“Eli and I first met, when I was asked to serve on an ecumenical committee here in Whitechapel. The intent was to form an alliance for mutual understanding amongst the major religions, but he and I soon became fast friends. Since then, we’ve jointly visited families and congregations of several faiths and preached true happiness in Christ. Eli calls himself a completed Jew, which means he believes in Jesus as Messiah. He teaches at Oxford and has agreed to help us. My friends, I’m honoured to introduce Dr. Elias Yehuda Lieberman.”
Charles walked over to shake the gentleman’s hand. “It’s a great pleasure, Dr. Lieberman. Do forgive our somewhat bedraggled personalities this evening. Most of us have expended a week’s worth of energy and worry this day. Reid, Abberline, and France in particular.”
Lieberman smiled, his soft brown eyes crinkling at the edges. He was slightly under six feet in height with wavy black hair, cut short. The round face was smooth except for a thick moustache. A pair of round wire-rimmed glasses framed his almond-shaped eyes, and he adjusted them often, as though trying to find the perfect focus.
“Indeed, it’s been busy,” Lieberman told Sinclair. “And I am honoured to be included in this august group tonight, Your Grace. If my experience and knowledge bring aid to your efforts, then I thank Christ for it.”
“Christ?” asked Abberline. “Then you’re a Christian?”
“I am a believer in the one you call Jesus. We completed Jews call him by his Jewish name, Yeshua ha Mashiach. Jesus the Christ in the Greek. Both Christ and Mashiach, that is Messiah, mean ‘anointed one’. He is our Redeemer and our King.”
“Then, you’ve a much different view than most of your brethren, Dr. Lieberman,” Abberline answered. “But then I don’t usually attend these meetings. Reid here’s been after me for years to come to one, but I always figured it was nothin’ but a lot o’ titled men with little to do. Gentlemen, I stand corrected.”
Charles laughed at this, as did many of the others. “Fred, if you decide to join our circle, I think you’ll discover these titled men act more like Yard detectives than pampered peers. I’m very glad you’re here tonight, just sorry for the reason. Tell me, Dr. Lieberman, is your father also a believer in Yeshua? He’s a leading rabbi, is he not?”
“My father is not yet a believer, Your Grace, but he is leaning in that direction. Give him time, and he’ll finish that journey. As Ed may have told you, my father is Rabbi Jacob Lieberman, and is considered a gaon or genius, because he’s memorised so many ancient texts and meditated upon them. He is a true man of God, and though his current interpretation differs from our own regarding Messiah, you could find no one better to consult regarding this Dybbuk.”
“Dybbuk?” asked Abberline. “Don’t tell me we’re going to talk about that nonsense!”
“The circle takes these tales very seriously, Inspector,” Sinclair cautioned his colleague. “I have personal experience with unseen enemies. All I ask, Fred, is that you keep an open mind. Trust me, when I say that when my wife first told me about Redwing my own reaction was similar. Since then, I’ve come to realise the world is not as neatly packaged as we like to think.” He turned to Lieberman. “Doctor, does your father connect recent crimes in Whitechapel to a spiritual cause?”
“He does, indeed, but he places no burden upon me or anyone else to follow him blindly. Rather, Papa asks each to weigh the scriptures for himself. I speak of the Tanakh, of course, the Hebrew version of what you call the Old Testament. I was born in London, raised speaking and reading English, but also Russian and Hebrew. Since going to school at Oxford, I’ve learnt many other modern and ancient languages, which is why I teach Ancient Middle Eastern linguistics. I’m fascinated by how various languages intersect, but especially, how their mythologies do. I accepted Yeshua as Messiah when I was twenty-six, just three years ago, and I have never looked back. It’s my daily prayer that Papa will one day recognise how the old prophecies point to fulfillment by this one man—Yeshua, God made flesh! The rabbi nears that moment of clarity, and I have hope. After all, our Saviour made the blind to see, did he not?”
Sinclair smiled. “Well said, Dr. Lieberman. May all your family soon find their vision restored.”
