The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (23 page)

“The next thing anyone heard of the manuscript it had passed into the hands of an aristocrat named Henry Carvill almost a hundred years later. Carvill was a renowned occultist and went on to found the organisation that today is known as ‘The Cabal of the Horned Beast’, within whose headquarters we now sit. The manuscript has been held in their vault here in London ever since.”

“Fascinating, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, in a tone that made it clear he thought the lecture to be anything but. “You do have a taste for these musty old books.” He shook his head, indicating that, in truth, he already knew the answer to his next question. “So, do I assume that you’ve had the good sense to copy these all-important missing passages, and that now you’ll be able to return the original book to its owners to secure our release?”

“No, no, Charles. I fear it’s not that simple. The book itself is the key, the true artefact. The words it contains are irrevocably entwined with the pages upon which they are written. The two are inseparable. Without the original manuscript, the words themselves mean nothing.”

Bainbridge expelled a heavy sigh. “I feared you’d say something like that,” he said. He offered Newbury a weary smile. “So, where is it now?”

“I told them that you had it.”

“You
what?”
Bainbridge exclaimed, looking utterly flabbergasted. He stammered for a moment. “You... you
what
?” he repeated.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” said Newbury, his voice low and even. “I didn’t want to get you mixed up in all of this. But I needed to get a message out, to let you know where I was. I knew that you and Miss Hobbes would assume the worst, believing that I’d once again succumbed to the lure of the opium dens. As a consequence, I feared I might be dead before you discovered the truth. So, during one of the many beatings I’ve been forced to endure, I set them on your trail as a means of alerting you to what had occurred.”

“Well, a damn lot of good it’s done you, Newbury! Look at us both! I can hardly help you escape from in here. All you’ve actually managed to achieve is that we’re both now trapped in the lion’s den.”

Newbury smiled sadly. “I’m truly sorry, Charles. I couldn’t see what else to do.”

Bainbridge’s shoulders slumped. The fight had gone out of him. “You know I’ll always help you, Newbury, any way I can. But this is a dangerous game you’re playing...”

Newbury inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I know that, Charles.” He could tell that Bainbridge was furious with him, but also that, in a way, he understood. Newbury had taken the only option he’d had left. Well,
almost
the only option... he might have remained silent, therefore sealing his own fate but ensuring the safety of his friends. He wondered if Bainbridge would have made the same choices.

The chief inspector pulled himself up on shaky legs. “Well, there’s little use in sitting here like a pair of old men. Have you tried to prise the bars off that window?” He crossed the room, grasped hold of the iron grille and gave it a sharp tug. It didn’t budge.

“It’s no use, Charles. I’ve been over this room a hundred times. They have us trapped. There are no means of escape. But I need you to trust me. All will be well.”

“All will be well!” Newbury could hear the incredulity in Bainbridge’s voice. “People like this, Newbury, like these cultists—they’re not rational. I mean... what have they even got planned for us? Something diabolical, I imagine.”

“Well, eventually, I suppose, they’ll want to sacrifice us to their pagan gods. They hold a belief that the lifespan of every human being is predetermined, that the moment of a person’s natural death is a fixed point in time. They also maintain, however, that if the correct rites are observed, then the early death—the sacrifice—of a person can release the unspent potential of that life, the years that belong to that body but have not yet been lived. When they’re done with us, they’ll kill us for our remaining years, given the opportunity.”

“Well, they won’t get much from me!” said Bainbridge, finally forgoing his anger in favour of a hearty laugh. “They’d be better off with a younger model.” He was clearly astounded by the absurdity of it all. He crossed to the fireplace, gazing down at Newbury. “You see what I mean? Irrational poppycock!”

Newbury grinned, weighing his next words carefully. “They won’t kill us, so long as they believe we still have the book. The book is more important to them.”

Bainbridge shook his head. “So, truthfully, where is the book?”

Newbury frowned. “It’s better that you don’t know, Charles. For a whole variety of reasons.”

“I’m beginning to feel like there’s a lot I don’t know.” There was a warning note in his voice. The tone of their conversation had shifted once again.

