“It sounds like Prince Anatole,” said Elbert Stanley. “Once again, he provided rescue to one of God’s creatures!”
Charles stared at his friend. “Do you really think Roeper would have sold you, Joseph? Was he sympathetic to this dark group’s agenda?”
“Yes, most likely, he would have sold me. But I think money drove his decisions, not any alliances. Roeper did sell the poor lad to them, and I cannot say what might have happened to him. Since then, I’ve learnt there are men who buy and then kill curiosities such as myself, using our bones in their secret rituals. I fear, my Wolf Boy friend might have served in so shocking a manner. To avoid aiding such dark mens’ causes, I’ve asked that my skeleton be donated to Mr. Treves when I die.”
Sinclair’s voice choked with emotion as he said, “May that day be many years hence, my friend.”
“It is in God’s hands,” replied Merrick.
Kepelheim was also scribbling coded notes, passing them to the earl, and he glanced up. “Mr. Merrick, did you ever hear the name of this Blackstone fellow? Were you ever introduced?”
“I was,” Joseph answered. “And I shall never forget him! He is a decidedly memorable person. Pale to the point of seeming dead, ghastly black eyes that have a cold effect, and he always dressed in black. Head to toe. The man’s name escapes me, but I believe it sounded stony. Not stone, of course, but a word relative to one.”
“Might it be Flint?” asked Charles, growing evermore concerned about Blackstone’s mysterious project.
“Yes! Albus Flint! How could I have forgotten so curious a name? A very sallow fellow, I must say. I remember telling Mr. Roeper that Flint might also be exhibited as one of his acts. The Animated Corpse, or some such nonsense. Even his hands felt cold, as though he lacked blood.”
“And this same man visited Beth several times in France this summer,” Charles noted, anger colouring his voice. “Why did no one attend these meetings with her? We of the circle are meant to protect the duchess, and yet she was left on her own for years!”
“Never alone, Charles,” the earl countered. “Not ever. Galton, Risling, Sir Percy, and André Deniau stood by at Tory’s to watch. We knew of her meetings with Flint, and Victoria attended two of them. If you must know, our concern at that time, was Rasha Grigor. James and I felt his influence more of a threat than any archaeological request.”
“It’s true, son,” Drummond told his nephew.
“I’m sure the team did its best, but am I to understand that Beth’s callers required no formal screening? Rasha, Flint; who else had access to her?”
Paul shut his book and set down the pencil. “We cannot isolate her, Charles. We observed due diligence at all times, but even our best plans sometimes failed. You’ve seen that these past few months. The enemy is clever and insinuates himself via seductive means. I understand your concern, but we love her, too, Charles. Have you forgotten that?”
Sinclair lowered his head in shame. “Forgive me. Here of all places, I should remember your love for her, Paul.”
Baxter stood, clearing his throat. “If I may speak, my lords, there have always been moments when the enemy steals into our little duchess’s life, but my lady lives and breathes and laughs. My observations pale to your own, of course, but it seems to me the circle’s methods are primarily reactionary. Now, I do not suggest anyone here has the ability to foretell the future, but trends exist. And these trends show possible future paths, do they not? If we had supernatural abilities and could observe the duchess’s life, her encounters, conversations, and decisions; then might not our plans improve? I suggest then, that we produce a history of my lady’s life—and then compare it to histories of both Lord Aubrey and Duke Charles. Augmenting any written accounts with photographs, for I can tell you of multiple photographic images that reveal far more than human sight perceived at the time, rather like silver nitrate ghosts. And there are paintings in the upper gallery that seem to hint at unperceived companions. Spectres from the family’s past, if you will.”
Charles smiled. “Baxter, your constant wisdom outshines us all. It’s an excellent idea. It’s the sort of thing a good inspector would suggest to his commissioner! Well done, Inspector Baxter! Consider this your first assignment, then: to compile a history of our three lines up to the present time. Paul’s, Beth’s, and mine. But we should also include Henry MacAlpin. Prince Anatole insists he’s important to Beth.”
