Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  The crack widened, and the guardian’s brows arched in response. “The colonel is not here at present.”

  “He asked us to meet him here at five, good lady,” Charles told her with all the charm he could muster. “And we are not reporters. I’m Duke Charles from Branham Hall, and this gentleman is my cousin, Lord Aubrey.”

  Suddenly, the woman’s sour expression melted into an open world of sunshine. “The duke? Oh, sir, do forgive me! Sir Simon never mentioned anything about a visit. Do come in!”

  The men entered, careful to wipe the snow and mud from their boots. She took their coats and Charles’s hat (Aubrey wore none) and hung both in a nearby closet.

  “I’m Mrs. Ketchum. Do come through, sirs.”

  She led them past a drawing room and into a thoroughly masculine space, lined with walnut panelling and hunting trophies. In one corner, the stuffed bodies of a rhinoceros, a lion, and an American Grizzly stood as though meeting for a chat. On the opposite wall, half a dozen mounted antelope horns and a variety of stuffed birds and foxes kept watch. A wood fire burnt in the brick hearth, and an Irish Setter lay before it. He barely glanced up.

  “That’s MacTavish, the master’s hunting dog. He’s no bother. Tea, sirs?”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Charles replied, still oozing charm. “Is Sir Simon at home, Mrs. Ketchum?”

  “He is, Your Grace. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  She left, shutting the doors. Aubrey began a tactile survey of the room, touching all the stuffed animals and examining a wall of mounted heads as though looking for a secret.

  “I’ve never understood why a man decorates his den with the heads of conquered prey. It’s a bit like head-hunters in the Amazon. These animals are noble and beautiful, yet they’re left here like lifeless trophies. It’s the pursuit of ghouls, if you ask me.”

  “Perhaps, it’s to impress other men,” Charles suggested. “Tell me about Pembroke. How well do you know him?”

  They sat, choosing leather chairs near the fire. “My father and he served together at the War Office. Simon’s the second baronet Pembroke. His grandfather received the title for his service against Napoleon. Sir Simon’s father died before inheriting, which is why he’s the second. He’s in his mid-sixties. Intelligent, but not overly so. More a follower than a leader.”

  “Is he Redwing?” Charles asked.

  “Not to my knowledge, but this Blackstone Society has all the hallmarks of a Redwing subcommittee, doesn’t it?”

  “Or a rival,” suggested the duke.

  The door opened, and a soft-bellied man of six feet and a whisper entered. He wore a tweed shooting jacket over brown trousers, tucked into black riding boots; the costume accented by a yellow wool waistcoat. He looked as though he’d not shaved in a week, and the wispy beard hair dotted the curved, dumpling chin as though each strand tried to declare independence from its neighbours. Rosy cheeks against pale skin added to the odd mix of traits, but a firm, friendly hand reached out, eager to shake the hand of his guests.

  “Duke Charles! Lord Aubrey! I cannot tell you what a lovely surprise this is! Mrs. Ketchum’s fetching tea and cakes at present. I’ve only two servants. An old bachelor like myself has no need for more. Mr. Ketchum’s my valet, footman, driver, and gardener when needed. Mrs. K. cooks, does the washing up, and keeps me in line. Tell me, gentlemen, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  The duke began. “As you’re no doubt aware, Sir Simon, one of the Cambridge men serving with the Blackstone project has been murdered. Another is seriously injured, and the third is yet to be found. Colonel Collinwood promised to enlighten us further regarding the case and asked us to meet him here at five. He claims to be your guest.”

  “Oh, yes, he is. Collie and I’ve been friends since Oxford, you know. It’s why he and his three Oxford students billeted here for the past six weeks. If he asked you to meet him, then he’ll show up, eventually. Collie’s not the most reliable when it comes to clocks. Military life formed a reactionary spirit in him, I’m afraid. He deals with problems only as they arise, which means he often misses appointments. Might I help?”

  “Tell us all you know about Blackstone,” Charles told him.

  The housekeeper entered, pushing a tea trolley. “Forgive the interruption. Sir Simon normally has a light meal at this time of day, my lords. I’ve brought sandwiches and desserts as well as tea and coffee.” She poured a glass of water and gave it to her employer. “Your five o’clock pills, sir.”

