Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Romanov smiled as if enjoying a private joke. “This Ripper is nothing new. In Russia, we have a long, deep history of such ritualistic activities.”

  “Ritualistic?” Elizabeth asked, wiping a traitorous tear from her eye as she turned to look at the prince. “That is an odd way to describe such brutalities. Why would you use such a term, Your Highness?”

  “Please, Duchess, call me Anatole. Or Tolya, which is what my dear mother always called me.”

  She paused, unsure how to respond, and she could sense that Charles anticipated her answer. “Of course, that is kind of you, Anatole. My Russian is rather limited. What does your name mean, may I ask?”

  “Anatole or Anatoly is our word for the dawning, the most beautiful light of the day. I am proud to be so called. Your name, in our language, is Elizaveta. It means ‘God is my oath’, which I imagine is a true statement for you, seeing that you wear a golden cross upon your lovely throat. It is a noble name, to be sure. Queenly, in fact. I had a beloved friend named Elizaveta, and she was—as yourself—a beautiful woman with dark eyes of many mysteries. I always called her Veta. May I call you that? It would please me.”

  “Much like Beth, I suppose,” Charles interrupted. “That’s what we call her, and I cannot imagine any eyes that are more beautiful than those of my Beth.”

  “I agree,” the prince said, kissing her hand. “I agree most ardently, Lord Haimsbury. Oh, but wait, I believe our play’s first murder is about to take place. I am curious to see how this fellow Stoker has imagined it.”

  The setting for Act I, Scene ii, centred on a Spitalfields street not far from Christ Church. The painted backdrop depicted the church’s tall steeple and a dozen columns of billowing smoke, rising up from factory chimneys along the river. Two women stood in front of a broad, brick façade building with the name ‘Brown and Eagle Wool’ painted in white above the doors. A uniformed policeman entered stage right and crossed downstage where he remained, whistling idly, as the first woman spoke.

  “Worst summer I ever knew, an’ the coldest. I reckon this rain’ll go on ‘til Noah an’ his sons set down, eh? So, you stayin’ at Thrawl tonight, luv?”

  The second woman, shorter than the first and slightly older in appearance, shook her head, pointing to the black straw hat she wore.

  “I ‘ope to, though I ain’t got coin for it yet. I drunk all me doss money away, bu’ I’ll make it up afore too long. You ‘member that little green ‘at I lost last week, Em? I reckon I spent two days lookin’ for that ‘at. No longer, my dear. See this?” she asked, pointing to her head. “See wha’ a jolly bonnet I go’ now? One o’ them Frog sailors traded it ta me fer a quick tussle be’ind the tann’ry. Me old ‘ead ain’t never been ‘appier!”

  In the background, thanks to the lighting of flash pots by the stage crew, the ‘sky’ glowed reddish orange, imitating several fires that had broken out near the docks on the thirty-first of August. Fire bells clanged from the stage’s wings, and a huge shadow crept along the upper reaches of the upstage area, growing larger and larger, as an offstage presence approached the two women.

  “I’m off ta Ten Bells. Come wi’ me, Polly,” the first woman implored.

  “Naw, I cain’t. I’ll folla soon, though, luv. You go on now. I jus’ needs a couple o’ coppers, an’ then I’ll meet ya over at Thrawl.”

  The first woman left the stage, and only Polly Nichols remained, her new straw hat perched proudly atop her head. The disinterested policeman had turned away and now crossed the apron of the stage to the other side, exiting stage left.

  The music provided by the pit orchestra grew ominous, and a sound technician made thunder clap and roll in the background by pounding a rubber mallet against a thin sheet of tin. After several minutes, it began to rain, courtesy of four, upstage flymen pouring water from sprinkling cans that emptied into a series of concealed troughs. Now drenched, lonely Polly turned towards stage left, a weary smile crossing her face as the twisting shadow, shaped like an impossibly tall man, lengthened across the downstage area.

  “What’re you doin’ ‘ere? I thought you wasn’t eva comin’ back ‘ere, luv. Come on, then. Give us a kiss,” she called out, her arms outstretched as if to greet a friend. Suddenly, the growling of a beast could be heard as the undulating Shade crept towards her. Just as its black form touched Polly’s hat, all the stage lights went out, the poor woman screamed, and a sickening, wet sound echoed throughout the entire theatre.

