Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “No, not really,” she muttered, her eyes becoming unfocused. “Well, perhaps, a slight one,” she admitted.

  Paul felt her forehead with the back of his hand. “As I thought. You’re running a fever. Perhaps, this outing was a bad idea. You might be coming down with this illness affecting your staff. Charles, why don’t you take her home?”

  “No, Paul,” she protested. “I’d rather not. Really, I’m much better now. It’s just I grew overheated in the box. It’s these new electric lights, I think. They’re so close to the chairs. I’ll be fine in a moment. Sir Albert has sent for water. Isn’t that kind of him?”

  “It certainly is,” Aubrey replied, offering the Ketchums a smile. “Thank you, Bertie. Teresa, it’s always good to see you. Beth, Prince Anatole and the contessa asked me to convey their hope that you recover quickly. And Della is very worried. Are you certain that you don’t wish to go home? I can have your grandfather’s carriage brought ‘round.”

  “No, really, I’m fine,” she insisted, looking up as the usher returned with a tray of beverages. Gulping down half the water in one swallow, Beth took a deep breath and then patted the bumbling baronet on the hand. “Just what I needed, Bertie. Thank you so much. Teresa, it’s been a delight as always. I hope we’ll get to visit more often, now that we’ll be in London for a while.”

  Beth stood, leaning heavily upon both cousins, who held her hands. Charles took her into his arms, noticing that she still trembled. “I’ve got her, Paul.”

  Aubrey let go reluctantly. “Yes, I can see that. Beth, are you sure you don’t want to go home? I can make your apologies.”

  She shook her head. “No, really. I’m fine, Paul.”

  “Take care, my dear,” the woman said. “I’ll see you again at the ball on the seventeenth.”

  “Yes, that will be lovely,” Elizabeth said automatically, though she had no idea what the woman meant. She put her hand through Charles’s arm, and the two of them returned up the stairs.

  Aubrey remained behind for a few moments. “A ball? I fear this is yet another event I know nothing about. Of course, I’ve been boorishly lax in reading my correspondence of late. May I ask what you mean?”

  “Well,” Teresa began in a conspiratorial whisper, “it’s supposed to be in honour of the wedding, you know, and will be hosted by the Duke of Edinburgh, so one cannot decline. I must admit surprise, Lord Aubrey, that you did not win the lady’s hand. You and the duchess have been so close for…well, for years.”

  Paul managed to smile. “Elizabeth and I are lifelong friends and devoted cousins, and we love each other very much, but her heart has belonged to Charles for many years now. They’ve been planning to wed for some time, in fact. I’m surprised you, my dear Lady Ketchum, were unaware of it. Of course, it’s been very hush-hush, though a few of the newspapers picked up on it in early October. I imagine you saw those articles in The Star and Times.”

  “Yes, we did, and we’d wondered if there were anything to them,” she answered, “but the photographs certainly made it look as if they were much more than friends. I imagine that’s why she came back to London six months early. To be with him. Is that right?”

  “It is,” Aubrey admitted. “Our family knew all about it, of course, but we’d been waiting on legal confirmation of his identity, you see. Also, my cousin didn’t wish to marry too soon after his first wife died.”

  Sir Albert winked as he sipped the wine. “Ah, yes, I’d heard the marquess had been married before. Tragic the way it all ended. But you say she and he have been—well, an item for some time?”

  “Oh, yes. They met long ago, and well, it’s a bit of a romance story, actually. As I’m sure you’re aware, my cousin had been thought long dead, and when we discovered he lived, well, you can imagine the joy in our family, which is why we have only now returned from a fortnight of celebrating in Kent. The duke formalised their engagement last month at his castle, and I have the honour to serve as best man on the eighteenth. I hope you’ll forgive me, I must return to our box. I shall look through my letters for that errant invitation. Sir Albert, Lady Ketchum, enjoy the remainder of the play, and again, thank you for tending to our Beth.”

  Paul turned and climbed the stairs. Yes, he had lied, but it was a lie he knew would soon make the rounds of every drawing room, parlour, and club in London society, and it could only aid Elizabeth. Of course, part of the story was true. She had loved Charles for years. And it was clear that he, in turn, had loved her for just as long.

