Newbury made his way to the private staircase that led down towards the bowels of the enormous building, where his office was located, hidden amongst the dusty stacks of the archives and the administration offices of the museum managers.
A few minutes later, having passed along a network of winding corridors, he came to the door to his office. He straightened the front of his jacket and pushed on the handle. The door swung open to reveal a small room, lit by a series of hissing gas lamps. He stepped inside, clicked the door shut behind him and began shrugging off his damp jacket to hang on the coat stand in the corner.
"Ah, Sir Maurice. I trust you had a pleasant evening?"
Newbury turned to see his secretary, Miss Coulthard, emerging from the adjoining room, where he and his assistant Miss Veronica Hobbes kept their desks. Miss Coulthard was a diminutive woman in her early thirties, with dark, brown hair tied up in a tight bun. She was dressed in a long grey dress and matching wool en cardigan. She was not conventional y pretty, but she was one of the most reliable people that Newbury knew, and he admired her for her dedication and resolve.
"Pleasant enough, thank you, Miss Coulthard. An interesting diversion." He draped his jacket on the coat stand and rol ed his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, leaving dirty smears of ink on his white shirt. "I fear this morning has been entirely less successful, however." He raised an eyebrow with a sigh.
Miss Coulthard gave him an appraising look. "Tea?"
Newbury laughed. "It's almost as if you can read my mind, Miss Coulthard. Thank you. Tea would be delightful." He turned as if to head into the other room, and then stopped by the edge of Miss Coulthard's desk. "May I enquire as to the health of your brother, Miss Coulthard? Is he making a smooth recovery?"
Miss Coulthard nodded. "As expected, Sir Maurice. The doctor says he'l need a few more weeks to get his strength back, but his memory is returning, slowly but surely."
Newbury smiled. "Delighted to hear it." He regarded his hands. "Ah, excuse me for a moment."
He crossed to the sink in the corner of the room and, taking up a cake of soap, began at scrubbing away the newsprint stains. Then, grabbing a towel from the rack beside the sink, he made his way to the adjoining room, leaving Miss Coulthard to set to work with the kettle.
Newbury hovered on the threshold for a moment, watching his assistant at her desk as he dried his hands. She was lost in a stack of papers, a look of concentration furrowing her brow, And if she was aware of his presence she was choosing not to let It distract her from her task.
Miss Veronica Hobbes had been working with him for over three months now, and had already saved his life on more than one occasion, both physical y and, he considered, emotional y too. She was a most excellent woman; full of the energy and spirit of the modern age, an embodiment of progress, of equality, and of the future. She was pretty, too; brunette, in her early twenties, and full of life. Her features were well proportioned and feminine, and her eyes were a deep, arresting blue.
She had a sharp mind, and an even sharper tongue.
Newbury cleared his throat. "Good morning, Miss Hobbes. I see you're still hard at work on that mystery of yours."
Veronica looked up, offered him a warm smile, and then returned to her reading. She spoke whilst her eyes fol owed the lines on the page before her. "Indeed. I believe that I'm making good progress, too. I have a potential suspect."
"Excellent. I look forward to hearing all about it. Just as soon as we have tea, and I've dashed off a short missive to Her Majesty."
At this Veronica looked up again, leaning back in her chair to regard him. She seemed to see him properly for the first time. "You're damp, Sir Maurice. I take it this morning's outing did not progress as planned?"
Newbury shook his head. "Quite so. In fact, I'd go as far as saying it was an unmitigated disaster.
The gentleman I was tasked with escorting to the palace did not arrive for our rendezvous. The circumstances were most peculiar. But I won't go into it now. I'm much more interested in hearing your news." He dropped the towel on the edge of his desk and moved around to find his chair.
"Now, where did I put those note cards..?" He fumbled with the many piles of paper that cluttered his desk.
Veronica laughed. She opened her draw and withdrew a sheaf of small white note cards. "Here.
Take one of these." Newbury smiled and accepted the proffered stationery. "My thanks." He lowered himself into his chair, took up a pen and inkwell, and began to write: Majesty,
Agent by codename "Caspian" did not attend rendezvous as expected. Please advise if further action is required.
Yours,
Newbury
He gave the note a cursory glance, considering whether he shouId elaborate on the strange circumstances and the disturbing smell he had found lingering in the appointed compartment. He decided against the idea. After all, it was clear that Her Majesty knew more about the situation than he did, and he knew that she would just as soon summon him to the palace if she had any cause for concern. He resolved not to make any plans for the following morning. He'd likely have to cancel them, anyway, when the summons from the palace arrived. He folded the card into an envelope, which he retrieved from a tray on his desk. Then, still holding it in his hand, he leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the wall.
"I take it you've seen this morning's edition of The Times, Sir Maurice?"
Newbury grinned, blinking away his reverie. "Yes, indeed I have. I've just washed half of it down the sink." Veronica frowned, not catching his meaning. He chose not to elaborate. "I met the reporter at Winthrop's place, actually. Decent sort of chap. The piece was a little sensational for my liking, though."
"It certainly sounds as if it was an interesting evening, whatever the case. Are you planning to involve yourself in the mystery? Of the screaming mummy, I mean." Veronica delivered this with her usual, casual aplomb, but it was clear to Newbury that she was fishing for something. He smiled.
"I doubt it's really a case for the Crown. I did think I might call in on old Peterson this afternoon; just to run a few things past him, to be doubly sure it's not of interest. But I suspect it's probably one for Winthrop to worry himself with. I never was an expert on the Egyptian arts, anyway." He searched Veronica's face for signs of disapproval. There were none. "Besides, I doubt Peterson will have much to add, either. He's more of a traditionalist. If he'd been interested in the find he'd have been there last night alongside me."
Veronica laughed. "Come now, Sir Maurice! Admit that you're rather taken with the whole affair. It sounds as if there's a story to be had from it. You could write a paper on it."
"Well, I.." There was a high-pitched whistle from the adjoining room. Newbury slapped a hand on his desk. "Ah, good. Time for that pot of Earl Grey." He stood, brandishing his letter to the Queen.
"I'll ask Miss Coulthard to have this couriered directly to the palace. And then you can tell me all about your missing girls."
Veronica nodded, clearly amused. Newbury felt his cheeks flush. He circled his desk and went in search of Miss Coulthard. He needed his morning tea. And, he reminded himself, he stil hadn't found time for any breakfast.
†
"So tell me about your suspect, Miss Hobbes." Newbury was sitting behind his desk once again, sipping at his tea. He was watching Veronica intently. She placed her sheaf of papers on the desk and folded her arms. She met his gaze, her face serious.
"Potential suspect, Sir Maurice. The man might not have done anything wrong."