Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Yes, but that’s only the public aspect of it. Salter’s scientific activities serve as cover for a political agenda. He’ll often negotiate secret treaties for England whilst digging in the sands of Palestine and Egypt. As the only son, he wanted Seth to follow in his footsteps, both academically and politically.”

  “As you followed in your father’s footsteps.”

  “Yes, and I’m grateful for it. I never knew Seth very well until the past few years. He’s five years younger, but he always struck me as a serious sort of person. An academic mind with a strong capacity for language and the arts. He loves music and painting, and he uses that artistic eye to discern fine details when translating hieroglyphs and ancient writing. As I mentioned earlier, Beth and I had a misunderstanding over him that year. Do you recall that she and I were arguing when you ran into her in my library in ‘84?”

  “I remember it vividly, as does she.”

  “Seth was the reason,” Paul admitted. “He’d accompanied his sisters to Branham for the fête that May, and whilst there, discovered Elizabeth had grown up in his absence. When Ruth and Melin asked to stay for a few weeks to spend time with Elizabeth, he decided to remain with them. The girls preferred riding at Branham, because of the stable. Connor established some spectacular bloodlines, and Branham’s known all over England for producing fine hunters. Paladin is a product of that breeding program. He can clear any hurdle without disturbing the rider a whit.”

  “I can attest to that,” Charles agreed as he sipped the last of the cognac.

  The earl watched his friend’s face carefully. “Thank you for not pressing me with questions, Commissioner. This story reveals a jealous streak in me which isn’t flattering; meaning it isn’t easy to tell.”

  “Proceed at your own pace, Cousin. I wear Beth’s promise inside this watch and her wedding ring upon my hand. Nothing that happened in the past will ever alter that.”

  Aubrey finished the second cognac, gazing down into the empty glass. “Do you ever wish you go back in time, perhaps make a better choice? Make a different decision that could lead to greater happiness? Never mind, I grow maudlin lately. It’s not like me at all. Sorry. I’m allowing my emotions to overwhelm this tale, but those regrets have nothing to do with you or Beth.”

  “I’m here to listen, if you wish to talk, Paul.”

  “Perhaps after Christmas.”

  Charles worried about his cousin. Even Aubrey had his limits, and though the demonic attack at Haimsbury left no visible wounds, he began to fear for the earl’s mind.

  “Regret isn’t a weakness, Paul.”

  The earl ignored the comment. “As I said, the Holloway girls came to stay a few weeks, and Seth with them. Victoria and Dolly were here as chaperones, so all was properly done. Seth and Elizabeth spent a lot of time together during those weeks, and by early June, she’d become quite fond of him; and not only as a friend. Dolly saw him kiss her once after a picnic and wrote to me about it. I felt Beth was too young for such things; that Seth had no business kissing a child.”

  “She was sixteen, Paul. Hardly a child.”

  “Yes, but I had difficulty seeing her that way. I thought myself protective, not jealous. She’d always been my little cousin, and I her Scottish knight. She was the princess I rescued from towers, not a desirable young woman! That day in the library, I asked her about the kiss, and she flew into a rage. I’d never seen her so angry! She accused me of spying on her and threatened to return to Queen Anne on her own. When I saw her react to you with such obvious affection, I fear it only worsened my mood.”

  A soft knock interrupted, and Charles turned to find Kay opening the door. “Sir, I’m to tell you Lord Salperton has arrived.”

  Both men stood. “Is a time set for supper?” asked Charles.

  “Ten o’clock, sir. Mrs. Stephens apologises for the late start, but with feeding the volunteers, and many of them still lingering about...”

  “Quite all right, Kay. Tell the men we’ll call off the search for tonight. The tunnels are dangerous enough during daytime, and the snow will only hamper their vision. I won’t risk any of our men. We’ll begin again at first light.”

  “Very good, sir.” Kay left and closed the door.

  “Is there more?” the duke asked Aubrey.

  “More?”

  Charles shook his head. “More to their relationship? Was Seth in love with her? You called it an affair. Did she love him?”