  The footlights brightened again, and Polly Nichols lay sprawled upon the downstage apron, her new bonnet missing, a stream of crimson running from her body. The hideous Shadow loomed over her, a long, glinting blade in its upraised hand. The knife’s edge sprayed something that looked like blood in a dramatic arc, as the shadowy arm swung down over and over, ripping through the woman’s abdomen. The Shadow began to laugh maniacally, and then it proudly lifted its pointed chin towards the rafters and howled like a wolf.

  The audience gasped, some women cried out, and Elizabeth clutched at Charles. He knew what was on her mind. Her mother—and the all too real Shadow Creature she had seen on the road to London that night in ‘79—and more recently, the monstrous grey wolf upon the moors of Scotland.

  “Excuse me,” she said suddenly, as she jumped to her feet and turned towards the curtains.

  “Cousin Beth, it’s only make believe,” Adele said, her bright mood miraculously unaffected. “Don’t go!”

  Elizabeth’s face had gone chalk white, but she kissed the girl and forced a laugh. “Of course it is, dear. I’ve a cramp in my foot, that’s all. I must walk it off. I shan’t be a moment.”

  She said nothing more, fleeing through the curtains, followed immediately by Charles. The duchess rushed to the stairs in a panic, but he caught up to her as she neared the landing, speaking as he walked. “I don’t know why your grandfather chose to come here tonight. This play—it’s unsettling.”

  She said nothing in reply, did not even slow, but continued down the stairs until she reached the main floor of the theatre where a dozen, leather upholstered couches stood in several groups, all of them empty. Beth found the first and dropped into it, and Charles could now see that she was crying.

  He sat beside her, lovingly pulling her into an embrace to calm her nerves. “Beth, I’m so sorry. I know how this distresses you, darling.”

  She buried her face in his shoulder, and her entire body shook as she wept. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I just couldn’t bear sitting there any longer. It’s stifling hot, and that woman—that poor woman! Oh, Charles, please, may we leave soon? I’ve no desire to see any more of this ghastly play. It’s nothing but ghoulish mockery. I hate saying it, because Mr. Stoker is actually a kind man, and my grandfather told me he’ll be at his home later along with Mr. Irving. Oh, I’m being silly, I suppose! I just want—oh, Charles, I just want to be out of all this! Free of this curse at last! May we not run away and get married tonight—now? Charles, I’m suddenly so very afraid!”

  He felt her face, and she was warm—too warm.

  “Nothing would make me happier, little one. Nothing. If James would allow it, I’d take you away this very minute, and we’d marry. In fact, I asked if we might wed before leaving Scotland, but…”

  “But he insists on a public display,” she finished for him. “Charles, please, I just… I just want to know that you will be safe. I fear for you. I fear him!”

  “Who, Beth? Who? The Shadow Man?”

  She nodded, and then buried her head in his shoulder once more as he held her close. Her small frame shivered in his embrace, and he spoke softly to her whilst rubbing her bare arms to warm them. As he did so, the double doors to the house appeared to shudder, the thick wood rippling like painted water, and a shadowy figure passed through them into the lobby’s sitting area. As it emerged, Charles could see the apparition staring down at him with an intense hatred that was p
alpable, and he imagined a deep voice inside his head.

  She is mine, it hissed. She wants only me. Me!

  Sinclair nearly rose to his feet to challenge the phantasm, but Beth’s hands clutched at his arms. “Please, Charles, no!” she implored.

  “Do you see it, too?” he asked in a whisper. “That strange shadow?”

  She nodded her head, saying nothing, but she had begun to weep again. The ghostly presence paused before the couple for a moment, and a pair of fiery eyes stared at the marquess menacingly, filled with intense hatred. Massive claws of dense shadow reached out towards Sinclair, and instinctively Elizabeth put up her small hands to protect him. It paused as if weighing its options, and then the creature inexplicably flew over top of their heads and exited through the front of the building.

  One second later, a thickset man in white tie and tails emerged from the theatre doors, a slender woman on his arm, neither aware of the hideous demon that had preceded them.

  “Not sure why anyone would want to watch that revolting play. Irving should be ashamed! Dash it all, I might just demand my money back!” the man blustered.

