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

as punishment, claiming them as its own.
    He laughed at himself and opened his eyes. Even the clocks are judging me now . He knew he was only maudlin because of the ritual, because of the enormous effort it took, how spent it left him feeling. The irony, however, was not lost on him. The clock might in truth be benign, but other things certainly were eroding his existence, slowly and inexorably. The clock served simply as a reminder.
    He stirred at the sound of footsteps on the path outside, which were followed by a brisk rap on the front door. It was a distinctive knock—the silver head of a cane striking the painted wooden panel. Bainbridge .
    Newbury listened for Scarbright’s hasty footsteps in the hall, the creaking of the door hinges, the mumbled greetings. He closed his eyes again and leaned back in his chair, making the most of the few moments of peace he had left. Seconds later the door to the drawing room burst open unceremoniously and Bainbridge stalked in, heaving a heavy, melodramatic sigh.
    “You do realise how much damage you do to my paintwork with that infernal stick of yours, don’t you, Charles?” said Newbury, peeling open his eyes once again. “It’s most inconsiderate. Poor Scarbright is forever complaining at having to touch up the dints in the wood.”
    Bainbridge laughed half-heartedly. “Good morning, Newbury,” he replied, his voice strained.
    Newbury noted that his friend was looking a little flustered and red about the face, and had not removed his coat in the hallway. “We’re going out, then?” he asked, nonchalantly.
    Bainbridge frowned. “Yes,” he said, clearly refusing to be drawn. He crossed the drawing room, stepping over a heaped pile of papers covered in Newbury’s spidery scrawl, and perched on the arm of the chair opposite Newbury’s own. He leaned forward on his cane, then reached into his pocket and produced a small white notecard. He waved it at Newbury. “She’s sending them to me, now!”
    “A summons?” asked Newbury, nodding towards the neat stack of identical cards on the sideboard. “Add it to the pile, Charles.”
    Bainbridge shook his head. “No. This time she wants to see us both.”
    Newbury coughed fitfully into his fist and leaned forward, taking the card from Bainbridge. The message, printed in Sandford’s neat copperplate, gave little away.
SIR CHARLES
YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED AT THE PALACE FORTHWITH. BRING NEWBURY.
VR
    “You’re not getting out of it this time, I’m afraid, old man.”
    Newbury shrugged and handed the card back to Bainbridge. “I suppose it’s time I put in an appearance,” he said, smiling, although his heart wasn’t in it.
    Bainbridge nodded. “You look dreadful,” he said.
    “Thank you, Charles,” Newbury replied smartly.
    “I’m only telling you what you already know, Newbury. God knows someone has to.” Bainbridge’s voice was full of disdain. “Have you seen the black rings beneath your eyes? And you’re as white as a sheet. Anyone would think you were anaemic.”
    “Yes, yes, Charles,” said Newbury dismissively. “None of this is new. Besides, I came to the morgue. I’m helping you, aren’t I?”
    “Yes, I suppose,” said Bainbridge, his moustache twitching. “So you’ll come, then? To the palace, I mean?”
    “Yes,” said Newbury. “I’ll come.”
    “Good man,” said Bainbridge, straightening his back. He was wearing a satisfied expression. Clearly, he’d been expecting a row. He lifted his cane and opened his mouth as if to continue, but then rocked back in sudden surprise as a large brass object came swooping down from a nearby bookcase, emitting a metallic squawk and eliciting a curse from the chief inspector. It landed neatly upon his shoulder, folded its wings with the clacking of metal plates, and cocked its head in mimicry of the barn owl it was modelled on.
    “Good God!” said Bainbridge, loudly. “This ruddy … creature of yours just gave me the fright of my life!”
    The