Free The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes by George Mann

about what had become of the boy. He was seventeen years old and much liked by the community. It seemed a senseless killing. Nevertheless, someone had clearly taken a dislike to the boy, and just a few hours earlier his corpse had been recovered from amongst the heather; battered, bruised and broken.
    “Crawford was obviously appalled by such goings-on, but clearly saw no connection to the case in hand. I, on the other hand, believed I now had all the information I needed. This was the motive I had been looking for, and all that remained was to await Hambleton’s return. Then, I was convinced, I would have all of the evidence I needed to build my case.”
    “So what, Hambleton killed this boy on the moors? But why? Did he have something to do with Lady Hambleton’s disappearance?”
    “In a manner of speaking. But it was much more complicated than all that, as you’ll soon hear.
    “It was only a short while before Hambleton himself returned to the manor. Crawford and I, sitting silently in the drawing room, were alerted to his arrival by the sound of his horse whinnying noisily in the driveway. We both clambered to our feet. Of course, Chester was the first one out of the door, crossing the hall before either of us had even made it out of the drawing room. And indeed, it was Chester who was to inadvertently give his master away. Coming out into the hall, both Crawford and I heard the manservant exclaim upon seeing his master. ‘Sir? Are you hurt?’ Hambleton’s reply was sharp. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. It’s not my blood. Here, take the reins.’
    “Glancing cautiously at each other, Crawford and I made our way out into the bright afternoon to get a measure of the situation. Chester was leading the horse away across the gravelled courtyard. Hambleton, still wearing his hat and cape, was spattered with blood. It was all over him; up his arms, over his chest. Even flecked over his collar and chin. His gloves were dripping in the stuff. He gave us a cursory glance, before pushing past us and into the hall, his boots leaving muddy footprints behind him.
    “Crawford was appalled. ‘Look here, Sir Clive. What’s the meaning of all this blood? What the devil have you been up to? This morning you said that you hoped everything would become clear, but as yet, things continue to be as murky as ever!’
    “Hambleton stared at his friend for a long while. His shoulders fell. It was as if a light had gone out behind his eyes. ‘Very well, Crawford. I had hoped to at least find myself some clean attire, but I suppose it is time. You too, Newbury. You’ve probably worked it out by now, anyway.’
    “He led us across the hall, stopping at the door to his cellar. There, he fished a key out from under his coat, smearing oily blood all over his clothes. He turned the key hastily in the lock and then, pulling the door open, revealed a staircase, which he quickly descended into the darkness. Crawford hesitated on the top step, but I was quick to push past him and followed Hambleton down into the stygian depths of the workshop. A moment later I heard Crawford’s footfalls on the stairs behind me.” Newbury sighed and took a long draw on his brandy. Bainbridge was on the edge of his seat. He’d allowed his cigar to burn down in the ashtray as Newbury talked, and he was watching his friend intently, anxious to know how the mystery would resolve itself.
    “The workshop was a sight to behold. It was a large room that must have filled a space equal to half the footprint of the manor itself. It was lit by only the weak glow of a handful of gas lamps and the crackling blue light of Hambleton’s bizarre machine, which filled a good third of the space and was wired to a small generator that whined with an insistent hum. Valves hissed noisily and the machine throbbed with a strange, pulsating energy; a huge brass edifice like an altar, with two immense arms that jutted out on either side of it, terminating in large discs between