“Thank you,” Elias answered. “Regardless of his current beliefs, if you wish to know about the spirits behind this heinous string of crimes, then my father is your man.”
“But do you think he would work with us?” asked Sinclair. “Not only are we Christian, some of us are members of another much-hated group.”
“The aristocracy, you mean?” the professor asked.
“No,” Charles replied with a soft laugh. “Actually, I still find it hard to think of myself as a member of the aristocracy, but I suppose I am. Actually, I refer to the brave men in blue. Whitechapel residents have little love for the police, especially now.”
“I see what you mean, but I think you’ll be surprised, Your Grace. My father’s been aided by your policemen many times since he arrived here thirty years ago. Whilst still a boy, I saw much of the East’s brutality, but seldom did it originate with policemen. My people are treated far worse by our Jewish brothers than by your officers. The wealthy who live in Westminster or the square mile see us Whitechapel Jews as little more than filth upon their boots. It is to their own shame, I think.”
“I agree,” Sinclair said soberly, “and I’m very sorry for all you’ve endured; both here and elsewhere. Has your father mentioned the Dybbuk?”
“Yes, he’s talked of it. All of Spitalfields, a largely Jewish neighbourhood as you know, speak of it, and many cower behind their windows at night. The Ripper’s deeds had my friends and relatives worried for months, and they feared reprisals from their neighbours because of the claim he is a Jew, but these recent crimes strike more deeply. I read that pollution of the water by mouldy grain caused the mass hallucinations last month, but these sightings were no hallucination. My father recognised the description from the old country. The old stories from Russia. Legends most men think are fable have roots in reality. Wolves that walk like men, demons with a taste for blood and human flesh, succubi and incubi, ghosts that attach themselves to individuals or families and cause all to grow sick and die. My friend MacPherson says your group believes in these tales, but tell me, Your Grace: do you believe in them?”
Charles looked to Paul Stuart, who’d been writing notes on a sheet of paper; a series of symbols he’d come to recognise as the circle’s code. “Lord Aubrey, would you like to reply to Dr. Lieberman?”
Aubrey glanced up, dragged from his inner thoughts. Rising to his feet, the exhausted earl took a sip of water before answering. “Forgive me, gentlemen, I’ve spent many nights recently, prowling the byways of London for certain criminals, and I fear my mind is not as clear as it might otherwise be. Inspector Abberline is welcome to hear what I’m about to say, as are you Dr. Lieberman, but I must ask you both to swear never to reveal our discussion to anyone else without first obtaining our permission. Will you agree to that?”
Both men nodded.
“Very well, then,” continued the earl. “Let me tell you a story of history that will likely shock and dismay. I grew up with this knowledge, but to someone hearing it for the first time in his adult years, it can prove quite alarming. You asked if we believe these old tales of skin-changers and vampires. The fact is this: we not only believe in them, we hunt them. The inner circle protects a human bloodline that’s been hidden from official histories, but those in power are aware of its existence. Again, I insist you agree to reveal none of this.”
Abberline stood, his manner uncharacteristically subdued. “I expect you’re talking to me, Lord Aubrey, and I understand your reticence. I’ve never been particularly commiseratin’ when it comes to some o’ what you and Reid discuss, but I’ve always suspected there’s a lot more to it. I ask your forgiveness for my thick-headedness. I’m a simple man in a complex world, and it grows evermore
confusing as I age. If you’ll speak plainly, I promise to keep your secrets, for I respect each of you men like brothers.” He turned to Sinclair. “Charles, I’ve known you for thirteen years, and I feel a bit like a father in some ways. You make me proud to be a policeman, son. Gentlemen, there is no finer man nor mind upon this green earth. If Charles Sinclair believes in these secrets, then so will I. And Martin’s far more than a mere tailor, if you ask me,” he added, casting an eye towards Kepelheim. “ I reckon he’s got secrets, too. Just sayin’.”
Fred took a seat midst a collection of smiles and mild laughter.
