Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Charles had dealt with Steed many times since being made CID superintendent for the east, and he’d learnt to ignore Steed’s intentional slights. “Good to see you again, George,” he replied, intentionally using Steed’s Christian name in front of his junior officers, rather than respectfully calling him by rank. “We’ll have a look at those two women you’re housing in your dead room.”

  Steed started to object, but Charles pushed past the obstinate policeman and forged ahead towards the lower level morgue. “It’s this way, Lord Aubrey,” he told his cousin. “We’ll see if Sunders is still here.”

  Steed signaled for two of his most trusted inspectors to accompany the intruders, and then quickly caught up to his superior officer. “Sunders has already left,” he lied once more as they all descended the ironwork staircase into the lower level. “I’m happy to send all the results to you as soon as the autopsies are complete.”

  Charles had already reached the morgue, and he turned to stare at the shorter man. “George, I appreciate your cooperation. As always, it is comparable to none. Or as good as none, anyway. However, I’ve brought an expert in forensics with me, so we’ll just take a look on our own. No need to worry. We’ll show ourselves out when we’ve finished.”

  Steed blocked the door, not willing to budge an inch. “Charles, you’re always welcome here, of course...” he began, but Sinclair interrupted.

  “I’m glad to hear it, George, as your annual pay review is coming up. It’s one of those tiresome jobs I have to complete each December as your boss,” he said, his left brow arched high. “Need I remind you of anything else?”

  Steed stepped backwards. “No, sir. You do not, but my own surgeon hasn’t completed his own examination yet, and I’m sure he’d appreciate being allowed to finish without interruption.”

  “I have no intention of interrupting, Superintendent Steed, but of aiding him in his research. Now, if there is nothing else, I am pressed for time.”

  Charles entered the morgue with the earl and shut the door, leaving Steed seething in the hallway.

  Dr. Thomas Sunders, H-Division’s surgeon glanced up from the table, his grey eyes twinkling. “You’ll not make friends like that, Superintendent Sinclair,” he said with a grin. “Do you know my colleague, Dr. Compton, sir?”

  “Yes. Richard and I’ve met many times. So, gentlemen, what do we know about the murders of these two women?”

  The white, enameled examination table held the nude body of a young woman, her chest and abdomen opened for autopsy. The internal organs had been removed and lay upon a second table in orderly fashion. She looked no older than eighteen, her face greyish white, head shaved, the emaciated form a pitiful picture of humiliated anonymity. Sunders pointed to deep longitudinal tracks that ran along the inside of her left arm.

  “There are numerous types of injury. These are linear knife marks, Superintendent,” he told Sinclair. “Lord Aubrey, it’s good to see you as always. I take it you’re here in an official capacity of some sort?”

  The earl seemed unaffected by the gruesome scene. “Some sort, yes. Apparently, I’m an expert in forensics. These don’t look like knife marks, though, Sunders. More like gashes from something less precise,” he said, indicating a series of puncture wounds near the jawline. “They look almost like injuries I’ve seen on victims of wolf attacks in the American west. Did he bite her?”

  “Many times, sir. If you know your anatomy, then you might notice the collection on that table is incomplete. The woman’s heart and liver are missing. Presumably removed by the killer...or perhaps consumed.”

  Sinclair felt sick, wishing the woman’s indignities might end but also knowing her final message to the world could help them find her killer and perhaps even save lives. “So, this man has a sexual fetish? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Far more than a fetish,” Compton said as he turned from a microscope. “I’d say a compulsion. We’ve seen sex crimes that include cannibalistic signatures before. It is rare, but not without precedent in this quarter. This man, however, is different. I think him a manic of some kind, unable to control his urges. Oh, and you’ll notice pockmarking on her thighs. From needling, no doubt.”

  “Morphine?” Aubrey asked.

  “Possibly. I’ve recently read about ways to examine the liver to reveal a history with such substances, but as we have no liver, I’m unable to pursue that. She’s been nearly drained of blood, but I might be able to extract enough for chemical tests.”

  “Morphine addiction is hardly uncommon, Doctor,” Sinclair said, “particularly in this quarter.”