Paul left his chair to congratulate the former butler with a massive embrace. “Baxter, you’re a gem! I can give you access to all the archives at Aubrey House, if you like. Lord Salperton probably has family histories to share as well. Somewhere within those tales, diaries, photographs, and letters lies a hidden thread that connects us all. We’ve been distracted by the affairs of the day, I fear. Reactionary by nature and myopic by sight, which means we fail to see the woodland because of all the trees in our way. From now on, Charles and I will concentrate on felling the trees, whilst you map out the woods, Inspector Baxter.”
Cornelius beamed with pride. “It is an honourable task, my lords. If I might ask one favour?”
“Anything,” both cousins answered in unison.
“I should be pleased if Mr. Kepelheim could join me in this endeavour. As he is the circle historian.”
“I’d hoped you would ask me, Mr. Baxter!” declared the tailor. “We shall begin tonight, right after we enjoy the music. Now, my friends, perhaps we should return to the ladies. I promised to accompany our duchess in several songs.”
All rose, but Charles placed a hand on Baxter’s arm. “Stay a little, Cornelius. And Paul, if you’d remain as well?”
The earl waited until the others had left, and then shut the door. Taking his former chair, he looked to the circle leader. “I think I can guess why you wanted this private talk, Charles.”
“Are you still reading my mind, Cousin?”
“Always,” laughed Aubrey. “It’s likely the same reason I’d planned to speak with Baxter later. These photographs and paintings. The ones that reveal more than human eyes perceive. I wonder which you mean?”
The former butler poured himself half a glass of Bordeaux as though preparing for a speech. “I’ve told His Grace about the appearance of Duke Henry’s ghost in the east wing, sir,” he said to Aubrey. “Perhaps, it’s time I tell a very strange story of that doll now sitting with the other Blackstone murder evidence.”
“The doll?” asked Sinclair, sitting next to Baxter. “The one that looks like Beth?”
“The very same, sir. Tis an odd story, and I have yet to understand it. The doll is one reason why I am convinced that our male myopia is rather profound regarding our little duchess’s life. Most especially since my lady often forgets troubling experiences. The duchess possesses a remarkable memory otherwise; yet, she often loses track of certain disagreeable passages in her life. This is one of them, I believe, for when I mentioned the doll’s recovery to her yesterday, she denied possessing such a toy; yet, surely, you recall it Lord Aubrey?”
“Of course, I do. We called it the impossible doll.”
“Why’s that?” asked Sinclair.
“Because she received it as a christening gift at the age of one month old—yet, it is the very image of her as a girl.”
Baxter sipped the wine thoughtfully. “Yet, there is more that’s strange about it sir. The story begins with your departure, Lord Aubrey. May of ’75. Just after Lord Kesson’s birthday celebration.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Baxter continued. “As a child, our little duchess, was often accused of having a vivid imagination. My lady’s late mother refused to credit stories of spidery monsters and whispering voices, but it is my belief that the Duchess Elizabeth told only the truth. Now, this happened in May of ’75. The year of the Egyptian Fête. Everyone in the family attended. Even your aunt, Lady Victoria, came from France. You will soon discover, Your G
race, that the fête is the singular event of the year to our village. It is the one time when the citizens may trod upon the Branham grounds as though each flower, bench, and stone belongs to them. For a week, no one is denied entrance, so long as they mean us no harm. That spring, however, our men missed an intruder. Though, how could we know?”
Charles had been listening attentively, the half-filled brandy snifter in his right hand. “It’s hard to imagine the Branham men missing anything. Who was it?”
“That remains a mystery, my lord, but as I’ve pondered the puzzle these many years, it seems to me that the doll is involved.”
“The doll?” asked the earl. “Beth’s doll?”
“The same, sir. You’d only just left for Brussels. Twas due to an urgent telegram from Lord Derby, as I recall.”
“Yes, the foreign secretary had a sticky problem in Antwerp that required an immediate remedy,” the earl noted obliquely. “What happened in my absence?”