Martin offered a dimpled grin. “My history is long with the inner circle, as is Lord Aubrey’s,” he said. “But as I age, the world moves further and further into a dark place. Let us pray that Dr. Lieberman will provide a lantern to light our way.”
“It is Christ who lights our path and feet,” the Oxford teacher observed. “Yeshua, the light of the world.”
“He is indeed,” echoed Aubrey. “Fred, since you arrived late, you missed our opening prayer, offered by our humble tailor. It’s our custom to petition the Lord for his protection and mercies before each man offers reports. MacPherson mentioned the name we all hate: Redwing. Allow me to explain. It is a cabal of spiritually compromised men and women who side with demons and fallen angels in a plan to rule the world.”
“Rather like bankers,” Abberline quipped.
All laughed. “True, but not all financiers side with devils. It only seems as though they do,” Paul observed. “Recently, the newspapers of London ran a series of articles that have been repeated by major editions throughout the western world. The implication is that Queen Victoria’s reign is illegitimate, and that another has a stronger right to the throne of England.”
“It’s on the tongues of nearly every student at Oxford,” Lieberman told the group. “But surely, these are spurious rumours only.”
“I cannot confirm whether or not the rumours of our sovereign’s parentage are true,” replied the earl, “for contemporary sources vary on opinion, but I can speak to the other. I mentioned a human bloodline earlier, and it is our honour as circle members to protect it. Martin is keeper of the lines. Perhaps, he should explain.”
The tailor rose, his mischievous eyes gazing upon the gathering of men. “Thank you, Lord Aubrey. Allow me to add clarity to our earl’s previous statement regarding Her Majesty’s right to the throne. No one here is old enough to have lived through those uncertain days during the reign of William IV. That king’s issue numbered as many as thirteen, according to some, but none could be considered legal. All were borne from mistresses, which the Royal Marriage Act of 1772 strictly forbade. All liaisons and marriages had to be approved by the sovereign and privy council. And because all legitimate heirs had died, Victoria Alexandrina, daughter of the Duke of Kent, became the heir presumptive.
“However, the Duke of Wellington and many others at court, had doubts concerning the parentage of the young princess. Sir John Conroy had come on as Duke Edward’s equerry in 1817, just after the duke’s marriage to Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld. Very early on, the duchess had a fondness for her husband’s equerry, despite Sir John’s being a married man. In May 1819, young Victoria Alexandrina was born, and only six months later, Duke Edward died. Instantly, whispers arose regarding who might be her true father. Tensions ran high, and the widowed Duchess of Kent could have dispelled them by dismissing Conroy, but instead she had inveigled her late husband into naming him executor of the will! Not since the death of Henry Tudor had there been so many intrigues taking place! That is when our own Duke James’s father, the 9th Duke of Drummond, was approached by the Earl of Liverpool, who was prime minister at the time.
“On behalf of England, Liverpool asked permission to publicly name James as the heir presumptive, based on a legal document signed by himself and King William. It is known as the D.B.A., which stands for the Drummond-Branham Agreement. I can show you a copy of the document at your leisure, but it essentially places the rightful lineage to England’s throne in these two ducal lines. With hatred for Germany rising, many in Parliament had begun to call for a return of an English sovereign. Though the Plantagenets are actually French in origin, most now consider them historically English. James is Plantagenet and Stuart. As elder nephew, Charles inherits this position. Of all those in line for the throne, Charles Sinclair has the greatest claim.”
“Then it’s true?” exclaimed Abberline. “We’ve all been jokin’ ‘bout it at the Yard, but you’re saying it’s true?”
Charles stood. “I do not say I have any right to the throne; only that some believe I do. Martin has my entire pedigree written down on a collection of scrolls, and I believe Mac also keeps a copy. Uncle James keeps all original documents at Castle Drummond, but I’ve recently learnt there are additional proofs in a vault beneath Buckingham Palace. I’m not at liberty to reveal the source of that information.”
“I can guess who it is,” remarked Abberline, winking at Reid.