  “True,” Sunders agreed. “How thorough do you want us to be, sir? Shall I examine the brain tissue as well?”

  Aubrey interrupted. “What might the brain tell you, Sunders? We know the woman died of her injuries.”

  The Scottish surgeon shrugged. “I wish only to be thorough, sir.”

  “Very well, but conduct the tests at Leman Street,” Sinclair decided. “Can you remove some of the tissue and transport it?”

  “I can remove the entire brain, if need be. Dr. Compton, will such prevent you from finishing?” he asked Steed’s man.

  Richard Compton had never liked working for George Steed, but he hated being disloyal. “What I do not see, remains that, sir. Unseen. I believe I shall busy myself elsewhere for a time. Call me, should you have need.”

  The skillful surgeon turned his back and began to wash his hands in a nearby sink.

  Sunders laughed and led the cousins to a laboratory bench, where a series of test tubes, a Bunsen burner, two filled Erlenmeyer flasks, and numerous pipettes stood waiting. He pointed to the stage of a monocular microscope. “Superintendent, if you’ll take a look, I think you’ll find something quite unusual.”

  Charles crossed to the laboratory bench and gazed down the barrel. “What am I looking at, Sunders? Hairs? How is that out of the ordinary? Most crime scenes have hair.”

  “True, but this is animal hair, sir. I’m not sure of the precise species, but it is akin to canine. These hairs cover each woman.”

  “They may have encountered or even owned a dog,” Sinclair suggested.

  “True, but some of the hairs were deep within the wounds. And some... Well, sir, some appear to be rooted.”

  “Rooted?” the marquess echoed. “Do you mean they grew out of the woman’s skin?”

  “I cannot say for certain, but it is one possibility. Canine hair should not grow from a human arm.”

  “No, but lupine might. A wolf hair,” Aubrey suggested. “Dr. Sunders, could you place some of those hairs into a container for me? And if any have with skin or the root attached, that would be even better. I’d like to have a friend examine them.”

  “Superintendent? Is it all right with you, sir?”

  “Yes. Give him whatever he wants. Have you finished with the other victim?” Charles asked.

  “We have, sir, and her findings and appearance are much the same. Both women were attacked by someone whose compulsions drive him to bite and tear. I believe this man accompanied by a large dog or perhaps even a trained wolf of some type—although that does not satisfy the rooted hairs, which remain a mystery. I’ll send my report to you at the Yard as soon as I’ve completed work on this lady, and I shall endeavour to remove, shall we call them ‘samples’, from both women.”

  “Excellent,” the superintendent said, glancing at Compton, whose back remained turned. “Sunders, your advance report to Inspector Reid mentioned finger marks upon the thighs. Have you found further evidence of an intent to rape?”

  Compton turned ‘round, and the two surgeons exchanged glances. Thomas Sunders cleared his throat. “Well, sir, there is clear evidence of an attempt to do so—penetrating bruises and tears to the mucosa, but there is no sign of semen in either case.”

  “I see,” he said, then a thought occurred to Char
les. “Was the hymen broken?”

  Again, both doctors appeared restrained, if not puzzled in their expressions. “No,” Compton answered. “The first woman’s hymenal tissue remained intact, the second’s nearly so, but both have been punctured.”

  “Punctured? What on earth do you mean by that? Are they maidens or not?” Charles asked, not bothering to hide his irritation. “How can maidens be prostitutes?”

  “I cannot say,” Compton replied, turning back towards the sink.

  Sinclair considered the strange findings for a moment. “What are you gentlemen not saying?” he insisted.

  Thomas Sunders sighed, leaning against the examination table, whispering. “We have said nothing of this to Superintendent Steed, sir. The uterus of both our victims was removed by the killer, but there is scarring upon the abdomens that may indicate a procedure that, frankly, rather muddles this tale.”

  “Go on,” Sinclair whispered, his eyes narrow.

  Gulping, Sunders added. “The location and patterning of the scars is identical to what one might expect to find in a woman who’d undergone Caesarian removal of a child.”

