Standing, Newbury looked back at Veronica on the landing. "He's toying with us."
Veronica coughed. "Knox, you mean?"
"Yes. What threat could Purefoy have possibly proved to the man?"
Veronica shook her head. She swal owed. "No, Sir Maurice. The pattern is the same as before.
He's tidying up loose ends, leaving no stone unturned. He must have been aware of Purefoy's involvement."
Newbury nodded but didn't say a word. He stepped into the room, closer to the body. He looked down, his eyes limned with sadness.
"What does it all mean?" Veronica called from over his shoulder. She was hovering in the doorway, unwilling – or unable – to enter the room.
Newbury hesitated. "He.. he was attempting to divine the future. Many of the ancient rituals involve disembowelling cats, dogs, or flightless birds. He chose to use Purefoy."
"My God.." Veronica's voice was full of pity.
"He must have been disturbed. By Ashford, I mean. Otherwise I can see no reason why he would have left these items in such a way."
"Why? Do they tell you something?"
"Perhaps." Newbury studied the objects that were resting inside the carcass of his young friend.
Veronica shook her head. "We're running out of time. His next move wil be to disappear, to go to ground."
Newbury shook his head. Stooping, he gingerly removed the tarot card from the bloody mess on the floor. "No, Miss Hobbes. He's not going to ground. It seems old habits die hard. He's going to water."
Veronica stared at him, wide-eyed. "What, the docks?"
Newbury nodded. "The ace of cups. Water. That's where they found Ashford's body last time, isn't it? By interrupting Knox, Ashford has done us more of a favour than he could possibly imagine."
His eyes flashed with steely resolve. "We have Knox's trail."
Veronica straightened her back. "Shall I fetch the police?"
Newbury was studying Purefoy's face. His head snapped up at Veronica's words. His voice was forceful. "No. No police. Not even Charles. We finish this alone." He saw Veronica shudder at the cold timbre of his voice. She looked at the horrifying remnants of Knox's ritual.
"Will it work?"
"What, the divination? No."
Veronica shook her head. "No, not that. The Osiris Ritual. Will it work?"
Newbury sighed. "There are more things in this world of ours than I can possibly explain, Miss Hobbes. But it didn't help Khemosiri, and I doubt it wil help Knox."
"All the same.." Veronica let her sentence trail off.
Newbury offered her a weak smile. "Al the same.. " He dropped the tarot card to the floor beside the corpse, and then turned and disappeared further into the apartment, returning a moment later with a large white sheet he had clearly stripped from Purefoy's bed. He knelt beside the body, laying the makeshift shroud neatly over the dead man to hide the ruination. Lastly, before covering Purefoy's face, he used the tips of his fingers to draw the reporter's eyelids closed.
Then, resolute, Newbury took Veronica by the arm and marched her out of the apartment, with only one goal in mind: revenge.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Veronica bobbed up and down in her seat, lightly, as the hansom cab bowled onwards across the city. Newbury watched her from the other side of the cabin. Her head was turned away from him, looking out of the window, and he admired her profile. There was no mistaking her beauty.
What was more, she had flowered in the few months since he'd known her, growing in confidence.
He followed the line of her jaw, admired the way in which her glossy brunette hair curled behind one ear. To Newbury, she was a near-perfect example of womanhood. He watched her strain to see through the fog, blinking, as if the action would help to shift the cloying grey vapour within which they were travelling.
Yet, for all that, Newbury had never felt so far removed from her. Their relationship seemed somehow fractured, distant. Her actions towards him had not altered, of course. But he knew more, now, knew that she was holding something back from him, something fundamental. His fury at Purefoy's death had not abated – if anything, it was growing more and more forceful with every passing minute – but neither could he shake the horrible sense of betrayal in the pit of his stomach, even for Purefoy. Unwelcome questions raised themselves in his mind. If she had acted sooner, if she had warned him about Knox, would Purefoy stil be dead? Could she have saved him? Had she known about Ashford all along? Where had she got the information about Knox? All of these questions needed answers, but the very act of asking them was at odds with how he felt about the woman. In questioning her, he risked losing her altogether. And for now, he felt he knew which of the two options represented the lesser evil.
Veronica turned towards him, snapping him out of his reverie. "Sir Maurice, I thought we were heading to the London Docks?"
Newbury nodded, slowly. "We are. But first, I must make a brief stop." Veronica frowned. "I believe I know where to find Ashford. I must talk with him."
Veronica nodded, sagely. "Very well." The moment stretched, and they stared at each other in silence, neither one of them wishing to be the first to look away. After a while, Newbury turned to glance out of the window. He had the terrible, dawning sense that everything was unravel ing around him.
Presently, the hansom trundled to a stop in the foggy wilderness of Bethnal Green. Newbury rose to his feet. "You wait here, Miss Hobbes. I shal return momentarily." He clicked open the door and stepped down into the quiet street beyond. It was still early, and this peaceful residential street had not yet ful y awoken to the morning. Newbury took a, small cream-coloured card from inside his jacket pocket and unfolded it, revealing an address written in Miss Coulthard's neat copperplate.
He checked the address against the house in front of him. It was similar, in many ways, to Newbury's own residence: a small end-terrace house, with two prominent bay windows, one on either of the two floors; a small front yard, with potted plants; and a panel ed front door, painted in royal blue. A waist-high railing ran around the front and side of the yard. The mouth of a dimly lit alleyway separated the house from the next long terrace about six feet to the right.
It seemed to Newbury like rather an affluent dwelling for a widow on an agency pension.
Nevertheless, this was clearly the address that Miss Coulthard had discovered for him. Slowly, Newbury approached the building. For a moment he stood before the door, considering whether to rap the brass knocker. Then, changing his mind, he edged round to stand before the window, peering into the living room beyond. The room was lit brightly by a gas-lamp and was well stocked with furnishings: sideboard, two armchairs and a daybed. A large fireplace dominated the room, although its grate was cold and unlit. On the floor, a pretty woman in her late twenties, with strawberry blonde hair, was sitting with two children, playing a game with counters. A boy, of around eight years, and a girl, slightly younger, who were clearly brother and sister, and Newbury smiled as he watched their faces light up whilst they laughed and carolled with their mother. He didn't turn his head as, in a low voice, he began to speak. "You'll have to give yourself up soon, Ashford. Al of this running around is doing neither of us any good. I'm supposed to take you in myself, but I'm too busy with this blasted Knox business. I'm about to head to the London Docks to find him before he disappears again." He turned his head slightly, to watch Ashford emerge from the shadows around the side of the building. The other man's red eyes were piercing in the gloom. "I know you'll do the right thing."
Ashford lowered his hood, and once again, Newbury was appalled by the yellowed, rotting pallor of his skin and the disfigurements that Dr. Fabian's machinery had inflicted upon him. His black cloak was now shredded and hanging loose around his shoulders, exposing the mechanical pump in his chest, and Newbury could see where his encounter with the train in the Underground had scorched the flesh at his elbows, revealing the brass joints underneath. The tubing that curled between his head and chest flexed as he moved.