Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

“We are all products of destiny, Gertrude,” she had oft repeated. “Inherited patterns cannot be broken. The feeble beget feebleness, and drunks beget drunks. I expect you’ll die of alcohol poisoning or syphilis, just like your prostitute mother. So no need to aim high, my dear. You cannot rise above your inheritance. None of us can.”

  Landsdown had died of a mysterious fever in August of that year, miserable and in a riot of pain, screaming out for the God she had rejected.

  “You ok, Gert?” MacGowan asked. “You look a might peaky.”

  “Nah, I’m awright,” the younger girl insisted, though she felt no such assurance.

  “We’ll get a nice cuppa once we’re done wiv all this,” the Scottish maid told her. “An’ tonight, Mrs. Meyer says we all get a night off. Won’ tha’ be nice?”

  “Yeah, I reckon so,” Trumper replied. As she cleaned out the porcelain jar, she thought about the matron’s final hours. She’d died the very night Polly Nichols was murdered, on the thirty-first of August. A shudder ran through the girl’s thin frame, and she shut her eyes.

  A raspy voice whispered inside her head. “A prostitute’s all you’ll ever be. And you’ll die on your back. Just like your mother.”

  Chapter Two

  On the ground floor of Queen Anne House, standing within the Roman-tiled foyer like an unexpected storm, a woman in a slate grey overcoat and matching flowerpot hat was complaining to anyone who would listen that the train from Branham had been stopped by sheep on the tracks—twice. The woman was tall, slender, and accompanied by a small, rough-coated, brown and white dog; three steamer trunks; five hat boxes; and a smaller, dour-looking woman in a black wool coat, wearing an even more dour, unadorned hat of black straw. The dog ran in circles throughout the foyer, stopping only to sniff the butler’s shoes.

  “Really, Miles,” the tall woman continued as she removed her travelling gloves, “you must tell the earl that his special train should find its own tracks to London. It’s a miracle I’ve arrived at all, and my brother did not even bother to meet me! Sent his coach and driver instead with a note. A note! Supposedly, busy with one of those dreary government men on Downing Street. Oh, Paul, there you are!” she sang out, seeing Aubrey walking towards her. “My dear, you look completely worn down. And what is that upon your left arm? A sling? Whatever happened?”

  The earl started to reply, but the garrulous woman answered for him. “No, no, my dear, you needn’t elaborate. Save your strength. My brother told me all about that dreadful shooting attack last month in his letter, which explains why you look so pale. No exercise and lacking spinach in your diet, I should imagine. Well, we’ll soon fix that. I’ve brought all my health recipes, and I’ll give them to Beth’s cook—what is her name again?”

  “Hilda Smith,” the earl replied, giving the woman in the flowerpot hat a fond hug. “Welcome back to civilisation, Tory. Hello, Samson,” he said to the Parson Russell terrier. “I’ll see what the rail company will allow me to do about the tracks, Aunt, but it’s quite unlikely I can exert any control upon the sheep of Kent County.”

  “Perhaps not, but could you not lay your own tracks, my dear?” the venerable woman insisted. “What good is it being an insider at the War and Foreign Offices, if one cannot exert influence upon the infrastructure? So, where is Elizabeth? Don’t tell me she’s still sleeping. How that girl loves to sleep! Whilst living with me, she would read all night long and dream until noontime if no one kept her focused. I’ve arrived none too soon, it seems.”

  Paul suppressed the urge to laugh. “We have all suffered for lack of your administrative care, Aunt Victoria, and Elizabeth is not asleep. In fact, she’s just left to walk the south gardens, searching out a spot for photographs. I’m surprised you didn’t notice her as you came up the drive. I’d intended to accompany her, but I was delayed by the arrival of a telegram from one of those dreary government men you so dislike, and I’ve been composing a reply, you see.”

  “Telegrams before nine? And from civil servants? Why it’s simply not done in Paris,” the woman said, blowing her nose on a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “Oh, the dust in this city is deplorable! Paul, do you still have Salisbury’s ear? I do hope so. Tell him that France’s government is a shambles and requires England’s measured hand to straighten it all out. Too many cooks and far too many foreigners in the governmental kitchens, in my opinion, but then no one ever bothers to ask me.”