“Regardless, I will not confirm it,” the duke declared. “My father and grandfather spent years researching our bloodlines and believe they trace not only to Sinclair but to the French royal houses of Anjou, Bourbon, Valois, and Capet. As well as the Scottish houses of Stuart, Bruce, Dunkeld, and MacAlpin. And then there is Plantagenet, the bloodline protected by the inner circle. All these lines converge into a point with my birth.”
Martin Kepelheim stood once more. “If I may, Your Grace, there is another line yet unconfirmed, but we grow nearer. The duke, your good uncle, and I discussed it with an expert in the field only this morning and lack but one diary to make it fact. Your father firmly believed in this, and I agree with his conclusion.”
Charles’s left brow arched. “What conclusion is that?”
“There are clues throughout your childhood, my friend, if you will only remember them. Coupled with the tales of spirits haunting our city and our own experiences, the truth is slowly crystallising.”
“What truth, Martin?” Sinclair insisted, growing irritated. “Tell me!”
The tailor swallowed hard, for he feared saying it. “I do not delay for dramatic effect, my friend, but because I worry that this might have dire consequences. However, as you’ve already begun to recover bits of your memory, let me be bold and reveal it to all. Just before you pledged your life to our little duchess on your wedding day, you asked me about our circle’s symbol. Do you remember?”
“Of course, I do,” answered the duke. “You’d sewn the P and S into my waistcoat’s pattern. Why?”
“Because, I hinted then that the P and S stood for more than just Plantagenet and Stuart. Sinclair is the double meaning to the S, of course; but the P initial also has a twin meaning. Pendragon. Charles, you are the direct descendent of King Uther, through his son Arthur.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
9:11 pm - Saint Clair-sur-Epte, Normandy, France
Albus Lucius Flint rubbed his pale hands together greedily.
“Well? Is this the real codex or not?”
An older, lanky man in a broad-brimmed felt hat stood in the interior of a yellow tent, twenty feet away from a yawning chasm. The expert held a a dusty scroll in his hands, turning it round in the lamplight. He squinted at the fine writing, his aged eyes growing weary.
“It looks right, but there’s no way to know for certain without testing it first. That will take time.”
“By test, I presume you refer to the paper and ink. Surely, the writing is his? I brought you here because you are the leading expert on Dee’s work! Surely, you can draw an inference.”
“It appears to be Dee’s writing,” answered the man. “And as you say, dating the ink and paper adds another layer of authentication.”
“Hmph!” muttered the cadaverous lawyer. “All this will take too much time, and ultimately, the only way to test it is during the actual rit
ual,” he complained. “If it’s a forgery, then all is lost, which will not please our friends, Lord Salter.”
The sixty-two-year-old earl placed the fragile document into a leather case for protection. “They’re your friends, Flint, not mine. I’ll take a better look at it tomorrow. You won’t need it for three more days. We’ve plenty of time.”
“I warn you, Salter. If your expertise proves a mistake, it is you who will pay, not I,” Flint assured him angrily. “We hired you and your wife because of your flawless reputations. Were we mistaken?”
George Edward Holloway, 8th Lord Salter, had served on the dig since September and endured enough of the lawyer’s burdensome oversight. He glared at the annoying little man, a thick blonde moustache undulating along with the earl’s wide upper lip as he fired back.
“See here, Flint! If you wish to dismiss my services, then do so! I came into this at the last minute only because my son thinks enough of your so-called Society to join your project in Kent. But do not dare to growl at me, sir! Why you thought to dig in this backwater village is a mystery, but it appears your sources have certain merit. Whether or not this scroll is the copy reputedly made by John Dee is another matter entirely. The writing is certainly Sumerian, but claims that Dee had access to the Emerald Tablets are spurious at best.”
“He had three of them in his possession. Of that, there is no doubt,” Flint replied calmly.
“But no one really knows what these tablets are, or if they existed in the first place!” argued Salter.
“They are real, Lord Salter. As real as this cavern. As real as that crevasse below. As real as your hands and eyes. I require only your confirmation before we use the spell.”
Realms of Fire Page 24
