Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  The duke leaned forward, his black eyes deadly serious. “Then, would it surprise you to learn that the recent newspaper reports are but a small glimpse into spiritual activities in London? Ripper, the Victoria Park Beast, and now this East End Dybbuk are but a sliver of what our circle has uncovered. Children talk now of the White Lady, who calls them to their deaths; wolves walk like men in the East, but also in Westminster. Pickling jars filled with body parts have been recovered from the Thames; most of them dismembered women, whose bodies show obvious signs of scientific intervention, and many without a drop of blood left in their veins. But others are dead newborns, some which show obvious deviations of form and anatomy.”

  Stoker was all attention. “Do you speak of the Embankment Killings, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, but also other crimes cutting a diabolical swath through our city. These recent fires, for instance. Once properly investigated, we may discern a thread that connects them to this infernal web. Mr. Stoker, are you interested in helping us discern this web and cut the evil threads?”

  Bram gulped down the last of the whisky, looking from one face to the next. “Yes! What would you have me do, sir?”

  The duke was just about to answer, when Henry slipped through the door. “Do forgive me, everyone,” he whispered. “It looks as though I’ve interrupted.”

  “Nonsense,” Drummond answered. “Beth’s gone up, but Charles will return in a moment. You must have passed them.”

  “Yes, actually, I saw them briefly as I came through the foyer. The duchess looked quite pale to me. I hope she’s all right.”

  “A long day and troubling topics,” Tory explained. “I’m sure she’ll sleep late tomorrow.”

  “Today,” corrected Whitmore. “It’s nearly three, Vic.”

  “So it is. Reggie, would you fetch my shawl from the music room? I left it on a chair near the piano.”

  Whitmore stood and bowed slightly, kissing her hand. “Your wish is my command, Lady Victoria.”

  After quarter of an hour, Charles returned and assumed his empty chair. “She’s already asleep. Where are we in the conversation, James? Have you made Bram an offer yet?”

  “Not a firm one, but we’re getting there. Have some of the Reserve, son. You’ve had a long day.”

  “That day has long since past, James, and soon yields to morning.”

  “And you’ve never remained awake all night?” teased the elder duke.

  “Only several times a week—as a policeman,” Sinclair answered as he poured a finger of the whisky and tipped it back.

  “Clearly, the Scottish blood does call out,” Henry observed wryly. “Now, if I may ask, what offer are we discussing?”

  “To Stoker, regarding the inner circle,” answered Drummond. “Bram could bring a wealth of research and experience to our conversations. But would Henry Irving object?” he asked the writer.

  Bram sat back, considering the idea. “I doubt he’d mind, so long as it doesn’t affect my work at the Lyceum. You may not be aware of this, Lady Patterson-Smythe...”

  “Dolly, my dear. Just Dolly.”

  “That’s kind of you. Yes, well, Dolly, there was a brutal murder at the Lyceum last month, and it’s affected our business adversely. Not financially, not in the near term, at least. On the contrary, individual ticket sales have increased, but some of our box patrons show a reluctance to attend. I mentioned it to Mr. Irving, but rather than cater to the box seat holders, he’s decided to indulge the public’s fascination with even more horror and titillation.”

  Whitmore had stopped in to check on Aubrey before returning with Tory’s shawl and he entered the drawing room, placing it round her shoulders. “Sorry to be late. Thought I’d pop in and see Paul. He’s sleeping. Alcorn’s watching over him.”

  “Thank you, Reggie,” Victoria told him. “You know, Mr. Stoker, Irving’s new attitude explains the singer he engaged tonight. Is he aware of her reputation in Paris?”

  “What singer? Is she someone I know?” Dolly asked as she borrowed a cigarette from Victoria. “I don’t generally smoke, but they help me to keep awake.”

  Henry lit the cigarette with a silver and ebony lighter he found on a nearby table. “I’ve never understood the allure of cigarettes, but a cigar now and again is quite enjoyable. James, what did you think of the singer? Beth and I left during her second aria—if you can call it an aria. I’d call it seduction set to music, actually. Truly, her performance seemed more at home in a music hall than a reputable theatre.”