  Chapter Ten

  It was nearly eleven by the time the play concluded, and after shaking the hands of many well-wishers and addressing a barrage of questions about the Whitechapel murders—questions which Charles answered as equivocally as possible—the company adjourned to the spacious and beautifully decorated music room at Drummond House. The duke’s London butler, Aleister Booth, along with two of his senior footmen, served a wide selection of canapés, tea sandwiches, desserts, coffee, tea, and sweet wines to the family and their guests, which included the prince, the contessa, Henry Irving, lead actress Ellen Terry, playwright Abraham Stoker, his wife Florence, and Martin Kepelheim, who, as it turned out, knew the young writer well.

  “My dear friend,” the tailor gushed as the company mingled, “your new play is, shall we say, risky? Mr. Irving, I hope your house enjoyed a good night at the box office. Much contained within your script was either imagined or purloined, for I recall very few of those details in the press coverage. I suspect the Metropolitan Police will close your play before much longer.”

  Henry Irving’s long frame stretched out as he lounged in an overstuffed wingback near one of two, floor-to-ceiling fireplaces that warmed the lengthy, rectangular room. “Tonight’s receipts were our finest ever, Mr. Kepelheim, and that includes Jekyll, you know. Nothing surpasses a play based on a true event to sell tickets, particularly one that has garnered so much scandalous press coverage! Bram did himself credit. His handling of the subject matter was, I thought, deftly done.”

  The playwright sipped a glass of vin santo, enjoying the conversation. “Perhaps, it is rather gruesome in parts, but modern audiences seek thrills, and even the elite enjoy mayhem in moderation. I fear, though, the frank portrayals may have proven rather too much for some. Your Grace, I do hope I did not offend. I’m told you left after the first, uh, crime.”

  Beth had recovered her composure, and she now sat betwixt her aunt and the contessa, opposite the Stokers. Prince Anatole hovered nearby.

  “But I returned quickly thereafter, Mr. Stoker,” she replied. “I hope you intend to continue writing. I have your collection of short stories, Under the Sunset. It has such poetic beauty.”

  Romanov interrupted. “Ah, yes, I also have this work. In fact, it is a favourite of mine as well, Duchess. How does it go, now? ‘Now and again come, softly, Angels who fan with their great white wings the aching brows, and place cool hands upon the sleeping eyes. Then soar away the spirit of the sleeper.’ Such insightful language. Unseen beings who interact with this realm, engaging the unwitting human, ‘neath winged back, cooling his dreaming eyes.” He paused, assessing the writer’s response, reading his most intimate thoughts, written in flesh upon the Irishman’s face.

  “You actually read it, sir?”

  “I read everything!” Anatole bragged. “And later, you add, and may I say, most craftily writ, ‘Those who go there in dreams, or who come in dreams to our world, come and go they know not how; but if an inhabitant tries to leave it, he cannot, except by one way. If he tries any other way, he goes on and on, turning without knowing it, till he comes to the one place where only he can depart. This place is called the Portal, and there the Angels keep guard.’ How masterfully composed, my new friend. It is as if you peer into a nether realm with radiant eyes, penning the truths found there like those women who use—what is it called now? Oh yes. Automatic writing. One wonders how it is you see so
very clearly these phantasmic portals of the spirit realm.”

  The duchess looked at the Russian, strangely. “Yes, dreams can lead to other worlds,” she replied, languidly. The prince stepped closer, but Charles returned from a conversation with the duke, and he touched Elizabeth’s hand—their unbreakable bond, their inscrutable connexion, returning her to the world of men. She blinked, no longer adrift, anchored now by Sinclair’s presence. “Oh, yes. What was I saying, now? The book. That’s right! It is masterfully written, Mr. Stoker. Beautifully done.”

  Florence Stoker had said little, but she suddenly joined the conversation. “Bram rarely brags on himself, Duchess,” she told Elizabeth. “But he’s got a rare gift. Oscar thinks so, too,” she added.

  Stoker set his wine to one side, his smile all but gone as he twitched in his chair, uncomfortably. “My wife speaks of her college chum, Oscar Wilde, Your Grace. Florence spurned Wilde to marry me, you see, so I’m not sure his praise means nearly as much to me as it might, otherwise.”

