Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart by George Mann

Author:George Mann [Mann, George]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2013-07-09T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

17

“I’m afraid Sir Maurice is, shall we say … indisposed.”

Veronica made a brief appraisal of Scarbright, standing on the doorstep of Newbury’s house. He looked impeccable as always in his neatly cut suit, with starched collar and perfectly folded cravat. Nevertheless, the strain was showing somewhat in his expression. His eyes had narrowed, his lips pinched. He’d lost a modicum of his usual confidence. He was clearly embarrassed about the situation, and unsure how to respond.

“Indisposed. Ah, yes. Well, we both know what that means,” said Veronica, knowingly.

Scarbright gave a shrug, as if to say, What would you have me do?

“Never mind,” said Veronica, forcing a smile as she took the last two steps up to the house, gently nudging Scarbright aside with her left arm as she stepped into the hallway. “I’ll wait in the drawing room.”

Scarbright looked momentarily taken aback, and stammered as if to raise an objection, before sighing graciously in defeat. “Yes … well, quite so, miss.” He closed the door behind her. He probably knew already that she had no intention of waiting.

Veronica strolled brazenly down the familiar hallway, stopping before the panelled door to the drawing room. She rapped loudly. “Sir Maurice, may I come in?”

No answer.

She glanced back at Scarbright, who nodded, gave a strained smile, and motioned for her to enter. She turned the handle and stepped over the threshold, peering around for any sign of Newbury.

She couldn’t see him. She stepped further into the room and was assaulted by the cloying odour of stale smoke. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. She had to admit, however, that the place looked tidier than it had in months. Scarbright had obviously managed to get inside long enough to tidy away the spoiled food and crockery, the empty teapots, the overflowing ashtrays and abandoned wine bottles. He’d even managed to run a duster around the mantelpiece and draw back the curtains, allowing natural light to spill into the room for the first time in as long as Veronica could remember.

The room still bore the overbearing mark of its owner, however. Clutter filled every available nook and cranny. Books threatened to burst from the overstuffed shelves, and indeed had spilled out into piles on the armchairs and heaps upon the floor. Weird and wonderful objects lay scattered about the place: the cat skull on the mantel; an idol the size of a small child, with a staring, vacant expression on its stone face, a hole in its chest where its gemstone heart had once been; the clockwork owl he had inherited after one of his cases, silently regarding her from its perch above the dresser.

She moved over to peer at the divan where Newbury could often be found reclining in a state of repose during his opium-saturated episodes. Again, there was no sign of him.

Behind her, Scarbright pointedly cleared his throat. “If you’d like to take a seat, Miss Veronica? Sir Maurice is at work in his study. His instructions are such that he must not be disturbed under any circumstances.

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