Veronica looked up at him, pushing her papers to one side. "I am quite well, Sir Maurice."
Newbury lowered his voice, glancing back at Miss Coulthard, who was still busying herself at the stove. "It's only.. after yesterday's ordeal, I questioned -"
"- There is no question." Veronica interjected. "Real y, I am quite well."
"I am most pleased to hear it. Then we shall fortify ourselves with Miss Coulthard's excellent brew, before setting out in search of our villain."
Veronica furrowed her brow. "Have you a notion, then, of where to begin our search for Knox?"
She was toying absently with her left wrist, where a red mark belied the fact that, just a few hours earlier, she had been viciously bound.
Newbury nodded, slowly. "Perhaps. I stil believe that Ashford could hold the answer. But first, there's someone I'd like you to meet." He looked round to see Miss Coulthard approaching, clutching a large silver tray. "Thank you, Miss Coulthard. If you would be so kind as to set that down on my desk." He began unbuttoning the front of his topcoat.
Miss Coulthard placed the tray on the rather cluttered desk as directed. Then, turning to Newbury, she reached into the pocket of her blouse and withdrew a smal, neatly folded piece ol paper, which she held out to him. "The information you requested, sir."
Newbury's emerald eyes flashed in recognition. "Ah, marvel ous! My thanks to you, Miss Coulthard." He took the note and slipped it careful y into his trouser pocket without unfolding it.
"You're most welcome, sir. I also have a message from Sir Charles. He requests that you pay him a visit at Scotland Yard at your first convenience."
"I shal take it under advisement, Miss Coulthard. Thank you."
"Very good, sir." Miss Coulthard returned to her desk, and before Newbury had finished removing his winter layers, she was already back to work.
Grinning, Newbury draped his coat across his desk and placed his hat beside it. Then, reaching for the steaming teapot, he turned to Veronica. "Tea?"
George Purefoy's apartment was above a tailor's shop in Ladbroke Grove, which boasted two large bay windows, each filled with displays of exquisite dinner suits, hats, gloves and canes.
Newbury knew the reputation of the place. All of the assorted paraphernalia desired by a society gentleman could be found inside. Newbury usual y took his business to Bond
Street, but he was sure that Charles had recommended this particular establishment on more than one occasion. The legend above the door read: J. SIMPSON ESQ., GENTLEMEN'S OUTFITTERS.
The city was still buried beneath a thick blanket of yellow fog, which showed no sign of abating during the coming morning. Nevertheless, a light was on inside the shop, and through the window, Newbury could see the dark shapes of figures shifting around, going about their daily business. To the left of the shop's frontage was a nondescript green door. This, Newbury fathomed, would likely be the door to Purefoy's apartment.
Despite Veronica's protestations, Newbury had insisted upon taking a steam-powered carriage across town, keen to ensure that no further time was lost. She had taken the opportunity to make a sly comment about tea, suggesting that perhaps, if he were so anxious for them to be on their way, they might have forgone the morning brew, but Newbury had only laughed dismissively and hailed the cab. Ritual was important to him. It gave him time to think.
After helping Veronica down from the carriage, at which she glared in disdain as she dismounted, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the throbbing engine, Newbury approached the door.
He removed his glove and rapped loudly with the brass knocker. Beside him, Veronica shivered in the cold.
A few moments passed in silence. There was no answer from the apartment above. Newbury knocked again, and then stepped back into the street, glancing up at the windows. Stil nothing. No cal from inside, no sign of movement at the windows. With a growing sense of unease, Newbury tried the handle, and found that the door was unlocked. It swung open to reveal a steep, carpeted staircase leading up to the apartment above.
Newbury crossed to the foot of the stairs. "Purefoy? Are you there, Purefoy?"
Then, with a look of horror, Newbury noticed something on the bottom step. He dropped into a squat, examining the tread. "Oh no…"
Veronica stepped forward, trying to make out what he'd seen. "What is it?"
"Blood. A footprint." Newbury's voice was barely a whisper. Feeling sick to the stomach, and praying that what he had feared had not suddenly become a reality, Newbury bounded up the stairs two at a time. There were more footprints in evidence further up the stairwell; a man's shoe, caked in blood, had passed this way only a handful of hours before. The imprints were stil wet and sticky on the pale green carpet.
At the top of the stairs Newbury found himself presented with three white, panel ed doors. He chose the one to the right, judging this one would lead him to Purefoy's sitting room. He turned the handle, pushing his way inside. The sight that greeted him was enough to make him cry out in anguish and fal to his knees. He hung his head. He was too late.
Purefoy's corpse had been laid out on the sitting room floor to form the shape of a human star.
Around him, his butcher had drawn a series of large, concentric circles, each of them divided into precise intervals. Within these intervals he had carefully drawn a series of inscriptions, diagrams and runes, each of them bearing its own dark, esoteric meaning. It was incredibly elaborate.
Purefoy himself had been stripped naked. His bel y had been rent open with a long, deep gash, and his bowels and intestines had been spil ed out onto the floorboards. His intestines had been stretched out around him and pinned within the circles to form a horrific spider's web of flesh, a web in which Purefoy himself had been caught, trapped at its centre like a fly awaiting its inevitable fate.
Inside the abdominal cavity of the dead man, Newbury could see that the killer had placed a series of small tributes: a holly leaf, the broken remnants of an ushabti figurine, a small, rolled fragment of linen inscribed with some archaic scripture, and a single tarot card, bearing the image of a goblet, overflowing with water: the ace of cups.
The look on the boy's face was one of wonder, as if he had not yet come to terms with what had been about to happen to him, as if his reporter's instincts had remained engaged until the last, his curiosity somehow outweighing his fear.
It was immediately obvious to Newbury what had occurred. Aubrey Knox had attempted to divine the future in the reporter's guts.
Newbury heard Veronica's footsteps on the landing behind him, and he turned to try to stop her from entering the room. But he was too late. She saw everything. He saw her gag reflexively and turn away from the scene.
There was blood everywhere, of course; thick and cloying. It filled Newbury's nostrils, seeming to penetrate everything. But under it all there was another smell, the familiar stench of rotting flesh.
Ashford had been here too.
Newbury felt a fury welling up inside of him, a burning rage deep in the pit of his belly. Knox would pay for this. He would pay dearly for it. There was one thing that Knox cared for above all else, one thing that drove him onwards, the very core of his being: his own life. Newbury would take that from him. He realised this as he rested there on the threshold of Purefoy's sitting room, eyeing the devastation before him. The boy was dead, kil ed only for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, for being on the periphery of something that he didn't even understand. Al of that potential, all of that enthusiasm, had gone, stolen in a moment for nothing but Knox's wicked gratification.
Dark thoughts bubbled into Newbury's head. He would see justice done. Even if it meant that he had to become like Knox to do it. He would find Knox. And then Purefoy would be avenged.