“Who is that man, anyway? Charles’s bloody spy?” He glared accusingly at her. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”
Veronica leaned against the back of an armchair and fixed him with her sternest look. “Really, Sir Maurice, is there any need for that sort of talk? Sir Charles assures me that Scarbright is as reliable as they come. He’s been vetted by the palace, for a start. He knows all about your work. And your… current situation. He’s here to help.” She sighed. “Besides, it’s only a temporary measure, until you can persuade Mrs. Bradshaw to return.”
Newbury stooped and began gathering up the landslide of newspapers, his forehead creased in a heavy frown. “She’s not coming back, Veronica. I’m sure of that much.”
Veronica crossed the room to help him. She dropped to her knees. “Well, then. Wouldn’t it be best to accept Sir Charles’s gesture in the spirit in which it was intended? Let’s face facts, Maurice: You’re a mess.” She caught herself, wondering whether she’d overstepped the mark. But Newbury seemed to be listening to her, so she continued. “See how it goes. Give it a few days. You have to admit, you could do with a hand around here, from someone who’s already aware of your eccentricities.”
“Eccentricities, eh?” He tried to glower at her disapprovingly but his eyes told a different story. He was amused by her sudden frankness.
“And besides,” she went on, “I understand he’s a most remarkable cook.”
Veronica nearly jumped at the sound of someone clearing his throat behind her.
“So I’m told, Miss Hobbes, although I’ll leave it to Sir Maurice to be the right and proper judge of that.” Both Newbury and Veronica looked up with surprise to see that Scarbright had returned from the kitchen during their brief conversation, bearing a tray filled with teacups and saucers. He set it down on the sideboard. “Earl Grey?”
He was a smart, tall man in his mid-forties, dressed in an immaculate black suit with a bow tie and the white gloves of a professional butler. His hair was dark and swept back from his forehead, turning to mottled grey at the temples. He was wearing a moustache that curled upwards spectacularly at its tips. The result of this, Veronica thought, was that he looked as if he were permanently wearing a smile.
Newbury clambered to his feet, looking flustered. “Yes. Thank you, Scarbright. Most welcome.”
“Very good, sir.” He set about preparing two cups. “I thought venison for dinner, sir, prepared with creamed potatoes and greens. If that suits?”
“Um, yes, that suits very well. My thanks to you,” Newbury managed to stutter out in reply. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Excellent news, sir. I shall endeavour to have it with you shortly. Your tea.” Scarbright handed the cup and saucer to Newbury before turning to Veronica. “Miss Hobbes. Shall you dine here before repairing to your hotel?”
Veronica smiled and shook her head. “I fear I must first secure myself a room in a suitable establishment.”
Scarbright gave an ever-so-slight smile of satisfaction. There was a gleam in his eye. “I took the liberty, miss, of making the arrangements on your behalf. A driver will be waiting to escort you to the Albert Hotel shortly after dinner.” He offered them both a bow. “I fear I must now retreat to the kitchen. I urge you to ring if you have need of me.”
“Very good, Scarbright,” said Veronica, crossing the room to retrieve her tea.
Newbury watched Scarbright leave the room with a stunned look. When the door had shut behind the butler, he turned to Veronica. “Very well.”
“Yes?” she ventured.
“He can stay. For now. But I’ll be having words with Charles in the morning.”
Veronica could hardly contain her laughter as she collapsed into one of the chesterfields to drink her tea.
CHAPTER
10
Bainbridge wasn’t behind his desk when the police sergeant showed Veronica and Newbury into his office the following morning. Instead they found two foot-high stacks of paper files balanced precariously on his chair, an empty brandy glass resting on a notepad on the desk itself, and the remnants of two cigars in the ashtray.
The sergeant was only able to offer his apologies and the reassurance that Sir Charles would be back to see them shortly. If he knew the whereabouts of the chief inspector, he didn’t feel at liberty to disclose them.
Newbury, whom Veronica had been surprised to find waiting for her in the hotel lobby an hour earlier, fresh-faced and chipper, dropped into the other chair beside the fireplace and grinned up at her expectantly, as if waiting for her to say something interesting or profound. Instead, she shrugged noncommittally and moved around the other side of Bainbridge’s desk. She had deduced from this sudden alteration in Newbury’s attitude and appearance only one thing: that, in the time between dinner and breakfast, he had once again resorted to the oriental weed. He had clearly not imbibed enough of the dreadful poison to send him into one of his fugues, but certainly enough to take the edge off his withdrawal. She could think of no other explanation.
Perhaps, she thought, this was only to be expected. At least he had chosen not to while away the morning in some sordid opium den across town. He could have resorted to the little brown bottle of laudanum he kept on the mantelpiece, taking a small draught to ease the symptoms of his withdrawal. Scarbright would know the truth. Inwardly, she smiled. Perhaps Scarbright was Charles’s spy, after all. But if that were true, he was as much hers as the chief inspector’s.
Veronica glanced over the twin stacks of files on the chair. Each one had a different name scrawled on its brown paper wrapper: Richard Mars, Nicholas Kyme, Stuart Douglas -the list went on. There must have been thirty or forty of them. None of the names meant anything to her, and she supposed they might be unrelated to the case at hand. Bainbridge was the chief inspector, after all. He was probably considering a plethora of other cases. Yet it was clear from the empty brandy glass and the stubs of the two cigars that he had been here most of the night, and she decided that it really wasn’t much of a leap to assume he’d spent the time reading through the files.
Veronica looked at the notepad on the desk. The top page was covered in scrawl, along with a series of faint brown rings left behind by the bottom of the brandy glass. But scratched in capital letters across the centre of the page in heavy black ink were two words that jumped out at her almost immediately: FABIAN = BASTION.
She looked over at Newbury, who was still grinning. “You see it?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “How did you-?”
“I glanced at his desk when we walked in. Force of habit. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“That there’s a connection between Dr. Fabian and the Bastion Society? Very. You think that’s what Sir Charles has uncovered?”
Newbury nodded. “I’d wager on it.” He gestured at Bainbridge’s vacant chair. “I imagine they’re all members of that illustrious set. He’s been looking for connections, for a way in. Sometimes you can’t beat good old-fashioned police work.”
Veronica came round from behind the desk to take the vacant seat opposite Newbury. “I suppose this means we’ll be paying a visit to the Grayling Institute?” She didn’t know how to feel about that.
Newbury looked thoughtful. “Let’s see what Charles has to say about it all.” He looked round at the sound of footsteps from the hallway outside. “Here he comes. You can ask him now.”
Bainbridge bustled into the room precisely on cue, a whirlwind of huffing and sighing and gesticulating limbs. He saw them sitting there and waved his cane pointedly at Newbury. “Ah, good. You’re here. Lots to discuss.” He glanced at his chair and the heaps of files, and then at Newbury and Veronica, shrugging despairingly at the lack of available places to sit. Instead, he lowered the end of his cane to the floor and leaned on it heavily, trying to catch his breath.