Baxter poured himself another half glass of the wine. “Perhaps, your absence was required, sir. If I may suggest it, my lords, these Redwing devils took advantage of your departure to reach our little duchess. Perhaps, they wanted you gone, sir.”
“Whatever happened, Baxter?” asked the earl. “Beth’s said nothing about that spring. Connor was home, and he mentioned nothing.” Aubrey paused, his eyes searching about the room as though recovering a long-filed memory from his mind. “The faery copse. That’s when Beth disappeared, and she was found in the woods! But, wait, someone else was here. Not only family but also neighbours. The Salters were staying at Branham, were they not?”
“Indeed, they were, my lord. Our delightful Lady Alexandrina Stuart was also here.”
“The queen came then as well?” asked Charles.
“Her Majesty finds Branham a pleasant escape from the constant duties of the palace,” answered the new inspector. “And she enjoys spending time with Duke James, of course.”
“And Seth was here,” Aubrey added. “I wonder if he was involved in the search that day?”
“The search for Beth, you mean?” asked Sinclair. “I’ve heard only vague references to this, Baxter. You told me some of the tale last month, but I’d no idea it happened during the fête. You say a stranger entered the grounds?”
“In a way, sir. Let me now tell the story in full. It began on a warm spring day, the fifteenth of May. In residence at the hall were Duke James, the late Lord Aubrey and his wife—your good parents, my lord,” he said to Paul. “How I miss the late earl.”
“As do we all, old friend,” whispered Stuart. “My mother wasn’t feeling well that spring, but she did come down. She remained indoors during most of it. I think Victoria kept her company. When did the Salters arrive?”
“The day you left, sir. The fourteenth,” the great bear of a man continued, gazing at the empty wine glass. “Now, as I was saying, twas the fourth day of the fête. You’ll experience it for yourself come May, Your Grace, but for an entire week, the lawns and gardens bustle with visitors. Tents and pavilions litter the grounds, each filled with all manner of attractions and games. There’s a steam-driven carousel with painted horses and a calliope. Stilt-walkers, clowns, jugglers, and Punch and Judy shows.”
“All those strangers?” asked Sinclair. “I’m not sure I like that.”
“The circle have always been careful to conduct a thorough background investigation of all the merchants and other entertainers who’re hired,” Baxter explained. “Usually, all goes perfectly well, but that year one person was missed. A woman. She called herself Madam Corbeau. A gypsy sort, who claimed to foretell the future.”
“How was this woman missed? And why would the family allow a fortune teller to erect a tent?” observed Sinclair.
“We did not, sir. The list of tents had no such person, nor had the tent even existed until that afternoon. It seemed to appear all on its own—as if it jumped up out of the grass!”
Charles felt that same electric charge that so often occurred when something important was about to happen.
“Her name again?”
“Madam Corbeau, my lord. Is that important?”
Paul groaned. “The name’s another of these annoying riddles! Corbeau’s French for raven, Charles.”
“Yes, I’d deduced as much. Go on, Baxter.”
A knock sounded, disturbing the hushed tale. “Am I too late?” asked a friendly voice as Kepelheim’s silver head appeared in the doorway. The tailor entered quietly and took a seat opposite the duke. “Mr. Blinkmire is telling the story of the castle fire to everyone. Her Majesty’s quite taken with Blinkmire and the others. Riga’s promised to play a duet with Mr. Stanley as soon as the storytelling ends. I suspected our good Mr. Baxter might be offering a tale of his own and rushed back as soon as it seemed appropriate. Which story is it?”
“The fortune teller and the faery copse,” Baxter told his friend. “As you were there as well, Mr. Kepelheim, perhaps, you can chime in as needed.”
The cherubic tailor poured brandy for all, but Sinclair declined. “I have plans with my wife later, Martin. A clear head is required. Go on, Cornelius.”
“Ah, yes. Well, as I said, the woman and her yellow tent seemed to rise up from out of the aether, and I noticed the little marchioness—as our lovely duchess was then called, of course—enter. I know she did so, for I remarked on it to Mrs. Alcorn. You may confirm that with Esther at a later time, should you wish. She and I had been conversing near the statuary park.”
