"No, Newbury. I absolutely refuse to believe it. Why would Ashford do such a thing? What possible motivation could he have for murdering Winthrop in such a manner?"
Newbury stood, wiping the blood from his fingers with his handkerchief. "I have no idea. But it's clear from what Her Majesty said that Ashford is disturbed. And you've received the same basic training in the combative arts as I have, Charles. You know as well as I do that this is a textbook assassination."
Bainbridge shook his head, the distaste evident on his face. "I don't like it, Newbury. Ashford was a good man. And the grotesque way in which this body has been posed.."
"It's been a long time, Charles, and a lot of water has passed under the bridge. Ashford has been in Russia for five years, living hand to mouth. We have no idea what he's been through, what vile practices he's learned. He isn't the man you once knew. From what I gather, he isn't even a man at all. For all we know, someone else could be guiding his hand. He may have defected."
"Still, Newbury, we have to consider all of our options. There remains Blake, and the -"
There was a loud crash from out in the hall, the sound of glass shattering on marble. Both men rushed to the door, Bainbridge hefting his cane, ready to take on the intruder.
A young man was standing amongst the wreckage of the display cabinets, a sheepish expression on his face. His hair was wand-coloured, his eyes a bright, shining blue. He was dressed in a brown suit and tie, and he was clutching a notebook in his left hand. Bainbridge started forward, but Newbury put a hand on his arm to hold him back.
"It's alright, Charles. This is Mr. George Purefoy, a young reporter from The Times."
"Good afternoon, Sir Maurice." Purefoy grinned. He stepped out from amongst the pile of debris and came towards the two men, his hand extended.
Bainbridge lowered his cane. "What is the meaning of this? This is the scene of a crime, Mr.
Purefoy. You have no right to be here. I consider this a case of trespass."
Purefoy dropped his hand. "Ah.. wel, I.."
Newbury stepped forward. "Mr. Purefoy, how did you happen to find your way onto these premises?"
Purefoy clearly didn't know where to look. "An open window around the back." He glanced at the floor.
Newbury raised an eyebrow. He looked at Charles. "Perhaps that's the entrance used by our murderer? We should take a look."
"Murderer? So it is murder, then?"
Newbury smiled. "Do you think, Mr. Purefoy, that the Chief Inspector and I would be here if it were not?"
"I'm not sure what to think, to be truthful, Sir Maurice. Would you care to elaborate on your role in the matter? As I understand it you're an academic with an office at the British Museum?"
Newbury laughed. "You're bold, Mr. Purefoy. I'll give you that. And if you don't want Sir Charles here to have you charged with trespass, I recommend you be on your way forthwith."
Purefoy nodded. "I think I have enough for the time being."
Bainbridge coughed into his fist. "And I suggest you think careful y before you commit any of it to print, young man. I don't want to hear any of this liberal nonsense about 'the people having a right to know'. This, Mr. Purefoy, is a murder investigation, and I expect you to respect that before you go rattling off, your nonsense for the front page. It's difficult enough as it is to catch a villain these days, without having the details splashed all over the morning edition." It was evident that Bainbridge was feeling flustered by the appearance of the young man.
Newbury put an arm on Purefoy's shoulder and guided him to the door, avoiding the spil ed fragments of glass as they walked. He lowered his voice. "Three things you need to be aware of, Mr.
Purefoy. Firstly, if you're going to sneak around at the scene of a murder, it's preferable not to get caught. Secondly, there are more professional agencies at work in this Empire than simply Scotland Yard and Her Majesty's military. I belong to one of them. Thirdly, Winthrop was murdered because of his connection to the mummy he brought back from Thebes. Now, when you write about this morning's events, you will refrain from printing any details of the murder or any mention of Sir Charles or I." He looked the young reporter in the eye. "I don't expect to catch you like this again."
Purefoy took Newbury's hand and shook it firmly. "No, Sir Maurice. I don't expect you do." He pul ed on the door handle and, without looking back, stepped out into the foyer and the street beyond.
Newbury turned back to Bainbridge. "One day, Charles, that boy wil make an excel ent agent."
Bainbridge shook his head, exasperated. "One day, Newbury, I'll have a notion of what goes on in that mysterious head of yours." He leaned heavily on his cane. "Now, what of Winthrop?"
Newbury ran a hand over his chin. "I'm not sure what else there is to say. Until we have a notion of what has or hasn't been taken.. it's just another despicable murder of a society gentleman. You need to talk to Blake, of course. And I need to find out where Ashford is hiding. I can't help thinking he's at the heart of it, somehow."
"I usual y trust your instincts, Newbury, but this time I can't help feeling that you're on the wrong track."
Newbury sighed. "Time will tell, I suppose, old man. Time will tell." He turned up the collar of his coat. "Dinner? There's a new chef at the White Friar's. Excellent Pigeons a la Duchesse.. "
"What? You're leaving?"
Newbury looked pained. "There's little more I can do here, Charles, and I promised Miss Hobbes I'd assist her with this damnable situation of the missing girls. You have Foulkes. Have him and his men turn the place over. Then meet me at my club at seven and we'l talk it over. I need to give some thought to this situation with Ashford, too."
Bainbridge waved his cane at the door. "Very well. Tonight. Seven o'clock. I imagine I'll be needing a brandy."
Newbury laughed. "I imagine we both wil." He inclined his head in farewel, and then quit the house, relieved to be putting some distance between himself and the horribly brutalised corpse of Lord Henry Winthrop. He had no real notion of what Ashford could be up to, or why he should have executed Winthrop in such a horrendous manner. He needed to uncover the significance of the missing ushabti figure and the strange engravings he'd noticed during the party. He also needed a way of discovering where Ashford was hiding, and what his connection to Winthrop might be. Most of al, he needed time to think. And he knew a place where he could find it.
First, he would call on Veronica at the office, to explain how he had found himself detained, and to make arrangements to assist her the fol owing day. Then he would pay a visit to Johnny Chang's.
Chapter Ten
Newbury emerged at the top of the stone staircase to find the light was already beginning to wane. It was windy and cold- so cold that his breath fogged before his face – but the warm haze of the opium high was enough to dispel the effects of the bracing weather. The street was busy, criss-crossed with people coming and going, shutting up their store fronts and retiring to their homes for the evening. Newbury checked his pocket watch. It was nearly half past five. He'd need to head directly to the White Friar's if he wanted to keep his appointment with Charles.