“Your position with the station?”
“Grimes is the manager, Yer Grace,” Danny told the duke as he poured the distraught fellow a cup of coffee.
Grimes stirred in a splash of thick cream. “I expect you’ll be wantin’ ta see the body, sir?”
“Yes. In fact, if Dr. Price and Constable Tower will accompany us, I’ll go there now. Mr. Stephens, we’ll return and have lunch here, if that’s possible. I’m told your inn is full of overnight residents, and the village teems with tourists.”
“We got ‘em comin’ out our ears, m’lord.”
“Simple fare will do, then. Sandwiches, if it isn’t too much trouble. It’s nearly eleven o’clock now,” he added, glancing at his pocket watch. “We’ll try to be back here by one. Is that too soon?”
“We’ll have everythin’ ready, sir.”
Price walked alongside Baxter and Sinclair as they strolled the brick-lined high street, past shop windows and curious onlookers. Charles noticed Best and O’Brien inside the local bakery, chatting with the rosy-cheeked proprietor and taking notes. The duke’s keen eye also noticed other familiar faces amongst the crowds, speaking with holiday shoppers and calling on local businesses. He counted seven reporters in all, representing the Star, Gazette, Times, and Daily News. Shopping amongst this fourth estate invasion were a hundred or more wealthy tourists and ghost hunters, obvious from their bespoke attire, and nearly everyone tipped their hats or curtsied as he passed.
A few greeted him with cries of ‘Welcome to the village, Your Highness,’ or ‘Long live our prince!’, and Charles grew increasingly irritated with each step. Since several newspapers had printed articles implying Charles’s legal right to the throne, he found himself the centre of unwanted attention, no matter the locale, and some dared to whisper of England’s ‘uncrowned king’.
“Do you ever wish for your old life, sir?” Baxter asked him, perceiving his employer’s darkening mood.
Breaking from the reverie, Sinclair managed a smile. “Do you read minds, Inspector Baxter?”
“Not really, my lord, but I’ve come to know your mind a little since we first met. Did you just call me Inspector, sir?”
“I did,” he answered stopping. “Look, I know you enjoy serving in your current capacity, and no butler in the kingdom could ever replace you, but I wonder if we might put your intuitions and experience to better use? The ICI is in its infancy and requires men with broad capabilities and keen instincts to help it mature. As you demonstrated with those reporters, you have the rare gift of knowing what to say and when to say it. And your instincts are sharper than most who call themselves detectives. I’d like to add you as one of our investigators, Cornelius. How does Detective Inspector Baxter suit you?”
The butler took a moment to consider the idea, and his puzzled expression slowly lifted into a radiant grin.
“Inspector Baxter,” he repeated, his dark eyes brightening. “I rather like the sound of that, but if it isn’t too bold a remark, I enjoy looking after you, sir. I shouldn’t wish to leave you in the lurch.”
“And you won’t,” answered Haimsbury. “I’d make you my right hand man in all things, and you’d assist me directly with enquiries. You asked if I miss my old life. Truthfully, I sometimes do, but you’ve helped me transform from a commoner to a duke. And you keep me humble, Cornelius, which is even more important. How is that not service?”
“Will you allow me to speak with Mrs. Alcorn first, sir?”
Charles’s lips curved into a smile. “Do I detect another change in your future? Might there be a wedding at Branham one day soon?”
Baxter actually blushed. “We have discussed it, sir. Esther and I have been good friends for many years. We grew up together. She lost her first husband long ago to cholera, as you’re aware. I’ve never been married, but I should like companionship as I near retirement. And we hold one other in high regard.”
Charles laughed aloud and slapped his friend on the back. “High regard, indeed! Baxter, old man, you’re in love and you know it!”
“So, I am, sir. So I am.”
The continued on their way, and had reached Twitcham’s Mercantile, when the round-faced proprietor rushed out to offer a gift. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” he said with an awkward bow, “but I hope you’ll accept this small token. It ain’ much, my lord, but it comes from the heart. My missus made it. She’s a steady hand at lacework and asked me ta give it to you, if I seen ya.”