  “Ah, yes, thank you, Mrs. K.,” replied the baronet, who swallowed three small pills along with the entire glass of water. “That will be all for now, but when the colonel arrives, do send him at once.”

  She left without a word and shut the door again.

  “The pills are precautionary,” the baronet explained, pointing to his chest. “Bad ticker. Now, Blackstone. An odd bunch, if you ask me. Their lawyer called on me the first time several years back. He was with your wife’s stepfather, in fact, Duke Charles. Sir William Trent.”

  Sinclair sat forward, that electric shiver running along his hands. “Trent was involved in Blackstone?”

  “I imagine he was, yes. They certainly seemed amiable whilst here. I never cared much for Trent, though Duchess Patricia adored the man. Poor Trish was somewhat pliable when it came to suitors. Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead; that isn’t my intent. I adored the late duchess. What man didn’t? But she had an eccentric sense of etiquette. Constrained to the point of isolation one minute; boisterously charming, the next. Surely, you know what I mean, Lord Aubrey. I remember one Boxing Day when she flirted quite scandalously with you, and Lord Kesson not ten feet away!”

  Charles stared at his cousin. “Is that true?”

  “Trish had a very poor sense of self,” Paul explained, “and she sought affirmation from all men. I was one of them. I’m sure that’s how Trent insinuated himself into her life so easily. Sir Simon, how well did you know Trent?”

  “Not well,” he answered. “No one did. The fellow hosted all the important players in commerce and shipping whilst master of the hall. British, American, German, Dutch, French, Romanian, Spanish, even African! I never understood it. To my knowledge, he had no money of his own. In fact, I never heard much about his so-called baronetcy. I dare you to find records of it. I serve as magistrate hereabouts, and I never could.”

  Charles stared at his cousin. “Surely, someone in the circle did that.”

  Paul shook his head. “We tried, but all efforts were blocked. I had Reggie Parsons dig into it, but even he came up empty. We’ve always assumed Trent either lied about his title, or else bought one.”

  “Can one buy a baronetcy?” asked Charles.

  “Certainly. Money’s the reason King James created the title in the first place. Cross the right palm, and a minor title is easily gained. Higher titles are more tightly controlled.”

  Sir Simon nodded. “Oh, it’s very true. My title is genuine, I’m happy to say; but Trent was another kettle of fish. It was the summer of ’76, when he knocked on my door. We don’t get many visitors out this way, and Ketchum generally shoos them off.”

  “So we noticed,” the duke commented.

  “Yes, sorry about that. Well, this man Flint set Ketchum’s teeth on edge, but Trent exerted all his charm, as he always did. Damned fellow had a way with women! Anyway, she let them both in to see me. Flint hardly said a word, just stared at my bird collection and muttered beneath his breath. Trent, though, now that was a man who understood hunting. He talked of expeditions to Egypt and Palestine, of safaris to Somaliland, and promised to take me with him the next time he sailed to South America. I thought it bragging, if you must know. But then he changed the subject entirely.

  “He mentioned how this Blackstone outfit was surveying our corner of Kent and asked for access to one of the old dungeons ben
eath Eleanor’s Castle. My south garden connects to them, by way of a tunnel, you know. This whole area’s rife with tunnels! Branham’s Warren, we used to call it. Some were constructed by the Marquess of Anjou, but most are far older. I’ve a history book on it, if you’re interested. But Trent put me off. When I declined, he pressed hard and made some thinly veiled threats. I may not look like much today, but when I was younger, I could have taken on both of you at once, Your Grace. Boxing, shooting, archery. Name a sport, and I’ve done it! I sent both men packing. Never heard of Blackstone again until Collie wrote to me in August asking if he could live here during the project. I said yes, of course. Now it’s all gone pear-shaped, and you’re missing Christmas parties. Shame.”

  “And a man is dead,” Aubrey reminded the pudgy baronet. “Murdered by one of his colleagues, presumably.”

  “Yes, bad business.”

  “Did you ever meet the Cambridge men, Sir Simon?” Stuart asked.

  “Only Holloway. Good lad that Seth, despite his alma mater. Collie and I are Oxford men, of course. Can’t say much good about Cambridge.”