“Did the tent appear close to the maze?” asked Charles.
“At the very entrance to it, sir, which is another reason I took note. The layout of tents during the fête is according to a very strict plan, and nothing is to obstruct the entrance to the maze; yet here it was! A peaked tent of mustard yellow with red tassels hanging from each corner. Madam Corbeau’s name was written in green lettering above the entrance and beneath were the words ‘Your Future Awaits’. Now, when I saw the little marchioness enter, I immediately set aside the basket of toy prizes in my hand and made for the tent.”
Kepelheim laughed. “You always did win at the games, Mr. Baxter!”
“I’d had a rather good day, Mr. Kepelheim. Clean sweeps of many of the booths. As I said, I gave the basket to Esther and signalled to Clark as I walked towards this mongrel tent. Edwin had been keeping watch on the area as part of Lord Kesson’s regular guard, you see. All staff are given three days off during the fête, but a rota assures each position is filled at all times. It was Clark’s turn at day watch. You might speak with him as well, Your Grace, for our later conversations indicated he’d seen no tent until I motioned to him. Clark has very sharp eyes, and if a tent had stood there earlier, then he’d have seen it.”
“Was this a ghost tent?” asked Aubrey.
“So it would seem, but the little marchioness—duchess now, of course—she saw it plainly and entered.” Baxter gulped two swallows and set down the glass. “Thirsty work, these tales. Now, sirs, we arrive at the greatest aspect to the mystery. When I entered the tent, the little marchioness was nowhere to be found. Neither was any woman. The tent was empty as air.”
“You found nothing at all?” asked Aubrey.
“A table and some playing cards.”
Another surge of electricity ran along Sinclair’s hands. “Describe these cards.”
“The usual fortune teller’s cards, sir. I gave them to Lord Kesson. Did you see them Mr. Kepelheim?”
“Briefly,” admitted the tailor. “Tarot cards of a sort, but not the Marseilles cards.”
“Which Tarot cards? All or just certain ones?” asked Charles.
“There were only three as I remember,” Baxter told them. “One had a picture of a knight, another of a king, the third of a woman holding two children. The illustrations were quite detailed and appeared old, the cards being handmade.”
&
nbsp; “Yes, they were ragged and creased, as though carried in a pocket for years,” said the tailor. “Connor kept them, I believe. Usually, items like that are stored in the circle archive, but if so, then I’ve failed to catalog them.”
“Is this when the search for Beth began?” asked Charles, suddenly worrying about his wife in the present day.
“It was, my lord,” replied Baxter. “Lord Kesson formed up a search party, and everyone helped, even the women. Hours passed, but as the sun began to set along the trees, we saw her at last! I tell you, everyone had looked in those woods, yet here she was, running towards us as quickly as her small feet could carry her. And when my lady reached her father’s arms, she had a very strange story to tell. Her limbs were like ice, and her cheeks cold as though she’d walked through drifts of snow. And she carried that doll, which surprised us all. Our dear one never liked the toy, you see. She complained of hearing it speak to her at night, and that it moved of its own accord. Lord Kesson had it removed to the attics several times, but it always reappeared. That evil doll gives me chills, sirs. It is an accursed thing, and when Lord Kesson saw it that day, he looked as though he might faint!”
“Why?” asked the earl.
“Because he’d taken it to India and thrown it into the sea!”
Everyone stared at the former butler. “Are you certain it was the same doll?” asked Haimsbury.
“Quite certain. The shoes are engraved E. Anjou. This doll had the same engraving.”
“When did the earl dispose of it?” asked the tailor.
“During his most recent posting. Early ’74. He told only me about the plans, and I informed the little marchioness that her dolly had gone missing. She appeared quite relieved, actually. When she returned with it that day, both his lordship and I were aghast.”
“How did Beth explain it?” asked Stuart.
“We dared not ask, sir. As I said, she appeared to be suffering from exposure to intense cold. She did say that a nice man named Hal had helped her find the way home. He’d taught her to recite a psalm for comfort.”
Realms of Fire Page 44
