Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  He rubbed the aching jaw. “Not here, but earlier. And for the record, I was caught off-guard by the punch. It happens in my line of work. There’s James,” he said, seeing Drummond. “I hate to leave you, darling, but I really must fetch Paul and head to Whitechapel. I’m sorry to run off again. I promise to make it up to you later.”

  She laughed as he kissed her hand. “I shall hold you to that, Captain. And the next time a fist comes your way, please duck.”

  Haimsbury passed by Drummond on the way to Paul’s location. The cheerful Scottish duke was greeting a dozen friends, talking politics and sport. Upon reaching Charles, he placed a firm hand on his nephew’s shoulder, leaning in to whisper, “You’ve heard about the fire, I take it?”

  “Yes. Paul and I are leaving now.”

  “Good. Also, it seems Alexander Collins has suffered a mental break of some kind. His mind may really be gone, son, but it could also be a trick. Keep your wits about you. Collins keeps evil company.”

  “If it’s a trick, then it’s the second one today,” Sinclair told his uncle. “A vanishing act took place this morning. I’ll explain later. I’ll likely be unable to attend the theatre, but I’ll do my best to make the party. Keep an eye on Beth for me, James.”

  “As if I would do anything else?” the Scotsman laughed. “Take some of our men with you, son. I’ll enjoy the night better, knowing you’ve armed guards about you, but do what you must. I’ll look after Beth.”

  “Thank you, James,” answered the young duke as he walked towards Aubrey.

  Along the way, Charles noticed a pretty child with auburn curls and freckled cheeks. She wore a modest costume of dark velvet and carried two lemonades, a glass in each hand. She nearly spilled one because of a thoughtless bump by a tall man in a distinctly out-of-place suit made from bright blue silk, trimmed in scarlet velvet. Sinclair managed to catch the beverage before it toppled.

  “Careful!” Charles said, placing himself close to the girl protectively whilst keeping one eye on the mysterious man in blue. “You wouldn’t want to ruin that lovely dress.”

  “He did it intentionally. That man. Why would he do that?” the girl complained, turning this way and that, searching for the culprit. “Oh, that’s very strange! He’s gone. And who are you? Are you another stranger? My father says to be wary of strangers. I’m not to talk to them.”

  “I’m Charles,” he told the child.

  “Charles? Are you family, friend, or servant? You’re very well dressed if you’re a footman.”

  “I’m not a footman,” he told her.

  “Then, are you family?” she probed, her copper brows arched high upon the freckled face. “Even if you are family, I shouldn’t talk to you, as you’re strange and all.”

  “Then I shall do my best to avoid being strange. May I carry the glasses for you?”

  “Very well, but you mustn’t drink any,” the precocious child ordered.

  They walked together towards the eastern wall, which was formed entirely of leaded panes of glass. “Are you taking one of these to Lady Cordelia?” he asked.

  “Do you know her? Cordelia’s my aunt, of course. And that’s Paul sitting with her. He’s an earl. I think she plans to marry him.”

  “Does she?” the duke asked, a smile playing at his lips. “How very interesting.”

  “Do you know Paul? If so, then perhaps you’re not too awfully strange.”

  They arrived at the seating area, and Aubrey stood politely. “I see you’ve met.”

  “Not really,” Haimsbury admitted. “I’m too strange, it seems.”

  “I’m not to talk to strangers,” the girl said firmly. “It is a hard and fast rule. That’s what Father says.”

  “And your father’s correct,” agreed the earl. “But this man is my cousin. Charles Sinclair, this is Miss Calliope Wychwright.”

  “Your cousin?” she asked. “Is he also an earl? I know he isn’t a footman.”

  “A footman?” laughed Aubrey. “Hardly! Charles is a duke.”

  “Nonsense. I was told the only duke here is that man,” she declared, pointing towards Drummond. “Besides, dukes are old and smell of pipe tobacco.”

  “Not always, and yes, I’m really a duke, though I hardly feel like one. That other duke is my uncle,” Sinclair told her. “If this second lemonade is for him, you may need to splash in something stronger. He prefers drinks with a bit more kick to them.”