  “I can say this, for I’ve no wife present to scold me,” declared the Scottish duke. “I found the lady’s performance quite interesting.”

  “You would!” Tory exclaimed. “And your late wife, God rest her beautiful soul, would have dragged you away from the theatre the moment that woman took the stage. Really, James, I’m a modern woman, and I realise fashion changes with the times, but her costume was straight out of the Follies Begere!”

  Charles laughed. “It sounds as though the earl and I missed a great deal whilst we toured the fire damage in the East. Why was her costume disgraceful, Tory?”

  “Because there was so little of it! And she brazenly flounced her skirts again and again to show off her lower limbs! She might as well have been a trollop, if you ask me. Shameful way to behave.”

  “It’s my understanding such behaviour’s in keeping with Carmen’s character,” Henry suggested. “Perhaps, Miss Gévaudan was simply performing a role.”

  Sinclair’s face paled considerably. “Did you just say Gévaudan?”

  Stoker answered. “Yes. Antoinette Gévaudan. She’s the toast of Paris at present, primarily for her Carmen. We were lucky to engage her for tonight, as she’s in London to visit a friend. Do you know her, Your Grace?”

  Charles poured another two fingers of whisky and drank it down in one gulp, surprising everyone. “We’ve met.”

  Dolly tapped grey ash from her cigarette, interrupting the conversation. “Have you really? When?”

  “No more of this nonsense,” declared Victoria. “The woman is scandalous and distracting us from the topic. James, go on with your offer.”

  Slowly, the conversation returned to the topic of ghosts, but Henry kept thinking about the idea of musical seduction and wondering if it had anything to do with the female temptress who attacked Aubrey.

  Then he remembered Gehlen. Or what looked like Anthony Gehlen. Though he only knew the man professionally, he understood him to be an avowed non-drinker. But no human could glide without touching the floor and then melt into a crowd with such ease. It was as though he’d simply vanished into thin air!

  Henry’s singular mind focused on the problem, drawing him into a self-imposed reverie of sorts. Gehlen, Gévaudan, the mysterious, blood-sucking Dybbuk haunting Whitechapel, the White Lady luring children to their dooms, the bodies of chopped-up women floating in the Thames. It must all connect in some way. But how? Might Gehlen’s physical form be useful to the fallen spirits stalking London? He was, after all, Elizabeth’s physician. If so, did his odd appearance at the theatre have anything to do with the inner circle, Bram Stoker, or even himself?

  Henry had no answers, but he was determined to find them. She might be married to another man, but Henry MacAlpin felt responsible for the beautiful Duchess of Branham. He couldn’t explain it with a thousand books, but he felt as though some golden thread ran from her heart to his. Not a romantic one, but one of unbreakable friendship and a trust beyond human understanding.

  Then, a terrible thought whispered behind his eyes: What if Violet Stuart is involved in this web? Might she be some enigmatic, missing piece to a larger pattern? And was the madman in his care connected? A sense of foreboding clutched at Henry’s gentle heart, and he wondered if he shouldn’t put the man into Bedlam after all. Remove him from Montmore for the safety of his patients—Violet in particular.


  But his resolve was too late for Bleeding Jack Nobody. By dawn, the porter would find the madman dead, deep cuts scored into his veins, and his scrawny body drained of all blood.

  Charles finally came to bed at half past four, finding his wife turned on her left side, sound asleep. The two Labradors lay at the foot of the bed, snuggled close to their mistress, snoring loudly. The room felt cold, and he checked the radiators. All three emitted steady heat, yet he could see his breath. He turned up the gas in the fireplace, causing the flames to rise higher, slowly warming the chamber. The whisky had gone to his head, and Charles decided to sit for a moment before changing for bed.

  The duke eased into a comfortable armchair, close to the marble fireplace, his thoughts running through the day’s events. Romanov, the dock fire, Alexander Collins. He’d looked in on the alienist, who’d now been diagnosed with epilepsy. Sinclair began to fear they’d never obtain any prosecutable evidence from Collins. Still, the Castor Institute was engaged in illegal activities; he felt sure of it. Perhaps, he’d pay them an unannounced visit later that day with Henry. If Paul felt well enough, he’d ask the earl to tag along.