  The butler stood nearby, saying nothing, patiently awaiting orders. Having taken a breath at last, Victoria Stuart finally noticed him and introduced her companion. “Ah, Miles, do forgive my manners. Nice to see you again. This rather morose woman is my nurse, Josette Marchand,” she explained.

  “Your nurse?” Aubrey asked, concerned.

  “Not to worry, my dear,” Victoria assured him. “I’ve no need of one, but Dr. Calvet insisted that I bring her along, so I had to relent or else remain in Paris another week. Such a bore. Yes, Samson, you may go with Josette now,” she told the dog. “Miles, you’re looking fit, as always. Would you mind asking one of your young footmen to assist my nurse with our luggage?”

  The butler bowed. “We shall be pleased to do so, Lady Victoria. Welcome back to Queen Anne House.”

  Paul glanced at the dour-faced nurse. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Marchand,” he said politely, but the woman glared at him as if she spoke no English. “Ravi de vous rencontrer, Mademoiselle Marchand,” he tried again in French.

  “Il est Madame. I am widow,” she finished in heavily accented English.

  “Pardonne-moi, Madame Marchand,” he said politely.

  Victoria interrupted, somewhat annoyed. “She speaks English quite well, Paul. Don’t let her pretend,” she said, and then turned to the nurse. “And you may address my nephew as ‘my lord’, Josette. He is the Earl of Aubrey.”

  “Comme un comte? He seem young for such title,” the nurse complained as she picked up the dog. The animal barked furiously until Aubrey scratched him behind the ears.

  “Yes, an earl is similar to a French count,” Victoria explained, “and Paul has held the title for nearly three years, Josette, so don’t be rude. Apparently, Samson remembers you, Nephew. Take Samson upstairs now, Josette. Ask which room you’re to sleep in. I do hope you’ll be close by, for I may need you in the night, especially with all this dust! Already, I feel a migraine coming on.”

  The nurse walked to the staircase, trailing behind the two footmen, each one loaded down with heavy cases.

  Aubrey looked at his aunt with worry in his eyes. “Are you certain you’re up to planning a wedding, Tory? If not, then, I’m sure that...”

  “My dear, my health could not be better,” she interrupted, “but Calvet insists that a tiny trip last month requires constant monitoring.”

  “A trip? Tory, did you fall down the stairs?” he asked, deeply concerned. “Tory, if you’re unwell, then...”

  “Nonsense! I’m fit as that irascible fiddle everyone talks about, and it was a very short fall, my dear. Down three steps only, but it caused my ankle to twist strangely. It hardly bothers me at all now. Calvet merely looks for reasons to charge me more.”

  “That’s a great relief, but perhaps, Beth should put you on the ground floor as a precaution,” the earl suggested. “There’s a lovely apartment near the conservatory, with a smaller bedchamber nearby for your nurse.”

  “Nonsense, I prefer being on the first floor. The air is cleaner, and the view nicer. Besides, climbing helps with digestion. No more on that now. I brought Josette to keep Calvet off my back, you might say. Despite her saturnine exterior, she is somewhat amusing and serves as lady’s maid in a pinch. Besides, she’s struck up a friendship with Samson, which is remarkable as he seldom likes anyone. Now, where did you say Elizabeth is again?”

  “In the south gardens. It’s rained constantly since we arrived here on Sunday, and she wanted to enjoy the sunshine,” the
earl said, following his aunt along the wide foyer towards the twin staircases. “Mr. Blackwood is taking photographs of her later this morning in preparation for the wedding.”

  “Ah, yes, so my brother mentioned. This wedding will require all our energies, so I hope Blackwood doesn’t plan to monopolise Elizabeth all day.” Victoria Stuart tossed the overcoat to a young footman and made for the staircase on the left. “As for me, sun or no, I’ve seen all of London I wish to this morning. Still, with only twelve days until the wedding, we mustn’t squander the entire day, so Elizabeth will have to leave off touring her own gardens, as we’ll need to spend the afternoon shopping. Such an ordeal! Of course, had Calvet released me to travel sooner, I’d have been at Branham on the twenty-fourth to meet you, but—well, what’s done is done. Which apartment am I in, Miles? I do hope it’s not that drafty one in the north wing. Paul, are you staying here or at Aubrey House?”