  An awkward silence filled the corner for a moment, but then the duchess dispersed the chill. “Then, Mr. Wilde is the poorer for it. Mr. Stoker, your talent never ceases to amaze me, and though the subject matter of tonight’s play is more in keeping with my fiancé’s experience than my own, I found it very well done. Mrs. Stoker, you should be proud of your husband.”

  Florence blushed. “I am, Your Grace,” she said softly, taking his hand. “I am. As is our boy, Irving. He hopes to be a writer one day, too.”

  Elizabeth smiled, graciously. “Named for our play’s starring actor, I suppose?” she asked, looking at the theatre’s manager. “Mr. Irving, your role as the murderer came as a complete surprise! If only the real villain might be so easily apprehended.”

  Henry Irving laughed, his sonorous voice commanding the room. “Yes, well, Ellen thought it best that we solve the murders rather than leave it up in the air. And who knows? Perhaps, our solution will prove correct.”

  “You mean that an actual demon stalks Whitechapel?” the duke asked as he joined his guests. “One that can appear and disappear at will and take on the form of anyone at all? Rather fanciful, I say. Charles, have you run afoul of many demons whilst policing those streets, or do you find your cells filled with flesh and blood men only?”

  Charles followed his uncle’s lead. “Only men, sir. I imagine Reid and Abberline will be paying Mr. Irving a call once again, though. After the Jekyll play, they considered your lead actor a possible Ripper suspect for a few weeks, did they not? What was his name again? Mansfield? I’d not antagonise those gentlemen if I were you, Mr. Irving. One night in their examination room has been known to break even the strongest of men.”

  “I’ve heard of Abberline’s technique,” Stoker remarked, as he took a small cake from the tray of a passing footman. “I’d very much like to speak to him, if you think he would grant me an interview, Lord Haimsbury. Both those men strike me as singular. I’d dearly love to spend a day with them, for I’ve begun planning a novel that might include Whitechapel as a setting.”

  “I’ll see if I can arrange that, Mr. Stoker,” Charles said, happy to see Elizabeth in better spirits. “Martin, why didn’t you join us in Paul’s box? There were two empty chairs. Plenty of room for a tailor and his friend.”

  Kepelheim smiled impishly. “Ah, you refer to the lovely Hadria Calhoun. Well, she and I have known one another for many years, and she insisted on sitting with her cousins, René and Madeleine Rousseau. Lovely couple. I asked them all to join us this evening, but Hadria demurred. She’s quite bashful, actually, though she promises to attend your wedding. She works as an Eastern European translator in the Lord Mayor’s office. Her father is Lord Boughton, you know.”

  “Yes, Tory introduced Boughton to me during the interval. I’d hoped to meet Mrs. Calhoun as well, but then I was accosted by a crowd and couldn’t reach you.”

  “It’s a shame. Mrs. Calhoun is so very interesting,” the duchess interjected. “In addition to speaking half a dozen living tongues, she’s also an expert in several ancient languages, isn’t she, Mr. Kepelheim?”

  “She is indeed,” the tailor replied, taking a finger sandwich from the footman’s tray. “I say, Finch, might I ask a small favour?” he said to the servant. “A glass of water, if you don’t mind, for our duchess. She looks somewhat thirsty.”

  Elizabeth laughed, a bit confused. “That’s kind of you, Martin, but I’m quite content.”

  “Yes, I know, my dear, but I plan to ask a small favour, so you may wish to lubricate your delicate throat first. Ah, there’s the front bell!”

  The tailor bobbed up from his chair and headed towards the foyer. Charles looked to Paul for explanation.

  “Don’t ask me,” the earl said, his blue eyes twinkling. “Martin has been hinting at something ever since he arrived, but since we’re in the music room rather than one of the drawing rooms, I expect that may provide a clue.”

  In a few moments, Booth and Kepelheim returned, accompanied by a curious looking, young man in formal dress. His chin was smooth and his cheeks ruddy, like that of a cockatiel. Above the small mouth sat a huge, black moustache that curled slightly at the edges.

  “Your Highness, Contessa, and all my dear friends,” the tailor began. “I have the honour of introducing you to a very great composer, whose name and talents will soon be sung throughout the world of music! He’s just arrived in London to begin rehearsals for a new work that will debut in March at Covent Garden, and it’s an absolute miracle that he agreed to join us this evening. My dear friends, I am delighted to introduce a rising star in opera and a true musical genius, Señor Giacomo Puccini.”

