The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (29 page)

“More than you might have imagined,” Bainbridge replied, quietly. If the other man heard, he made no mention of it.

Bainbridge crossed the room to join his friend in the doorway, taking his still-damp coat and slipping it over his shoulders.

“Oh, and one more thing,” said Newbury, putting a hand on Bainbridge’s arm. “Merry Christmas, Charles.”

Bainbridge felt all of the tension suddenly drain out of him. Here, before him, was his old friend, ready to face the world by his side. For now, at least. “Merry Christmas, Newbury,” he said, and together, the two of them made their way down the hall towards the blizzard, relishing the opportunity to spend their Christmas Eve together at the morgue.

Neither of them, Bainbridge reflected, could have been happier.

The crisp, white snow crunched beneath her boots as she tentatively approached the scene, Newbury beside her.

The man lay abandoned on Curzon Street, isolated and alone. He had suffered the most horrific of deaths: his stomach burst open by a legion of tiny mechanical spiders, hatched in his gut. The glittering creatures still scuttled about in the ruins of his innards. Beneath him, the blood was a crimson shadow upon the blank canvas of the snow.

“How did they get inside of him?” asked Veronica, disgusted.

“I have no idea,” said Newbury, quietly. “But I intend to find out.”

It was five days before Christmas, and Veronica was once again in the morgue.

“The fourth victim in as many days,” said Bainbridge, frowning, as if he expected Newbury to simply pluck the solution from thin air.

“Each killed from within by these tiny brass beasts,” said

Newbury, turning over one of the gleaming spiders in his palm.

“And all worked for the same firm of solicitors,” said Veronica, trying not to look at the corpse. Its face was livid purple and fixed in an anguished scream.

“Yes,” said Newbury, thoughtfully. “And all had theatre ticket stubs in their pockets.”

“Could someone be targeting your employees?”

Tarquin Grundy shrugged. “Perhaps. We handle all manner of cases, Sir Maurice: criminal, domestic, corporate. We’re regularly on the wrong end of threatening remarks.”

“Anything specific?”

“A rival firm, Jones & Jones. They have a habit of getting a little too close to the criminals they represent. I’d wager they’re not above a spot of espionage.”

“We’ll look into it,” said Newbury. “What else?”

“There
was
a recent matter,” continued the solicitor, “involving a newspaper publisher, Julian Petrie. We acted for the prosecution. He threatened our man as he was sent down; with death.”

On Bedford Square, close to the solicitor’s office, a street vendor in a top hat was selling bowls of hot, spiced punch to passers-by. His solicitations echoed off the nearby buildings. People swarmed.

Veronica waited in the queue, smiling. She exchanged coppers for steaming bowls.

Together, the three investigators sipped at their drinks beneath the boughs of a snow-covered oak, staving off the brisk chill.

“I’ll look into this Petrie fellow,” said Bainbridge.

“While we pay a visit to Jones & Jones,” said Newbury.

“And don’t forget,” said Veronica, grinning. “Someone has to arrange a visit to the theatre...”

The offices of Jones & Jones were unsavoury, dilapidated, but with a veneer of elegance that suggested the firm had recently lavished money upon them. The solicitors themselves, however, were unable to maintain this implied respectability; shabby and coarse, the two men ogled her and cursed Grundy for his accusations. Newbury drew the interview to a close within minutes, taking her arm and leading her out into the street.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” asked Newbury.

“Getting me out of there.”

He looked perplexed. “Well, it’s clear they didn’t do it.”

“Why?”

“They lack the subtlety,” he said, grinning.

Petrie, it transpired, had not fared well in prison, and had been found swinging from his belt in a cell two days earlier.

“A dead end,” said Bainbridge, sighing. “Literally.”

“Not necessarily,” said Newbury. “He might have had friends.”

“Not many,” replied Bainbridge. “He was sent down for blackmail. He’d alienated most of his acquaintances.”

“What of his newspaper?” asked Veronica.

“The
Mayfair Chronicle
,” said Bainbridge. “That’s next. Perhaps there might be some residual loyalty amongst his former colleagues.”

“Enough to start a murderous spree in revenge?” said Newbury, doubtful.

“I’ve known people commit murder for less,” replied Bainbridge, darkly.

