Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart Read Free

to cling to some former aristocratic heritage, a proud dream now long forgotten by the rest of the world. He supposed there were plenty of people who had found themselves in that position in recent years; the former scions of society, now fallen on hard times and replaced by the wash of self-made industrialists and opportunists who had identified their niche in the changing, modern Empire.
    So much for the frilly shirts and the glory days of old.
    Bainbridge laughed at himself. He was grumpy at having to haul himself from his bed at so unsociable an hour. This, of course, was nothing new to such a seasoned man of the Yard, but he was presently nursing a thick head, the result of a late night spent drinking port and conversing with a government man, Professor Archibald Angelchrist. He and Angelchrist had been meeting regularly over the last six months, ever since the beginning of Bainbridge’s association with the Secret Service. Angelchrist worked as an advisor to the government in some capacity, chiefly pertaining, Bainbridge had gathered, to matters of a scientific bent. He was a good man, but—as Bainbridge had discovered, to his detriment—Angelchrist liked his liquor. He hoped, perhaps a little unkindly, that Angelchrist was currently suffering as much as he was, but then he remembered the time and realised the other man would most likely still be tucked up snugly in his bed. Just as, if there was any justice left in the world, Bainbridge himself would have been.
    He stood for a moment longer, leaning heavily on his cane and staring blankly into the cold grate of the fire. He was growing impatient. Had the constable failed to inform Foulkes that he was here?
    He was just about to set out in search of the man, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and turned to see Foulkes striding briskly across the room towards him. He was wearing a harried expression and looked deathly tired. Well, that made two of them, then.
    “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. I was taking steps to secure the scene, as per your instructions. Nothing has been moved.” Foulkes tugged at his dark, bushy beard and stared at Bainbridge expectantly.
    Bainbridge had always liked Foulkes. He spoke his mind and wasn’t afraid of the consequences. There were few men like that in the force these days, and although his frankness had probably stifled his progress through the ranks in some ways, it made him a better policeman, and far more useful to Bainbridge than the many yes men who typically plagued his days.
    “Morning, Foulkes,” he said, wearily. He already knew what to expect, but he raised a questioning eyebrow anyway. “Well?”
    Foulkes nodded. “It’s exactly the same, sir. Same as all the others.” He pulled a disconcerted face and lowered his voice, as if concerned that someone might overhear his familiarity with the chief inspector. “It’s a ruddy great mess in there. There’s blood everywhere.”
    Bainbridge tried to keep his grimace to himself. “They took it again?”
    “Yes. It’s nowhere to be found. Ripped the chest right open and tore it out, just like the others. It’s bloody disgusting.”
    “Quite literally,” said Bainbridge, drily. “Alright, show me the way.”
    “She’s in the library,” said Foulkes, gesturing back the way he had come. “Made a terrible mess of the books.”
    Bainbridge wasn’t sure whether Foulkes was being sarcastic or not, but he let it wash over him regardless. Foulkes was most likely as aggrieved as he was at being dragged from his bed into the cold and dark. And, to add insult to injury, both of them knew there was a long day full of questions ahead.
    Resignedly, Bainbridge trudged after Foulkes, deeper into the big house, on towards the grim scene that awaited them in the dusty stacks of the library.
    *   *   *
    The scene itself was just as Foulkes had described. Worse, in fact. It was as if Bainbridge had suddenly found himself in an abattoir rather than a library.