Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  The dragon paused, the clawed hands raking at the mirror, apparently bound there. “We are coming, Child of Blood. And soon, your heritage will call you, and darkness will reign once more!”

  With a rush of foul-smelling wind, the image vanished, blowing piles of mouldy dust across the chamber’s stone floor.

  Henry held Paul in his arms, checking his pulse. “We need to get him out of here. Help me, Charles.”

  The duke took one arm, and Salperton the other, and the two of them carried the half-conscious earl back into the library, finding Baxter waiting anxiously. Without a word, the butler fetched a decanter of brandy and filled a tall glass.

  “Give him this.”

  After consuming half the stout spirit, Stuart’s eyes blinked, as though rousing from a deep sleep.

  “What happened?” he said weakly. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in the library. What can you remember?” Charles asked him as he sat nearby.

  “Not much. I came here to lie down for a moment. Nothing else; though I had an odd dream. Sorry to disappear like that, but I just had to close my eyes. Charles, what’s the matter? You all look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Charles weighed several options for reply, wondering how much truth his cousin could endure, but it was Henry who answered.

  “We heard you cry out, that’s all, old man. That dream must have been quite something! But it’s understandable, your wanting to lie down for a few minutes. Good heavens, Paul, you’re not a machine. Even you must sleep now and again. Come now, we’re all gathering in the Cumbria Room. I hear Stoker’s going to regale us with his current research. He’s writing a book, apparently.”

  Sinclair decided Salperton must have a reason for keeping back the truth; perhaps, fearing for Aubrey’s mental state.

  “Honestly, Paul, you look done in,” the duke said. “Why don’t you give the rest of the party a miss and go upstairs? Sleep in your old apartment. Baxter will set everything in order.”

  The butler hovered close to the earl, worry painting his features. It was clear he loved the man dearly. “I’ll see to it myself, Your Grace. Come with me, Lord Aubrey. Let’s get you upstairs.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Elizabeth felt exhausted, and that weariness, coupled with slight nausea, began to impede upon her good mood. She longed to retire, but as hostess, she hated even to suggest it.

  Nearly everyone else had left by now, including the musicians and mysterious ‘hangers-on’. Baxter had unmasked two of these as reporters, whom he hastily showed to the door with orders never to return. As the clock struck two, only a few intimate friends remained to drink the last of the punch and devour the final cakes and sandwiches. Dickie Patterson-Smythe had long since left for a Mayfair hotel, but his garrulous wife Dolly sat beside Drummond, both of them enjoying a cup of punch, which he’d spiked with a splash of Drummond Reserve. Victoria occupied the next chair, and running clockwise round the room were Dr. Reginald Whitmore, Elizabeth, Ed MacPherson, Kepelheim, and Abraham Stoker. When Charles and Henry joined the group, the young duke explained his cousin’s need for sleep and that Paul had retired to his usual apartment upstairs.

  Charles took the seat next to his wife with Henry beside him.

  “Henry, have you met my friend, Lady Patterson-Smythe?” asked Victoria.

  Dolly was taller than Victoria by two inches, with upswept hair that gleamed with wheat and silver strands. The wrinkles at the corners of her grey eyes revealed a fine sense of humour, but there was a serious look to them, indicating a woman of fierce resolve and intelligence, accustomed to exerting influence on her surroundings.

  She reached for Henry’s hand, her wide mouth opening into an impish grin. “Oh, yes, we’ve met, Tory. I gave him a little kiss in the music room, just after the harpist finished that last Bach piece. Henry blushed; dear thing! You know, I don’t think he remembers me.”

  “Should I?” Salperton asked, blushing again at her mention of the unexpected kiss.

  “You were only ten at the time, my dear,” she said sweetly. “There was a dog that followed you everywhere, wasn’t there? A spaniel of some kind. Black and white.”

  “Droigheann, yes! I’m sorry for not remembering. Did you used to visit us?”

  “Every summer, when I could manage it. Dickie and your father are old friends, and I adored your dear mother. What a delicate, charming woman she was.”

  “She was indeed, Lady Patterson-Smythe. It’s kind of you to remember,” he said with delight. “I’m sorry for my poor memory. I’ve a dreadfully slow brain, some days. Perhaps, it’s all the wine.”

