The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (8 page)

Bainbridge was confused. “Didn’t you put your shoulder to it?”

Newbury shook his head. “You must remember, Charles, that I had no actual evidence of wrong doing. While I had cause to suspect that whatever Hambleton was up to down in that cellar may have somehow been connected to the disappearance of his wife, I had no empirical basis for that belief. None of the staff suspected their master of anything more than a little streak of eccentricity and an inability to keep normal hours. If I went ahead and smashed the door off its hinges, I would have been declaring my suspicion then and there that Hambleton was somehow involved in the disappearance of his wife. If I’d been proved wrong... well, the recriminations would have been difficult to counter. I had no formal jurisdiction in that house. And more, if I was right about Hambleton’s involvement, but unable to find any clear evidence in the cellar to support my claim, then the game would have been up and the villain would have been provided with the perfect opportunity to cover his tracks. It was certainly a quandary, and in the end I decided to sit it out and bide my time.

“As it transpired, however, the case was soon to resolve itself.

“Crawford was true to his word and came bustling into the drawing room around eleven, his cheeks flushed from the exercise. He looked as if the walk had done him good, and he had regained his usual composure. When he saw me sitting by the window with a book on my lap, he offered me a quizzical expression and came to join me, casting off his walking jacket and taking a seat nearby. ‘Any developments, Sir Maurice?’

“I assured him I had not been resting on my laurels, and that, while I didn’t yet have any evidence to show, I felt that I was drawing closer to a solution. Well, I don’t mind telling you, Charles, that while I had indeed managed to spot the culprit in the matter, I had in no way been able to foresee the manner in which the crime had been perpetrated.” Newbury paused to smile. “Or indeed the reasons why.

“Anyhow, I asked Crawford to give an account of his morning stroll. He was animated, full of energy. He said he had walked to the local village as planned, enjoying the brisk stroll and the fresh morning air, but had been surprised upon his arrival to find all manner of commotion in the village square. It soon unfolded that a young man had been found dead on the moors—a village lad, the son of the postmaster—and that everyone had gathered to gossip about what had become of the boy. He was seventeen years old and much liked by the community. It seemed a senseless killing. Nevertheless, someone had clearly taken a dislike to the boy, and just a few hours earlier his corpse had been recovered from amongst the heather; battered, bruised and broken.

“Crawford was obviously appalled by such goings-on, but clearly saw no connection to the case in hand. I, on the other hand, believed I now had all the information I needed. This was the motive I had been looking for, and all that remained was to await Hambleton’s return. Then, I was convinced, I would have all of the evidence I needed to build my case.”

“So what, Hambleton killed this boy on the moors? But why? Did he have something to do with Lady Hambleton’s disappearance?”

“In a manner of speaking. But it was much more complicated than all that, as you’ll soon hear.

“It was only a short while before Hambleton himself returned to the manor. Crawford and I, sitting silently in the drawing room, were alerted to his arrival by the sound of his horse whinnying noisily in the driveway. We both clambered to our feet. Of course, Chester was the first one out of the door, crossing the hall before either of us had even made it out of the drawing room. And indeed, it was Chester who was to inadvertently give his master away. Coming out into the hall, both Crawford and I heard the manservant exclaim upon seeing his master. ‘Sir? Are you hurt?’ Hambleton’s reply was sharp. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. It’s not my blood. Here, take the reins.’

“Glancing cautiously at each other, Crawford and I made our way out into the bright afternoon to get a measure of the situation. Chester was leading the horse away across the gravelled courtyard. Hambleton, still wearing his hat and cape, was spattered with blood. It was all over him; up his arms, over his chest. Even flecked over his collar and chin. His gloves were dripping in the stuff. He gave us a cursory glance, before pushing past us and into the hall, his boots leaving muddy footprints behind him.

“Crawford was appalled. ‘Look here, Sir Clive. What’s the meaning of all this blood? What the devil have you been up to? This morning you said that you hoped everything would become clear, but as yet, things continue to be as murky as ever!’

