The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (28 page)

He was currently lounging on his sofa, his head resting upon one of the arms, his feet balancing upon the other. His collar was askew, his hair a tangled mess, and he was blowing smoke rings into the air above his head, watching them drift away languorously and melt into the corners of the room.

He turned his head fractionally to glance at Bainbridge, and although his expression was far from unwelcoming, he did not appear overjoyed to see his friend standing over him. He returned to blowing smoke rings for a moment before speaking.

“I suppose you’re going to berate me and tell me to put this out immediately?” said Newbury, waving his opium-tainted cigarette lackadaisically in Bainbridge’s general direction. Blue smoke curled from the end of it, describing twisting ribbons in the air.

“Do what you will,” Bainbridge replied, in what he considered to be a very reasonable tone.

Newbury twisted around sharply to look up at him, a question in his eyes.

Bainbridge chuckled and shrugged. “Well, it’s your ruddy house, and God knows I’ve stated my case enough times before. Besides, it’s Christmas. It wouldn’t do to get into a row.”

“Are you feeling quite well, Charles?” asked Newbury, this time with a wry smile.

Bainbridge sighed, and then issued a barking cough as he inhaled a lungful of the thick, sweet-smelling smoke. “Well, you
could
do the decent thing and at least open a window.”

Newbury laughed loudly and swung his feet down from the sofa. He leaned over to the coffee table and crumpled the remains of his cigarette into the ashtray, before hauling himself to his feet and crossing to the window. A moment later the room was filled with a cool, swirling gust, which stirred up the fire and banished the worst of the clinging smoke.

“If I’d realised it was that easy to have you extinguish your foul cigarettes, I’d have been more reasonable about it before,” said Bainbridge, with a chuckle. “It seems all that shouting was unnecessary.”

“Well, as you said, it
is
Christmas,” replied Newbury, with a shrug. Bainbridge watched as Newbury shifted a pile of books to make room for them both to sit by the fire. He’d lost weight, and he was looking a little gaunt.

“You’re not yourself, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, his tone a touch more serious than before. “You usually relish this time of year.”

“I’m bored, Charles,” said Newbury, waving his arm dramatically. “I have no interest in commonplace murder and petty villainy. After everything that’s happened... well, I simply cannot muster any enthusiasm for the mundane. I crave stimulation. I crave adventure.” He dropped into a Chesterfield and ran a hand through his unkempt hair, issuing a heartfelt sigh. “Nothing seems to hold my attention.” He shook his head, as if recognising how impetuous he sounded. “Oh, pour us a drink would you, Charles?”

Bainbridge sighed as he made his way over to the sideboard and began searching around for two clean tumblers. “Listen to yourself, Newbury! So damn melodramatic. You make it sound as if the world has suddenly stopped turning. As if you’ve somehow managed to solve every conceivable mystery of interest, and now you’ve found yourself redundant!”

“Haven’t I?” asked Newbury.

“Newbury, it’s been
two months
! Hardly a lifetime. And if we’re honest with one another, we both know you needed the rest. You’re simply growing stir-crazy because you refuse to leave your ruddy rooms.” Bainbridge glugged brandy into the glasses as he talked. “And besides, it’s not as if
I’m
not busy. You could always give me a hand if you’re at a loose end.” He collected the glasses and crossed the room, passing one to Newbury before lowering himself into the chair opposite. “Well, with the very best of the season and all that,” he said, raising his glass in Newbury’s direction.

Newbury smiled. “I take it you’re still coming to dinner tomorrow?”

Bainbridge took a long swig of brandy, rocking back in his seat with an appreciative sigh. “You just try to stop me! I wouldn’t risk missing one of Scarbright’s Christmas feasts.”

Newbury laughed. “And Angelchrist?”

“I believe so,” he said. “Although in truth our paths haven’t crossed for a number of weeks. We were supposed to meet at the club for dinner this week, but I had to postpone because of an incident in Shoreditch.”

“Ah, yes. The Revenant murder.”

Bainbridge was a little startled by this revelation that Newbury was already aware of the case he was investigating. “Yes... indeed so. But how did you know?”

