Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart Read Online Free PDF Page A

flood in through the tall windows. Disturbed puddles of stale cigarette ash swirled in the afternoon sun, dancing amongst the dust motes.
    Newbury was beginning to wish that he’d paid more attention to the Queen’s summonses, which had been delivered to his door with increasing frequency in the preceding days, and were currently forming a neat little pile on the occasional table. Perhaps Victoria had sent her son to chase him out of his rooms. Surely not? Surely there was more important business with which the Prince of Wales might concern himself?
    Newbury glanced down at his crumpled suit, with its oily streaks of smeared ash on the lapels and innumerable stains from where he’d carelessly sloshed absinthe and red wine. It was not the most salubrious of impressions to make upon a future monarch.
    “If Your Royal Highness would like to take a seat…” Newbury paused as he realised there probably weren’t any seats in the room that weren’t piled high with occult grimoires, old newspapers, or full specimen jars, then decided that the best thing in the circumstances was to carry on regardless, “… I might just excuse myself for a moment.” He began to edge around the sofa towards the door, hoping he might stall things for a few minutes so that he could at least slip away and change while Scarbright saw to the immediate mess.
    “Sit down, Newbury, and stop that infernal flapping. Don’t you think I knew what I was letting myself in for, coming here? You are notorious throughout the palace for your fondness for that dreadful weed, and no one has seen you for days. I half-expected to hear word that poor Bainbridge had once again been forced to haul your sorry carcass out of an opium den in the East End. It’s something of a relief to find you here at all.”
    Newbury swallowed, but his mouth was dry. There was very little he could offer in response to the Prince’s words. After all, he had rather been caught red-handed.
    Scarbright busied himself, freeing up two Chesterfields close to the fire by unceremoniously tossing heaps of Newbury’s precious books onto the floor in one corner. Both men watched him until he straightened his back, approached them, and—with some dignity, given the circumstances—bade them to their seats.
    Newbury watched as the Prince lowered himself into one of the armchairs, filling it utterly with both his physical bulk and his voluminous presence. Scarbright took the Prince’s walking cane and hat, then swiftly withdrew with promises of tea.
    Newbury eyed the Prince for a moment, attempting to gather himself. His head was still swimming with the effects of the opium he’d consumed, and for a moment he wondered if he were actually hallucinating—if it wasn’t simply his mind playing tricks on him, fabricating the encounter as a product of his guilt or fears or anxieties. But then the Prince turned and looked up at him, and Newbury knew the situation was all too real. He swallowed, attempting to relieve his dry mouth. He’d just have to carry on as best he could.
    Newbury smiled genially, crossed to the Chesterfield opposite the Prince, and sat down. He was intrigued to discover the reason for the unusual—or, rather, positively unheard of—visitation.
    “A relief, Your Royal Highness?” he said, his voice low and respectful.
    “What?”
    “You said, Your Royal Highness, that it was something of a relief to find me at home. I take it, therefore, that I am able to assist you in some way?”
    The Prince narrowed his eyes for a moment before his face creased into a broad smile. “It’s good to see the Newbury I recognise is still in there, somewhere. Judging by the state of you, man, I had cause to doubt it.”
    “I can only apologise. You find me engaged in more of my ongoing … studies.”
    The Prince harrumphed at this and fixed Newbury with a knowing stare. “Occult science and paranormal philosophy. Hallucinogens and absinthe. Ritual and corruption.” He leaned back