  “I rather doubt your mind is ever slow, Henry, and do call me Dolly. Everyone does. Come, sit by me,” she said, patting the empty chair next to hers. “We’re all going to talk about ghosts and demons!”

  “Really? It’s hardly the sort of conversation one would expect in so elegant a home,” he answered, and then took the seat next to Dolly, his mind on the terrifying creature who’d attacked Paul Stuart.

  “I’d thought Lord Aubrey might be with you,” spoke Kepelheim. “It’s a shame our earl has abandoned us.”

  “Charles and I found him sound asleep on one of the sofas and persuaded him to overnight here,” Henry told the tailor. “Oh, thank you, James.”

  Drummond had handed him a glass of whisky. “This is our special Reserve, Henry. If you’ve never had it, you’re in for a treat. Nothing warms Scottish blood like the Reserve!”

  “I’m sure my Scottish blood will appreciate it. It is somewhat chilly in the house, isn’t it?”

  “A little,” answered Tory. “Charles thought the boiler might need cleaning, but we manage well enough with the fireplaces. Henry, have you met our special guest yet? He’s the reason for our topic of conversation. Mr. Abraham Stoker, this is Dr. Henry MacAlpin, 7th Lord Salperton.”

  “A pleasure” said the viscount, holding the whisky in his left hand whilst shaking Stoker’s with his right. “You’re the manager at the Lyceum, correct? We enjoyed the play this evening. Well, most of it. The scenery that crashed in the final act was unfortunate. And I’m sorry about the illness in your cast. Might it be measles? I’m afraid it’s going round the city.” He took a sip. “Oh, this is quite strong, isn’t it? A lovely finish, though. Somewhat smoky with a hint of sweetness. Maple?”

  “Maple and vanilla, but don’t sip it, son,” ordered the duke. “Tip it back and let it burn its way down your throat. You sip the second, but tip the first. That’s my rule.”

  “Clearly, my education continues, sir. Very well,” the alienist said, obediently gulping down the contents. “Ah, yes,” he coughed, trying to catch his breath. “I see what you mean by the burning. It really intensifies the aftertaste. Rather like charred honey in a warm bed of pain. Very, uh, excuse me—very nice.”

  “That’s your Stuart blood calling out, son,” James said proudly. “Henry’s my cousin, Mr. Stoker. Through his mother. Now, we’re discussing ghosts and the like,” he told Sinclair and Salperton, “because Stoker’s working on a new book that expands on themes of interest to us.”

  Haimsbury turned to the playwright. “A new book? I hope it doesn’t expand on your Ripper play. Forgive me, but the play was quite unsettling.”

  “No, sir. Though, the topic is related.”

  “How did it fare in the box office?” Charles asked.

  Stoker held a small glass of sherry, and thoughtfully sipped before replying. “Most of the audiences seemed to enjoy the frank horror of it all, Your Grace, though I know it unsettled your dear wife.”

  Beth responded with kindness. “Please, don’t take that as criticism, Mr. Stoker. I appreciate your talent, regardless of the play’s subject matter. Perhaps, though, you’ll consider writing on a happier topic for your next play.”

  “I should love to comply, my lady, but as theatre is a bu
siness, ticket sales dictate content,” he replied as the firelight danced upon his bearded face. “The public’s appetite for the macabre and mysterious is never sated, but only grows as our world becomes more modernised. The two are in direct proportion, I think. The further our country progresses towards humanism, the greater the desire for transcendence; for a spirituality to explain the supernatural phenomena all round us. There is much more to the world than what we see. As the public abandons the Bible, they will inevitably turn to the occult, not science.”

  “Yes!” Beth agreed. “Oh, yes! I’ve said that very thing to my husband, haven’t I, Charles? Ghosts and demons take advantage of our natural curiosity; this yearning for the ethereal, if you will. But most now discard the Bible’s answers in favour of spiritualism and the occult.”

  The young duke held his wife’s hand as he answered. “Mr. Stoker, as you know from earlier conversations, this family applauds invention and scientific discovery, in fact we help to underwrite it; but modern conveniences come at a cost, which may ultimately be human souls. Your theory is sound, and as a mathematician, I agree with your reference to direct proportionality.”