  “You’re very funny for a duke,” Callie laughed placing one of the glasses in the earl’s hands. “This is for you, Paul. To thank you for allowing us to ride in your very nice carriage. And for telling Cassie and me all about Africa.”

  Charles handed the second glass to Cordelia. “And I’m sure this is for you.”

  “I couldn’t find any blackberry punch,” Callie explained. “Only lemonade. I spilled a little, though, because of that very rude man in the blue suit.”

  Cordelia stared at the sweet refreshment as though she couldn’t recall how to use a glass. The noise level of the room made it impossible to converse in soft voices, which meant nearly everyone had begun to shout, and the chaotic sounds bounced inside her confused mind like a rosinless bow skipping across out of tune violin strings.

  Sinclair could see his cousin was worried about the young woman, and so was he. “How’s she doing?” he whispered into Paul’s left ear.

  “Coping, but only just,” Stuart answered in similar fashion. “I’d like to take her home, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea, considering the way William treats her. He’s mercurial at best, and last night, he threatened to put her on the streets. Ned told me about it.”

  “How is that his choice to make?” the duke asked. “It’s Delia’s home, too, isn’t it?”

  “Not legally, no. All the baronial properties are likely entailed to the title. Once the legal matters are done, William will gain full control of all the houses and the money. He could evict his own mother, if he wanted.”

  Charles caught Drummond’s eye and waved, beckoning him over. “This place is a madhouse!” he told the earl. “Hardly a gathering of mourners.”

  “But it’s precisely what Connie Wychwright was hoping for,” Aubrey answered as Drummond reached them.

  “Charles, are you two leaving now?” asked James.

  “Yes, and I wonder if you’d keep an eye on Cordelia and her young nieces for us?” Sinclair asked their uncle. “Perhaps, they could join you and Elizabeth in a quiet corner. And afterward, if you’d make sure everyone is taken safely back home?”

  The duke bent down, smiling at the two children. “Girls, would you like to explore your Uncle Basil’s folly with me?”

  “Oh, yes, please!” both answered in gleeful unison.

  “Where is it?” asked Calliope.

  “Just outside those doors, near the back of the rose garden. But you’ll need warm cloaks. It’s grown quite chilly, and it may even snow whilst we’re walking about. Delia, why don’t you come with us, dear?” he said gently to the distraught young woman. “We’ll fetch my granddaughter and see if we can’t find that pirate treasure Basil claims in buried ‘neath his hedges.”

  “What’s a folly?” Sinclair asked Aubrey as the children left to fetch their coats.

  “Usually, they’re old buildings or the remains of them, used as garden features or summer houses. You had one when you were a boy, Charles. We used to play there, whenever I’d visit. There’s also a delightful old folly at Branham, on the edge of the pond in Henry’s Woods. Ask Beth to show you.”

  The earl reached for Cordelia’s hand with obvious affection and helped her to stand. His cousin took note of the gesture.

  “Don’t forget your handbag,” Paul whispered, lightly kissing her cheek as he draped a woolen cloak round her shoulders. “Go with James now. He’ll watch after you.”

  Drummond put out his
arm, and Cordelia automatically took it. Her halting gait gave the impression of a sleepwalker stumbling through a dream. The two cousins waited until their uncle had collected Elizabeth, and then watched as the group left the conservatory to search for buried treasure.

  “My coach or yours?” asked Aubrey.

  Charles smiled. “Let’s take mine. If the roads are as dangerous as I hear, Granger’s an imposing figure and a keen shot. James will make sure Beth gets home safely.”

  “All right, but I need to fetch extra ammunition first. My coach is parked by the entry.”

  The pair pushed their way upstream once more, winding through narrow corridors. As they passed the formal dining hall, Haimsbury noticed the peculiar man in the peacock blue suit who’d so annoyed Calliope. He was deep in conversation with William Wychwright and two other men. Only now, did Charles realise what had so bothered him about the flamboyantly dressed stranger.

