Chapter Thirteen
6:56 am - The Lyceum Theatre
Charles Sinclair had never been particularly fond of Detective Superintendent Joseph Dunlap. Perhaps, it was the age difference of twenty years, or the man’s insufferable tendency to self-aggrandise, or more to the point his outright inclination towards self-promotion and bearing petty grievances against his own officers. But more than likely it was the man’s sloppy police work. Dawn was beginning to break over the Thames, and Sinclair desperately wanted to throttle the A-Division CID head, but as the Lyceum Theatre fell within Joe Dunlap’s jurisdiction, the newly titled marquess had little choice but to take a backseat, albeit a grudgingly, unhappy one.
“You can take her now,” the rotund man told his second in command, a thin as a rail forty-year-old named Fraser. “See to it that Thomas Bond gets a good look at her, and I want photographs taken at the dead room as well—before, during, and after autopsy. Got that?”
Superintendent Algernon Fraser sighed. “Very good, sir,” the recently promoted detective replied. “Mr. Sinclair—I mean, Lord Haimsbury, sir—did you wish for H-Division’s surgeon to attend?”
Dunlap interrupted. “This is our case, Fraser, as you well know.”
“But it’s probably Ripper, sir,” the younger man argued, “which makes it their case as well.”
“That cuts no mustard with me, Fraser. We’ve no need for the interference of Reid and Abberline...”
“Nor a need for me, either, apparently,” Sinclair observed drily. “Superintendent, I appreciate your desire to solve this crime with your own manpower and expertise, but at least allow the H-Division team to assist. They have experience with this man, if indeed this woman is a Ripper victim, and...”
“What makes you think she is not?” Dunlap bit back.
Sighing, the marquess continued as if explaining a complex mathematical problem to a toddler. “It is counterproductive to make assumptions regarding the murderer’s identity at this point, Joseph. If you blinker yourself to possibilities, then you will inevitably miss valuable information. For instance, did you interview the young man found within the storage area?”
“That mute? He’s mad as a hatter, and you know it, Charles. Or Lord Haimsbury, or whatever fancy title I’m to use now, and I do not appreciate being told how to police in my own backyard!”
A hand tapped the detective’s shoulder, and Sinclair turned about to find himself looking at a familiar and most welcome face. “Martin! What on earth are you doing here? More to the point, how did you get in? This entire block is cordoned off by uniforms.”
Kepelheim wiped his brow in the heat of the cramped space. “I have my ways,” he whispered mysteriously. “And I believe I know how you might continue this investigation on other soil. Ground unmarked by A-Division foot traffic.”
Sinclair’s dark brows rose high in puzzlement. “How so?”
The tailor put a finger alongside his bulbous nose and winked. “Not here. Ah, yes, good evening to you, Superintendent Dunlap,” he added loudly. “I just dropped by to remind our marquess that he has a photography session in a few short hours, so he’ll need to call it a night. I thought it best to come myself rather than send a commissionaire with a note. So tawdry, don’t you think? Nice material,” he said, touching the other man’s lapels. “May I ask, who tailored this for you? Albertson? DuBarry?”
“DuBarry, if you must know!” Dunlap shouted. “Dash it all, man! Look, Sinclair, if you want to send H-Division’s team over, that will work, so long as they remain out of my way. Fraser, move those men along now! We’ve taken far too much time as it is.”
The tailor tugged at his friend’s coat sleeve, leading him through the cavernous flyspace, and then down a winding metal staircase known as a Jacob’s Ladder. Once on the backstage floor, Kepelheim grinned mischievously. “I’ve taken the liberty of speaking with Mr. Crouch. He’s the photographer for A-Division. He and I go back a long way. In fact, he’s an adjunct to Aubrey’s team, though I’m sure Superintendent Dunlap is blissfully unaware of it.”
Sinclair laughed heartily. “I should have known my cousin would have some kind of connexion to a police photographer. Is Beth all right?”
“Not really, which is why I have intruded into your investigation.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, growing worried. “Is she ill?”
“Not so much ill as terrified. A nightmare about Trent. Now, before you rush back to Queen Anne on your knightly steed, let me tell you that the earl is with her, and that the entire household is on full alert. Miles and Frame are keeping watch, both armed, of course. The duke has returned to the house with Della. Our little duchess is in safe hands, though I know that she will be happiest, only when her Captain is home.”