Twitcham presented a small, beaded cross formed from white, tatted lace. It had been starched to hold its shape and hung from a blue silk ribbon.
“My Cathy makes all manner o’ goods, sir. She says a man needs ta keep the cross with ‘im at all times. Carry yer cross daily, tha’s what the good book says, don’t it? Carry it daily.”
Charles held the delicate gift aloft, deeply touched by the man’s humility. “Please, tell your wife that I shall keep this with me every day, Mr. Twitcham. And I’ll remind the duchess of your good lady’s talent with a needle. My wife has a fondness for lace, and I expect will make use of your Cathy’s talents quite often. Thank you.”
The butcher bowed again. “It’s our honour, sir. Your Highness.”
“Just call me Commissioner for the present, Mr. Twitcham. I’m a working man, just as you are.”
A nearby reporter for the Pall Mall Gazette took notes on the encounter, and by the next morning, the story would be told throughout Westminster.
The journey continued in similar fashion along the high street, with Baxter shooing away several persistent reporters who peppered the duke with questions about his life, recent marriage, his royal blood, and of course, the newest murder on a long list of investigations. Finally, at half eleven, they reached the railway station, where Charles found the draped body lying on an oak registration table just inside the lobby.
Sinclair lifted the canvas drape. “Poor man,” he said, then turned to Joe Tower. “I could offer my opinion, Constable, but let’s discover just how skilled you are at observation and deduction. What do you see?”
The inexperienced police officer felt as if he were taking an exam at school, but he remembered what his sergeant at D-Division had always told him: Use your eyes, boy. Just say what you see.
“He’s been dead no more than a day.”
“Why?” asked Sinclair.
“Rigor mortis, sir. He’s still stiff. Rigor goes away after two days. And he died somewhere else. Not on the rails.”
“And your reason for drawing that conclusion, Constable?”
“The marks, sir. There are lividity marks on his upper arms, thighs, and knees. Like he died lying on his front, but he was found on his side.”
“And the other wounds? The mutilations? What caused those?”
Joe shook his head. “You got me there, sir. Might rats have done it? Some o’ the punctures look large for rat teeth, but the man’s privates look like they were bitten or gnawed, sir.”
Charles considered this. “Rat bites or other animal predation is possible, but that fails to explain the blood loss. Nor does it give us the cause of death. All in all, a fair assessment, Constable, but you got the time of death wrong. Cold weather delays cessation of muscular rigidity. I’ve seen it take a week for rigor to disappear in winter. On the other hand, I’ve seen rigor begin within minutes, as in cases of cold weather drowning. Cadaveric spasm hastens postmortem rigidity. When a person hits freezing water, every muscle tenses and remains fixed.” He turned to Price. “George, what can you tell me?”
“Aside from applauding your medical knowledge, sir? Let me see.” Price adjusted his spectacles and stepped forward. He’d investigated his share of inexplicable deaths in the decades since becoming official physician to the Branham family, but this one took the prize. As a younger physician, he’d examined the remains of tortured bodies—what the men of the inner circle refer
red to as ritual murders, some of them quite young—but never one with a total absence of blood.
“It is a mystery, to be sure, sir,” he began. “Therefore, I shan’t draw any conclusions. Not yet. However, Tower is correct regarding time of death. I’d say between forty-eight and thirty-six hours, but no more. The landlord’s testimony is that he and his friends left the inn the morning of the nineteenth with plans to return by nightfall. Mr. Clark spoke with them around half nine, when they promised to vacate Lion Hall by sunset. Therefore, something happened within the next few hours that led to this man’s death.”
“Do we know his name yet?” asked Charles, dreading the response. If this is Holloway, Elizabeth will be devastated.
“The Honourable Peter John Mark Patterson, son of Baron John Patterson, a banker with Barings. Peter was a second year student at Trinity. Colonel Collinwood identified him.”