  “Good heavens, Paul! That’s Rasha Grigor!” he exclaimed, starting towards the dining hall to confront him. “I am not leaving Elizabeth, if that demonic Romanian is here!”

  Paul tugged sharply on his cousin’s coat sleeve to stop him in his tracks. “No, Charles, it isn’t Grigor. In fact, he’s one of the matters I need to discuss with you, but not here. Come on, let’s go. James will look after Beth.”

  It took nearly five minutes to reach the quiet sanity and fresh air of the outdoors. The Aubrey coach sat nearby, and the earl collected a box of ammunition from a steel container beneath the seat. Charles noticed the picture book that had so amused the Wychwright children.

  “Conducting research for a future trip?” he quipped.

  “Very droll. No, it belongs to Della. She’d probably like it back.”

  “I’ll see her later. Shall I take it with me?”

  “Only if you promise not to keep it,” teased the earl.

  After another short walk, they reached the Haimsbury coach, parked on Wilton Place. Charles spoke briefly to Hamish Granger before joining his cousin inside, and by three o’clock the two men were on their way to Whitechapel.

  As they moved along Victoria Street, Charles began leafing through the picture book’s colourful pages. “I see Adele’s added her own comments to some of these drawings. Apparently, this spider monkey is on her list of possible pets.”

  “A spider monkey makes a very poor pet!” the earl laughed. “Trust me. A man I knew in South America kept one, and it was quite aggressive with strangers. Della loves animals, but a puppy or songbird is a better idea. She’s at a funny sort of stage, my daughter. One moment, she’s a child, the next practically a woman. She spends a great deal of time with Winston Churchill over at Maisie’s home. Apparently, I’m not to notice her fascination with the boy, but it’s difficult not to.”

  “She’ll be sixteen before you know it,” Charles observed.

  “Please, Lord, not so quickly!” Paul answered with a sigh. “She’s already asking if she can live with Tory next summer. As it happens, I’m glad she didn’t come with me today, particularly in light of some of those attending.”

  “Do you refer to that creature in the vulgar suit?” his cousin asked.

  “Exactly. We’ve met several of these entities now, and they have very similar looks. Perhaps, they’re constrained to a certain set of features, but overall, they reflect the countries they claim to represent.”

  “You think their human roles are fiction?” asked Charles.

  “I think they’ve lived many lives. But they bear striking similarities. As though imitating something else. I’ve no idea what, but it’s a theory Martin proposed. I mistook this one for Rasha as well, but then I noticed subtleties about his appearance that seemed different from the Romanian upstart.”

  “Such as?”

  “His height, for one. Rasha’s shorter than Romanov and Raziel. As though he’s weaker, perhaps subservient. Also, the way this one holds his posture; the mannerisms of movement and voice differ. Charles, I believe he may be the creature that attacked you at Branham.”

  Charles dropped the book, now all attention. “The one that killed Beth’s horse?”

  “Yes. As you know, I’ve spent the last few evenings trolling through the city’s less fashionable venues for signs of these demonic creatures, and they leave a very definite blood trail in their wake. There are whispers of their foul deeds all over the East. I’m sure Reid and his men hear them, but their energies remain focused on solving Ripper.”

  “We know who Ripper was, Paul.”

  “The circle does, yes, but the Home Office aren’t satisfied with our explanation. When I told Matthews the crimes were committed by a group of demonic murderers, he called it ‘fanciful’.”

  “Henry Matthews lacks imagination, but he’s typical of most men in government. Paul, when you say ‘blood trail’, do you refer to the Victoria Park murders?”

  “Yes, but there’ve been others since,” the earl replied. “In the past week, six women were attacked, but unlike Victoria Park, only one has died. The other five were left dazed, complaining of a strange dream involving a tall man with a European accent who promised them money in return for sexual favours.”

  “That’s hardly unusual in Whitechapel, Paul.”

  “True, but rather than collect these favours in the usual manner, the creature drinks their blood.”

  The duke shuddered at the thought. “Is he a vampire?”