  “It is a very troubling ratio, if you ask me,” the duchess observed. “One with deadly, eternal consequences. As rural workers leave the open fields to put their hands to industry’s machines, they uproot themselves to congregate in cities. We’ve seen that happening for nearly fifty years in London, but also in Birmingham, Liverpool, and Manchester. The consequence is that villages decline as overburdened cities swell. If a young man leaves his father’s farm and moves to London, then he abandons a warm bed and regular meals; but also his church and family. It’s as though he’s traded his entire inheritance for a bowl of porridge!” she exclaimed. “What does he gain in return? A backbreaking job in a heartless factory with high taxation and unsanitary living conditions. Soon, he grows bitter, and along with that comes, despair and complete loss of faith. Truly, it makes me weep to think of it.”

  The writer set aside his glass, excitedly. “Yes. Yes! I’m so very pleased that you both see it! And this loss of faith is replaced with a ravenous hunger for the occult. It is gratifying to hear so genteel a lady express the problem so very well. I find myself fascinated by the topic, my friends, but I’ve no desire to write violent, gory scenes merely to sell tickets. No, it’s the struggle twixt good and evil I hope to convey to a wider audience through my book. To demonstrate the power of faith over evil.”

  Drummond sipped the spiked punch, allowing the whisky’s burn to slowly drift down his muscular throat. Smiling with satisfaction and a lovely glow, he entered the conversation. “Tell me, Bram—oh, do forgive me, may I call you that?”

  “Of course, Your Grace. I’d be honoured. It’s what my mother always called me.”

  “Tell me, then, Bram, when you speak of the occult, do you mean the demonic realm?”

  “Yes, precisely that, my lord.”

  “Demons in literature are one thing,” interjected Henry, “for they’re dismissed with the closing of a book. Do you plan to portray these demons as real, Mr. Stoker? As agents of evil in human lives? Honestly, I’m not sure how entertaining that is.”

  “All novels, plays, and music, must first reach the consumer, Lord Salperton, which requires that they entertain. However, if one can use that captured attention to convey truth, then is it not worth the effort?”

  “I think it is,” proclaimed the duchess. “It’s rather like an inventor discovering a way to add a day’s nutrition to a glass of whisky without changing the taste.”

  “So, I should drink only whisky all day, Princess?” teased Drummond.

  Before the duchess could reply, Cornelius Baxter entered quietly, speaking briefly to Salperton. The viscount stood. “Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen. It seems there’s a minor problem at Montmore. I need to speak with a messenger. Shan’t be long.”

  He left the drawing room, followed by the butler. Charles moved closer to Beth, his arm round her shoulders. “Perhaps, whisky is a poor metaphor,” he whispered. “Beer or gin might serve better, if you require an alcoholic comparison.”

  She frowned, the long day wearing on her good humour. “Whether it’s gin or beer or whisky, it makes no difference. Perhaps, the liquor metaphor is a poor way to describe it. I’m only saying that if an inventor could insert healthy nutrients into tea, perhaps, or another pleasant-tasting drink—something that would energise their bodies and minds—perhaps consumers would slowly improve and leave off drunkardness entirely.”

  “I fear that’s dreamy thinking, Princess,” her grandfather argued. “It’s a fine idea, but it’d never work. Books, now. That’s another kettle o’ fish. If you could teach all children to read, then there’s a chance for improving their minds through stories. You have to start there, lassie. This hospital o’ yours should have a school attached. Not just for trainin’ doctors, but for educating unwanted children.”

  “A place for orphans?” she asked, her sleepy eyes brightening at the thought. “That’s a very good idea, Grandfather! It may require more space, though. But you’re right. Books are the key to change. After all, one cannot study the Bible without reading.” She turned to their honoured guest. “Mr. Stoker, once you get to know me, you’ll discover I’m an avid reader of all manner of materials. Novels, biographies, scientific papers, histories, even the Police Gazette and Daily Star when I can find a copy.”

  She leaned towards Stoker, continuing her comment in a whisper. “My husband worries that recent reports of ghosts and demon killers weaken my constitution, and therefore he endeavours to keep most papers from me, but I still manage to stay abreast of news and events.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t try to protect you?” Charles asked.