“Hambleton stared at his friend for a long while. His shoulders fell. It was as if a light had gone out behind his eyes. ‘Very well, Crawford. I had hoped to at least find myself some clean attire, but I suppose it is time. You too, Newbury. You’ve probably worked it out by now, anyway.’

“He led us across the hall, stopping at the door to his cellar. There, he fished a key out from under his coat, smearing oily blood all over his clothes. He turned the key hastily in the lock and then, pulling the door open, revealed a staircase, which he quickly descended into the darkness. Crawford hesitated on the top step, but I was quick to push past him and followed Hambleton down into the stygian depths of the workshop. A moment later I heard Crawford’s footfalls on the stairs behind me.” Newbury sighed and took a long draw on his brandy. Bainbridge was on the edge of his seat. He’d allowed his cigar to burn down in the ashtray as Newbury talked, and he was watching his friend intently, anxious to know how the mystery would resolve itself.

“The workshop was a sight to behold. It was a large room that must have filled a space equal to half the footprint of the manor itself. It was lit by only the weak glow of a handful of gas lamps and the crackling blue light of Hambleton’s bizarre machine, which filled a good third of the space and was wired to a small generator that whined with an insistent hum. Valves hissed noisily and the machine throbbed with a strange, pulsating energy; a huge brass edifice like an altar, with two immense arms that jutted out on either side of it, terminating in large discs between which electrical light crackled like caged lightning. And in the centre of all this, prone on the top of the dais, was Lady Hambleton. Her face was lit by the flickering blue light, and it was clear that she was no longer breathing.

“Hambleton stepped up to take a place beside her.

“Crawford, appearing behind me from the stairway, gave a terrible shout and rushed forward, as if to make a grab for Hambleton. He stopped short, however, when Hambleton raised his hand to produce a gun from beneath the folds of his coat. He waved it at Crawford. ‘Don’t come any closer, Crawford. I don’t want you to inadvertently come to any harm. This is only for your own good.’

“Crawford was incensed, but stayed back, putting himself between me and the gun. He caught my eye, trying to get a measure of how I planned to respond to the situation. He turned back to Hambleton, his voice firm. ‘What’s going on, man? What’s happened to Frances?’

“Hambleton sighed and lowered his gun. He met Crawford’s eye, and spoke to his friend as if I were not there in the room with them at all. I listened to his terrible tale as he recounted it.

“‘I knew the danger of marrying a young wife was that she may quickly grow tired of an older man, or at least weary of my company as I grew only older and more stuck in my ways. I loved Frances more than it is possible to say. I love her still.’ He glanced at his wife, serene on the contraption behind him. ‘I had miscalculated just how soon she would begin to look for companionship elsewhere, however, and had not expected after only twelve months to find her making merry with the postmaster’s son in the stables. I was enraged, and stormed out of there with fire in my belly. The boy had scarpered and I had refused to see Frances for the rest of the day. That night, however, we had a blazing row over dinner, and Frances had declared her love for the boy, claiming that I was a terrible husband who had trapped her in a drafty old house and paid her no attention. This cut me dreadfully, and I found myself seething as she fled the room.’ Hambleton offered Crawford a pleading look, as if willing him to try to understand. ‘That is when the insanity took hold of me. I knew I was losing her, and I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the thought of another man laying his hands on her. In a fit of madness I waited until the servants were all engaged elsewhere in the house and stormed up to her room, dragged her to the cellar and activated the machine.’

“Crawford’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘What is the machine?’

“‘An experimental preserving device, designed to maintain the integrity of food after harvesting. It holds things in a form of stasis field, a bubble of energy that preserves them indefinitely, preventing them from decaying or altering in any way.’ He paused, as if choking on his own words.

“‘I threw Frances into the stasis field in a fit of rage, believing that I was saving her from herself, that it was the only way to stop her from leaving me forever. Too late, when the madness and rage had passed, I realised I had not yet perfected the means to bring her out of it again. All of my experiments with fruit and vegetables had ended in disaster. The integrity of the flesh had not been able to withstand the process of being withdrawn from the preserving field. Anything organic I put in there would simply fall apart when the field was terminated. Frances was trapped. Frozen in time, unable to be woken, unable to live her life. I couldn’t bring myself to end it, and for days I’ve been searching for an answer, a means to free her from this God-forsaken prison I’ve created.’

