George Mann - The Executioner's heart

“To look for remorse?” asked Bainbridge, surprised.

“Perhaps,” said Newbury. “I don’t really know.”

“Well, it’s in the hands of the Queen now. It remains to be seen if she’ll send him to the gallows for treason,” said Bainbridge, before taking a long draught of his brandy. “Although it’s a rum business to have to face your own child in such circumstances. I’m not convinced I could do it.”

“The irony is,” said Newbury, “I think we might have been better off if he had succeeded. He might have changed things for the better. Under the circumstances, however, I cannot forgive him. I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done, whatever becomes of him.”

“If only he’d found another way,” said Bainbridge, morosely. “If he’d asked for our help, rather than making us his enemies.”

“He was consumed by his own hubris,” said Newbury. “And at the end, when it was all out in the open, he spoke of an abomination, a child grown in a laboratory. It was the thing that tipped the balance. He seemed to suggest that the Queen would favour this child over him, displacing him as the rightful heir to the throne.”

“He’s done a darn good job of ensuring that,” said Bainbridge, pointedly. “But it’s the first I’ve heard of this child. It may, of course, have simply been the ramblings of a deluded man. He cannot have been in his right mind.”

Newbury frowned. “No. I mean, you’re right-he was undoubtedly suffering from grave disillusionment, to the point of inducing madness-but the child bears investigating all the same. I think it might be the product of one of Dr. Fabian’s more unsavoury experiments at the Grayling Institute. I understand he was dabbling in such things.”

Bainbridge nodded. “I’ll brief Archibald on the matter,” he said.

“The investigation continues, then?” said Newbury, his interest piqued.

“For now,” replied Bainbridge, still unsure how much to say on the subject, “Archibald will continue to keep the Queen under observation.”

“And what about you, Charles? Where will this all end?” said Newbury, gulping down the last of his brandy.

“Who knows, Maurice?” replied Bainbridge, with a shrug. “For now I’m just content to carry on. Someone has to.”

“It’s a dangerous game,” said Newbury, “but when this business with Veronica is over and she’s back on her feet, I’d like to help.”

Bainbridge nodded. He couldn’t help but smile, despite everything, at his friend’s candour. “We’ll get through this, Newbury. Whatever happens.”

Newbury gave a fleeting smile, and stood, dusting himself off. “I must continue with my research,” he said, glancing over at the book he’d left lying open on the floor.

“Oh, right. Yes. I’d better be off, then,” said Bainbridge, levering himself up out of his chair.

Newbury stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “You can stay, if you like. Pour yourself another drink. It’ll be good to have company while I work.”

Bainbridge nodded. “For a little while, then,” he said. It was rare for Newbury to openly invite anyone to remain while he worked, and a signifier of precisely how much support he needed. “As long as you don’t mind if I smoke.”

Newbury laughed. “Of course not, you old fool. Now, go and tell Scarbright to put a kettle on the stove, will you? I’ve had enough of brandy and maudlin. I’m in need of a pot of tea.”

“Right you are, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, grinning. His friend returned to his spot by the hearth, reclaimed his book, and immediately lost himself in its pages. “Right you are.”

“Come forward, child. Come into the light where we can see you.”

Alberta did as she was commanded, shuffling forward into the soft orb of light cast by the Queen’s lantern. The monarch turned to her and smiled, flashing the stumps of her blackened teeth. “Ah, there you are, Alberta,” she said. She held her lantern up so that it swung back and forth on its creaking handle, scattering ghosts. “Today we must continue with your education.”

Alberta gave a solitary nod. Her lips did not betray the turmoil roiling in her belly. It was not that she was scared of her adoptive mother-although, perhaps, on reflection, there was a small modicum of fear. It was more that she wished not to disappoint. The punishments for such disappointment were grave indeed. This she had discovered during the many months of rigorous preparation she had so far endured, the training lavished upon her by the Queen to equip her for her future role as monarch.

Alberta looked up at the Queen, whose demeanour remained unchanged: ever vigilant, ever waking. She looked sickly in her massive, engine-like chair: pale, with dark rings beneath her eyes. A thick bundle of cables and tubing now sprouted from the back of the device, fanning out across the tiled floor behind her and trailing off into the shadows. These were new. Another improvement devised by the odious Dr. Warrender, no doubt; another of his desperate attempts to keep the monarch-and thus, her patronage-alive.

Alberta was disgusted by these machines, the industry with which they whirred and groaned and wheezed as they fought to keep the decrepit woman alive. And yet, she could not deny the stirring of pity that she felt for her adoptive mother, nor the respect and affinity she had for the effectiveness of her rule. If there was one thing she had learned during her indoctrination, it was that the Queen, despite her circumstances and eccentricities, was an effective and dedicated ruler.

“Today, child,” said the Queen, startling Alberta from her thoughts, “we shall talk of loyalty.”

“Loyalty, Your Majesty?” echoed Alberta.

“Loyalty to family,” said the Queen. “Loyalty to the Empire. Loyalty to what is good and proper.”

Alberta nodded. “I believe I understand, Your Majesty,” she said.

The Queen ignored her reply. “You shall learn of loyalty, Alberta, by looking upon the face of a traitor. One who would put his own interests above those of his country and his monarch. One whose greed became absolute and utterly consumed him.”

“Of whom do you speak, Your Majesty?”

“See for yourself,” replied Victoria, placing the lantern in the crease of her lap and grasping the wooden wheels on either side of her chair. She rolled herself forward, slowly and painfully.

Alberta gasped as she realised there was another person with them in the audience chamber. As the diffuse light of the lantern moved closer, she saw a man sitting in the shadows, bound to a chair, arms pinned behind his back. His legs were tied to the chair, and he was wearing a cloth gag so that he could not speak. It looked decidedly uncomfortable. He was a portly man, balding, with a large grey beard and hooded eyes that scowled at the monarch with ill-concealed rage. His grey suit was rumpled and creased, and stained with spots of what appeared to be spilled blood. She could not tell if it was his own.

Alberta recognised him at once. “Is this not…” She hesitated, unsure for a moment whether to continue. She decided it was better to go on rather than remain silent, under the circumstances. “Is this not your son, Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales, Your Majesty?” she asked, her tone level.

The Queen emitted a wet, rasping cackle. “It is a traitor,” she replied, “and all traitors are as one in the eyes of the Empress. Remember that, Alberta. Blood shall count as nothing in circumstances such as these. Those who would betray us must pay dearly for their sins.”

Alberta said nothing, but stared silently, curiously, at the pale face of the Prince.

Albert Edward raged in his chair at the Queen’s words, struggling to break free and cursing ineffectually from behind his gag. His bonds, however, were expertly tied, and he did not have the strength to break them.