had trudged side by side along the gloomy dirt tracks, each of them pleased to be putting some distance between themselves and that diabolical cottage in the woods.

They paused for a moment on the terrace, standing in the shadow of the great house. It was dark now and the moon cast a watery, silver light upon the grounds, shimmering upon the surface of the lake. Music and chattering voices spilled out from an open window somewhere in the house, the gaiety incongruous, sitting ill with Black’s mood.

He turned, glancing back at the woods on the horizon. Even from here he could see that the cottage still burned fiercely, a funeral pyre flickering brightly in the darkness.

“What are we going to tell Sir Geoffrey?” he asked, as Newbury came over to stand beside him. “Surely we can’t tell him what
really
happened?”

Newbury sighed. “I’ll deal with that. You should get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

Black nodded, although he wasn’t sure if the gesture was wasted on the other man, who now seemed fixated on the view.

“Sir Maurice...?” ventured Black. He paused, but when no response appeared forthcoming, decided to press on regardless. “What...” He trailed off, then decided to rephrase his question. “How did she end up like that? Old Mab, I mean.”

Newbury kept his eyes fixed on the burning cottage in the distance. “Only she knows for certain,” he said, “but I’d wager I have a notion.”

“Well?”

“She fell foul of the darkness, Templeton,” said Newbury. “I have no doubt she set out with the best of intentions—a little arcane knowledge, a little ritual here or there to heal people’s ills, remedies passed down through the ages. I believe she was drawing strength from the plant life around her, imparting it to the ailing people who came to her for help. But she took a step too far. She consorted with things she could not control, bonding with the trees to absorb more of their energy, doing it to help more people, with ever greater ailments.” He paused for a moment, as if weighing his words. “I believe I understand that impulse, Templeton. That desire to help people, to sacrifice oneself to achieve one’s goals. The draw of it, however, becomes too strong. At some point Old Mab lost sight of who she was, blurring the distinction between herself and the trees. In doing so she became something terrible. She began to draw the life from anything and everything indiscriminately, including the people who came to her for assistance. That hunger was all that was left. It consumed her, just like the trees.”

“And she ended up like
that.
A monster, feeding on people,” added Black, quietly. “Quite a cautionary tale.”

“Indeed,” replied Newbury.

They lapsed into silence for a few moments, standing side by side on the terrace, Newbury’s words weighing heavily on their minds.

“Well, I suppose I should seek out Sir Geoffrey and apprise him of the situation,” said Newbury, after a while. He clapped a hand on Black’s shoulder. “I rather fear I’ve ruined your weekend, Templeton.”

Black waved a hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Newbury, with a grin. He crossed to the door. “Are you coming?”

Black shook his head. “No. Not yet. I think I’ll stay out here and... well, have another cigarette.”

Newbury laughed. “Yes, you do that.” He hesitated. “And Templeton?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” Newbury opened the door and slipped quietly inside.

Alone on the terrace, smiling, Black reached for his silver cigarette case and extracted another Guinea Gold. He struck a Lucifer on the stone balustrade and brought it up to the tip of his cigarette, enjoying the sound of the crackling paper as the tobacco took to the flame. He filled his lungs with the pungent smoke.

Then, with a sigh, he turned his back on the view and decided he would follow Newbury indoors, regardless. It was time he challenged Benson to a rematch. The poor man was probably going stir-crazy with only Jocasta to keep him company, and besides—Black wanted to see if he couldn’t win that guinea back, after all.

“You never did tell me about the Hambleton Affair, Newbury.”

Sir Charles Bainbridge leaned back in his chair, sipped at his brandy and regarded his friend through a wreath of pungent cigar smoke. Around him, the gas lamps flickered momentarily in their fittings, as if a sudden breeze had passed through Newbury’s Chelsea living room. Unperturbed, the chief inspector crossed his legs and stifled a yawn.

Across the room, Newbury was leaning on the mantelpiece, staring silently into the fire. He turned towards the older man, the flames casting his face in stark relief. He nodded. “Indeed not. Although I will warn you, Charles, it’s not a tale with a heart-warming end.”

Bainbridge sighed. “Are they ever?”

Newbury smiled as he started across the living room to join his friend. “No, I suppose not.” He paused beside the drinks cabinet, his expression suddenly serious. He placed a hand on his left side, just above the hip.

Bainbridge furrowed his brow. “The injuries are still troubling you?”

Newbury shrugged. “A little. It’s this damnable cold weather.” He sucked in his breath. His tone was playful. “I heartily commend to you, Charles, to avoid getting yourself injured in the winter. The experience is rather detrimental to one’s constitution.”

Bainbridge chuckled and took another draw on his cigar.

“Still, I suppose it would do no harm to relate my little tale,” said Newbury, before taking the last few strides across the room and lowering himself gingerly into the chair opposite the other man. His black suit crumpled as he shifted to make himself comfortable. He eyed his friend.

Tonight, Newbury considered, the chief inspector was wearing his age. His white hair was swept back from his forehead and his eyes were rheumy and rimmed with the dark stains of too many sleepless nights. It was clear that he was in need of a rest. Newbury smiled warmly. “You look tired, Charles. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather turn in for the night?”

Bainbridge shook his head. “No. Not yet.” He raised his glass, a forlorn look in his eyes. “Tonight is the anniversary of Isobel’s death. I’d rather keep from dwelling on the matter, if it’s all the same.” He took a swig of his brandy, shuddering as the alcohol assaulted his palate. “I still think of her, you know. In the quiet times.” He shook his head. “Besides, I can’t bring myself to abandon a decent brandy.” He smiled, his bushy moustache twitching. “Come on, you’ve put this one off too many times before. Give it up!”

