theft. It may simply be an obscene fetish that’s driving the killer to act as he is, taking trophies from his victims for his own gratification.”
“Let us hope you’re wrong,” said Angelchrist, darkly. “Otherwise we have even less to go on than we thought.”
The four of them stood in silence for a moment, as if weighing the implications of Angelchrist’s words. A killer with no motives other than simple self-gratification. A murderer who chose his victims at random, leaving no clear pattern behind, no evidence besides a brutalised corpse without a heart. Veronica knew it would be like searching for a needle in a proverbial haystack.
“I’ll send word to Aldous as a matter of urgency,” said Newbury, coming around from behind the trestle table that bore the corpse of the woman. He looked to Veronica. “First of all, however, I have some business I must attend to with Miss Hobbes.”
“My thanks to you, Newbury,” said Bainbridge. “I feel as if our chances of success have improved tenfold, simply by virtue of having your assistance. It’s been too long.” He patted Newbury on the shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”
“See that you are, you old fool,” replied Newbury, chuckling as Bainbridge affected mock hurt. He turned to Angelchrist. “Until next time, Archibald.”
“Indeed, Sir Maurice. I trust we’ll speak again soon. And you, Miss Hobbes. I hope you will forgive me for capitalising so much of Sir Charles’s time this afternoon.”
“Of course,” said Veronica, diplomatically. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
Newbury held out his arm for Veronica and she took it gratefully, keen to put some distance between herself and the cadavers. He led her towards the exit.
“We have business to attend to?” she asked quietly, so that the others would not catch her trailing words as they walked.
“Indeed we do, Miss Hobbes. I believe it’s high time we paid another visit to your sister.”
Veronica squeezed his arm in grateful acknowledgement. “To Malbury Cross, then. I have a hansom waiting outside. Once you’ve attended to Amelia, I’ll see that you have time to write to Aldous, too.”
She leaned a little closer into Newbury, ignoring the imperious look of the mortuary attendant as they bid him good afternoon and stepped out into the drizzly late afternoon.
CHAPTER
6
The incense was thick and heady, and it lodged in the back of Amelia’s throat, making it difficult for her to breathe. She had no idea what the perfume was: lavender, most definitely, but something else, too, something unfamiliar, herbal, sharp. Accompanying this floral bouquet was a cloying tang of iron, which she really hoped wasn’t blood, but fully suspected was.
Not that she would have been able to tell. The room was shrouded in darkness. The heavy drapes were pulled across the windows to banish the watery afternoon sunlight, and the only other light source came from the five white candles arranged in a star pattern around her. She was kneeling on bare wooden floorboards at the centre of a strange pattern marked out in chalk: a complex geometric shape encompassing a five-pointed star, with unfamiliar glyphs and runes etched around it in a wide outer circle. She’d been told that she should never break the chalk pattern or step outside of its barriers while the ritual was being performed.
As a result she sat stock-still, despite the fact that the rough floorboards hurt her knees and her back ached terribly. She was worried that, should she make even the slightest of movements or unknowingly break one of the fine chalk lines with her hand or foot, she might disturb the ritual. She hadn’t been told what the consequences of such an action might be, but she was anxious not to find out.
Newbury sat opposite her within the chalk pattern, murmuring gently as he read from the pages of an ancient, leather-bound book. Amelia had tried making sense of the incantation, but had so far been unable to
“Let us hope you’re wrong,” said Angelchrist, darkly. “Otherwise we have even less to go on than we thought.”
The four of them stood in silence for a moment, as if weighing the implications of Angelchrist’s words. A killer with no motives other than simple self-gratification. A murderer who chose his victims at random, leaving no clear pattern behind, no evidence besides a brutalised corpse without a heart. Veronica knew it would be like searching for a needle in a proverbial haystack.
“I’ll send word to Aldous as a matter of urgency,” said Newbury, coming around from behind the trestle table that bore the corpse of the woman. He looked to Veronica. “First of all, however, I have some business I must attend to with Miss Hobbes.”
“My thanks to you, Newbury,” said Bainbridge. “I feel as if our chances of success have improved tenfold, simply by virtue of having your assistance. It’s been too long.” He patted Newbury on the shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”
“See that you are, you old fool,” replied Newbury, chuckling as Bainbridge affected mock hurt. He turned to Angelchrist. “Until next time, Archibald.”
“Indeed, Sir Maurice. I trust we’ll speak again soon. And you, Miss Hobbes. I hope you will forgive me for capitalising so much of Sir Charles’s time this afternoon.”
“Of course,” said Veronica, diplomatically. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
Newbury held out his arm for Veronica and she took it gratefully, keen to put some distance between herself and the cadavers. He led her towards the exit.
“We have business to attend to?” she asked quietly, so that the others would not catch her trailing words as they walked.
“Indeed we do, Miss Hobbes. I believe it’s high time we paid another visit to your sister.”
Veronica squeezed his arm in grateful acknowledgement. “To Malbury Cross, then. I have a hansom waiting outside. Once you’ve attended to Amelia, I’ll see that you have time to write to Aldous, too.”
She leaned a little closer into Newbury, ignoring the imperious look of the mortuary attendant as they bid him good afternoon and stepped out into the drizzly late afternoon.
CHAPTER
6
The incense was thick and heady, and it lodged in the back of Amelia’s throat, making it difficult for her to breathe. She had no idea what the perfume was: lavender, most definitely, but something else, too, something unfamiliar, herbal, sharp. Accompanying this floral bouquet was a cloying tang of iron, which she really hoped wasn’t blood, but fully suspected was.
Not that she would have been able to tell. The room was shrouded in darkness. The heavy drapes were pulled across the windows to banish the watery afternoon sunlight, and the only other light source came from the five white candles arranged in a star pattern around her. She was kneeling on bare wooden floorboards at the centre of a strange pattern marked out in chalk: a complex geometric shape encompassing a five-pointed star, with unfamiliar glyphs and runes etched around it in a wide outer circle. She’d been told that she should never break the chalk pattern or step outside of its barriers while the ritual was being performed.
As a result she sat stock-still, despite the fact that the rough floorboards hurt her knees and her back ached terribly. She was worried that, should she make even the slightest of movements or unknowingly break one of the fine chalk lines with her hand or foot, she might disturb the ritual. She hadn’t been told what the consequences of such an action might be, but she was anxious not to find out.
Newbury sat opposite her within the chalk pattern, murmuring gently as he read from the pages of an ancient, leather-bound book. Amelia had tried making sense of the incantation, but had so far been unable to
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