Sinclair considered all this, looking back towards the crime scene, weighing all options to make the best decision. “She is all right, though? Has she asked for me?”
“Yes, I’m told that she’s asked for you many times, but she is asleep now. Victoria sent me a message via one of the footmen, which is how I know all this. I stopped by before coming here, to assess the situation for myself, for I knew you’d ask all these questions. You are a policeman, after all.”
“Tell that to Joe Dunlap,” Sinclair muttered. “I really do hate to leave here, Martin, as it’s my job, but Scotland Yard can hang itself, if this job ever gets in the way of my duty to Elizabeth. If you think I should go home, then...”
“I do not,” Kepelheim said plainly. “It’s nearly dawn, and she’ll not awaken for many hours yet. Now, with so much to do here, I doubt that you’ve had any opportunity to peruse the early editions, but there is an item on the front page of the Pall Mall Gazette that is of interest.” He handed the detective a crisp newspaper, and Charles obediently scanned through the headlines.
“Good heavens! I wonder if this has anything to do with her nightmare,” Sinclair said, lifting his arm to hail a hansom. As the carriage stopped, a disheveled man stepped through the stage door entrance, and he tapped the marquess on the shoulder.
“Sir? My lord? If I might, sir?”
Sinclair turned about. It was Gus Tawbry, shabby hat in hand. “Mr. Tawbry. Have you something to add regarding Miss Soubret’s death?”
The flyman shuffled his feet, his eyes downcast. “I reckon so, my lord, but I don’ wan’ tha’ other copper ta catch wind o’ it. He would no’ believe it, anyways.”
“Believe what, Mr. Tawbry? Did you see the murderer?”
“I did, sir. Tha’ boy’s right, my lord. It were three men—well, no’ men, as one thinks o’ men. Bu’ they walked on men’s legs, an’ spoke like men.”
“What were they, then?” Charles asked.
“Wolves, sir. Only one ‘ad mighty, great wings—like a bat. Leathery like. They tore tha’ girl apart, they did. Like she weren’t naught bu’ paper. Blood all over. An’ they laughed about it. Bu’, sir. They never seen me, as I were in the room next door, bu’ I could see ‘em froo a split in the wood.”
“You got a good look at them, then?”
“Tha’s right, sir, I did. Bu’ there’s more, my lord. Them men spoke a name, sir. Made no sense ta me, ‘til one o’ my friends telled me who it were. An’ tha’ you knows ‘er.”
“What name is that, Mr. Tawbry?”
“The biggest man. ‘e’s the one said it. Made ‘im all laugh, it did. Like ‘e were makin’ a great joke. Said he were gonna see ‘er next, an’ do the same ta ‘er.”
“Who, man, who?!” Sinclair shouted.
“Elizabef, sir. Elizabef Stuart.”
Chapter Fourteen
7:07 am
Paul Stuart shut the door behind him, leaving Elizabeth sound asleep in her bedchamber. The damaged frame to the bath would not allow for the connecting door to close completely, but he did his best, and after several tries, managed to force it shut.
Victoria had already dressed, and she met him as he knocked on her open door.
“Good morning,” she said. “You look awful.”
“I feel as if I’ve slept on a bed of nails. Not even that good, actually, but coffee can heal a world of hurts.”
“Did she sleep at all?” Victoria asked.
“She did,” he yawned, blinking to clear his head. They crossed into the small parlour via the second bedchamber door.
“Perhaps, you should lie down for an hour,” his aunt suggested as the duke entered the apartment.
“Mornin’, son,” he said, his dark eyes bright. “I sent Kepelheim to the theatre to fetch your cousin, so they should be back here shortly. You look like a man who could use strong coffee,” James noted.
Victoria sniffed. “Coffee will only keep him awake. James, let your nephew know that he may relax his guardianship for a short respite—that you and nearly twenty armed men are on duty.”
“Nephew, I’m here now, and nearly twenty armed men are on duty, so take a short respite,” the duke said, winking.
The earl shook his head. “No. I promised Charles I’d remain vigilant until he returned. A promise is a promise.”