Newbury nodded and placed his own glass on the coffee table between them. He took up his pipe from the arm of the Chesterfield and tapped out the dottles in the palm of his hand. Discarding these, he began to fill the pipe from a small leather tobacco pouch that he searched out from amongst the scattered debris on the tabletop. A moment later he leaned back, puffing gently on the mouthpiece to kindle the flame. He had a haunted expression on his face.

“It was the spring of ’ninety-eight. April, to be precise. Just a few months before Templeton Black and the disaster at Fairview House, if you recall.”

Bainbridge looked sullen. “All too well.”

“Indeed. Well, I had just drawn a close to a particularly disturbing case involving a series of brutal murders at an archaeological site, when I received a letter from a man named Crawford, the physician of the Hambleton family of Richmond, North Yorkshire. I had schooled with Sir Clive Hambleton at Oxford, briefly, and while I couldn’t claim him as a friend, I knew him as a man of integrity and science. Anyway, the letter went on to describe the most bizarre of affairs.” Newbury paused whilst he drew on his pipe, and Bainbridge leaned forward in his chair, urging him to go on.

Newbury smiled. “It appeared that Hambleton had a new wife—a young wife of only eighteen years, named Frances—who had taken up residence with him at Hambleton Manor. Life had proved harmonious for the newlyweds for nearly twelve months, until, only a handful of days before the letter was dated, she had simply vanished from her room without a trace.”

Bainbridge took another long slug of his brandy. He eyed Newbury warily. “Well, it sounds pretty clear to me. She’d finally realised that she had inadvertently committed herself to a life of drudgery in rural Yorkshire, with an older man as her only companion. It doesn’t sound like the sort of matter I would usually associate with your field of expertise. Had she taken flight?”

Newbury shook his head. “No. Not as simple as all that. But I’ll admit that was the first thing that crossed my mind upon reading the missive. Until I read on, that is.” Newbury cleared his throat. “It seemed that, after dinner, Mrs Hambleton had retired to her room, as was typical of her daily routine. Only on this occasion, she failed to reappear in the drawing room an hour later. Believing that she had likely fallen into a light doze, her husband made his way up to her room to look in on her, only to find that the bed was undisturbed and that his wife was nowhere to be found.”

Bainbridge frowned. “You’ve lost me, Newbury. I still can’t see how it could be anything other than the woman’s desire to take flight from her circumstances.”

“Quite. And Hambleton initially believed the same. Until he discovered that her belongings were all still
in situ
and had not been disturbed since that morning. Clothes were still in the dresser. Jewellery was still on the dressing table. Precious childhood mementoes were still in a box beneath the bed. Not to mention the fact that the lady had no money of her own.

“Distraught, Hambleton interviewed the servants, none of whom had seen the lady leave the premises. He had them tear the place apart looking for her, but she was nowhere to be found in the house or the grounds. It seemed that, somehow, Hambleton’s new wife had simply vanished without a trace.”

“Kidnap, then?”

“It remained a distinct possibility, and the local constabulary was indeed called in to investigate. But they could find no evidence of any wrongdoing, and the days that followed brought none of the expected demands from the imagined kidnapper in question. The entire affair remained a mystery, and Crawford, concerned for his charge, had been forced to watch as Hambleton had fallen into a deep funk from which he could not be roused. It was as if the life had gone out of him, leaving behind nothing but a shadow of the former man.”

Bainbridge eased himself back in his chair and clamped his cigar between his teeth. “Quite a singular case. I can see now why the man was drawn to write to you. What else did he say?”

“The letter stated that Crawford was aware of my reputation as a man who had experience of the occult and, since there appeared to be no other explanation for what had become of Mrs Hambleton, asked if I would pay a visit to Hambleton Manor to investigate. At the very least, he hoped that I would be able to rule out any occult interference. Hambleton himself, of course, knew nothing of the letter.” Newbury shrugged. “Of course, I’m a rational man and knew there had to be a rational explanation for the lady’s disappearance, but one finds it difficult to resist a challenge. I set out that very morning, taking the twelve o’clock train from Euston to York.” Newbury puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. After a moment he took it from his mouth and waved it at his companion. “Feel free to pour yourself another, Charles. You’ll forgive me for not getting up?”

Bainbridge nodded. “Of course. You stay put, Newbury. I’ll fetch the decanter over.” The chief inspector placed his glass on the table beside Newbury’s and pulled himself to his feet. He crossed the room, retrieved the bulbous, flat-bottomed vessel and returned to his seat. He removed the glass stopper with a light
clink
and began sloshing the brown liquid into his glass. He looked up. “Well, keep going man!”

Newbury laughed. “All this police work is starting to show on you, Charles. Patience certainly isn’t one of your strong points.”

“Starting
to show! By God, Newbury, after thirty years at the Yard I’d expect even the most fresh-faced shoeshine to be able to discern
that
much.”

Newbury grinned. He retrieved his glass from the table. “I hadn’t had time to send a telegram ahead to alert Crawford of my impending arrival, so there was no escort awaiting me at the station when the train finally pulled in at York that evening. Collecting my bag from the steward, I took a cab immediately out to Hambleton Manor, which proved to be a pleasant—if brisk—drive through the countryside. The light was starting to wane by this time, and my first sight of the house itself was almost enough to cause me to reconsider my initial thoughts about the case. The place was a rambling wreck, more a farmhouse than a country estate, and appeared so dilapidated that I had to allow for the possibility that my earlier reasoning may in fact have been correct. At that point I admit I would not have been surprised to discover that the young Mrs Hambleton had indeed fled the estate in sheer desperation at her circumstances.”