  Paul rose, deciding he’d shared enough for the moment. “You’ll have to ask Beth that question. I’m off to take Henry to his patient.”

  Aubrey exited the peaceful library, leaving Charles wondering just what sort of friendship his wife once shared with the mysterious viscount. Had she loved him? Did she love him still?

  No matter. Despite her feelings, he had to proceed as he would with any other man. If Holloway killed Peter Patterson, then he’d have to pay for it. With his life.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  8:13 pm - Fitzmaurice Place

  “How quiet the house is with Ned and the children gone,” sighed Constance Wychwright from her armchair.

  Cordelia had said little that evening, preferring to sit quietly in a corner and read. “Yes, Mama,” she answered like a pale automaton.

  “I do wish Dr. Gehlen had been available to see you, Delia. I’m not sure I like Dr. Sanderson. Did he offer you a new medicine to counter your moods? It seems to me your demeanor has worsened since the funeral. Perhaps, I’ll call in another doctor. One with more impressive references. Perhaps, this George Price that serves the Branham family. He’s called on the queen, you know.”

  “Fine, Mama. Whatever you say.”

  Lady Constance set aside her embroidery. “You know, my dear, it seems to me that what you need is a purpose. William told me his friend Sir Richard Treversham confessed a secret fondness for you. The baronet’s a very handsome man, with a fine country estate and a London home in Mayfair; all supported by a large income. As his wife, you could...”

  “I don’t like Richard, Mama. I don’t like any of Will’s friends. They’re all just like—like that awful man!”

  “What awful man?” the dowager baroness asked.

  “Sir Albert. I hate him, and I hate all of William’s friends!”

  Her mother shook her head, returning to the needlework. “Now, Delia, hate is a very strong word. I’m sure you don’t mean that.”

  “But I do mean it.” She stood, intending to leave the drawing room. “I’m going up now. You should have named me after Shakespeare’s Ophelia rather than Cordelia, because all I want to do is sleep until I am dead!”

  The distraught young woman started towards the doorway, but ran headlong into the very man she so detested. Sir Richard Treversham. The tall baronet bowed as he kissed her hand.

  “Good evening, Lady Cordelia. Your brother said I might find you here. And with your lovely mother, too. Lady Constance, I pray this night finds you well.”

  Connie Wychwright wondered why her daughter failed to appreciate the baronet’s lovely brown eyes and supple mouth. Yes, he did lack the firm musculature one might expect in a descendent of Sir Henry ‘Hotspur’ Treversham, hero of the Battle of Dupplin Moor, but then he had no need for knightly prowess. Sir Richard’s only challenges were what suit to buy and which wine to drink. Surely, a man of such wealth could provide her daughter a fine life—particularly as Richard would then control Cordelia’s inheritance. And with William controlling Richard, the end result would be amenable to all.

  “Do come in, Sir Richard!” she sang, colour rising to her powdered cheeks. “We’ve sorely missed your merriment. Living in a house of mourning is so very dull. Delia, fetch Sir Richard a glass of sherry.”

  “No need, dear lady,” answered Treversham. “Will and I have plans to go out this evening. Delia, would you be interested in joining us? We’ve ticke
ts for a most amusing play. My sister is coming along, and she’d find it terribly boring without someone sympathetic to talk with. Perhaps, the two of you could discuss the upcoming Christmas parties.”

  “Parties?” the girl asked, growing slightly interested. “It sounds nice, but I shan’t be invited to any parties. Not ever again.”

  He reached for her hand. “But of course, you will. Parties and dances and costume balls and all manner of frivolities! You frown far too much these days, dear lady. You need to hear jokes and songs and see a bit of ballyhoo nonsense. Tonight will leave you a changed woman. I guarantee it! Come now, take off that dull black dress and put on a pretty frock. Let’s go find that smile, shall we? I’ve always said yours is the prettiest smile in London.”