“And a muddled mind is useless,” Lady Victoria noted, clearly annoyed. “However, if you’ll not lie down, then let’s all go downstairs and allow Elizabeth to sleep, at least. I’ll have Miles bring coffee and tea and the rest of that lemon cake Della made yesterday. James, where did the girl go, anyway? Didn’t she come with you?”
“She did, but I think she’s sneaked off to visit Mrs. Wilsham and read through some of her recipe books,” the duke whispered, as he briefly opened the duchess’s bedroom door to look in on her. “Our girl’s sleeping peacefully. I like Tory’s idea. Let’s get some coffee, son.”
The trio left the apartment and gathered in the morning room on the main floor, where a fire burnt brightly and a pot of coffee awaited their pleasure on a small table. “Have there always been this many flowers displayed in here?” Aubrey asked as they entered.
“Of course not,” Victoria told him, checking the attached card on one of six baskets of pink roses. “I hope you are better. Always, Tolya,” she read aloud. “I suppose it’s a sign of breeding, though I’m not sure how the prince knew China Pink roses are her favourites.”
“I’m not sure I’d call six baskets of flowers a sign of breeding,” the earl complained. “Rather a sign of something more sinister. I really don’t like that prince at all!”
“He spoke highly of you,” the duke remarked as he poured a cup of strong coffee. “Romanov and the contessa stayed long after everyone else left, until nearly three,” he said, yawning. “They’d only just left when Lester came to fetch me. Strange man, that prince. And di Specchio’s somewhat odd as well, though beautiful.”
“Oh, my,” Victoria said softly, as she sat into the sofa to read that morning’s collection of newspapers. “This headline may explain where your cousin has been all night.”
“What does it say?” Aubrey asked, crossing the room to stand behind his aunt. She pointed to the front page:
LIFE IMITATES ART - BACKSTAGE MAYHEM AND MURDER FOLLOW RIPPER PLAY IN WESTMINSTER. BEAUTIFUL SINGER SLAIN.
“So, this is why Charles left so suddenly with Irving,” the earl remarked, peering over her shoulder. “What else does it say?” he asked.
Victoria handed the newspaper to Aubrey, and he scanned the article quickly. “Dunlap’s been called in, it seems. I’ll wager Charles is ready to spit nails.”
“As would any sane man,” the duke replied as he reached for the other morning editions. “Joe Dunlap lacks tact and skill, both which your cousin possesses in abundance. Now, what is this? Looks as if one of the Lyceum’s actors has already given an interview to Fred Best of The Star. How’d he manage to obtain such graphic detail without being noticed?” Drummond asked, turning the paper ‘round so his nephew could see the drawing that accompanied the article. “That sort of imagery ought to be outlawed in a paper read by families. These are little better than the lurid scratchings drawn by the artists at the Police Gazette.”
Victoria pushed the paper back towards her brother. “Please, James, I’ve not eaten yet.”
“Yes, well, this sort of imagery will guarantee that most of London skips breakfast. This actor’s name is Pike. Tommy Pike, though I’m not sure he’s actually an actor. Best calls him that, but the man refers to himself as a rigger.”
The earl looked over this uncle’s shoulder. “A rigger? Probably someone who works in the flyspace. I might have a contact there who could offer an opinion. Once Charles has returned, I’ll see if I might find him.”
Aubrey yawned again, barely keeping his eyes focused.
“Son, you kept watch over Beth all last night whilst Charles was out, so you must find an hour or two to recover your strength, especially as it may be necessary that someone go out tonight. See this article in the Gazette?”
Paul blinked, clearing his weary vision. “East End Terrors in Westminster,” he read aloud. “Another version of the Lyceum murder, I imagine.”
“Keep reading.”
Aubrey read the article out to his aunt:
“It were as big as a deer or bigger,” the man assured this reporter. “Bigger than a small horse even!”
“What?” I asked him, furiously taking notes about the many scratches and gashes upon the man’s forearms and face. “Was it this man we know as Ripper?”
“No,” the man replied, fear colouring his face a chalky white. “No man done this, sir. An’ it weren’t no dog like some is sayin’. I weren’t drinkin’, and I’m sober an’ right in my head. Ask my neighbours, if you want.”