Newbury escorted her to the theatre, where they witnessed a seasonal spectacular replete with moaning spectres, murderous shenanigans and clockwork splendour; entire set pieces that came alive before her eyes—a revolving stage, a mechanical hound, a sword-fighting brass idol with six limbs.

Backstage, they found the engineer responsible for such marvels, hunched in his dimly lit workshop. He claimed to know nothing of the solicitors who had visited the theatre and then died, nor of the spiders which had killed them.

“Is it him?” she asked afterwards, unsure.

“It could be,” said Newbury. “But what is his motive? And how?”

“My investigations at the
Mayfair Chronicle
turned up little,” said Bainbridge. “Petrie was universally reviled, tolerated only because he paid the salary bill. I could find no motive for revenge. Indeed, many of the men working there argued Grundy had done them a great favour.”

“Likewise, I fear Jones & Jones is a dead end,” replied Newbury. “They lack the means and initiative, and I do not believe they represent a viable professional threat to Grundy’s business.”

“The engineer at the theatre?” said Veronica.

“We cannot prove a connection,” said Newbury, “or a motive. I fear I’m at a complete loss.”

Ever since she’d been a little girl, Veronica had adored Christmas; the scent of roasting chestnuts, the crisp winter air, plentiful gifts wrapped in gaudy paper. As a child she’d strived to bring the season to life for her sister, Amelia, who was often bedridden with her illness.

This year she had the opportunity to do so again, to recapture the magic of their youth and spend the day in secretive solitude in Malbury Cross. She only hoped the unsolved deaths would not intervene; she feared it might be Amelia’s last Christmas, and she wished to be at her side.

They held a conference at Chelsea, taking tea before the fire.

“Well, I’m damned if I have any notion of what’s going on,” said Bainbridge, morosely.

“And we’ve another two people dead,” said Veronica. “We’re no closer to discovering how those machines got inside of them.” She took a sip from her teacup.

“That’s it!” said Newbury, laughing, jumping to his feet. He had that wild look in his eye that Veronica knew so well. He’d been struck by inspiration.

“What is?” she said.

“I’m in the mood for a bowl of hot punch,” he said, heading for the door.

The street vendor knew it was over as soon as he saw Newbury stalking through the snow. He abandoned his stall and fled; Newbury gave chase, wrestled him to the ground, bloodying his nose in the process.

He struggled desperately, but when he saw Bainbridge standing by with his cane, and Veronica wielding her hatpin, he relented. “I’ll talk,” he said, sobbing. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Newbury hauled him to his feet. “Most satisfactory,” he said. “We can converse on the way to the Yard.”

“I want a solicitor.”

“I think it’s a bit late for that,” said Bainbridge, wryly.

“So you’re saying he was spiking their drinks with those tiny machines?” said Bainbridge.

“Indeed,” replied Newbury. “They were barely noticeable amongst the fruit and spices in his punch. He reserved the poisoned bowls for the colleagues of his patron, Grundy. They’d discovered Grundy had been falsifying evidence to aid convictions.”

“And once inside, the little machines would activate and burrow their way out?” asked Veronica.

“Precisely. Hours later, they’d kill the victim. Grundy procured the machines from the engineer at the theatre.”

“Remarkable,” sighed Bainbridge.

The clock chimed.

“It’s nearly Christmas!” said Veronica.

Newbury grinned. “Right! Who’s for punch?”

“A ticket for the
Argus?
I’m getting a bit old for this sort of thing, you know, Mr Rutherford. Besides, I don’t have a particularly good track record when it comes to boats. There was that dreadful business on board the
Olympiad,
and I was, of course, aboard the
Titanic
when she went down. Are you sure you want to curse the
Argus
to a similar fate?”

The man—a dapper-looking fellow in his late sixties, with silver hair swept back from his forehead and a youthful physique that belied his age—delivered this with a playful twinkle in his eye.

“I wasn’t aware you were on the
Titanic
, Sir Maurice,” said Rutherford, failing to hide his surprise. “Was Miss Hobbes travelling with you at the time?”

Newbury shook his head. “No. Mercifully, I was alone.”

“A mission?” prompted Rutherford. He wasn’t really supposed to delve into Newbury’s past case history—many of his exploits were now considered state secrets—but he was intrigued, and he couldn’t really see what harm it could do. They were, after all, sitting alone in the Whitehall offices of the British Secret Service. It was unlikely they were going to be overheard.