  “But I mustn’t,” she argued half-heartedly, for she longed to lay aside grief, if only for an hour. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  Constance took her daughter’s hand. “I’m sure it is proper when accompanied by your brother. Come, dear, I’ll help you select the perfect gown. A dark blue one, perhaps. More in keeping with sobriety. Which play is it, Sir Richard?”

  “A Christmas pantomime that will keep us all laughing merrily throughout the night. The curtain rises at ten, so we’ll need to hurry.”

  With so much medicine in her bloodstream, Delia felt confused and a bit unsteady, but she longed to get away from her mother. She wished Paul had come to visit, but her brother had warned him to stay away. It was doubtful she would ever see the handsome earl again.

  “Yes, all right,” she said at last.

  By half nine, she was sitting in a charabanc coach with her brother on one side, Sir Richard and Millicent Treversham on the other. The theatre was barely that: a Grand Guinol sort of place north of Seven Dials. Following a blood-soaked opener about the Dybbuk of Spitalfields, came the panto with ribald jokes and scantily clad actresses. Any mention of Christmas was accidental, for every routine’s purpose was to offer the ladies onstage another opportunity to shed more clothing.

  Cordelia hated every minute.

  When the coarse entertainment had at last finished, she assumed they’d return home, but instead she was taken to a Soho hotel, where the two ‘couples’ paired off into separate rooms: William with Millicent, and Sir Richard with Cordelia. The baronet mixed a pungent powder into her champagne, designed to make her more compliant. The goal was to force a physical union, after which an outraged William would demand Sir Richard marry his ‘wronged’ sister.

  It was a devious, hateful sort of plan, and no loving brother or mother would ever have designed it. But Constance Wychwright and her scheming eldest son had very little love in their hearts. And by midnight, the naive ingenue would be running for her honour and her life.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  7:11 am, 22nd December – Charles Sinclair’s Journal

  I overslept this morning, but Beth is already awake and gone downstairs. I can hear activity below and in the nearby state rooms. I think the footmen are finishing up the decorations. Oh, it’s difficult to believe Christmas is but three days away! Tomorrow, I shall collect our special guests from London and bring them here. My only prayer now is for peace.

  Last night, Baxter, Paul, and I sat up until after midnight, hashing through the Blackstone murder mystery. Price has installed the body in an unused cellar at the Branham Granary, about two miles from the village, and hopes to give me a report this afternoon. Constable Towers set up an office for me at the Herne Hill boarding house, run by a Mr. and Mrs. Swalecliffe. I’ve paid triple the going rate for their best suite, since the couple could easily rent it to a London punter. The village is crawling with reporters, and Towers is sleeping there, to make sure no one tries to ‘rummage’ through the rooms.

  Collinwood sent a telegram late last evening, apologising for missing me, but promising to meet up today or tomorrow. He has informed the Oxford men that each must be available for questioning. First on my list, however, is Seth Holloway. Henry believes the viscount’s injuries are life-threatening, so I must tread carefully. Paul assures me that Holloway isn’t the sort of man to commit murder, but the same could said for many who’ve gone to the rope. I pray the man had nothing to with it; for if he did, my marriage might never be the same.

  I’ll write more tomorrow. For now, I must dress and begin the day.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  As Charles Sinclair descended the magnificent central staircase, he entered a house transformed. All through the evening and into the night, maids and footmen had continued their elf-like labours, festooning every railing, every lintel, every light fixture, and nearly all the doors with boughs of fragrant evergreen. Velvet bows of gold and red trimmed the fresh cuttings, and mixed amongst these, dwelt bright red crabapples, rowen sprigs, and mint leaves; as well as lemons and oranges pierced with cloves—all held together by yards and yards of red velvet ribbon.

  In the centre of the foyer, stood a large, wooden planter placed upon a circle of waxed sailcloth, awaiting the arrival of the grand tree. The air was filled with heavenly scents of citrus, cinnamon, and peppermint; but amongst this spicy mélange floated the familiar smells of baking bread and roasting meat. Charles felt as though he’d awoken to a wonderful dream.

