George Mann: The Executioner's heart

“If Your Royal Highness would like to take a seat…” Newbury paused as he realised there probably weren’t any seats in the room that weren’t piled high with occult grimoires, old newspapers, or full specimen jars, then decided that the best thing in the circumstances was to carry on regardless, “… I might just excuse myself for a moment.” He began to edge around the sofa towards the door, hoping he might stall things for a few minutes so that he could at least slip away and change while Scarbright saw to the immediate mess.

“Sit down, Newbury, and stop that infernal flapping. Don’t you think I knew what I was letting myself in for, coming here? You are notorious throughout the palace for your fondness for that dreadful weed, and no one has seen you for days. I half-expected to hear word that poor Bainbridge had once again been forced to haul your sorry carcass out of an opium den in the East End. It’s something of a relief to find you here at all.”

Newbury swallowed, but his mouth was dry. There was very little he could offer in response to the Prince’s words. After all, he had rather been caught red-handed.

Scarbright busied himself, freeing up two Chesterfields close to the fire by unceremoniously tossing heaps of Newbury’s precious books onto the floor in one corner. Both men watched him until he straightened his back, approached them, and-with some dignity, given the circumstances-bade them to their seats.

Newbury watched as the Prince lowered himself into one of the armchairs, filling it utterly with both his physical bulk and his voluminous presence. Scarbright took the Prince’s walking cane and hat, then swiftly withdrew with promises of tea.

Newbury eyed the Prince for a moment, attempting to gather himself. His head was still swimming with the effects of the opium he’d consumed, and for a moment he wondered if he were actually hallucinating-if it wasn’t simply his mind playing tricks on him, fabricating the encounter as a product of his guilt or fears or anxieties. But then the Prince turned and looked up at him, and Newbury knew the situation was all too real. He swallowed, attempting to relieve his dry mouth. He’d just have to carry on as best he could.

Newbury smiled genially, crossed to the Chesterfield opposite the Prince, and sat down. He was intrigued to discover the reason for the unusual-or, rather, positively unheard of-visitation.

“A relief, Your Royal Highness?” he said, his voice low and respectful.

“What?”

“You said, Your Royal Highness, that it was something of a relief to find me at home. I take it, therefore, that I am able to assist you in some way?”

The Prince narrowed his eyes for a moment before his face creased into a broad smile. “It’s good to see the Newbury I recognise is still in there, somewhere. Judging by the state of you, man, I had cause to doubt it.”

“I can only apologise. You find me engaged in more of my ongoing … studies.”

The Prince harrumphed at this and fixed Newbury with a knowing stare. “Occult science and paranormal philosophy. Hallucinogens and absinthe. Ritual and corruption.” He leaned back in his chair. “You understand, Newbury, that such things are tolerated only because you are able to deliver the desired results?”

Newbury nodded, but didn’t say anything in response. Was this the reason for the Prince’s visit? To warn him, to admonish him for his pursuits? It wouldn’t surprise him to discover it was. He knew the Queen found his esoteric studies extremely distasteful, but also essential to the well-being and protection of the Empire. She reasoned that she needed to maintain an expert in the field, someone who could understand and combat any threats of an occult nature that may arise. But she also feared the lure of it would prove too much, and that Newbury would be absorbed by the darkness. Recently, he’d begun to wonder if she was right.

“Anyway,” the Prince continued, “I didn’t come here to discuss your peculiar habits, Newbury. I came because I require your help, if you’ll give it.”

“I am at your disposal, Your Royal Highness.”

“Very good. As I hope you are aware, Newbury, I have always had great faith in your abilities, despite your … unusual methods.” The Prince narrowed his eyes as he delivered this last, and Newbury couldn’t help but cringe. “Ever since that affair with Lord Huntington in Cambridgeshire, during which you did me a great service.”

“I fear it was not quite the resolution to the matter that you’d wished for, Your Royal Highness.”

“Nevertheless, you did what was necessary. What was needed. One can ask for no more.” The Prince leaned forward in his chair, his eyes searching Newbury’s face. “Would you do it again, Newbury? Whatever was necessary?”

Newbury was momentarily taken aback by the Prince’s sudden intensity. “I…” he stammered. “Yes, of course. Without hesitation.” Increasingly, this was becoming Newbury’s mantra: that he would do whatever was necessary, whatever he deemed to be right , irrespective of the Queen’s directives. The Crown, he had discovered, was not beyond egoism, self-absorption, and corruption, just like anyone else. As a consequence, he had learned to apply his own moral standards, to make his own decisions.

That said, Newbury had nothing but the utmost respect for the Prince of Wales. “I take it, then, that there is something I might assist you with, Your Royal Highness?”

The Prince nodded approvingly and leaned back in his chair. His eyes hadn’t strayed from Newbury’s expectant face. “I believe I can trust you, Newbury. God knows, I need to trust someone…” He trailed off at the sound of Scarbright rapping loudly on the door, before the valet bustled through with a silver tea tray in his arms and an apologetic expression written on his face. He took measured steps as he crossed the room, careful not to slosh the hot water or rattle the saucers. With a brief, panicked glance at Newbury, he set the tray down on the low table between the two men, bowed to the Prince, and got out of the room as swiftly as his legs would carry him.

The Prince smiled indulgently at Newbury. “There are agents abroad in London, Newbury. Foreign agents. The great houses of Europe are intent on bringing the British Empire to her knees. They circle like vultures, waiting impatiently for the Queen to die. They bicker and snipe at one another, pledging their undying support to my mother, even as they plot to pick over her remains. They would see her dead and buried, see the Empire broken up and their own pockets lined with the fruit of our labours. What is more, they have allies. Even here in London-in the Houses of Parliament, no less-our enemies abound.”

Newbury frowned. Was it really that bad? Had the dissent spread that far?

“I can see from your expression, Newbury, that you doubt the veracity of my words, that you believe me to be exaggerating. But allow me to assure you, I speak the truth. Even now, the enemies of Britain are at work, sowing seeds of dissent, tirelessly endeavouring to destroy the very fabric of our nation.”

Newbury waited until he was sure the Prince had finished. His words of warning hung in the air between them, almost tangible. “Do you anticipate war?”

The Prince smiled sadly. “I fear that I do. My nephew, the Kaiser, is inquisitive and impatient. He is hungry for power, and unsatisfied with what he already has. His greed will bring war to these shores before long, Newbury. Mark my words.”

War? In the streets of London? The notion was barely conceivable, and yet here was the Prince of Wales himself, sitting in Newbury’s drawing room, delivering an impassioned warning of what was to come.

“So … how may I be of assistance, Your Royal Highness? I fear I know very little of war.”