  “Perhaps, I should jot all this down,” he muttered to himself.

  A small table sat at his elbow, and he rummaged through the top drawer for a pencil and tablet of writing paper. Charles found making lists a sort of mental cleansing; or perhaps, a nominal comfort to an overcrowded mind.

  The light from the fire painted the unlined page in flickering ribbons of light, and he noticed obvious indentations. Someone had written several lines in a large, heavy hand. But the handwriting looked nothing like his or Elizabeth’s. Using the pencil, he lightly shaded the paper, causing the indentations to emerge into words. What he found there chilled his soul:

  The Scot sleeps, but I keep watch.

  I can enter his closet.

  I can enter his dreams.

  I can enter his mind.

  Defy me again, boy, and I will KILL HIM.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  1:23 pm, 19th December

  Paul Stuart awoke to his daughter’s sweet voice and a wet sensation along the fingers of his right hand. The eleven-year-old was sitting at the end of the bed, and Tory’s terrier, Samson, was licking his hand.

  “Down, Samson! That is very naughty of you. I don’t think my brother likes that at all,” Adele scolded as she placed the animal on the floor. “Brother mine, are you going to sleep the entire day through? We’re all packing for Branham. We don’t want to be late, do we? Do get up, Paul!”

  He slowly opened his eyes, finding that the sunlight from the windows hurt. “Oh, yes, Branham. What time is it?”

  “It’s late and getting later every minute,” she said. “Nearly half one. I’ve never known you to sleep so very long. I’m to leave on the first train with Mr. Baxter and Mrs. Alcorn at four, but I want to spend a little time with you first. Do get up, please!”

  The earl rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Sorry. Yes, of course. Good morning.”

  “It’s afternoon, silly.”

  “Ah, yes. So you said. Did you have a pleasant visit with Winston yesterday?”

  “A very pleasant one, and Maisie invited the Wychwright girls to stay over as well. We played games and listened to music cylinders on their new machine. Callie and Cassie are very nice, and they talked about you often. I think they have a little crush on you. Perhaps, we could invite them for Christmas.”

  “That would be up to Charles and Beth. Branham’s their home. Darling, would you go ask Charles, if he’s an extra robe I might borrow?”

  “Already taken care of,” she announced proudly and brought him a green velvet dressing gown, trimmed in black silk. “Mr. Baxter left you an entire suit of clothes, though I don’t know why you need them. You’ve plenty at your house.”

  “Yes, but I’ve nothing here to wear. I hadn’t planned on sleeping here last night. I suppose the long day overtook me. Is there any breakfast or luncheon?”

  “Luncheon’s not been served yet, but Mrs. Paget left lots of breakfast for you, dear brother. Hurry now! Cousin Charles wants to meet with you once you’ve eaten. He and Mr. Kepelheim are in the library with Henry. Isn’t Henry handsome? And he’s very nice for a doctor. He smells a bit like bergamot rather than quinine. You know, I might study medicine one day. Are there lady doctors, Paul?” she jabbered as he dressed in the connecting bath.

  “Yes, but not many. I think you’d make a marvellous doctor, Della. Is there a hair brush anywhere out there?”

  She opened several dressing table drawers and located a boar hair brush with a silver handle. “Here,” she said, knocking on the door. She could hear water running. “Paul?”

  The door opened a crack, and he took the brush. “I’ll be about fifteen minutes. Ask Baxter if he’d bring a food tray to the library. Take Samson with you when you go, darling. After I meet with Charles, you and I’ll visit for a bit.”

  “Come, Samson!” she called as she left the room, followed closely by the terrier.

  Inside the gold and blue bathroom, the earl stared into a gilded mirror. He felt as though he could sleep for days, and an odd hum rang in his ears. Assuming it nothing more than fatigue, he quickly bathed and dressed in the suit left by Baxter. He passed by Lester on the way to the main staircase.

  “Sir, if I might have a moment?” asked the underbutler.