  The earl laughed, kissing his aunt’s cheek as he accompanied her up the staircase. “I have truly missed your considerable charms, Victoria Regina. To answer your question, I’m staying here until after the wedding. I’m not sure where Beth has put you, but I know she’d be happy to move you as required. It’s a very large house, plus there’s Charles’s home as well, should we run out of space.”

  “Oh yes, Haimsbury House is quite modern as I remember, and it’s only a short walk across Beth’s park. We’ll see where I end up,” she said. Miles cleared his throat to refocus Lady Victoria’s attention, and she turned, her dark eyes round. “Yes? Oh, Miles. So sorry. I’d rather forgotten you were there. It’s all this dust, I’m sure.”

  The butler suppressed a smile, for he’d come to know Victoria Stuart quite well in his twenty years of service at Queen Anne House. “My lady, I believe you are in the second master, in the southwest corner. It is spacious and quite comfortable, as I’m sure you are aware. Will that serve?”

  “Is it the one with green wallpaper in the parlour? We’ve done away with that in Paris, you know. Some chemical in the dye was making everyone ill. Dreadful business.”

  Miles replied calmly. “It is the yellow and blue apartment, my lady. The green apartment is to the northeast and was refinished in the autumn of ’86. The old papers were removed, and the walls replastered and painted. The duchess chose the decor herself—with the aid of Mr. Kepelheim.”

  “Did she? Well, Elizabeth has exquisite taste, and no one knows fabrics better than Martin. I remember that yellow room. Quite nice. I say, Paul, where is this new nephew I’ve heard so much about? Is he really our Charles?”

  “He is, Tory. There is no doubt of it, and when you see him, you’ll agree,” he continued as they climbed the gently curving staircase. “Kepelheim uncovered a wealth of proofs, and the Queen and the House of Lords have already accepted his right to inheritance and granted Charles all lands and titles. Be kind to him, Aunt, he’s still finding his feet as a peer. It cannot be easy, you know. He’s spent the past twenty-six years living a different life entirely.”

  Despite the references to a ‘tiny trip’ in Paris, the remarkably agile spinster had scrambled quickly up the staircase, winding upwards to the central landing and thence up the short, second flight towards the west wing. The doors to both the master apartment’s anteroom and the suite’s private parlour stood ajar, revealing a partially dressed man who sat on an embroidered divan, stretching as if he’d just awoken. Miles and the nurse paid the man no heed, continuing past the master and down the corridor towards the guest suite, however Victoria’s peripheral vision caught sight of the stranger, and she burst into the parlour without warning.

  “Just who are you?” Stuart bellowed. “This is my niece’s apartment, young man! If you’re a servant, then your impudence will certainly cost you your position, and if a guest, then your behaviour towards your hostess is appalling!”

  At the sound of his aunt’s thunderous entrance, Charles Robert Arthur Sinclair III nearly tumbled off the narrow sofa and onto the carpeted floorboards, but he caught himself with one arm just in time.

  “I? Well, uh...” he stammered. “I mean...uh. That is. Hello.”

  Hearing the ruckus, Aubrey had rushed after his aunt and now stood beside her, his restraining arm upon hers. “Tory, sheath your sword,” he cautioned. “This is your long-lost nephew, Charles Sinclair. Beth’s fiancé.”

  “Oh,” she said, warily. “I see. I’d assumed you would be living at your own home, Charles, but even so, this is still Beth’s apartment, is it not? Is it customary for betrothed couples to share such close company these days? I mean, I’m all for modernity, but this sort of behaviour is more than even I can tolerate! Is my brother aware of this peculiar arrangement?”

  Sinclair had been sleeping in his trousers and a silk shirt, and he stood, hastily gathering up his watch, collar, and waistcoat, knocking over an empty water glass in the process.

  “I’d never dream of compromising Elizabeth in any way, I assure you!” he insisted. “Paul and I have been taking turns keeping watch on Beth’s welfare from in here. That is all. Last night was my shift—and yes, Uncle James knows all about it.”

  “I see,” she said. Noticing his shoulder holster, Stuart added, “You keep watch whilst armed, apparently. How very like your cousin.”

  “Paul may have told you that I am a police detective, Aunt...”