“I could argue just the same, Charles,” said Newbury. “All that time you’ve been spending with the Home Secretary and his new bureau...”

“State business! There’s a difference, Newbury. You’re gambling with our lives over a triviality!”

Newbury clenched his fists in frustration. He wished he could tell his friend the truth: that he’d done it for Veronica, that he’d stolen the book to help her sister, Amelia, and that somehow, incredibly, the rituals it contained were helping to heal her, to calm her tempestuous, clairvoyant mind. But Bainbridge believed Amelia to have perished in the siege of the Grayling Institute earlier that year, and Newbury had given his word to Veronica that he would not reveal the truth to anyone—not even Bainbridge. “I can assure you, Charles, that it’s anything
but
a triviality...”

“That’s all well and good, Newbury, but what I was—” Bainbridge’s reply was cut short by a thunderous bang from further up the hallway, followed by angry shouting and cries of alarm. He glanced at Newbury with a quizzical expression.

“Ah, here comes the cavalry!” said Newbury, his face splitting into a wide grin.

“What? I’m not following you, man! What’s going on?” There was the sound of pounding feet from outside the cell door, accompanied by grunting and the soft thuds of blows being struck.

“Stand back, Charles!”

Bainbridge did as he was told, stepping to one side just in time to avoid being caught in the wake of the splintering door as it caved inward and a body came tumbling through, sprawling to the floor at Newbury’s feet.

The body belonged to a thing that had once been a man, but had been so debased, so
altered,
as to no longer resemble a human being in any conventional sense. Both of its hands had been replaced by lethal-looking steel pincers, and its lower jaw had been removed, exchanged for a brace of fierce enamel tusks that had been wired directly into its skull. They opened and closed spasmodically as the man-thing struggled to right itself.

Transparent tubing erupted from six evenly spaced points on its chest, coiling round beneath its arms and disappearing into two metal panels on its back. Strange, pinkish fluid coursed and bubbled through the pipework, and what flesh remained was covered in scrawled runes and wards.

The creature twisted its head to glare at Newbury, and he was struck by the sheer terror in its eyes. He couldn’t help feeling a deep sense of pity for this thing that used to be a man. He wondered if there was enough intelligence left for it to be aware of its situation, if the former human being knew to what atrocious depths it had sunk. Clearly the creature had been somehow manufactured by the Cabal to guard their lair.

Newbury watched in appalled fascination as the man-thing rolled on to its back and used its pincers to lever itself up on to its feet once again.

Simultaneously, a black-robed figure leapt through the ruins of the shattered doorway. It looked identical to those who had set upon Newbury in Chelsea and the others he had encountered at the house since his incarceration. In its right hand the cultist was brandishing what looked—to all intents and purposes—like Bainbridge’s missing cane. Its face was shrouded in the shadows of the hood.

For a moment the two figures circled one another, the man-thing’s vicious jaws snapping open and closed, its deadly pincers raised. Then, seeing an opening, it rushed forward, charging the cultist. The robed figure demonstrated lightning-fast reactions, ducking and weaving out of the way of the snapping pincers, which threatened to decapitate it at any moment, slashing at the air where the cultist’s head had been only seconds before.

In response the cultist lashed out with a sharp kick, striking the man-thing on the left knee and causing it to buckle over and howl in pain. An elbow followed swiftly to the side of its head and it staggered woozily, almost losing its balance.

The robed figure wasted no time, taking its opponent’s momentary disorientation as an opportunity to bring its weapon to bear.

The cultist twisted the head of the walking cane in its hand, causing the wooden shaft to begin to unpack itself with unerring mechanical precision. Four thin panels levered open, beginning to revolve at speed, spinning around a central glass chamber that began to pulse with blue electrical light. Newbury smiled. So it
was
Bainbridge’s cane.

Seeming to recover itself, the man-thing lurched forward, again raising its right pincer and opening its jaws as if it intended to pin and gore the cultist. The robed figure was too quick, however, and danced out of the way, raising the shimmering lightning cane, thrusting it forward and down so that the sharp metal tip penetrated the soft flesh of the man-thing’s gut. There was a terrifying
clap
as the weapon discharged its ferocious electrical storm directly into the creature’s belly. Its body shuddered violently as the power coursed through it, causing its pincers to spasm open and closed, dancing electric light sparking between them.