“Then what was it, sir?” I asked. “What attacked you last night and left you looking as if you’ve been drawn through a meat grinder?”
The man stared, his light-coloured eyes round as saucers. “It were a wolf what walked on two legs.”
Charles Sinclair had not quite reached the door at Queen Anne House when his cousin threw the doors open wide and pulled him inside. “In here!” Aubrey whispered, motioning to Kepelheim. “Come in, Martin. I’ve been sent to keep watch for you both. We’re all meeting in the conservatory, just in case Beth awakens.”
It was half eight in the morning, and a tea trolley had been laid with sliced breakfast meats, cheeses, pastries, fruit, and fresh bread, along with tomato and apple juice, coffee, tea, and the last of Della’s lemon cake.
“Beth’s still sleeping,” the earl explained, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if she comes down at any moment. We’ve assembled the day’s press on that small table near the north doors.”
Martin Kepelheim entered, followed by the efficient butler, who carried several more, freshly pressed newspapers on a tray. “It looks like you’ve called an informal meeting,” the tailor remarked, heading straight for the cake.
“So we have,” the earl replied. “Miles, lock the main door into the house, will you? We don’t want the duchess to enter and overhear any of this, not after the night she’s had.”
“I’d like to go see her before we get started,” Charles said, standing. “I shan’t wake her, but I need to know she’s all right, and when I return, Paul, I want to know everything that happened. Everything.”
Five minutes and a circuitous walk later, Charles reached the master apartment. As he entered the parlour, he discovered Gertrude Trumper and Agatha MacGowan dusting down the walls and mantel. Their chatter stopped as soon as he entered the room.
“Ladies, might you do this another time?” Sinclair whispered. “I’m told the duchess is sleeping.”
“Sorry, sir,” the younger girl answered. “We figured she go’ up when the earl did. Seein’ as they slept together an’ all.”
Agatha MacGowan slapped her friend on the forearm, causing Trumper to yank back her hand, making a
face.
“Ow!” she cried, but Alicia entered, curtseying when she saw the marquess.
“Do forgive us, my lord,” the lady’s maid said politely, her face pinking. “I told these two to dust elsewhere until the duchess awoke, but they clearly chose to disregard those orders.”
“But we thought her ladyship were up already,” Gertie protested.
“No more lip from you,” Mallory chided, taking the girl’s hand. “So sorry, my lord. We’ll leave you alone now.”
“Alicia,” Charles asked, “please, were you here last night when the duchess had the nightmare?”
“I heard her scream, sir. Yes.”
“The whole ‘ouse ‘eard it!” the younger maid added.
“Yes, thank you, Gertrude,” Charles replied, doing his best to maintain his temper. He was exhausted, and he had a full day ahead, but he wanted to get at the truth. “And did she tell anyone about this dream?”
“One moment, sir,” the lady’s maid said. “Aggie, you and Gertie, come with me. I’ll be right back, sir.” Mallory removed the two maids to the hallway, where she set them to the task of dusting the balcony railings. In a moment, she’d returned, still blushing from embarrassment and irritation. “I hope you’ll pay no heed to their remarks, my lord. Gertrude is rather excitable, and sometimes she speaks before thinking.”
“Yes, I’d gathered that. The duchess, Alicia. Is she all right?”
“You’d have to ask Lord Aubrey and your aunt, sir. His lordship ordered us all out, when it was clear that the duchess was not ill, but rather nervous and worried.”
“Did the earl sleep in here last night? In her chamber, as that maid implied?” Sinclair’s anger was hard to hide, but he kept reminding himself that Paul would never deliberately compromise Elizabeth in any way.
“He did, sir, but only to protect her. It’s not unusual, not when the duchess is in danger or suffering nightmares—at least, that’s how it happened in Paris. Whenever his lordship visited, he would stay with the duchess, if she required watching, but he remained in a chair, of course, with all the doors to the bedchamber open wide, and the staff were always informed of it. And only with Lady Victoria’s permission. My lady’s aunt has always kept a very close eye on the duchess, and there’s never been anything improper. Nor was there last night, sir. The doors were all open, and Lady Victoria slept in the next room.”
Blood Rites Page 23
