George Mann - The Executioner's heart

“Is she awake?” asked Newbury, hesitantly, as he led the way down the steps.

“No. I’ve kept her under. The pain would be excruciating. She will remain unconscious until we find a solution, one way or another,” replied the Fixer.

At the bottom of the stairs, the room suddenly opened up into a vast space, familiar to Newbury from his own brief stay. This massive chamber was adjacent to the one in which he had deposited Veronica earlier, but at least three times the size. It was brightly lit by another electric arc light that spanned the vaulted ceiling, flooding everything in its clinical gleam. An array of strange and unusual machinery lined the walls: whirring clockwork engines that pumped bubbling pink fluid through glass valves and coiling tubes; devices that resembled multi-bladed weapons but were, in fact, surgical tools; an automaton assistant that scuttled around at waist height, bearing trays of spatulas and scalpels. Empty beds stood like sentries, posted at intervals amongst the machines. The room stank of carbolic and blood.

In the far right corner, a series of bellows attached to a large brass box were wheezing as they slowly inflated and deflated, over and over, as regular as the ticking of a metronome or a clock. Newbury could see more tubing snaking out of the brass box, disappearing into the chest of what looked like a pale wax dummy laid upon a bed beside it. He felt his own heart breaking at the sight. “My God,” he whispered, as he drifted mechanically across the basement towards her. He had no words with which to adequately describe his thoughts.

Veronica lay there, unconscious and unmoving, much like a corpse. The place where her chest wound had been now erupted with a bundle of fat tubes, filled with dark, red blood. The flesh around them was puckered and purple.

Her head had fallen to one side on the pillow and her lips were slightly parted, as if in a wry smile. Her hands were folded over her stomach, and a white gown-the front of which had been hastily modified to provide access to the tubing in her chest-protected her modesty. She was pale, and her skin had taken on a damp sheen. Beside her, the brass contraption gurgled as it fed hungrily on her blood, cycling it through her veins.

“She would not have wanted this,” said Bainbridge, clearly appalled. “She would not want to live like this.”

Newbury turned on him, but there was little fight left in him. “I’ll find a way, Charles. There must be a way.” He glanced at the Fixer.

“She needs a new heart,” said the Fixer. “A replacement for her original organ. With Fabian dead, however…” He trailed off, but Newbury caught his meaning. He didn’t know of anyone capable of such a precise feat of engineering and invention. The irony was not lost on Newbury: If he and Veronica had not allowed the Bastion Society’s attack on the Grayling Institute to go ahead, Fabian would still be alive.

“There’ll be others,” said Newbury, defiantly. “There must be others.”

“If you are to find them,” said the Fixer, the doubt evident in his voice, “then you must act swiftly.”

Newbury nodded. He could feel the anger swelling in his chest. Anger at himself, anger at Veronica … but most of all, anger at the Prince of Wales. This was his doing. Newbury would ensure that he paid for what he had done.

“Look, she’s safe for now, Newbury. You need to get some rest. You’re wounded and tired, and you can’t do anything else for Miss Hobbes here. Not now. Go home, and I’ll go directly to the palace to lay it all out for the Queen,” said Bainbridge, putting a hand on Newbury’s shoulder.

“I’ll kill him, Charles,” muttered Newbury. “I’ll have his head for this.”

“Newbury!” There was a warning note in Bainbridge’s voice. “You can’t even think of it. Do not go there. Let the Queen handle it. You’ll get yourself killed if you try to take matters into your own hands.”

Newbury looked at the Fixer, who was watching them with interest. He looked back at Bainbridge. “You’re right, Charles. You must go directly to the Queen. Ensure that she understands who is responsible for this sorry mess.” He turned and strode towards the door.

“Newbury? Where are you going?” Bainbridge called after him. “Newbury!”

Newbury didn’t answer, didn’t look back at Bainbridge, the Fixer, or Veronica. He simply carried on walking towards the door and the steps that led up to the entrance hall.

He had business to attend to.

The sun was coming up as Newbury stalked determinedly along the gravel driveway towards the monolithic home of the Prince of Wales.

He looked dishevelled and exhausted, limned by the amber glow of the breaking day. His hair was mussed, his collar open, and his cravat long discarded. His once-black jacket was sticky with Veronica’s drying blood. There was rage in his eyes, and a deep, burning desire for revenge in his belly.

Bainbridge had warned him not to come here, to leave the matter to the Queen to resolve, but Newbury could not let it rest. He needed to look the man in the eye, to understand what had driven him to commit such heinous atrocities. Even more, he needed to ensure the Prince would pay for what he had done to Veronica, one way or another.

His hands were bunched into tight fists, and he was barely aware of the sounds of the household waking as he approached, or the twittering of birds overhead, heralding the dawn. He had only one goal in mind: to get inside the building and locate the traitorous Prince of Wales. He’d work out what to do when he found him.

He approached the front entrance, his feet stirring the gravel. He reached for the bell pull and gave it a sharp tug. The bells jangled deep inside the building, beckoning to the servants within. Newbury paced restlessly back and forth for a moment in the shadow of the awning, until the sound of footsteps in the hallway caused him to stop and look round.

The door creaked open a fraction and Barclay’s pale face appeared in the opening. When he saw Newbury his expression darkened. “Sir Maurice,” he said, looking him up and down, an eyebrow arched in snide amusement. “You seem a little out of sorts.” He waited for a response, but Newbury was not forthcoming. “But I’m afraid your journey here has been in vain,” he continued after a moment, when it became apparent that Newbury had chosen to ignore his jibe. “The Prince cannot see you at this early hour. I’d suggest making an appointment. And,” he added pushing for a reaction, “that perhaps you should consider adopting a more formal appearance.”

“Let me in, Barclay,” growled Newbury in response. He felt his ire rising.

“I cannot,” replied the butler, tartly.

“You shall,” said Newbury, stepping forward and shoving the door open with his left hand.

Barclay fell back, attempting to block his entrance. “Desist, Sir Maurice,” he said, boldly, although he was clearly shaken by Newbury’s unexpected intensity.

“Step aside,” said Newbury, a note of warning in his voice. “I will not ask you again.”

“I will not,” came the response.

Newbury sighed. He would tolerate the imbecile no longer. He let his shoulders drop in apparent resignation, but then lashed out suddenly with his fist, catching the odious little man across the jaw with a right hook that rendered him almost immediately insensible. His legs buckled beneath him, his head dropping, and he slumped to the tiled floor. Newbury didn’t bother to catch him as he pitched forward onto his face. “I’ve wanted to do that for the best part of a week,” he said to the unconscious man, flexing his smarting fingers.

He stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him. He left the butler lying in the hallway as he followed the sounds of bustling activity deeper into the house.