  Elizabeth broke into a wide smile, and it was clear from her reaction that she recognised the name, as did Victoria Stuart.

  “Señor Puccini!” the elder woman gushed. “How good of you to come, and what an opportune time, for one of your countrywomen is also here. Contessa, you remember Señor Puccini, of course, for it was at your home where I first heard him play. Mr. Kepelheim, this is a very great surprise!”

  The cherubic composer bowed again and again, as everyone was introduced. However, his rosy cheeks grew strangely ashen when introduced to the prince.

  “Sir, Your Highness, yes, it is so—so good, how you say?—magnifico to be in your presence once more. I am surprise to find you in the land of England.”

  Anatole offered a slight smile, his handsome face purposefully serene, but his eyes sparked fire. “And it is a very great surprise to find you also here, Señor. I had thought you still in Spain. Mr. Kepelheim, this is a delightful turn of events! I wonder, have you seen Le Villi? It is a magical opera that is wonderfully modern, yet Señor Puccini employs an old theme: the supernatural realm, which exists unseen all around us. Fairies and sprites. How marvellous!”

  Puccini, who spoke passable English, took a glass of sherry from a footman’s tray, his nerves on edge. “I still work on it, but I hope not to imitate Wagner, as so many have say. My so great friend, Fernando Fontana, make his libretto using Karr’s so good, how you say, story of the short?”

  “The French short story, yes, yes. Jean-Baptist Karr’s, no?” the prince interjected, and turning to Elizabeth, he continued. “Duchess, Karr spins a tragic tale of supernatural beings that lure a foolish human to his doom. Fanciful and yet universal in scope. These fairies are said to be the spirits of brides, who all died on their wedding day. Although, others claim they are sirens who seek the life essence of the living.”

  “Like the legends of the succubus,” Aubrey suggested. “A demonic entity that preys on the living through enticement.”

  “But also the incubus,” the prince replied, smiling as if guarding a secret. “I admit to surprise that a member of England’s aristocracy would have such intimate knowledge of the unseen world, that it rolls off your tongue so readily, Lord Aubrey.”

  The earl retu
rned the smile, making it clear that he saw beyond the prince’s skillful wordplay. “Hardly intimate, Your Highness. And if you’ll recall, I am Scottish, not English. Our Highland legends include many such creatures.”

  “Forgive me,” Romanov said evenly. “I forget myself sometimes. Scotland is a place I must visit—and soon. If I remember, there are also tales of elemental spirits that roam the moors, are there not? And their human devotees take on the shapes of predators—transforming themselves through alchemical rites into ravenous beasts, such as ravens, owls, and even...the wolf?”

  Aubrey’s blue eyes flashed, and he took a step towards the Russian. “There are,” he replied angrily, but the duke interrupted.

  “Ah, yes, these old tales speak of all manner of devils in disguise, don’t they, son?” Drummond asked, his speech deliberately easy, though his dark eyes were like two black stones, fixed upon the prince. “One never knows what—or whom—one will meet upon those craggy hills, which is why my men and I are always armed and ready to deal with any intruder, be it human or spirit. Isn’t that right, Paul?”

  “It certainly is, Uncle,” Aubrey continued, slowly controlling his anger. “Charles has only recently rediscovered his Scottish roots, but already he appreciates the dangers that lurk in Scotland’s fells.”

  Sinclair watched the tense interplay with interest, hoping to learn from his masterful uncle. “So I have, Cousin, but I don’t think we should be too unkind to our Russian guest. Perhaps, his interest in such beings is purely academic. One of scholarly pursuit. Intellectual rather than practical.”

  The prince gazed at the trio of men, moving from one to the next, his icy eyes falling at last on Sinclair, staring as if trying to pierce the detective’s armour.

  “Scholarly, of course, but even academics must eventually resort to field work, if one is to learn all his subject’s secrets. Scotland is not alone in these dramatic tales. No! In Russia, we, too, have such legends. Not only of sirens and sprites, but of demons and devils. Shadowy creatures that transform at will, and even human devotees who prowl about in animal skins, consuming the flesh and drinking the blood of the living for sustenance—and power.”