“Yes, that is correct,” the tailor answered. “She is a Celtic counterpart for Diana, Sefkhet, Hecate, Selena...”
“Selena?” Charles asked. “Isn’t that the countess’s name?”
Paul showed surprise. “Is it? She didn’t tell me that, but then she spoke very little to me.”
The duke cleared his throat. “Your attentions were upon the stage last night, when our guests arrived, Nephew, but the contessa didn’t appear to mind. In fact, her eyes were set entirely upon your cousin. What was she saying to you, Charles? If I didn’t know better, I’d guess that she was trying to seduce you.”
“She was,” Sinclair replied soberly.
“Really?” the duke asked. “Son, that is not good. If those two are more than flesh and blood, then you can bet the farm there’s a reason why she wanted to attract your eye. Anatole clearly was trying to entrance Beth, and now you tell me this woman wanted to do the same to you? This does not bode well.”
Kepelheim pondered the last slice of cake as if weighing his options. “No, it does not, I fear. Especially, since only hours after a play about Ripper, we have a singer who is ripped apart, apparently by some wolfish creature.”
“Or creatures,” Sinclair corrected. “The boy wrote ‘wolf men’. Plural. And the flyman claimed he saw and heard three men.”
“Ah, yes. Wolves, then. Which does nothing to improve our theory, does it? But it makes a sort of sense. Why stop at one, when you can create an entire army of demons?” Martin cut the final slice in two and added one half to his plate.
“You think Redwing is creating an army?” Aubrey asked. “Charles, this may explain the autopsy findings on the women from Victoria Park.”
“What findings are those?” Drummond asked.
“Preliminary, at best, and inconclusive,” the detective replied. “Paul, I’d rather wait to discuss this when we have more information.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry,” the earl answered. “That reminds me, though. I’ll need to arrange a meeting with Simon Allerton.”
“My chemist?” the duke asked, pouring a glass of tomato juice.
“Yes, sir. I’d meant to speak with you about him, but I have some evidence that requires Allerton’s expertise. Is he in London?”
“No, I’ve sent him to Frankfurt to study a new technique with a chemist there. I’ll send him a wire and ask him to return at once.”
“Thank you, sir. Sorry, Martin. Go on, please.”
The tailor stirred two sugars into his coffee. “Not at all. And if Allerton requires an assistant, I’d be pleased to learn some of these new techniques. Now, regarding transformation and the Morrighan. She is an Irish goddess, so we might ask our Irish friends Stoker and Irving. Her modes of appearance are many and complex. Ravens, cows, horses—and, yes, wolves as well. She may also be one of a trio of sisters, typical of lunar deities. If true, then we must learn whether or not these so-called sisters are separate entities or three aspects of the same.” He sipped the coffee thoughtfully for a moment. “Charles, this countess’s interest in you is quite worrisome. Forgive me, but I have also noticed that our Dr. MacKey seemed quite taken with you. She made obvious sport of employing her feminine wiles with our Aubrey, but whenever she thought no one looking, I noticed her gaze would fall upon you in a most disturbing manner. Did she ever say anything to you?”
Sinclair poured a second cup of coffee. “Not anything I might construe as seduction, if that’s what you mean, Martin, but I did speak to her of Christ.”
“Really?” the duke asked. “Son, that’s very good of you. More than I’d have done.”
“I doubt that, sir, but she struck me as being more trapped than trapper. Paul’s trying to follow her trail, and so far we’ve been unable to locate her, but I think it important that we do. If we could turn Lorena MacKey to our cause, then...”
“It’s an admirable idea, Charles,” the earl answered, “but it is more likely that she’d turn you to hers. No, let me finish, Cousin. You are still new to all this, but we four have spent most of our lives battling demonic entities. Seldom do the humans who serve them betray their spirit masters, and Lorena is tightly coiled about hers. I do not think Trent her sovereign. No, I suspect MacKey reports to someone who is fully spirit. Someone fallen, but with great authority in the spirit realm. Trent is a hybrid, which means his power is limited by his humanity.”
Charles stood. “Then, it’s imperative that we find MacKey. I’m sorry to leave, my friends, but I’ve an appointment with a camera.”
“No, Charles,” the tailor begged, taking to his feet. “Allow me to postpone it for you. You’re pale as milk!”
“Then, my face will require less lighting,” the marquess argued. “I’ll rest for a few hours this afternoon. Do you all really think this is the first time I’ve gone without sleep? I’ve lost count of the wakeful nights that mounted up after Amelia left me. And when bodies began to choke the streets of the east last spring, hardly any of us slept more than a few hours at a time. I’ll be fine. I’ll just go upstairs and splash water on my face and then change. Martin, will you be riding to Haimsbury House or walking?”
“Riding,” the tailor answered, exchanging worried glances with the others. “I have a few, last minute additions to your wardrobe, so I’ll see if one of Miles’s footmen might help me transport them.”
Charles headed for the door. “It’s nearly ten now,” he said, his eyes on the watch he’d purchased in Scotland. Seeing Elizabeth’s engraved message brought him the strength he needed. “I have lunch with Sir Charles Warren at one. Will we be finished in time?”
“Oh, yes. The session won’t go past twelve, I shouldn’t think,” Kepelheim replied. “I’ll gather up your accoutrements, friend Charles. Meet you there?”