  The woman leaned upon his arm, her face pale. “I’ve never seen such a ghastly display as this…but, oh wait. Duchess? Is that you?”

  Charles glanced up, his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders, his brain still deciphering the meaning behind the apparition they’d witnessed. The duchess wiped tears from her eyes, doing her best to manage a smile. “Sir Albert. Lady Ketchum. How nice to see you again. It’s been what? A year?”

  The man led his wife to the couch closest to theirs. “At least two,” he replied with a twitch of his waxed moustache. “Duchess, it’s a pleasure to see you as always, and I must say you’ve grown into a truly beautiful woman,” he said, bowing as he kissed her hand. “I say, is this your intended? I’ve seen both your photographs in all the papers, of course. I’m Sir Albert Ketchum, Lord Haimsbury. I work with the Duke of Cambridge over at the War Office, you know. This is my wife, Lady Teresa Ketchum. Dash it all, man, you’ve snatched up the prettiest thing in all England. We’ll be at the wedding. We do appreciate the invitation. I say, Duchess, are you all right?”

  “Of course, she’s not, Bertie, you old fool!” the woman chided. “Elizabeth, my dear, it’s this disaster of a play. What is that playwright doing—what’s his name again—Stoker? The subject is just too fresh, you know, and all that blood! It’s distasteful and completely out of bounds. May as well see a French play at that Grand Guignol place, or one of those depressing Meiningen monstrosities in Germany. Hideous! Wait, though, Lord Haimsbury, aren’t you still with Scotland Yard? You’ve not resigned, I take it?”

  Charles jumped in, grateful for a respite from the couple’s endless chitchat. “Yes, Lady Ketchum, I’m still with the Yard. You’re absolutely right. It’s a dreadful business, this play. The duchess was simply overcome by it, so we thought to get a bit of air. Apparently, it’s affected you both as well.”

  “Not Bertie,” she said, her mood lighter. “He adores all that criminal gossip, but not I. My husband even reads the Police Gazette and those vulgar penny dreadfuls, if you can imagine it!”

  The baronet cleared his throat to gain their attention. “There’s real news in those pages, Tess. Haimsbury, I have to wonder why the playwright chose to begin with that Nichols murder. Wasn’t the first victim some woman name of Millwood, back in February?”

  “No one’s really sure which murders to ascribe to this madman’s tally, Sir Albert. Even Abberline and Reid disagree as to the number and names. Officially, most agree that either Tabram or Nichols was the first, but there’s room for debate, in my opinion.”

  “Ah, well, you would know,” he said with a wink.

  Lady Ketchum leaned in close. “I’ve a friend who claims they started years ago. He refuses to name the victim, but there are persistent rumours she was a peeress.”

  Charles feared where this line was headed, so he said nothing, muttering only, “I wouldn’t know,” hoping to discourage the woman. However, Lady Ketchum failed to catch the hint.

  “We’ve a nephew who works in the newspaper archives for government,” she pushed, clearly fishing for information. “He keeps track of every edition going back as far as—oh, how far do they go, Bertie? Fifty years?”

  “Thirty,” he corrected. “Or so we’re told, but then government offices are, by design, rather convoluted and secretive, aren’t they, Haimsbury? Yes, this nephew of mine, Sir Henry Cavill, now, he does know the lady’s name, for he’s run across two American newspapers that mention the crime in some detail. The murder was nearly identical to those now raging across the east, only it occurred in 1879! I have to wonder why our British press don’t mention it as being connected. I mean, the Americans know it, why don’t we?”

  Elizabeth gasped, her face white, eyes wide.

  “Oh, well, uh, do forgive me, Duchess,” Bertie said, suddenly realising his blunder. “I am mistaken, of course. I meant 1884 or perhaps ’86. My brain’s a sieve sometimes, when it comes to dates. Isn’t that right, Tess?”

  “Yes, it often is,” Teresa Ketchum bantered, oblivious to her husband’s faux pas. “Tell me, Lord Haimsbury, is it true that the fiend struck again last night?” she asked him suddenly. “Something about several women in an east end park and perhaps even an animal? One wonders if it’s safe anywhere in your old stomping grounds.”

  Elizabeth pushed away, her eyes filled with terror as she stared at him. “Did she say animal?” the duchess gasped in horror. “Charles, what does Teresa mean by that? What haven’t you told me?”

