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

disposal.”
    “You’re a good man, Newbury. Find a way to rid yourself of this blasted habit. It does you no credit. Your talents are needed, and you owe it to yourself and your country not to fritter them away like some common wastrel.” The Prince stood, heaving himself up out of the Chesterfield with a heartfelt groan. “I’ll say no more on the subject. You know what you must do.”
    If only it were that easy, thought Newbury as he levered himself up, his limbs protesting, his mind still woozy. If only he could explain that people’s lives depended on this blasted habit. But he knew he could not. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”
    “Thank you , Newbury. I knew that I would be able to rely on you. We will speak again soon.” The Prince gave the briefest of smiles before turning towards the door. “Scarbright?” he bellowed, so loud that Newbury was sure he felt the room itself tremble in surprise.
    Newbury heard Scarbright’s footsteps thundering on the stairs. He appeared in the doorway, red-faced, a moment later. “How might I be of assistance, Your Royal Highness?”
    “I’m leaving, Scarbright. My coat and hat.”
    “Quite so. Please allow me to escort you to your carriage.”
    And with that, Albert Edward of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha swept out of Newbury’s drawing room as swiftly as he had arrived.
    Newbury waited until he heard the creak of the carriage’s wheels and the clatter of the horse’s hooves in the street below before he allowed himself to exhale. He slumped back into his armchair before the fire, his head spinning as he contemplated the gravity of what had just occurred. He was just about to reach for another cigarette when Scarbright came barrelling back into the room.
    “There was a message for you, sir, while you were engaged with the Prince of Wales.”
    Newbury raised an eyebrow. Surely not another summons from the palace? “Indeed?”
    “It’s from Sir Charles, sir. He says he needs your help. He and Miss Hobbes are awaiting you at the morgue.” Scarbright winced as he delivered this news, as if in anticipation of Newbury’s response.
    “Does it never end?” Newbury replied, wearily, slipping his silver cigarette case back into his jacket pocket unopened. His heart sank. The morgue. Once more, he was to surround himself with the death and detritus of other people’s sordid lives. Further distractions from the work at hand. Yet he couldn’t very well allow their call for help to go unheeded. “Very well. Run me a bath, would you, Scarbright? It’s time I made myself presentable. Even the dead deserve that.”
    “Indeed, sir,” replied Scarbright, and for the first time that day, the valet smiled. “Even the dead,” he echoed, before dashing off again to make the necessary arrangements.
    Newbury leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He issued a long, heavy sigh. The real world was once again tugging on his sleeve, and it was time he stopped ignoring it.

 
    CHAPTER
    4
     
    It wasn’t that she enjoyed killing.
    Indeed, she took no pleasure whatsoever in the act. The sensation of her sword tip sliding into the soft flesh of a target; the spurt of crimson blood as she severed their vital arteries; the expression of terrified anguish on their face as it dawned on them that their final moments would be spent writhing in agony, impotent to prevent their own demise … none of these things elicited even the slightest hint of emotion in her.
    Indeed, it was this utter and complete absence of feeling that had led her to the role of murderess, mercenary, executioner. She had long ago lost her heart. Now, she was little more than a cipher, a shadow, a leftover trace of the person she had once been. She was undying and immoveable.
    She still remembered the first time she had killed. She expected to be overwhelmed with disgust, horror, remorse. She imagined she would vomit and keen into the long nights in the weeks that followed, that she would vehemently hate herself