  Both cousins stared, and Aubrey leaned over the naked woman’s body, peering into the abdominal cavity. “Thomas, recover any tissue from the women that might be connected to the reproductive system and bring it with you to Leman Street.” Aubrey then left the table and walked to the door. “We’re done here, Charles,” he said simply.

  “Very well. Sunders, I’ll see you at Leman Street, I imagine. Thank you, Compton. Send your report to me, no matter what Superintendent Steed may order. Is that clear? Paul, let’s stop by my old house and collect Mary and then go home. I want to look in on Beth and then sleep a few hours before tonight’s theatre outing.”

  Outside, as the two cousins settled into their coach, the earl explained. “Sorry to pull rank, so to speak, but I’d prefer Steed not know our suspicions, Charles. I’ve seen this pattern before. In Milan and also in St. Petersburg. Women who appear to be maidens, but who’ve conceived and even given birth.”

  Charles gaped at the man. “What?” he asked, exasperated. “Virgin birth happened once only, Paul. Outside of our Saviour’s conception, it is a medical impossibility.”

  “I do not say they were spiritually overshadowed, Charles, only that they did not conceive naturally.”

  “You’re spouting nonsense!”

  “No, I’m merely speaking of scientific advance. Nothing most surgeons would know, but it is possible. Of course, only one truly, miraculous birth has ever occurred, that of our Lord’s incarnation. I do not contend against that. But there is another type of manmade miracle that arises from Redwing’s plot to rearrange mankind’s current, physical state.”

  Sinclair stared, completely flummoxed. “Am I to understand this? What on earth do you mean, Paul?”

  “I’m not precisely sure, but I know of three different locations where experimentation has been uncovered by circle agents that indicates such a plot. Women whose hymen showed no natural rupture, but did reveal puncture marks.”

  “Like those Sunders mentioned,” the marquess added, the uncomfortable reality slowly making sense.

  “Yes. The duke’s scientists think a long needle is used to artificially inseminate the woman. Whether this is done willingly or the woman is coerced, even forced, we cannot say, but we’ve found corpses of victims in these locations over the past ten years. I believe these Victoria Park victims join that tally.”

  The marquess sighed, shutting his eyes. “Redwing wants to breed something new through artificial means. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “It is exactly what I’m saying, and if the uterus was removed, then it was to obscure their efforts. And it begs a further question. Is this why the internal viscera of the Ripper victims have been removed, even stolen? Is that murderer trying to obscure some dark truth that connects the women to Redwing? It is imperative that we learn how all this connects to both Ripper and Redwing—and how those two then conjoin.”

  “And we must learn how it all connects to Beth,” Sinclair said, darkly. “I’ve a very bad feeling that our duchess is at the heart of all of this darkness. You and James taught me that it is the blood of King Henry’s twin sons that matters most, but I begin to think it goes well beyond that.”

  “I fear that you’re right, Charles. Redwing’s spiritual advisers have scientific knowledge and capabilities far beyond our own, which makes it imperative that we discover their true aim. James believes we know only part of their endgame.”

  “Endgame? Then, let us pray their plot does not include sacrificing our queen.”

  Mary Wilsham waited at the door to 12 Columbia Road, and beside her stood two large canvas bags filled with clothing and quilts, four photograph albums, a sewing box with an embroidery kit and three hoops, a leather medical bag, and a carved mahogany tea chest. “I’d sure ‘ate fer one o’ them housebreakers ta get hold o’ your favourite blends, sir,” she said, pointing to the chest. “Good tea’s like money, ya know. Oh, I should fetch yer Aunt Edna’s old china teapot, the one with the little violets painted on. And them cups, too, I reckon,” she babbled as Haimish Granger began carrying the bags to the coach.

  “They’ll keep for another day, Mary. We’ve plenty of teapots in Westminster,” Sinclair assured her. “I’ll send someone to pack up the rest of the house and move it all to my home first thing tomorrow. Never fear! We won’t allow the housebreakers to win, now will we?”

  “No, sir, but maybe I oughta check one more time upstairs.”

  “Really, Mary, if you have enough items for yourself to get through a few days, then that will suffice.”