  “The duke attended Cambridge, Sir Simon. Trinity College.”

  Their host laughed, causing the sparse hair on his dumpling chin to dance. “Well bless me sideways! I’ve certainly put my foot in it! Sorry, Your Grace. Jolly good college, Trinity. I know the master quite well. Play chess together through the post. I imagine you studied politics.”

  “Mathematics, actually.”

  “Dear me,” puffed the baronet. “My noggin couldn’t add one and one! That’s why I did so well at the Exchequer. I expect you want to know if Collinwood’s offered a theory regarding the boy’s murder?”

  “Yes. Did he?” asked the duke.

  “He did, but it makes no sense. Collie believes it has to do with an artifact the team discovered that same day. The eighteenth. A sarcophagus covered all over with polished obsidian. The thing shone like a mirror!”

  The cousins stared at one another.

  “Obsidian?” echoed the earl.

  “Oh, yes. Collie brought it back here. Enormous thing. Ten feet—no eleven feet long, I should think. Must be worth a fortune, even if it is empty; though we’ve no idea, as it hasn’t been opened. Perhaps, there’s a mummy of some sort inside. Quite exciting, but I can’t see how it can be the cause of those chaps going missing.”

  “Where is the sarcophagus now?” asked Sinclair.

  “Oh, we locked it in the root cellar for safekeeping—just in case.”

  “May we see it?”

  “Yes, of course. Now?”

  “If it’s convenient.”

  The man puffed like a steam engine as he led them through the corridor, down a staircase, and into the kitchens. Ketchum and her husband, an older gentleman in livery, sat eating fish paste sandwiches and ale. The man jumped to his feet. “Sorry, sir. Did I miss your ring?”

  “Not at all! We’re just here to take a look in the root cellar. Is the key in your office?”

  “Yes, m’lord. On the hook, like always.”

  Pembroke fetched an iron key from a row of numbered hooks and inserted it into an arched doorway at the end of a narrow hallway.

  “We keep the wines and other spirits down here, as well as root vegetables and anything else that requires cooler temperatures. Flint thought it would help preserve the coffin.” He pushed the door, and an icy wind rushed past their faces. “Never felt this cold before! Must be the snow. Mrs. K., is there a candle in here?”

  “By the door, sir,” she called from the kitchen. “Shall I come?”

  “No, no, I can manage!” Charles and Paul heard the shuffling of feet and a swear word or two as the baronet fumbled in the candle box for matches and tapers. “Found ‘em!”

  The hint of sulfur was followed with an instantaneous brightening of the room beyond the doorway. “Come in, gentlemen. Mind the rats. I’ve an old gun room back here. The other side of the claret rack. We’ve put the thingy in there.”

  The two cousins ducked as they passed beneath the low door. The cellar smelled of cider and apples and mould.

  And something else. Something unsettling.

  “Dear God!” shouted Pembroke from across the room. “Collie!”

  Charles turned the corner at the rack, nearly stumbling over a crate of apples. Behind the claret, his candle’s light fell upon the white face of a ginger-haired man with a caterpillar moustache. Colonel Sir Alfred Collinwood was dead.

  Chapter Forty

  Sunday, 23rd December, 1888 - Elizabeth Sinclair’s journal

  It is just after four o’clock as I pen this entry, and I write with a mixture of joy, fatigue, and sadness. This morning at ten, the Captain left to collect our special guests from London, and though their arrival will bring new life and laughter to the hall, I find myself missing my husband once again. Since beginning our marriage (following a harrowing time in that ‘other world’), we’ve seldom had more than an hour or two together at any stretch. Often, I find myself lying awake at night, simply to enjoy his comforting presence without distraction. Charles has promised to do better in future. He’s even sent for Sir Thomas Galton and Malcolm Risling to take over the investigation into the village murders. Two men now dead—a student and an army colonel! How can this happen at such a glorious time as Christmas? I pray the men died in Christ.

  A third Cambridge man, Lionel Wentworth, is still missing. Charles believes Wentworth may have murdered his friend Patterson—perhaps Col. Collinwood also—and that he’s now fled the area. Paul will sail to France after the new year, for a man of Wentworth’s description was seen boarding a steamship at Dover last night.

