Newbury,
Come to the shop immediately. I have the information you require.
AR
Short, but pointed. Newbury sighed. Another detour, but clearly one he could not avoid. If Renwick had put his finger on the mystery of the screaming mummy, it could help to make the circumstances surrounding Winthrop's death far clearer. Not only that, but it might explain Ashford's motive for enacting such a horrific execution in the first instance.
Newbury looked up to see Mrs. Bradshaw returning with a fresh teacup and saucer. "Ah, Mrs.
Bradshaw – perfect timing." He dropped the letter onto the table beside his plate. "I'l take my tea whilst I dress."
"Very good, sir." The housekeeper placed the china on the table and began pouring another cup.
Newbury stood, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin. "Thank you, Mrs. Bradshaw.
Another excellent breakfast." He collected his cup and saucer with a smile, and began making his way towards the hallway. Then, on second thoughts, he paused, hovering in the doorway. "Oh, and Mrs. Bradshaw? If I could prevail on you to send for a hansom forthwith, it would be very much appreciated."
The Scotswoman nodded with an exasperated sigh, and began noisily col ecting up the remaining bowls and plates without another word.
Laughing, Newbury sipped at his Earl Grey and made his way hastily to his room to prepare for the day ahead.
†
"Miss Hobbes. I daresay I did you a disservice yesterday, and I'm fearful I'm about to do it all over again." Newbury was framed in the doorway that separated his and Miss Hobbes's desks from the rest of the small office, still attired in his hat and coat. It was early, and he'd made his way directly to the museum after finishing his daily ablutions and dressing in his usual black suit. He offered his assistant an earnest look, awaiting her response.
"No need to apologise, Sir Maurice – I saw the morning edition of The Times. I gather you're contending with an ancient curse now, amongst other things?" She offered Newbury a wry smile.
She was dressed in a smart grey frock with a matching jacket, and her hair was tied back from her pretty face.
Newbury laughed. "Wel, quite so. You know how these things go: a murder in the night, an ancient curse before breakfast. All in a day's work." Veronica grinned. "In all seriousness, however, I find myself terribly preoccupied by this Winthrop situation. I believe it somehow ties up with that missing agent I was intended to meet at the station the other morning."
"So it's not a curse then?" It was clear she was toying with him.
"Not in the supernatural sense of the word, no. But it feels somewhat like a curse, I assure you."
He adjusted his collar ruefully. "I admit I'm finding it difficult to give my attention to anything else. I must attend to a small matter this morning off the Tottenham Court Road. Perhaps you could accompany me there, and then together we can go on to Soho and attempt to locate the lodgings of this 'Mysterious Alfonso' character?"
Veronica shook her head. Her expression grew serious. "I'm afraid there has been a further development since we last spoke. Another missing girl. 'This time I'm convinced there's a clear link between the disappearance and the theatre. The girl was last seen in attendance at the show, volunteering for the disappearing act. She hasn't been seen since, and she failed to return home that evening. There's little room for doubt."
Newbury looked thoughtful. "Yes, I see your dilemma. But I must insist, Miss Hobbes, that you do not, under any circumstances, confront this man on your own."
Veronica frowned. "Sir Maurice, I'm quite capable -"
"Yes, yes. I rather think it's not a matter of capability, Miss Hobbes, but one of safety. Whilst you are in my employ, you are in my care. I understand how frustrating it must be to have to sit by and wait for me to deal with this damnable Ashford thing, but really, I must insist that you will not commit yourself to any dangerous course of action in my absence."
Veronica had fire in her eyes, but she nodded in agreement. "I plan to visit the family of the missing girl this afternoon, to obtain a better understanding of the circumstances. I thought it wise to gather some further evidence, no matter how circumstantial, before we decide to tackle Alfonso himself, once again."
Newbury smiled. "An excel ent plan, Miss Hobbes." He paused. "Then perhaps, this evening, we could make an appointment to meet for dinner..? You could fil me in on your findings and we could plan ahead to our next encounter with the dubious magician."
"Very well." Her lips curled into a smile. "Where shall we meet?"
"I'll cal for you, at Kensington, around seven. Does that suit?"
"It does."
"Excellent. Then for now, I'll be on my way." He lifted his hat from his head. "Until this evening, Miss Hobbes."
"Until this evening, Sir Maurice."
He turned as if to make an exit from the office. Then, recalling an errand, he stopped by the door and pulled a slip of cream-coloured paper from his pocket. He crossed to where Miss Coulthard was sitting behind a new, broad mahogany desk. She looked up from amongst unruly piles of paper.
"Sir Maurice?"
"Miss Coulthard. As busy as you are, I wonder if I may trouble you with one additional burden."
He held the piece of paper out between two fingers with a smile. Miss Coulthard accepted it, the hesitation evident on her face. She unfolded it and examined the contents. On it was scrawled a woman's name and the word "Cheapside" in Newbury's loose hand. "I need you to find an address for this woman, as soon as possible. She may have moved location at any point in the last five years.
Can you do it?"
Miss Coulthard nodded. "Of course."
Newbury grinned. "You real y are a treasure, Miss Coulthard. My thanks." And with that, he bid her good morning and took his leave.
Aldous Renwick's bookshop was, upon first appearances, not unlike any of the other small emporiums that were to be found amongst the winding side streets that branched off the Tottenham Court Road. It sat nestled between a smal general store and a haberdashery shop, its windows piled high with gaudy works of modern fiction, bound in leather or bright paper wraps. It was a cold, crisp morning, and Renwick had placed a small table outside of the door, a smattering of penny papers and cheap mystery stories on display, their covers fluttering in the light breeze. The legend above the door read simply: BOOKS.
Newbury had discovered the place many years ago, when engaged in the hunt for a rare Venetian treatise on the occult. A mutual acquaintance had tipped him off that Renwick may be able to source such a work, so, after due consideration, he had paid the man a visit. Renwick had found the book, too, along with many other archaic tomes in the intervening years, and although Newbury had paid dearly for them, he appreciated the discreet manner in which the man carried out his business. Renwick was one of the most learned men that Newbury knew, with a particular knowledge of esoteric literature, and as such Newbury had found numerous occasions to pay him a visit over the years. Today, it appeared, was one such occasion.
Stopping momentarily to glance at the cover of a tattered copy of the Union Jack, Newbury turned the doorknob with a gloved hand, al owing the door to creak open loudly on its hinges. He stepped over the threshold. Inside, the shop was filled with a cornucopia of books and periodicals, al piled high in huge stacks or pressed tightly onto bulging shelves of dark, heavy wood. There appeared to be no method in the way in which the various volumes had been scattered, chaotically, around the room, but Newbury had every suspicion that Renwick would be able to swiftly put his hand on any title that a given customer might request. Newbury, smiling, mused that the interior of the shop was ordered somewhat as erratically as its owner's mind, and that, in all probability, one was a close reflection of the other.