  Sinclair feared upsetting Beth any more than the Ketchums already had, when they foolishly referred to Patricia’s death in ’79, so he feigned ignorance. “I’m sorry, darling, it’s news to me. I’ve—well, we’ve been in Scotland and Kent, actually,” he explained to the Ketchums. “We only returned to London Sunday evening. I’ve spent most of the time since catching up on paperwork. I’m sure it’s the same with the War Office, Sir Albert. Ten typed pages to file for every spoken word. Isn’t that right?” he said, hoping to avoid further questions, but again Ketchum failed to take the hint.

  “Oh, but it’s been in all the papers!” he exclaimed. “Two women slain in Hackney. A third badly injured. Torn apart like some wild animal did it. Of course, there are some blaming it on fighting dogs, but I’ve a friend who heard it was actually a wolf, escaped from the zoo. According to my friend—who works there, mind—all the zoo’s animals are accounted for, so one wonders at the precise provenance of these creatures, eh? Wolves roaming the streets of London? I ask you, is anyone safe? Just how will your police protect us, Lord Haimsbury? First Ripper, now this,” he muddled. “It’s like living in the jungles of Borneo!”

  “Bertie, I don’t think the duchess wants to hear any more of your opinions right now,” his wife cautioned, finally noticing Beth’s shocked reaction. “Do forgive my husband, Elizabeth. He thinks everyone is as captivated by crime as he. So, Lord Haimsbury...” she continued.

  “Charles,” the marquess suggested. “Call me Charles, Lady Ketchum.”

  “Oh, that’s very kind of you. And you must call me Tess!” the woman gushed. “Yes, well, Charles, are you still on the case, as they say?”

  “Officially, yes, but I’ve been granted a reprieve whilst I—well, whilst we plan our wedding. You’re both coming? How very nice.”

  “Is that your ring?” Teresa enquired nosily. “Good heavens! It must be true about your fortune, Lord Haims—I mean, Charles. Isn’t that the famous Pink Princess diamond?”

  “It is,” he admitted. “I’d have placed the Kohinoor on her hand if the queen allowed it, and if Beth’s dainty finger could hold such a massive stone.”

  She slowly seemed to be rallying, and Elizabeth held out the ring for Ketchum to see. The vivid diamond shone like a deep pink mirror in the lights of the lobby’
s grand chandelier. “Charles is most generous, isn’t he, Teresa? Oh, isn’t it awfully warm in here?” she asked wanly.

  “Shall I fetch you a glass of water?” Charles asked.

  “I’ll take care of that for you, Haimsbury—or do you still use Superintendent? Oh, but I hear that will be changing soon. Promotions and all that. It goes with the territory, when one inherits a peerage. Oh, cat out of the bag! Sorry, silly me! I’ll get that water. Oh, young man!” he called, motioning to a passing usher. “I say, could you bring some water for the duchess, and I’ll have a glass of your finest claret—and, my dear, what will you have?” he asked, turning to his wife, who now sat on Beth’s left.

  “Just water for me as well, Bertie. Charles, will you have something? Irving keeps a nicely stocked cellar.”

  Elizabeth leaned hard against his shoulder, and she had begun to tremble again. “Nothing for me, thank you,” Charles replied. He touched Beth’s forehead and found her face now felt cool. “Beth, you’re shivering. Shall I fetch your wrap?”

  She said nothing, and Charles was about to suggest they go home, when Aubrey joined them.

  “Beth, are you ill?” Stuart asked anxiously. “Shall I fetch the carriage, so we can take you home?”

  Ketchum positively brightened at seeing the earl. “I say! Lord Aubrey! It’s certainly a grand night for old friends, eh, what? Did I see the duke with you, also? And with that Russian fellow, I heard. Saw him the other day coming out of Cumberland House just as I was going in. Meddlesome Russians. They’re everywhere nowadays. What’s his name again? Angelo, Anthony...?”

  “Prince Anatole. Yes, I imagine he spends a lot of time at the War Office, Bertie. I believe the prince has been advising Ed Stanhope on Afghanistan. Elizabeth? Charles, is she all right?” The earl knelt in front of the duchess, taking her hand and kissing it. “Beth, your cheeks are flushed, and yet your hands are very cool to the touch. Have you a headache?”