Newbury, Someone is moving against the Queen. Continue with the Sykes matter without me. Yours, Charles
The note had been scrawled in haste; Bainbridge’s handwriting was scratchy and rushed. This, then, was no small matter. It was unlike the chief inspector to be harried. Scarbright confirmed that the note had arrived by courier a little earlier in the evening, meaning that Bainbridge was too busy to call on them in person. This had sparked an hour-long debate between Veronica and Newbury regarding how to proceed. Newbury had considered calling off their plans for the evening and heading over to the palace to assist Bainbridge with whatever was going on over there, but Veronica had remained insistent. She’d argued that they needed to push forward with their pursuit of the Bastion Society. If Amelia’s horrific vision of the terrible things to come-not to mention Newbury’s own predictions-had anything to do with the attacks on the palace, then they needed to work out if the Bastion Society was somehow involved. Bainbridge, Veronica assured him, could handle the Queen.
Besides, by that point, Victoria would already have called in an entire armed garrison to fortify the palace. If she needed Newbury, she would already have sent for him.
All of that was true. But Veronica couldn’t deny that her sister’s plight had played a large part in her steering of the conversation. Amelia needed her. If storming the Bastion Society could provide the answers as to what Dr. Fabian was doing to her, and perhaps even the key to extracting her safely from the Grayling Institute, then Veronica would not be swayed. At that point, she’d already decided that if Newbury had insisted on rushing off to help Bainbridge, she would have continued to execute their plans alone. She wasn’t about to allow the matter to be swept aside-not for Newbury, not for the Queen, not for anyone.
In the end, however, Newbury had reluctantly agreed, and they caught a cab across town, stopping a few streets from Packworth House so they might approach the building more surreptitiously on foot.
Now, they were perched on the rooftop of a neighbouring building, looking down at a balcony a storey below, across the other side of an alleyway.
Newbury came over to stand beside her, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Veronica. I’ll ask you again: Are you sure you want to go through with this?” He sounded concerned, as if he were willing her to say no.
She nodded. She’d done worse, risked her life in more perilous endeavours. All the same, the notion of leaping across from one building to the other very much filled her with dread.
In the preceding hour, they had performed their reconnaissance of the entire building, and short of marching up to the front door and announcing their presence, they could see no better way into the premises. The balcony appeared to be unguarded, and the locks on the French doors would, Newbury assured her, be relatively easy to pick.
Veronica looked at the drop again, and her stomach lurched. Newbury went in for this sort of thing much more than she did. In fact, he seemed to relish it, if his zeal in sizing up the void between the two buildings was any indication. It wasn’t that she wasn’t capable-she’d proved that time and time again, particularly during the matter of the Persian Teardrop, when she’d spent much of her time hopping about on the rooftops of Paris, trying to recover the stolen jewel. No, it was more that she’d much prefer to operate with her feet firmly planted on the ground.
Still, at least the rain had abated. The ground was still wet, but they’d been able to avoid the worst of the downpour. She only hoped the balcony itself wouldn’t be too wet for a safe landing.
She was beginning to feel the chill. She turned to Newbury. “Let’s get on with it, Maurice,” she said, again lapsing into the familiar.
Newbury nodded. “Yes, let’s.” He straightened up, took three or four steps back from the lip of the building, and then dashed forward, leaping off the edge, arms cartwheeling as he hurtled through the air.
“Maurice!” Veronica exclaimed, her hands involuntarily going to her mouth. Her heart skipped a beat.
And then he was over, landing on the balcony with a thump. He skittered on the wet tiles and lost his balance, ending up on his backside. He stood, hauling himself up with support from the railings that ran around the edge of the balcony, and dusted himself off. He looked up at her ruefully. “Are you coming?” he called.
Veronica rolled her eyes. She was about to ruin a perfectly good blue dress. She reached down, kicked off her shoes, and flung them at Newbury, who, surprised, managed to throw his arms out just in time to catch them before they struck him hard in the chest. Then, hitching up her skirts, she followed Newbury’s lead, pacing back four or five steps before charging forward, hopping up onto the stone lip of the building and propelling herself off the roof. She sailed through the air in a smooth arc, coming to land adroitly a couple of feet away from Newbury. He reached out to steady her as she found her balance. Her heart was thumping in her chest, but she felt exhilarated. She looked up at the building behind her. God-had she just done that?
Newbury handed her the shoes. “Let’s hope we can get these doors open, or we really are stuck now,” he said, with a grin.
Veronica slipped her shoes back on as Newbury fished around in his pocket, eventually producing the lock picks. They consisted of a bundle of fine metal rods, wrapped in a roll of black velvet. He dropped to his knees, carefully examining the lock on the French doors, running his fingers over the various tools as he tried to select the appropriate size and shape.
“Have you-?” Veronica began.
“Shhh!” he chided.
Ignoring him, she reached out and tried the door handle. It turned easily, and the door creaked open. “-tried the handle?”
Newbury laughed, getting to his feet. “Oh, very good, Miss Hobbes.”
She shrugged. “Why would anyone lock the French doors on a second-storey balcony? Logical, really.”
Newbury shrugged. “In case someone decides to jump across from a nearby building with plans of breaking and entering?” he replied smartly.
They both grinned. Veronica peered through the opening.
The room beyond the French doors was shrouded in darkness. Veronica gestured for Newbury to remain quiet and slowly edged the door a little wider, wincing as the hinges squealed loudly in protest. She inched forward, stepping carefully over the threshold, listening intently for any sounds of movement or occupation from within. The coast appeared to be clear. She crept into the room, beckoning for Newbury to follow her.
Inside, silhouettes loomed out of the gloom, impressions of furniture and other, indiscernible shapes. Bookshelves, a desk, a tall lamp stand: everything she would expect to find in a typical gentleman’s study. The place seemed relatively normal. Or so she thought until she saw the thing on the wall. She nearly cried out in fright when she caught sight of it: a stuffed lion’s head mounted on a wooden plaque above the desk. It was frozen in a magnificent roar, its teeth bared, its glass eyes gleaming in the reflected starlight from the windows. A trophy, she realised, of someone’s conquest in Africa. It was morbid, egotistical, and entirely unnecessary.
Newbury came up behind her. He leaned close, his voice barely above a whisper. “There’s the door.” He pointed over at the opposite wall, where Veronica could just make out a crack of light seeping in under the frame. “Wait here and I’ll take a look.”
He slipped past her, avoiding a settee in the centre of the room near the desk. Veronica watched as he slowly turned the handle, easing the door open a fraction of an inch so that he could peer out into the hallway beyond. Bright light slanted in through the crack, casting Newbury in sharp relief.
He glanced back over his shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “It’s all clear.”