“Crawford edged forward, and Hambleton raised his firearm once again. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. ‘Oh no, Crawford. You don’t get to save me this time. This time I deserve my fate. Besides, it’s too late now, anyway. I killed the boy this morning; practically tore the poor bastard apart. There’s no going back now. The only choice I have is to submit myself to the stasis field, to join the woman I love in the prison I have created. Goodbye, Crawford. Do not think ill of me.’

“Hambleton turned and threw himself onto the dais beside his wife, his gun clattering to the floor. Crawford cried out. The machine fizzed and crackled, static energy causing my hackles to rise. A moment later Hambleton was overcome, and he collapsed into a peaceful sleep beside his wife.”

Bainbridge looked aghast. “So what did you do? How did you get them out?”

“That’s just it, Charles. We didn’t. There was no way to free them from their fate. Neither Crawford nor I had any notion of how to engage the controls of the machine, and although we spent hours reading through Hambleton’s notes, we could find no evidence of a method by which to safely deactivate the preserving field. Hambleton had been telling the truth. They were frozen there, in that bizarre machine, and there was nothing at all we could do about it.

“At a loss for how else to handle the situation, Crawford and I sealed up the basement and went directly to the local constabulary. We told them that we’d all been out walking on the moors and that Hambleton, overcome with distress about his missing wife, had thrown himself in the river. We’d tried to save him, of course, but he’d been swept away and lost. The police set about dredging the river for his body, but of course there was nothing to find. The servants could not dispute the facts, either, as only Chester had seen his master return from the village that morning, and he was loyal until the end.”

Bainbridge shook his head. “My God. What a terrible tale. What became of them?”

“A while later Hambleton was declared dead and the house passed on to his nephew. Chester retired from service and Crawford had the door to the cellar panelled over before the new incumbent could move in. The missing lady was never found, presumed dead on the moor, having fled the house of her own volition.”

“So, they’re still there? Trapped in that cellar, I mean?”

Newbury nodded. “For all I know, yes, they’re still there. Perhaps there will come a time when technological achievement is such that the machine can be deactivated and the two disenchanted lovers can be reunited. For now, though, their story ends there, in a basement beneath a manor house.” Newbury paused. He eyed his friend. “As I’ve said before, Charles, revenge can make people do terrible things.”

Bainbridge eyed Newbury over the rim of his brandy glass. “Hmm. Well there’s a lesson there for all of us, I feel. And for you in particular, Newbury.”

Newbury frowned. “How so?”

“I don’t think revenge has got anything to do with it. Women, Newbury. Women can make people do terrible things.” His eyes sparkled. “Better keep an eye on that assistant of yours, eh?” He winked mischievously.

Newbury flushed red. “Right, you old fool. That’s quite enough of that. Time you were getting some rest. I’m in need of my own bed, and you’re keeping me from it.”

Bainbridge laughed. “Right you are, old man. Right you are.” He placed his brandy glass on the table and rose, a little unsteadily, to his feet. He crossed the room, took up his coat and hat and, his cane tapping gently against the floor as he walked, bid his friend goodnight and made his way out into the fog-laden night. Newbury watched from the window as the chief inspector clambered into a waiting cab. Then, hesitating only long enough to bank the fire, he extinguished the gas lamps and made his way slowly to bed.

“Newbury! Thank God you’re here.”

Sir Maurice Newbury swept into the hallway, his overcoat billowing open behind him as he marched across the marble floor towards his friend. His expression was serious. “Don’t thank God, Charles. Thank the cabbie who agreed to take my fare this close to Christmas.” His face was ruddy from the biting cold and his breath was shallow with exertion. He began removing his black leather gloves, one finger at a time, eyeing the older man for any clue as to why he’d been called from his bed at such an early hour of the morning.

Sir Charles Bainbridge, his grey moustache twitching with irritation, glanced over Newbury’s shoulder as if he were expecting someone else. “Miss Hobbes?” He looked flustered.