“And he is?”
“The project leader,” replied Price. “The man’s insufferable, if you don’t mind my saying. You’ll be meeting him later today, so I understand. Presently, he’s in London explaining Patterson’s death to family. Dreadful business! No parent should receive such news.”
“No, they shouldn’t,” Charles answered, thinking of his dead son. “And the puncture marks?”
“They are not rat bites; of that I’m certain. The conformation of the incision is too precise and straight. These are more like jabs with a pointed object. The tip of an ice pick, perhaps. Or a sharpened awl. However, none of the wounds goes deeper than an inch. Also, rats do not usually excise the entire eye, and the genital wounding is undecipherable as well. It’s as though the killer or killers grew so frenzied in their attack that he or they lost all control. It is personal and monstrously brutal. I’m afraid this poor man suffered a great deal before he died. All the wounds, including the genital mutilation, are pre-mortem.”
“And the blood loss?” asked Sinclair.
George pointed to a deep puncture at the base of the throat. “I believe this to be the source. It lies just over the jugular vein. A wound such as this would bleed more slowly than an artery, but would leave pools of blood over time, especially if some sort of poison were involved.”
“Poison? Why would you suggest that, sir?” asked Baxter.
“Merely being thorough. I’ll run blood tests to be sure, but some poisons have an anti-coagulant effect, which would prolong bleeding. And, as there were no bloodstains on or near the rail spur, we have to assume the attack occurred elsewhere. Commissioner, may I remove the body to a more permanent place soon? I’ve a small garden shed near my surgery, which might suffice. The body needs to remain cold for continued study, you see.”
Charles considered how the next few days would proceed. It was all too likely that the dead man’s missing colleagues were either complicit in Patterson’s death or themselves victims. It might be that three bodies would eventually require preservation—if not more, if Ripper or this Dybbuk demon had widened his territory.
“No, I prefer to keep my options open, George. Baxter, have we any buildings in the village? Ones owned by the estate?”
“There’s the granary, sir. It takes in oats, rye, and barley from surrounding farms and then transports them to the brewery. We grow the hops on our own land, of course. There may be an empty room there that’s unheated, sir. Perhaps, a cellar or well room.”
“Good, let’s do that. George, if you’d be good enough to speak with the granary’s manager, I’d appreciate it. Is there anyone else from the Blackstone group about this morning I may speak with? These three Oxford men, for instance. Have you taken their statements?”
Joe Tower answered. “The colonel sent the Oxford men away, sir. I warned him that we’d need to speak to them, but he insisted on it. Collinwood is somewhat stiff in his manner.”
“And so am I, when obstructed,” answered the duke coldly. “So far, Blackstone’s actions have done nothing but impede our efforts, which makes them primary suspects. I want the names of everyone associated with the Society, and I want it yesterday. When is Collinwood returning from London?”
“This evening, sir. Assuming we can open the railway station before then. The lines to Branham have been rerouted.”
“Then finding a suitable morgue is our first priority, Constable,” Charles answered. “Make those arrangements with Dr. Price, and then set up an office for me here in the village. I want none of this dark business to touch the duchess, is that clear?”
Tower saluted. “Of course, Commissioner.”
Price made some notes in a small leather book. “We should be able to move the body by mid-afternoon. How is Elizabeth holding up?”
“Remarkably well, considering. Our lives rarely stop long enough for a breath.”
George laughed. “Wait until the babies arrive, assuming it is twins. Mr. Baxter is helping you, I see? And the earl? Is Lord Aubrey joining us this Christmas season?”
“He’s helping with the search at present. Elizabeth is handling that aspect of things, but I prefer she not hear the grisly details of this man’s death.”
“She’ll learn nothing from me.”
“Baxter, let’s make our way back to the inn, but use the journey to interview the merchants about the two missing men. I want to know if anyone noticed unusual behaviour, or if any of the men met with outsiders. Also, I want to search their rooms at the Ghost.”