  She offered him a loving smile. “I’m not complaining, Captain. I appreciate your protection and understand your reasons, but you cannot shelter me from all reality. It is an impossible task. I know about the fires across London and of this Dybbuk creature some say is haunting the East End. The people of Whitechapel and Spitalfields must be terrified! Do you think the source of all these horrors might be intangible and therefore impossible to police? Paul’s father had a saying—a maxim, if you will. He’d often quote it, and only recently have I come to understand its meaning: ‘Human form does not a human make.’ Martin, do you remember Uncle Robert saying that?”

  “Many times,” the tailor answered wistfully. “The late earl was startlingly insightful, yet humble in his approach to our work. That maxim, as you call it, dear lady, is a phrase he used when speaking of shape-shifters. Those with the power to imitate life of another kind. Spiritual entities are a type of life, but lack materiality. They require physical form to interact with us. Why do you mention it, Your Grace? Do you connect this ability with the murders in the East?”

  “Yes, I do,” she declared. “Mr. Stoker, you implied in your play that the Ripper isn’t a man, but rather a demon in human form. Do I understand that correctly?”

  Stoker had finished the sherry, and Drummond refilled his glass with Reserve. “Thank you, sir.” Taking the first sip, the writer appreciated the nutty sweetness beneath the smoky taste. “Why, this is marvellous! Far better than Jameson or Kilbeggan. This is your own, Duke James?”

  “My family’s run the business for over a century. This is the ’36 batch, I think. That was a particularly good year. There’s another cask in the cellar; unless Kepelheim’s drained it. Go on, Bram. Tell us what you think of this shape-shifting idea.”

  “Tis a very old belief, Your Grace. We’ve many such tales in Ireland, and I’m sure Scotland is the same. Women and men make pacts with the devil and learn how to transform into wolves, bats, birds, snakes, even rats and flies. And there are spirit beings with similar capabilities: faeries, sprites, and the Tuatha dé Danaan, who some say are the descendants of the goddess Danu. I like that maxim of Lord Aubrey’s father. Perhaps
, my play is right. Ripper may not be human, but a demon who only appears as a man.”

  “It certainly explains why witnesses describe so varied an appearance,” observed Sinclair. “Beth, are you sure you can talk about this? The subject matter is hardly fodder for pleasant dreams, and you look very tired, darling.”

  She leaned in close. He could see the weariness in her face but didn’t want to insist she go upstairs. This was their final night in London before mid-January, and he wanted it to be perfect. He had no wish to shorten it.

  “I find the topic important, Charles. May I stay? We’ve two very capable physicians present, should I require them. And I’ve felt much stronger lately. I’d like to remain for another half hour or so.”

  He kissed her cheek. “Of course, but let’s both go up soon. It’s been a long day, and I’m fading quickly.”

  Victoria had been uncharacteristically quiet, for her attentions were fixed on Reginald Whitmore. Charles noticed the handsome widower sometimes touched his aunt’s hand with obvious affection, and the two of them shared quiet conversations now and then. Hearing the mention of the duchess’s health, Reggie cleared his throat to offer an opinion.

  “I’m probably an old-fashioned stick-in-the-mud, but as a doctor, I think the duchess should have retired two hours ago. Call me overcautious, but I imagine it’s been a very long day for you as well, Elizabeth, and as you’re travelling tomorrow, a good night’s rest is all the more important. Tory, back me up on this.”

  Despite her affections towards Whitmore, the spinster refused to do so. “Reggie, you should know by now that we Stuart women seldom do as we’re told. If you make it a requirement, you’ll only set her teeth on edge. Beth looks no more weary than the rest of us. If she wants to stay, then she should.”

  Dolly Patterson-Smythe supported her friend’s comment. “Stuart women are anything but compliant, Reggie. Surely, you know that by now! If you plan to spend very much time in this family, then you’d best put aside your old-fashioned ways. Now, I want to get back to this Ripper business,” she continued eagerly, a glass of Chablis in her tapered fingers. “My husband’s a banker, Mr. Stoker, which means we keep track of all the news. The major Paris papers nearly ran out of ink with all the headlines about this East End fiend, and now they talk of ghosts and demons! Dickie and I live near Goussainville, a little village that’s become a sort of British conclave. Every one of our neighbours is either a diplomat, a banker, or a businessman, and they’re all worried about London. I’ve not seen your play, but based on this conversation, it sounds as though you think Ripper’s more than mere human. I wonder, is that creative licence, or do you really believe it? I should also love to hear Charles’s opinion on it, since he’s been involved in the hunt.”