  Seth awoke last evening, but is unable to speak coherently. I dread to think what might have happened to him in that awful cavern! I’ve seen so much horror in that accursed place; surely it’s inhabited by demonic spirits. I sent telegrams to Seth’s parents and sisters, but have not yet heard a reply. It is possible the earl and countess are once again touring abroad. Ruth and Melinda live in Vienna with their Aunt Gwendolyn. I hope to hear from one of them today.

  The Master of Trinity has written, expressing his sincere prayers and condolences. He and Seth are close friends, and I’ve learnt he also knows Charles. Apparently, Dr. Butler was headmaster at Harrow whilst Charles attended. I look forward to meeting him next week.

  As I said, it is a time of mixed emotions. Henry keeps me laughing to ease the strain. He came to tend Seth’s wounds, but will remain and spend Christmas with us. I shall always bear a special kind of love for Viscount Salperton. His faith in the Lord and constant bravery rescued me from the worst of fates: that awful stone world with its bloodthirsty crows and liars.

  Grandfather arrives today, and I shall run into his arms when he gets here! How I miss my dearest childhood confident! James Stuart has a way of enlivening any room, and I always feel safer whenever he is near. I wish he and Charles could have attended church services this morning to hear the local choir. My, how wonderful it was! They sang all the old Christmas hymns: It Came Upon a Midnight Clear, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Away in a Manger, Hark the Herald, The First Noel, and Silent Night. Then, afterward, we hosted everyone at the hall, and the school children offered a second concert, which I believe they plan to perform again for our ‘special guest’, Lady Stuart, tomorrow for Christmas Eve.

  Mrs. Alcorn has kept busy with her new sewing machine, aided by the amiable and delightfully loquacious Mr. Kepelheim (who arrived on last night’s train). They’re altering my favourite skirts and blouses, allowing my expanding waistline room to grow further. I shall have a new wardrobe made later in London, but for the present, I am well-attired and in relative comfort. I say relative, only because my nausea continues to plague me now and then. I say nothing to Charles. He has enough to occupy his thoughts. Henry tells me the nausea is perfectly normal, and that it should subside so
on. I mentioned setting an appointment with Dr. Gehlen next January to him, and Henry’s response was quite odd. I thought he liked Anthony Gehlen, but now I’m not sure.

  Two days until Christmas, which means today will be very busy! Despite delays caused by the search for the missing men, the hall decorations are nearly complete, with only the final touches to add. I’d been practising baking cakes with Mrs. Paget in London and hoped to bake a rum-raisin cake for Charles (his favourite, according to an old Haimsbury recipe book), but Mrs. Stephens has cautioned against it. Apparently, Mrs. Anderson wrote to her about my previous experiments. Henry agreed, declaring, “No cake-baking, Beth. That is an order.” Happily, Mrs. Stephens has promised to prepare it, and Charles will still enjoy a small taste of his lost childhood.

  Victoria and Dolly have been such a blessing, helping me pack Christmas baskets for the farmers and shepherds. The gift baskets include dried fruits, nuts, flour, salt, sugar, spices, coffee, and tea. Tomorrow, we’ll add eggs and milk, and then drive the baskets round to all the cottages. It’s a tradition begun by the 6th Duchess of Branham. Della has baked Christmas cookies, and we’ll add a dozen to each basket as well with a little poem she wrote. We’ll deliver them tomorrow, and I hope Charles is able to come with me.

  I believe we’re nearly ready for Christmas. The only missing ingredient is my handsome Captain, but he will be home in a few hours, and then the celebration begins!

  Chapter Forty-One

  Due to problems on the line at Maidstone, it was midday before the Aubrey train arrived at Victoria Station. To make matters worse, the train’s engineer then received instructions to place all the cars and engine into one of the earl’s rail sheds for maintenance on the braking system. Frustrated by the delays, Charles left Baxter at Haimsbury House to deliver Christmas gifts, whilst he continued on to his uncle’s Westminster mansion, arriving at half past one. What he discovered there fueled an anger in Sinclair that nearly sent all their schedules into orbit, along with the young duke’s temper.