Newbury shrugged. “As I explained, Charles, I’m bored. And I make it my business to remain informed, even if, as you so eloquently put it, I ‘refuse to leave my ruddy rooms’.”

Bainbridge flushed. “Then no doubt you’re already aware that the investigation has ground to a halt? Not that it ever really got started.”

“Indeed,” said Newbury.

“And you had no thoughts of offering your assistance?” Bainbridge felt at risk of losing the good mood that had so far possessed him that afternoon, but he fought away his aggravation. That was Newbury all over: dismissive of Bainbridge’s work, unless there was something in it that caught his attention, some peculiar or occult element that somehow made it stand out from the norm.

Newbury looked away, staring into the leaping flames of the fire as if he was instead staring through a window into another world. “I can’t see how I could be of assistance to you, Charles. Truthfully. People do terrible things to one another, and sometimes we’re able to punish them for it. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we’re even able to prevent it. But this time, I think you’re simply going to have to accept that you’re unable to attribute this horrible, random act of violence to any particular villain, as galling as that may be.”

“Perhaps,” said Bainbridge, softly. He took another swig of his brandy and allowed himself a little inward smile. So Newbury wasn’t aware of the entire picture, then. He could draw some satisfaction from that, at least.

“Is that why you’re here tonight? To solicit my help with your case? If so, Charles, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. There’s nothing in it for me. Nothing I can get my teeth into.”

Bainbridge placed his tumbler on the coffee table between them—or rather, on the pile of old newspapers that covered its surface. “Not at all, Newbury. I simply came to give you a gift.”

He watched as Newbury’s face fell in disappointment. “A gift? I... well, thank you, Charles.” Newbury turned to glance at the heap of parcels in the corner. “Although I fear I’ll have enough brandy and cigars to last a lifetime after tomorrow.”

Bainbridge couldn’t prevent himself from grinning. “Ah. I fear it’s not that sort of gift, Newbury.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved the small package he had placed there earlier. He handed it to Newbury. “Happy Christmas, dear chap.”

Newbury offered him a confused expression. “But you’re coming to dinner tomorrow, Charles. Is it not traditional for us to exchange gifts over a glass of port after dinner?”

Bainbridge laughed. “Just open the damn thing, Newbury!”

Shrugging, Newbury reached inside the small manila envelope and withdrew the object inside. His eyes widened in surprise as it dawned on him exactly what it was. “It’s made of bone!”

“Human finger bones, to be precise. Five of them.”

Newbury almost leapt out of his chair, dropping the envelope and turning the object over in his hands. He held it up to the light, studying it closely with a sudden gleam in his eye.

Bainbridge had received the thing that morning, left for him in the same unmarked envelope at the Yard. His reaction, upon opening it, had been quite the opposite of Newbury’s; he’d recoiled in fascinated horror, dropping the artefact immediately upon the open ledger on his desk. It was a talisman or occult token of some kind, a pentagram formed from a grisly assemblage of human finger bones, bound together with thin leather strips. The bones had been artificially bleached, and black script had been meticulously etched on to the smooth surfaces, written in an arcane language that Bainbridge—or anyone else at the Yard, for that matter—could not identify. And so he had brought it to Newbury, partly to ask for his help in identifying its purpose and meaning, but mostly because he knew it would arose his friend’s interest, particularly when he had occasion to read the accompanying note.

“It’s fascinating,” said Newbury, still scrutinising the object beneath the nearest wall-mounted gas lamp. “Where did you get it?”

“Someone left it at the Yard for me this morning,” said Bainbridge, leaning back in his chair and watching Newbury with an amused grin. “But you haven’t seen the best part yet, Newbury. Take another look inside the envelope.”

Newbury carefully placed the talisman on the cluttered mantelpiece beside the cat skull and specimen jars, and hurried back to where he had been sitting, scooping up the discarded envelope and fishing around inside until he found the little notecard. He pulled it free, tossing the envelope away again and then turning the card over so that he might read its message.

Bainbridge watched as Newbury’s face lit up in abject shock and surprise. The chief inspector had, of course, already committed the contents of the note to memory. It was written in a beautiful, flowing script, just four simple words on a cream-coloured notecard. Nevertheless, they were four words that would quicken Newbury’s heart and resurrect his enthusiasm for life, four words that would alter his opinion of Bainbridge’s case and send him running to collect his coat, despite the inclement weather, despite the date:

Regarding your corpse...

