the Yard, or a crime scene. He did not know what that said of their relationship.
The house was an austere sort of place—barely lived in, really, since Isobel had died. It existed in a strange state of preservation, as if these past years Bainbridge had maintained it in the way that his late wife might have done. He had refused to change anything or alter the décor in any way.
The drawing room, for example, was entirely the opposite of Newbury’s own. Whereas Newbury’s was filled with the accoutrements of his profession and his life—everything from the cat skull on the mantelpiece to the leaning piles of books beside the battered old sofa—Bainbridge’s was pristine and quiet, devoid of any heart. It was as if the spirit of the place had died along with Isobel. Now the house existed merely as a tribute to her, a place for Bainbridge to eat and sleep, which he did there as little as possible. It wasn’t a place that was lived in.
Perhaps that was the reason Newbury was rarely invited to visit: Bainbridge wished to retain that sense of stasis, avoid bringing too much life and change into the house lest he disturb the spirit of his late wife, whose presence he had tried so hard to hold on to.
Sighing, Newbury stooped low, collecting Bainbridge’s cane and shuffling the scattered papers into a neat pile. He stood and arranged them once again on the side table.
He heard Bainbridge’s clomping footsteps echoing back up the hall towards him and glanced up. “Leave that, Newbury. Clarkson will see to it.”
“I fear Clarkson may already have his hands full,” said Newbury, with a smile.
Bainbridge’s shoulders sagged in resignation. “Yes, I did rather give him both barrels, didn’t I?” He sighed. “Anyway, he’s sent word for Miss Hobbes. She should be here within an hour.”
“Excellent,” said Newbury. “Then let us sit for a moment and regain our sensibilities. We need to approach this problem with a level head.”
“And a large brandy,” said Bainbridge, with a heavy sigh.
* * *
“This question may seem anathema to you, Sir Charles, but how do we know that the Queen isn’t actually right in her assertion?”
Newbury raised his eyebrows in surprise as Bainbridge blustered in response to Veronica’s question.
“Because … because … Gah!” He slammed his palm down hard upon the arm of his chair. “That’s a damned impertinent question, Miss Hobbes!”
“But nevertheless one that needs to be asked, Sir Charles,” said Veronica, firmly. “Like it or not, the question remains: How do we know what this new Secret Service is actually planning?”
“I count myself among their founding members, Miss Hobbes!” said Bainbridge, his voice raising an octave in sheer frustration.
“And do you play an active role in the assignment of each agent’s duties?” continued Veronica. “Are you aware of the nature of all of their current investigations or missions? I admit, Sir Charles, to knowing very little of how you’ve been spending your days of late.”
“Of course not!” said Bainbridge, hotly. “But I hardly think that means they’re waging a clandestine war against the agents of Her Majesty behind my back! I put my full trust in those men and women. Men such as Angelchrist are working tirelessly to protect this Empire from harm, in much the same way as you, Newbury, and I are.”
“But why?” asked Veronica.
“I should have thought it was obvious,” snapped Bainbridge.
“Don’t be obtuse, Charles,” said Newbury, leaning forward in his chair. Around them the house was shrouded in utter silence, save for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock and the distant cawing of birds outside. “I believe the question Miss Hobbes is getting at is: Why did the Home Secretary decide it was necessary to set up his own bureau of operatives when the Queen already has a vast network of agents at her disposal, throughout not only the Empire, but all across the
The house was an austere sort of place—barely lived in, really, since Isobel had died. It existed in a strange state of preservation, as if these past years Bainbridge had maintained it in the way that his late wife might have done. He had refused to change anything or alter the décor in any way.
The drawing room, for example, was entirely the opposite of Newbury’s own. Whereas Newbury’s was filled with the accoutrements of his profession and his life—everything from the cat skull on the mantelpiece to the leaning piles of books beside the battered old sofa—Bainbridge’s was pristine and quiet, devoid of any heart. It was as if the spirit of the place had died along with Isobel. Now the house existed merely as a tribute to her, a place for Bainbridge to eat and sleep, which he did there as little as possible. It wasn’t a place that was lived in.
Perhaps that was the reason Newbury was rarely invited to visit: Bainbridge wished to retain that sense of stasis, avoid bringing too much life and change into the house lest he disturb the spirit of his late wife, whose presence he had tried so hard to hold on to.
Sighing, Newbury stooped low, collecting Bainbridge’s cane and shuffling the scattered papers into a neat pile. He stood and arranged them once again on the side table.
He heard Bainbridge’s clomping footsteps echoing back up the hall towards him and glanced up. “Leave that, Newbury. Clarkson will see to it.”
“I fear Clarkson may already have his hands full,” said Newbury, with a smile.
Bainbridge’s shoulders sagged in resignation. “Yes, I did rather give him both barrels, didn’t I?” He sighed. “Anyway, he’s sent word for Miss Hobbes. She should be here within an hour.”
“Excellent,” said Newbury. “Then let us sit for a moment and regain our sensibilities. We need to approach this problem with a level head.”
“And a large brandy,” said Bainbridge, with a heavy sigh.
* * *
“This question may seem anathema to you, Sir Charles, but how do we know that the Queen isn’t actually right in her assertion?”
Newbury raised his eyebrows in surprise as Bainbridge blustered in response to Veronica’s question.
“Because … because … Gah!” He slammed his palm down hard upon the arm of his chair. “That’s a damned impertinent question, Miss Hobbes!”
“But nevertheless one that needs to be asked, Sir Charles,” said Veronica, firmly. “Like it or not, the question remains: How do we know what this new Secret Service is actually planning?”
“I count myself among their founding members, Miss Hobbes!” said Bainbridge, his voice raising an octave in sheer frustration.
“And do you play an active role in the assignment of each agent’s duties?” continued Veronica. “Are you aware of the nature of all of their current investigations or missions? I admit, Sir Charles, to knowing very little of how you’ve been spending your days of late.”
“Of course not!” said Bainbridge, hotly. “But I hardly think that means they’re waging a clandestine war against the agents of Her Majesty behind my back! I put my full trust in those men and women. Men such as Angelchrist are working tirelessly to protect this Empire from harm, in much the same way as you, Newbury, and I are.”
“But why?” asked Veronica.
“I should have thought it was obvious,” snapped Bainbridge.
“Don’t be obtuse, Charles,” said Newbury, leaning forward in his chair. Around them the house was shrouded in utter silence, save for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock and the distant cawing of birds outside. “I believe the question Miss Hobbes is getting at is: Why did the Home Secretary decide it was necessary to set up his own bureau of operatives when the Queen already has a vast network of agents at her disposal, throughout not only the Empire, but all across the
Similar Books