  “Some of the immigrants are using that very word. The Jews claim it’s the dybbuk demon returned. The Lascars call him the chedipe. The Slovaks dhampir, some of the Slavs call him mara, others a mullo. The immigrants from Kiev call it an upir. Others say wampyr. But they all mean the same thing: a seductive supernatural creature, returned from the dead to prey upon the living. As you can imagine, these prostitutes find very few policemen who’ll believe their tales. They’re called mad or liars, and one was sent to Bedlam last week. Fearing similar confinement, the other victims have recanted their testimonies.”

  “This is very bad, Paul. Only this morning, I heard of two similar deaths; but in Vienna, not London. Might this vampire be one of an entire class of supernatural beings? A monstrous, spirit division of Redwing?”

  “Possibly, but such a group requires a leader. I suspect that leader is the Watcher summoned during Redwing’s Ripper ritual, not Raziel Grigor or his so-called son, Rasha. And these evil deeds may take other forms. The arson fires set about the city in recent weeks, even this morning’s dockside fire at St. Katherine’s, have more to do with Redwing than Fenian or Russian anarchists.”

  “Which means Special Branch’s current investigation is wasted effort,” noted Haimsbury.

  “Probably, but if they hunt the wrong path, then it keeps their noses out of our investigation. Besides, it’s important to operate on multiple fronts at once. If we’re to reach the truth, then anarchy must be ruled out.”

  Charles took a deep breath, focusing his thoughts as if evaluating a complex equation. “Susanna Morgan’s story of thirteen mirrors and thirteen Watchers begins to play out before our eyes. Are you sure Beth’s safe? Perhaps, I should go back.”

  “The creature was working its magic on Wychwright and seemed to take little notice of us. Beth’s safe with James. And besides, I placed ten of my best agents at the house. She and Delia are well looked after.”

  Charles began to laugh. “Ten agents? Those must be the men Margaret noticed and thought were reporters! Well done, Cousin. I should have known you’d have it handled.”

  “I try to anticipate danger,” Paul said. Several thick strands of chestnut had dislodged from the ribbon, refusing to remain constrained. Frustrated with the hair, Aubrey pulled the ribbon off and stuffed it into his coat pocket. “I should probably just cut it,” he declared.

  “But it makes a grand disguise,” Charles argued. “And Beth likes your hair long. She calls it poetic.�
��

  The earl ran his fingers through the long waves to smooth them. “Yes, she used to call me Lord Byron, but you’d be surprised how well I can blend into the seedier quarters of the city with this poetic mane.”

  “Even without the beard?” asked his cousin.

  “The beard gives me a scraggly look; but clean shaven, I now look like a Fabianist or any number of artists and writers hanging round the East End. In the past few nights, I’ve walked amongst them in opium dens, music halls, and gambling parlours, but so far, no one has seen a woman answering Susanna’s or MacKey’s description. I even called on Clive Urquhart at his disgusting home two days ago in hopes of obtaining information.”

  “Has he seen either of them?”

  “The man claimed Susanna left England to visit her father in Chicago; and that he paid the passage to America. He seemed surprised I’d ask about Lorena, but claimed to know nothing of her. I detest that little man, but the visit revealed a bit about Redwing. I asked if he knew anything about Hemsfield or Andrews, and he grew quite evasive. The worm hinted he might have useful information for the inner circle, but insists he’ll tell only you. He’s afraid, Charles. The house had armed guards posted at every entrance, and the windows were strewn with garlands of garlic.”

  “Garlic? Whatever for?”

  “It’s thought to ward off certain spirits. I’d like to talk with Anatole about these vampires and the Redwing civil war, if we ever find him.”

  “I spoke with him this morning,” Charles informed his cousin.

  “What? He’s finally shown himself? Where’s that devil been? Did he explain?”

  “Not really,” replied Haimsbury, “but he did answer several of my questions in plain language. And he helped me with a somewhat sticky situation that requires our attention.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Baron Wychwright’s body is missing.”

  Aubrey stared, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “Missing? Wait a moment. Is that why you signed the order to seal the coffin?”

  Sinclair nodded. “It seemed the easiest solution at the time. The driver claimed the body vanished without anyone entering the hearse.”