Clarissa

“She’s back!” Newbury exclaimed, and Bainbridge could hear the excitement in his voice.

“It does rather seem that way,” replied Bainbridge.

“Lady Arkwell, here in London once again. I believed her lost, dead...” he trailed off, evidently unable to find the appropriate words.

“We all did, Newbury.”

Lady Arkwell, or Clarissa Karswell, had proven to be a thorn in Newbury’s side during the course of the prior eighteen months. He had battled with her on numerous occasions and even, during one particular affair, formed a temporary alliance with the woman in the face of a common enemy. She purported to be a foreign agent, but as yet, Newbury had been unable to ascertain to which nation or organisation she was affiliated. The truth was, she had continued to outwit Newbury at every stage, even, it seemed, faking her own demise in order to throw him temporarily off her trail. Yet here she was, back in London and making the first move, using Bainbridge to re-engage Newbury as if anxious to continue with their little game. Bainbridge had often wondered if there wasn’t, in fact, something more to it than that, but that was nothing but idle speculation; he’d only met the woman on one occasion himself, and even then, he hadn’t known it was her until well after she had already gone.

Newbury, for his part, seemed genuinely invigorated by the challenge and always rose to the occasion, whenever she showed her hand. He’d confided in Bainbridge more than once that he found the woman to be a complex, unfathomable creature whose motives were dubious and opaque, but with whom he was incurably fascinated. She was neither nemesis nor friend, and Bainbridge found it hard to put his finger on exactly
what
she was. As far as he could tell, Newbury had yet to fathom that one himself, either.

Whatever the case, it was clear Newbury had a deep admiration for her, as well as a great deal of respect. He’d mourned her passing as if she’d been a close personal friend, which, in many ways, Bainbridge supposed, she probably was. It was clear Newbury had felt the loss of such an admirable opponent keenly. Such was the unusual nature of the relationship between them. Now, as Bainbridge had anticipated, the news that she was alive and returned to London had been more than enough to rouse him from his ennui.

“Regarding your corpse...” Newbury glanced up from the note to glower at Charles. “She means the corpse you found tied to that lamp post in Shoreditch?”

Bainbridge nodded but didn’t say a word.

“And you allowed me to spout all of that nonsense about giving up and accepting you would never find the killer? All the while with this in your pocket!”

“You seemed on such a roll, it was a shame to stop you,” Bainbridge replied cheerily.

The two men stared at each other for a moment across the drawing room, and then, almost simultaneously, they both broke out into heaving guffaws of laughter.

A moment later, when the laughter had subsided, Bainbridge stood and crossed to where Newbury was once again standing by the mantelpiece, examining the gruesome talisman. He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You want to see it? The corpse, I mean.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Bainbridge chuckled. “Fetch your coat then. It’s cold out.”

Newbury raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What? Now?”

“Why wait?”

“Because it’s snowing, and it’s Christmas Eve!”

Bainbridge rubbed his hands together before the fire. “There’ll be plenty of time for all that nonsense tomorrow. You’re not seriously telling me you’d rather remain here to play parlour games, are you? Not when there’s a case to be getting on with, and Lady Arkwell, somewhere out there in London, waiting for you to make the next move.”

Newbury eyed his friend for a moment, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Quite right, Charles. Quite right. To the morgue it is!”

Bainbridge watched as Newbury bustled around for a few moments, collecting up all the necessary articles he needed for an excursion into the snowy evening. He couldn’t help smiling to himself for a job well done, both on his part, and on the part of the mysterious Lady Arkwell. Her timing could not have been more perfect. He had no idea how she was connected to the dead man—whether her little parcel was intended as an admission of guilt or a helpful pointer in the right direction—but at this point he wasn’t all that concerned, either. The important thing was the effect it had had on Newbury. They could worry about Lady Arkwell’s motives later, together.

“Right. I think we’re ready to face the storm,” said Newbury, standing by the drawing room door, trussed up in his woollen overcoat and holding Bainbridge’s own overcoat in his gloved hands.