“In a manner of speaking. There was a woman...” said Newbury, with a distant smile.

“A woman?” asked Rutherford, surprised.

“Yes. But not how you think. It was never like that.” He paused for a moment, as if conjuring up her ghost. “Well. Not really. Her name was Clarissa Karswell, and she was one of the most remarkable women I ever met,” continued Newbury, wistfully.

“Praise indeed, given the nature of your usual company,” said Rutherford.

“Quite. Miss Karswell was certainly a unique example of her sex. She was an agent, of sorts, although it was never entirely clear for which agency she operated. Perhaps, in hindsight, she worked only for herself. She was known to others by the code name ‘Lady Arkwell’.”

“And you had been charged with bringing her in?” asked Rutherford, withdrawing his silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket and offering it to Newbury.

Newbury declined with a polite wave of his hand, so Rutherford took one of the thin American cigarettes for himself and pulled the ignition tab, watching it flare briefly to life.

“A long time ago. Just after the turn of the century. Her Majesty the Queen tasked me with locating Ms. Karswell and bringing her to heel.” Newbury chuckled quietly to himself. “I never managed it, of course. We danced an intricate waltz over the years, sometimes finding ourselves diametrically opposed, on other occasions joining forces to battle a common foe.” He sighed. “Even now, I miss her terribly. I could always count on her to liven things up a bit. She, Mr Rutherford, was the one that got away.”

Rutherford frowned. “So this ‘Lady Arkwell’—she was the reason you were aboard the
Titanic?”

Newbury grinned. “She was travelling under an assumed name. Her intention—I believe—was to smuggle some stolen relics into New York. They were the spoils of a British expedition to the Congo—the famed expedition that uncovered the ruins of an ancient civilisation in the jungle, still overrun with giant, carnivorous birds. I encountered those wretched things on more than one occasion, and I can tell you, Mr Rutherford, they were beautiful, but deadly creatures. That, however, is another story entirely...” he said, smiling playfully.

“Anyway, it appeared that Miss Karswell had purloined the priceless artefacts from the British Museum, and she hoped to pass them off to a coterie of rich American collectors upon arrival in New York.” Newbury shrugged. “They never made it to America, of course. Now they’re languishing somewhere at the bottom of the ocean.”

“They were lost with the ship when she hit the iceberg?”

Newbury grinned. “Ah, so you don’t know.”

“Don’t know... what, exactly?” Rutherford realised he was leaning forward in his chair, drawn further and further into Newbury’s burgeoning tale. He took another draw on his cigarette, allowing the smoke to plume from his nostrils.

“What really happened. The reason the
Titanic
went down,” said Newbury, with an amused grin.

“You mean to say she didn’t strike an iceberg?” Rutherford frowned. “It’s well established. The reports all say—”

“Reports are written, Mr Rutherford, by those who survive, and published by those who wish to control the opinions of others,” said Newbury, cutting him off. “I, on the other hand, was there, and saw it with my own eyes. I felt the chill embrace of that water as it clutched at me and tried to drag me to a watery grave. I watched the
Titanic
sink beneath the waves.”

Rutherford stared at Newbury, utterly fascinated. “So what did happen, Sir Maurice? If she didn’t strike the iceberg... Something must have done for her,” he said.

“Oh, it most certainly did. And to this day, I’m still not entirely sure what it was,” replied Newbury. “It was the most dreadful thing, a thing of nightmares...” He broke off, and for a moment looked unsure as to whether he would continue. “I’m rather getting ahead of myself,” he said, finally, reaching for the glass of water Rutherford had placed between them on the low table. He took a swig of it, and then peered disapprovingly at the glass. “Haven’t you anything stronger?”

Rutherford laughed. “There’s a bottle of brandy in Major Absalom’s drawer,” he said, rising from his seat. “I’ll fetch it.”

“Good man,” said Newbury, draining the water and sliding the glass across the table. “Water will never do.”

Rutherford rummaged around in the top drawer of his superior’s desk until he found the bottle he knew to be hidden there. He’d have to replace it before Absalom discovered it was missing, but it would be worth it. It wasn’t every day he was able to coerce such a legendary figure into giving up one of his tales. He crossed to the table and glugged out a generous measure, before dropping back into his seat.