After a moment, the charge dissipated and the man-thing’s corpse slumped back to a heap on the floor, the shaft of Bainbridge’s cane still protruding from its midriff. The stench of charred meat filled the room.

Newbury grinned. Bainbridge was staring at the scene, mouth agape. The hooded figure turned towards them and with one swift movement, raised their hands and folded back their cowl, revealing the pretty face beneath.

“Miss Hobbes!”

Veronica offered Bainbridge a lopsided grin, shaking out her long brown hair. “Hello, Sir Charles.” She reached down, grabbed the handle of the lightning cane and wrenched it free from the still-smouldering corpse of the abomination on the floor. She twisted the head sharply to the left and the cane repacked itself, becoming once again nothing but an ornate walking stick. She held it out to Bainbridge. “I think you must have dropped this.”

Bainbridge took the cane from her, staring at it in bewilderment as if he didn’t recognise it or know what to say. “I’m... I’m astounded, Miss Hobbes. Thank you.”

Veronica chuckled, turning her attention to Newbury, who had remained slumped on the floor throughout the proceedings, looking up at her, filled with admiration.

“I got your message,” she said, reaching down, clasping his arm and hauling him to his feet. He wavered there unsteadily, clinging on to her for fear he might black out at any moment.

“Your message!” Newbury turned to look at Bainbridge, who was eyeing him from across the room. “The message you said you’d despatched? The reason you sent these devil-worshipping oafs after me in the first place! It wasn’t a message for me at all, was it? It was a message for Miss Hobbes!” He regarded them both, a look of consternation upon his face. “I was the message. I was never anything but a sacrificial pawn!”

Newbury grinned. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, Charles. You were excellent company, too.”

“Of all the...” Bainbridge had turned a particularly bright shade of cerise. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words were forthcoming.

“I told you, Charles—I had little choice. I knew Veronica would discover what had happened and would follow you here. It had been three days, and I was sure my own trail would have grown cold. I counted on Miss Hobbes realising it was too much of a coincidence that you should be abducted too, and that she would strike out immediately to find you.”

“And by extension you, too, Newbury,” replied Bainbridge.

“Quite so.”

“Well, you’ve got some nerve. I’ll give you that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“It ruddy well wasn’t meant as one!” replied Bainbridge, but he was laughing as he said it.

Newbury could hear a commotion breaking out throughout the house now, raised voices and the distant clamour of fighting. He glanced at Veronica, who indicated the figure standing in the doorway, two uniformed men by his side. “I went immediately to Inspector Foulkes, who mustered a small army of constables. They’re rooting out the cultists as we speak.”

“Thank you once again, Miss Hobbes,” said Bainbridge, turning to Inspector Foulkes, who was watching the exchange with interest. “Well, Foulkes? Don’t just stand there! Round up the lot of these scoundrels! Newbury tells me we’re likely to find evidence of all manner of bizarre practices to charge them with, not least human sacrifice and treason. And then there’s the assault of a police officer, and kidnapping, of course...” His voice trailed off as he bustled through the doorway and out on to the landing beyond, where Newbury could hear him snapping out orders to the gaggle of uniformed men awaiting him.

Foulkes met Newbury’s eye and shrugged, a broad grin on his face. “I’m glad you’re well, Sir Maurice.” He glanced after Bainbridge. “Best get after him,” he said, and then disappeared the way he had come, hurrying to catch up with the chief inspector.

Newbury turned to Veronica, and then stumbled, barely able to support himself after three days with very little food and water, and round after round of torturous beatings. Veronica stepped forward and caught him by the shoulders, holding him upright. “Are you alright, Maurice?” The concern was evident on her face. “I mean, I know you’re hurt...”

“I knew you’d come,” he said, smiling warmly. “I knew you’d work it out.”

“It was a hell of a risk,” she said, although it sounded more like a compliment than an admonishment. “And the look on Sir Charles’s face...”

Newbury laughed, loudly, and then collapsed into her arms as the world closed in around him and unconsciousness finally took hold.