  Wilsham walked out to the elegant brougham, her eyes clouding over with unwept tears. “I spent more n’ ten years in this ‘ere ‘ouse, sir. It don’ feel right ta leave it all empty.”

  “I’m sure someone else will be happy to lease it,” the detective said. “Paul, do you mind helping Mary into the coach whilst I have a look ‘round back with Granger?”

  “Come along, Aunt Mary,” the earl said sweetly. “Slight step up.”

  The large carriage bounced on its springs as the former housekeeper settled into one of two leather seats. “I don’t reckon I ever been in a fancy coach, sir. Oh, the books! I gotta get Mr. Sinclair’s old school books!”

  Paul touched her arm. “I’m sure Charles will see to those, too, Aunt Mary. Now, whilst we wait for my cousin, tell me all about your sons.”

  Wilsham brightened and began regaling the earl with tales of her two sons’ childhood adventures and their current occupations and living arrangements: one married with two children in Yorkshire, the other unmarried but hopeful in Manchester.

  Meanwhile, at the rear of the house, Haimish Granger knelt beside the repaired back door. “No doubt about it, sir. This was broken to make it look like it was forced. You can see the wood’s splinter pattern is directed towards the back garden not the inside. Someone must’ve had a key, or else picked the lock.”

  “My thoughts as well, Mr. Granger. The earl tells me that you once served the duke as an investigator for the circle. I hope to use you in that capacity again, if you’re interested.”

  Granger stood an inch taller than the marquess with an additional thirty pounds of muscle. The Scotsman’s moustache twitched, and he stroked the handsome, red beard as he pondered the evidence and the offer. “I’d be pleased to help in whatever way seems best to you, sir. Did you leave your latch key with anyone before you left for Branham last month?”

  “No, I didn’t. In fact, I seldom took the key with me, as Mary was always here to let me in. Do you think someone may have stolen the key and copied it?”

  “That’s one explanation, sir. Did Mrs. Wilsham use this back door to enter, or did she always use the front?”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s a good question. Look, I want you to b
ring a team of trustworthy men here tomorrow morning, pack up the remaining items, and then bring everything to the Haimsbury Dower House. We’ll make an inventory of the goods there, and try to discern what’s been stolen.”

  “Or added,” the driver suggested.

  “Added?” Sinclair asked. “Why would someone leave something in my home, Granger?”

  “Ask the duke about the time a tradesman left a cursed photograph at Drummond House. It took Dr. MacPherson and Mr. Kepelheim six weeks to figure out why the little duchess was being plagued by visions of her dead mother. You might remember it, sir.”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. The earl never mentioned it. This occurred when?” asked Charles.

  The driver brushed mud from his hands and stood up, his keen, brown eyes continuing to examine the door as he spoke. “1881, I think, sir. Right around the duchess’s birthday. You attended that party, if I remember rightly, my lord. You should ask the duke or Mr. Kepelheim about it.”

  “I shall. Thank you, Granger. Let’s be going, though. I’ve left that same, beautiful little duchess alone for too long already.”

  As the Haimsbury coach departed the curb along Columbia Road, a buxom woman watched from the bawdy house across the street. “They’ve left,” she told a tall man who lounged nearby on a blue velvet settee. “He’s taken the housekeeper with him.”

  “And the earl?”

  “He’s gone, too. Shall I send my man over?”

  “Not yet. If I know my detective, he’ll have the house searched to see what’s missing, and most likely do it soon. When we know he’s abandoned the property, then we shall place our little gift.”

  “I don’t understand. Why break in, if you intend to wait until later to accomplish your task?” she asked, sitting beside the man.

  “It’s all about the game,” William Trent gloated. “Our detective believes himself a step ahead of any criminal, but he lags miles behind me. All I require is placement of the enchanted item, and all my desires shall come true—and in such a delicious location at that. Such a miraculous invention, don’t you think? A door that isn’t a door? Now, my dear, shall we find a pleasant way to spend the remainder of the afternoon? Tonight, my friends and I have to go out again—and feed our hungry creatures.”