  “Good morning, my lord,” sang a chorus of servants as he made his way to the morning room. In most great homes, the ‘morning room’ indicated a singular space reserved for use in the early part of the day. These generally faced east, to take advantage of the morning sun’s light and warmth, and thereby save on wood or coal. However, at Branham, there were four morning rooms, and Charles headed to his favourite: a converted greenhouse with glassed walls that extended into the central courtyard. Gas sconces on the interior wall augmented the sun’s natural lighting, and a hearth built into the same wall provided warmth against the cold.

  Branham Hall was built of several components: The original, quadrangular construction climbed four storeys high with a grand courtyard in the middle. Extending outward from this, ran three primary wings, north, west, and east. However, an oddly situated ‘second east’ bisected the more traditional east and north wings. This was where Sir William Trent had kept rooms, and where supernatural events most often occurred. Guests staying here often told tales of ghostly encounters, of seeing a man with a wound upon his forehead and hearing a haunting violin play for hours. Some spoke of spidery phantoms that scuttled about the corners and shadow men in tall hats.

  Thankfully, no ghosts troubled the serenity of Branham Hall that bright December morning, and Charles entered the charming little room, finding one of the chars—a girl named Iris Howell—lighting the fire.

  “Oh, so sorry, my lord!” she exclaimed with a sweet curtsy. She had pulled her long hair into a tight braid down her back, and wore the customary dark uniform dress with white pinafore apron. Her large, green eyes and auburn hair reminded Charles of Lorena MacKey, possibly how she’d looked before her stepfather began to abuse her.

  Where is she? he wondered.

  “Never apologise for doing what’s asked of you,” he told the girl kindly. “It’s Iris, isn’t it?”

  Charles had met all the servants upon arrival, when the household staff had assembled in the foyer to greet their master and mistress.

  “You remembered me, sir,” she said happily.

  “Sometimes, my memory works,” he laughed. “If only I could recall my childhood as well. How old are you, Iris?”

  “Seven, sir. I’ll be eight next March. My folks work on the old Anjou sheep farm.”

  “I’ve heard others talk of it. Is it a large farm?”

  “Very large, my lord. Thousands of sheep and six shepherd cottages. We live in the St. James house. They’re all named for disciples.”

  “Ah, I see. And do you like living there?”

  “I do, sir. And my pa’s ever so good with sheep. I like to help, when I’ve the time. Pa
’s here today—ta help look for the missin’ man. And Ma’s packin’ food for the searchers.”

  “Have the men begun to assemble?”

  “Yes, m’lord. In the main dinin’ hall. They’re eatin’ breakfast, sir.” She curtsied politely and then returned to her task.

  Charles sorted through a collection of newspapers from the previous day. The death toll of the East End fire had risen to forty-three, and the Lord Mayor of London had visited Leman Street for a photograph and interview. The main article featured a picture of the mayor shaking hands with Edmund Reid and Fred Abberline.

  “Fatuous little tripe,” he muttered at Mayor Whitehead’s political posturing.

  “Sir?” asked Iris, turning round.

  “I’m commenting on the news. Forgive the interruption. Do you need any help?”

  “No, m’lord. I’m used to makin’ fires. I’m quite good at it.”

  “So I see,” he said as the flames ignited into a bright blaze. Almost immediately, the room grew more cheerful.

  A footman entered with a trolley, laden with coffee, tea, and pastries. “Hot dishes are forthcoming, Your Grace,” he said with a bow.

  “Thank you. It’s Hopkins, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve a remarkable memory, my lord. Yes, it is. Tim Hopkins. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “The early editions from London, when they arrive.”

  “The station master delivered them a few minutes ago, sir. Mr. Kay is ironing them. He’ll bring them shortly.”

  The servant left, and young Iris brushed her hands of wood and bark debris as she stood to leave.

  “Tell me, Iris, are you attending school of any kind?”

  She smiled, and he noticed a gap in the front where a baby tooth had fallen out. A stub of the adult tooth had just emerged from the pink gum.

  “The duchess sends all us children to school, sir. We work two hours each mornin’, and then attend classes from ten ‘til three with a nice luncheon in between.”