  “Certainly. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been asked to pack your cases, sir. I wonder, how long do you plan to remain at the hall? Mr. Baxter has selected enough items for a three-day visit, but I overheard the duchess mention you might be there until the new year.”

  “I will, but I plan to return to London for a day or so on Monday. I’ll stop by my home and pack additional clothes. Do be careful with my firearm, Lester. It’s loaded.”

  “Of course. I will, sir.”

  Paul descended the stairs and passed by the music room, where his daughter sat playing a Brahms piece. He watched for a few minutes, enjoying her delicate touch and phrasing, and thinking what a little miracle she was. He remembered nothing of the phantasm that attacked him the previous night, but a whisper of gloom hung about his thoughts. Images of Cozette dominated them, and he longed to see her once more. Reaching the locked library, he knocked to gain entrance.

  His cousin opened the door. “You certainly look better. Clearly, you needed the rest, as did we all. Most of us didn’t rise until long after ten. Come sit. Baxter’s bringing food. We want to go through everything we’ve learnt about the fire and other events.”

  “It looks as though you’ve assembled most of the London team,” the earl noted as he took a chair near the fire.

  Rather than gather round a table, Charles had asked Lester to form the library’s most comfortable chairs and sofas into a modified circle. In the middle, the underbutler placed a low table, set with coffee, tea, and biscuits. The assembly that morning numbered twelve in all: Sir Thomas Galton, Martin Kepelheim, Henry MacAlpin, Malcolm Risling, Edward MacPherson, Edmund Reid, Arthur France, André Deniau (fresh from Paris), a recent American recruit who’d once served with the Texas Rangers named Thomas Crenshaw, Haimsbury, Aubrey, and to Paul’s surprise, Abraham Stoker.

  “I hadn’t expected to find a writer amongst our number this afternoon. Good to see you again, Stoker.”

  “And you as well, my lord. I’m honoured and delighted to be part of this esteemed group. My mother would have loved hearing your stories, sir.”

  The earl took a leather chair near Galton, and Sinclair stood to open the meeting. “First of all, let me express my gratitude for coming on such short notice. As you know, we’d not planned to meet again as a group until after Boxing Day, but yesterday’s fire has changed all that. Duke James cannot join us, as he’s at Buckingham Palace until three, but sends his sincere best wishes and prayers.”

&nb
sp; The door opened, and Baxter entered, followed by half a dozen footmen, each carrying a large covered tray. “I hope we didn’t overstep, Your Grace, but when Mrs. Paget learnt of the meeting, she decided to prepare a light brunch. Shall we arrange the dishes on the main table, sir?”

  “Please,” Charles answered. “And thank Mrs. Paget for us all. I, for one, am very hungry.”

  The footmen spread the brunch across the largest table, and Baxter lifted the domed lid from each steaming dish. “We’ve scrambled eggs as well as fried, bacon rashers, ham slices, chicken spread, kippers, rye toast, Bannock bread for Lord Aubrey,” he said, winking at the earl, “potatoes, sausages, and a bowl of gravy for Mr. Kepelheim.” The butler reached for a large basket covered with a tea towel, which he deftly removed, revealing a glorious selection of baked goods. “In here, you’ll find scones with raisins and apple bits. There are also sticky buns, croissants, and chocolate biscuits for our new duke.”

  Charles smiled at this last item. “Paget’s chocolate biscuits rival Mrs. Stephens’s, but we shan’t tell her. Baxter, will you join us? We’d value your input.”

  “I, sir? Sit with the circle? But I’m staff, my lord.”

  Sinclair crossed the room and took the butler’s arm. “My dear friend, you are one of our greatest assets. Now, sit here beside Kepelheim and enjoy the fruits of Mrs. Paget’s labours. No serving this morning. As of this moment, you are a full-fledged circle member. And I hope to speak to you about another opportunity soon, but that will wait for Branham, I think. Now, everyone,” he said, facing the gathering, “let us seek the Lord’s guidance before indulging our palates. Mr. Baxter, I wonder, if would you take us into the Lord’s presence this afternoon?”