Free Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart by George Mann

Maurice,” she said, putting a hand against his forehead. It was clammy and cold. His pulse was slow and steady. Most likely it was exhaustion, then, rather than anything more fiendish. Nevertheless, Amelia was right. This wasn’t typical. Not by any means.
    “Veronica,” said Newbury, the relief evident in his voice. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a few moments.”
    “You need some rest,” she said.
    “I need to write to Aldous first,” he replied, doggedly.
    “No,” Veronica’s tone was firm. “That can wait another hour or so. I’ll set you up on the couch in the living room. You can sleep it off, and then write to Aldous later, before we return to London.” She cupped her hand on his right cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll see the letter on its way myself.”
    He nodded slowly. His breath was coming in long, laboured gasps. “Alright,” he said, quietly. “I’ll rest for a while, but you might need to help me up.”
    “Don’t I always,” she said, standing and offering her hands to help lever him up onto his feet. She heaved and took a step backwards, and a moment later he was standing unsteadily beside her, still semi-conscious. She draped his arm around her shoulder and led him to the door, staggering slightly beneath his weight.
    “Everything’s going to be fine,” she said determinedly, but she knew it was more for her own benefit than Newbury’s. She waited for his confirmation, for him to assure her that she was right. But he said nothing, simply allowed himself to be led, in a daze, to the couch, where he could rest and attempt to regain his strength.

 
    CHAPTER
    7
     
    Newbury reclined in his chair by the fire, his head lolled to one side, his eyelids drooping heavily. He was tired, more so than he’d been in years, yet the night had passed and he’d proved unable to sleep; the unnatural effects of the ritual left him feeling physically drained and yet still mentally alert, restless. His mind kept on replaying his visit to the morgue from the previous day, running over each of the grisly details in turn, analysing, dwelling, considering. He was surprised to realise he was anxious to press on with the case. Something about the sight of the three corpses, each with their hearts so brutally removed, had caught his attention.
    He’d been slumped in the chair for most of the night, staring blankly into the gloom, seeing things that weren’t really there. Apparitions and shadows. Ghosts and memories. Lately, he’d found himself haunted by visions of the past, dredged up by his feverish mind and his chemical and occult experiments. At least, he’d reasoned them to be visions once the sunlight had come to banish them along with the darkness. Visions of Templeton Black, his former assistant, now dead and long sunk in the earth; of George Purefoy, the young reporter he had taken under his wing, only to lead him inadvertently to a brutal death at the hands of Aubrey Knox. And of Veronica, too, pleading with him to help her. Was she to be his next victim, killed because of her association with him, because of his failures? Were his visions somehow prophetic, or simply a product of his guilt? He was not entirely sure. Recently, the lines had become blurry.
    Newbury shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His body craved more of the Chinese weed, but in his present condition it would do him little good, so he stilled his hand, resisting the temptation to reach for his cigarette case. At least for a while. He knew he’d be unable to resist for long, but he needed to clear his head.
    The room was silent save for the fire crackling eagerly in the hearth beside him and the ominous ticking of the carriage clock on the mantel. The sound had become a constant reminder of his own mortality—a mortality that felt closer and more real to him than it ever had before. It seemed that with each shifting of its gears the device was somehow taking account of all that he had done; stealing away his remaining minutes