  “Victoria,” she finished for him. “Victoria Stuart. Your Uncle James is my brother, though I’m angry with him today, so that might change. A detective, you say? Well, he didn’t mention that, although I knew it. I shan’t explain how I knew it, for now,” she added mysteriously, “but I did.”

  The dog ran into the room suddenly, barking furiously at Sinclair. Reaching down, Charles let the terrier sniff the back of his hand. “Hello, there. You’ll tell my aunt that I’m not dangerous, won’t you?” he whispered to the animal. “Not usually, that is,” he added, glancing up at his aunt, his left brow arched in soft accusation.

  “You’re most definitely a Stuart,” she remarked. “You have your uncle’s odd sense of humour.” Victoria sniffed and then sneezed. “Oh, I detest this city’s dust!” she exclaimed, wiping her nose with the handkerchief.

  The animal’s tail began to wag happily as Charles scratched behind his ears. “Now that is a pleasant surprise,” his aunt noted. “Samson never likes strangers, but he’s clearly taken to you, Charles. He must recognise you as Paul’s cousin. Animals know these things. It’s all very scientific, and I’m sure the House of Lords would have been completely satisfied with a dog’s opinion regarding your inheritance—if one believes the accounts of parliamentary debate, that is. Get dressed and join us downstairs, Nephew. Don’t dawdle. We’ve much to discuss, and the day is wasting away.”

  Charles had finished securing the leather shoulder holster around his broad chest, and was now alternately buttoning his waistcoat and scratching the dog. “I look forward to it, Aunt Victoria. I’ll be down in a moment.” She stared at him, refusing to take the hint. “If I may finish dressing, that is,” he added.

  Stuart’s stern expression reminded the detective of his Uncle James so much that he nearly burst out laughing, but her stony glare kept him silent.

  “It is a strange request, given that you’ve slept so near to your fiancée,” she said at last. “Very well. I shall wait for you in the morning room downstairs, Charles. Samson, come along!”

  The dog rushed after his mistress, and Sinclair sighed as he shut the parlour door. Left alone at last, he took his socks and boots and crossed through Beth’s chamber towards the adjoining bath, disappointed to find she’d already gone. The detective paused for a moment inside the beautiful bedchamber, and his sea-blue eyes grew misty as he pictured his beloved duchess.

  In just twelve days, she’ll become my wife, he thought, smiling.

  The entire room smelled of roses and jasmine from a blue and white Majolica vase filled with
cuttings, that Beth had gathered the previous morning during a brief lull in the nearly constant rain. A wide bed sat betwixt four enormous, arched windows, and all now stood open to allow the cool November air to freshen the room. The coffered ceiling soared thirty feet overhead, and six rows of crystal prisms, arranged like bright icicles on a five-foot wide chandelier, glittered in the morning light. Above the four-poster bed, a damask silk canopy sheltered the sleeper at night. On either side of the bed, stood a pair of mahogany drum tables. Atop each of these, sat an electric lamp with handpainted, stained glass shades, and on the easternmost table stood a photograph of Connor Stuart, Elizabeth’s late father, in an oval, chased silver frame. Next to the picture, Charles noticed three books: a well-read Bible, Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, and Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea in French.

  He smiled as he picked up this last volume and thumbed through the dog-eared pages, noticing how Beth had written comments in some of the margins, many in French. On several of the pages, she’d added ‘Je t’aime, mon Capitaine’ followed by a delicately drawn heart.

  “I love you, too, little one,” he whispered, seeing the romantic notations.

  A hand-coloured postcard had been used to mark a passage towards the back. Making certain not to lose her place, he removed the four-inch card. On one side, was a hand-coloured photograph of an enormous, metalwork building, known to Charles from recent press reports. It appeared to be only partially finished, though its peculiar framework was so unusual that it was difficult to tell. Beneath the image, a printed legend read, La Tour Eiffel, September, 1888. The reverse side contained a strange message written to Elizabeth, dated the ninth of October and forwarded from London to Scotland on the eleventh.

  The text was short and written in a strong, male hand in English:

  My Beautiful Beth,

  Tragedy! I have arrived to find you gone! Victoria will not say where you are, but I shall find you. I send this to London, hoping you see it. Forgive me, my darling. Forgive my foolishness.