“So … how may I be of assistance, Your Royal Highness? I fear I know very little of war.”
The Prince turned, staring at the impish yellow flames that flickered and danced amongst the coals in the grate. “I fear my mother is unwell. Too unwell to continue to rule as she has. Her decisions are … compromised. While she sits in state at the heart of the Empire, unseen by her people, her enemies scheme. I fear if something is not done, her legacy will be eroded. Slowly, the Empire will retract, become inwardly focused, until we can no longer sustain our boundaries. And then the vultures will come, and we will not be strong enough to fend them off.”
“Surely, Your Royal Highness cannot be considering a pre-emptive strike against the Kaiser?”
“I’ve considered it, Newbury,” he said, gravely. “To instigate a full blown conflict, however, would seem somewhat premature. No, I’m talking about making a stand. About positive action. The enemies of Britain cannot be allowed to consider us weak. We might divert a war by demonstrating to those nations that their subterfuge and duplicity is known to us, and that it will not be tolerated. Their agents must be found and ejected from London. That would send a clear and definite message.”
Newbury nodded slowly as he considered the Prince’s words. “And what of the Queen?” he asked, his voice low.
The Prince gave him a hard stare in response. “The Queen has a great deal to worry her already, Newbury, without adding this to her burden. We should act on her behalf, for the benefit of the Empire.”
Newbury’s head was swimming. He wanted more than anything to return to the warm embrace of his sofa and his opium fugue, to escape this conversation of war, spies, and subterfuge. But he could hardly tell the Prince of Wales to leave him in peace. “And how may I be of assistance in this matter, Your Royal Highness?” he said, trying to keep the reluctance out of his voice.
“For now, Newbury, by keeping your eyes and ears open. Seek out those who may not have the Empire’s best interests at heart. Help to identify the enemies in our midst. Nothing more.” He glanced down at the tea tray as if considering whether he wanted to consume anything on it, but apparently decided not to. “Although I’d urge you very strongly to watch your back,” he added.
Newbury suppressed a frown. What was the Prince getting at? A witch hunt? With Newbury as Witchfinder General? And that last comment seemed purposefully loaded. Was Newbury himself somehow at risk? “Because of the foreign agents?” he asked.
The Prince left the question hanging, unanswered, but Newbury could read the response in the man’s face. Because of my mother, the look in his eyes seemed to suggest. Because of the Queen.
A shudder passed unbidden through Newbury’s body. It seemed Albert Edward was aware of his mother’s scheming tendencies. The thought left a sour taste in Newbury’s mouth. Even the woman’s own son-and future heir to the Empire, no less-was not immune from her plotting and politicking.
The Prince caught Newbury’s eye. “If you ever need me, Newbury, you need only call.” He paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I only hope that I might do the same.”
“Of course, Your Royal Highness. Consider me at your disposal.”
“You’re a good man, Newbury. Find a way to rid yourself of this blasted habit. It does you no credit. Your talents are needed, and you owe it to yourself and your country not to fritter them away like some common wastrel.” The Prince stood, heaving himself up out of the Chesterfield with a heartfelt groan. “I’ll say no more on the subject. You know what you must do.”
If only it were that easy, thought Newbury as he levered himself up, his limbs protesting, his mind still woozy. If only he could explain that people’s lives depended on this blasted habit. But he knew he could not. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”
“Thank you, Newbury. I knew that I would be able to rely on you. We will speak again soon.” The Prince gave the briefest of smiles before turning towards the door. “Scarbright?” he bellowed, so loud that Newbury was sure he felt the room itself tremble in surprise.
Newbury heard Scarbright’s footsteps thundering on the stairs. He appeared in the doorway, red-faced, a moment later. “How might I be of assistance, Your Royal Highness?”
“I’m leaving, Scarbright. My coat and hat.”
“Quite so. Please allow me to escort you to your carriage.”
And with that, Albert Edward of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha swept out of Newbury’s drawing room as swiftly as he had arrived.
Newbury waited until he heard the creak of the carriage’s wheels and the clatter of the horse’s hooves in the street below before he allowed himself to exhale. He slumped back into his armchair before the fire, his head spinning as he contemplated the gravity of what had just occurred. He was just about to reach for another cigarette when Scarbright came barrelling back into the room.
“There was a message for you, sir, while you were engaged with the Prince of Wales.”
Newbury raised an eyebrow. Surely not another summons from the palace? “Indeed?”
“It’s from Sir Charles, sir. He says he needs your help. He and Miss Hobbes are awaiting you at the morgue.” Scarbright winced as he delivered this news, as if in anticipation of Newbury’s response.
“Does it never end?” Newbury replied, wearily, slipping his silver cigarette case back into his jacket pocket unopened. His heart sank. The morgue. Once more, he was to surround himself with the death and detritus of other people’s sordid lives. Further distractions from the work at hand. Yet he couldn’t very well allow their call for help to go unheeded. “Very well. Run me a bath, would you, Scarbright? It’s time I made myself presentable. Even the dead deserve that.”
“Indeed, sir,” replied Scarbright, and for the first time that day, the valet smiled. “Even the dead,” he echoed, before dashing off again to make the necessary arrangements.
Newbury leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He issued a long, heavy sigh. The real world was once again tugging on his sleeve, and it was time he stopped ignoring it.
CHAPTER 4
It wasn’t that she enjoyed killing.
Indeed, she took no pleasure whatsoever in the act. The sensation of her sword tip sliding into the soft flesh of a target; the spurt of crimson blood as she severed their vital arteries; the expression of terrified anguish on their face as it dawned on them that their final moments would be spent writhing in agony, impotent to prevent their own demise … none of these things elicited even the slightest hint of emotion in her.
Indeed, it was this utter and complete absence of feeling that had led her to the role of murderess, mercenary, executioner. She had long ago lost her heart. Now, she was little more than a cipher, a shadow, a leftover trace of the person she had once been. She was undying and immoveable.
She still remembered the first time she had killed. She expected to be overwhelmed with disgust, horror, remorse. She imagined she would vomit and keen into the long nights in the weeks that followed, that she would vehemently hate herself for what she had done and be unable to reconcile her actions with her understanding of herself.
As she sat in the darkness planning every detail of the momentous act-where it would take place, at what time, with what weapon-she quietly accepted that she would be crossing a line she could never return from. Her motive might have been revenge, but in killing the man who had created her-who had turned her into a monster-she would also be killing something inside of herself. By carrying out this act of violence she would inadvertently be continuing his work, and finally giving up the last of her humanity.