George Mann - The Executioner's heart

Newbury fell back and his right hand shot out, snatching a large silver candlestick from the dining table beside him. He swung it around before him in a sweeping arc. It struck the Prince’s epee with the dull clatter of metal upon metal, sending the Prince’s attack wide. Newbury continued the motion, stepping forward and at the same time twisting the angle of his wrist so that the thin blade became entangled amongst the triad of silver stems that comprised the candlestick. With a sharp jerk, he twisted the sword out of the Prince’s grasp and sent it clattering away across the floor.

The Prince cursed and stepped back, nursing his wrist. Newbury, still holding the candlestick, stepped forward again, raising the heavy decoration above his head as if to strike the other man.

The Prince cowered, raising his hands above his head in a pathetic attempt to stave off the anticipated attack. Newbury could see the fear in his eyes, could tell from the sharp intake of breath that the man was panicked. He had tried to murder Newbury, and his botched attempt at undermining the Queen had resulted in the near-death of the woman Newbury loved. Newbury would be justified in striking him down, if not, perhaps, more.

Instead, however, Newbury dropped the candlestick upon the floor and stood back, looking down upon the pathetic man whom he had once held in such high regard. “You are not worthy of my time,” he said quietly, firmly. “I shall leave you for your mother to deal with.”

The Prince stared up at him with confusion in his eyes. He seemed unable to grasp that Newbury was not going to see the attack through, that he was not going to end the Prince’s life then and there on the parquet floor of his dining room.

Newbury turned his back on the Prince of Wales and strode defiantly from the room.

He walked along the narrow passageway until he entered the hall. The main door was hanging open, and two maids were attending to the unconscious Barclay. They looked up at Newbury in apparent fascination. He ignored them, heading directly for the door.

As he stepped over the still-prone form of the butler, he heard the Prince bellowing loudly and fretfully for the man from the bowels of the house. Newbury spared a weak, sad smile for the maids on his way out the door.

“How is she?” said Bainbridge, as he bustled through the door to Newbury’s drawing room, forgoing the usual formalities. He was anxious to hear word of Veronica, and also to check on his old friend, who was taking it very badly indeed. Two days had passed, and Bainbridge had been busy dealing with the aftermath of the whole affair: fighting off reporters, placating the Queen, informing the families of the Executioner’s victims.

He didn’t yet know what had happened to the Executioner’s corpse, which was missing from the scene, or what had become of the Prince of Wales, who had not been seen since the morning after the events at the abandoned hotel.

Newbury, however, was sitting cross-legged on the rug before the hearth, surrounded by an impressive spread of newspaper cuttings, open books, and sheaves of notepaper covered in his spidery scrawl. He’d pushed the furniture back to create a temporary space in which to work, researching-Bainbridge gathered-potential engineers who might be able to craft a new heart for Veronica.

“Is there anything to report?” Bainbridge prompted, when no response was forthcoming.

Newbury didn’t look up. “There’s been no change,” he said absently. He continued to study the open book on his lap. Bainbridge could see it contained diagrammatic illustrations of the inner workings of clockwork machinery.

Bainbridge sighed heavily. At least the room, for once, did not carry the stink of opium smoke. In fact, the window was slightly ajar, and the curtains open. For the first time in weeks, there was natural light spilling in. If there was one good thing about the whole affair, it was that it may have shaken Newbury from his more detrimental habits. For a while, at least.

“She’s stable, then,” said Bainbridge, for lack of anything else to say.

This time, Newbury did glance up. His expression was fierce. “She’s dying, Charles!” he said, angrily. “She has no heart, and she is dying.” He looked away, and the anger suddenly dispersed, replaced instead by an anguished, haunted look. “What’s worse is that there’s very little you or I can do about it,” he continued, after a short while.

The moment stretched. Bainbridge hardly knew what to say to the man. He couldn’t reassure him that everything was going to be well, because he fully suspected it might not. And he couldn’t tell him not to embark on some ill-fated folly to find a new heart for the girl, because all that would achieve was Newbury giving him the cold shoulder. The best thing he could do under the circumstances, he decided, was to offer his support and ensure that Newbury was at least looking after himself. “You cannot continue to blame yourself for what happened,” he said, in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.

“If I’d listened to Aldous, Charles … if I’d taken the threat of the Cabal seriously, then I might have arrived back here in time to stop her. I might have saved her life.” His voice cracked with emotion as he spoke.

“You did save her life, Newbury,” replied Bainbridge, softly. He could understand that deep sense of guilt, that need Newbury felt to replay those fateful events over and over in his mind, looking for things he might have done differently. Bainbridge had gone through a similar process with Isobel.

At least he was beginning to grieve now. It might make things more bearable later, when the inevitable happened.

“Temporarily, perhaps,” said Newbury. “But I will not rest, Charles. I’ll scour the Continent, or farther afield if necessary. I’ll find her a heart.”

Bainbridge shrugged out of his heavy overcoat and laid it across the back of the divan. He balanced his cane beside it. “Well, at least allow yourself a few moments to have a drink with a friend. You need a rest.”

Newbury nodded in silent acquiescence. He placed his book carefully on the floor and stood, trying to avoid disturbing the neat stacks of paper.

Bainbridge set about pouring them a drink, while Newbury pulled over two armchairs. They settled by the window, with the sound of bustling people and horses carrying through from the street outside.

“So, what of the Prince?” said Newbury, accepting his drink.

Bainbridge smiled. “Indeed. What of the Prince,” he echoed. “I know you went there, Newbury, to Marlborough House. There’s no use denying it. I heard about the butler’s unfortunate ‘accident.’”

“The damnable wretch deserved it,” said Newbury, taking a sip of his brandy.

“He wanted to press charges,” said Bainbridge.

“I’ll bet he did,” replied Newbury. “Although I doubt it would do him much good. I imagine there’s plenty of evidence that places him squarely in the dock alongside the Prince. He knew everything that was going on in that house. I’ll wager he was privy to the Prince’s plans. Probably even helped them along a bit, to curry favour.”

“Foulkes will be keeping an eye on him for the foreseeable future,” said Bainbridge. “But that wasn’t why you went there, was it? For the butler, I mean.”

Newbury glanced out of the window, as if avoiding the question. When he looked back, his expression was pained. He was searching for Bainbridge’s understanding. “I needed to hear him say it, Charles. I needed the Prince to admit what he’d done. I didn’t go there to threaten him, or strike him, as much as it might have granted me some satisfaction. I went there to see the expression on his face as he told me what he’d done.”