Baxter nodded. “Very good, Commissioner. I can aid you in those endeavours, and then I suggest we break for luncheon. The next few days will be busy, sir, and you mustn’t neglect meals.”
“You are the perfect second in any investigation, Baxter. Come, you can introduce me to the locals as we make our way back.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Saint Clair-sur-Epte, Normandy
George Holloway stared at the dusty scroll. With only a few hours left before sunset, time was running out to decipher and prove the text was genuine. Someone, perhaps John Dee, had penned the lines upon a vellum of antique age. Dee, a founding fellow at Trinity College Cambridge, once served as astrological advisor to Queen Elizabeth I. The writing certainly looked like Dee’s, and the membrane seemed old enough, but the frustrated earl had no way of testing it. The ink had the correct appearance and ‘bleed’ for the late 16th century, and the formation of the letters looked correct. He wished his son were here. Seth’s knowledge of textual evidence, language, and ciphers would prove very helpful right now.
“Have you got it?” asked the macabre solicitor as he entered the chilly drawing room.
Since arriving at the dig, Lord Salter and the Blackstone team had lived and worked in the north wing of an old castle, built by the Duc du Ross.
“I’m nearly there,” replied the earl, who then sneezed several times before wiping his thin nose with a handkerchief. “This place is freezing, Flint! It’ll be all our deaths if we stay in this God-forsaken place much longer!”
The lawyer grinned as he took a chair close to the earl’s desk. “It is this place’s ‘God-forsaken’ nature that most appeals to me, Lord Salter. And death isn’t so bad. Have you arrived at an opinion regarding the vellum’s authorship?”
“It certainly looks like Dee’s work. He’s included some of his Enochian figures in the margins. The man was mad, if you ask me.
“Mad or not, you have two hours to verify the text.”
“Two hours?” echoed the man in dismay. “That’s impossible! I cannot possibly decipher it by then.”
“We do not require a translation. We can read the writing ourselves, Lord Salter. All we need from you is verification.”
“You should have asked my son, then. He’s more informed than I on Dee.”
“Ah, but the dashing viscount is elsewhere at the moment. Far, far away,” Flint answered vaguely. “Verify the document, and then leave it to us. Dusk provides a window into Time itself, a
nd an old friend awaits.”
An impossible fly buzzed past the earl’s weary eyes, and he swatted at it, wondering how an insect could fly about in such cold temperatures. In the millisecond it took for his hand to fly past his nose, both the insect and Albus Flint had vanished.
Sundown – the Branham Estate
Paul Stuart had never before seen this section of the tunnel maze. Several times, when Elizabeth was a child, she had taken him through parts of the system, but he’d never imagined it was so vast! He’d been leading a team of four through the ruins of Lion Hall, when they’d discovered a series of tombs that led to a large crypt.
“Powers, have you or your men ever come this far?” he asked Branham’s head groundskeeper.
“No, sir. Not this far, though I reckon the little duchess might o’ done. You know how she used to follow these old tunnels as a girl.”
“I know it all too well,” answered the earl. “I can see why an archaeological team might want to record these ruins, but I wish the duchess would tear them all down. There’s an unhealthy miasma about these tunnels. A palpable darkness that gets into one’s bones.”
“Aye, sir. I was raised on the estate, not far from here, on the old Anjou sheep farm. Most of us lads played hereabouts, and they’d tell stories to curdle a man’s blood! Ya never wanted to come down without a candle and a prayer book.”
Stuart bent down to examine the floor of the cold crypt. The walls were roughly hewn, and two had large niches for votives or perhaps urns, now long gone. Two large statues acted as guardians to the entrance and exit. One a large bird; the other a human.
“I believe we’re standing in a stone puzzle, Mr. Powers. A tangible spell of some kind. Have you noticed? The carving on the doorway lintels matches the figural doorposts, as well as the statues.”
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