“Yes. Thank you, Martin.”
“You’re lunching with Warren today?” the duke asked, standing. “He’s a curious fellow. Ask him about his time in Syria. I wonder, has your meeting anything to do with the rumours that he’s about to step down as commissioner?”
“I’ve heard no such rumours, Uncle, but if true, then it’s a secret to everyone at the Yard,” Sinclair replied. “Are we still hosting a meeting tonight?”
“We are, and nearly everyone in the London group will be present,” the duke said. “Now, go put on your best smile. Remember, this portrait will probably find its way to Beth’s nightstand. She’s very sentimental about such things.”
“That makes it all worthwhile, Uncle. See you in a few minutes, Martin.”
Sinclair left the morning room and headed into the foyer, followed closely by his aunt.
“I do wish you’d sleep for a few hours, Charles. You look positively done in!” she implored.
He kissed his aunt’s cheek. “You’re sweet to notice, and I promise to sleep this afternoon, Tory. For now, I must practise my smile for Mr. Blackwood’s camera.”
“Well, when it’s done, you’ll be glad of it,” she assured him. “Martin’s been talking of little else for days, I’m told. He has an entire wardrobe picked out for you, though with your heroic personality, I’m sure there’s nothing too dandyish.”
“Dandyish?” Charles sighed. “Some days I long to be nothing more than a detective.”
Meg Hansen had just finished dressing for the day when her best girl knocked. “It’s Lisette, Mrs. Hansen. Might I have a word?”
The madam tied the satin belt around her robe and opened the door to the boudoir. “I hope this is important,” she complained. “I was just about to take a bath.”
“It won’t take a moment, Missus. Might I come in?”
“Yes, of course,” Hansen said, allowing the girl to enter. The spacious room was the largest bedchamber in the entire hotel, wallpapered in bright flowers of lavender and scarlet. Damask drapery framed each of four windows, and beyond their panes, the brisk traders of Columbi
a Road and Birdcage Walk shouted calls of ‘Fresh fish!’, ‘Love birds, five an’ six!’, and ‘Buttered taters, two fer the price o’ one!’.
On the opposite side of Columbia, at number 12, an elegant brougham and matched pair sat, apparently waiting for the coach’s owner.
“Who’s that over at Mr. Sinclair’s old place?” the whoremonger asked. “Is that one of the Haimsbury coaches?”
“It is, Missus,” the prostitute replied. Lisette Tinsley had flaming red hair and bright blue eyes, and her round figure made her a house favourite. “The driver stopped by and asked if we seen anyone lurkin’ ‘bout last week. Seems Mr. Sinclair’s been broke into.”
Hansen feigned surprise. “Really? Now, that is distressing. Is the driver still here?”
“Downstairs, ma’am. Says he’d like ta interview all us girls.”
“I imagine he would,” she said knowingly. “Is he a handsome man? Might he be one of Sinclair’s policemen?”
“Don’t know, Missus, but he’s right nice. Real big man.”
“Well, then, tell this big man that I’ll be down presently. Oh, Lisette. Did our special guest settle in all right?”
“You mean Sir William, ma’am? He come in ‘bout four this mornin’, all wore out, though he still took up wif Ida. She’s still in there wif ‘im, I reckon. Shall I knock?”
“No, do not disturb him. Have tea served to our visitor, will you? I shan’t be long.”
Lisette curtseyed and shut the door. Margaret Danielle Hansen turned to her dressing table mirror and gazed at the haggard skin of her ageing face. “He promised me youth,” she whispered to herself. “If he lies, then I go to hell for nothing. But if he tells the truth, then... Well, let’s just hope he’s telling the truth,” she told herself as she opened her box of toiletries. Powder, rouge, and perfumes made the woman, but nothing turned back the clock.
Except perhaps, magic. But the price of such magic was steep, indeed. Hellishly steep.
A price that took all of eternity to pay.
Chapter Fifteen
At a quarter past ten, Charles Sinclair emerged from Connor Stuart’s old bedchamber, dressed in a beautifully tailored, merino wool morning coat and matching trousers, fabricated in a subtle check of light blue thread over a silver field. He’d chosen a simple, white silk shirt and Stanley collar, paisley print waistcoat, accented by a blue and silver, striped tie. The Sir John Bennett watch he’d bought in Glasgow dangled at the waistcoat’s front, secured by a fine, gold chain and crested watch fob.
Several of the upstairs maids stopped and curtseyed as he passed them on the stair, and Agatha MacGowan blushed sweetly, when the marquess offered her a smile in return.
“Hello again, Aggie. I want to apologise for my earlier temper. I hope you understand, I’m a trifle weary this morning. Too much to do and far too little sleep.”
“You mustn’t apologise, my lord,” she said bashfully. “Not ta me. And I’d like ta explain ‘bout Gertie. She means well, but all this sort o’ life, well it’s all new ta her, sir. She’s got no family. Grew up in a workhouse over in Hackney Wick, and this is her first time in service. She’s still learnin’ what’s appropriate, if you get my meanin’.”
“I took no offence, Aggie, but you might warn your friend about gossip. There are nearly forty people living and working in this house, and though it’s a very large home, it’s easy to misunderstand circumstances. And just as service is new to Gertie, London is a new adventure for you and Ada MacKenzie. I hope the two of you are settling in well,” he said, as they walked along the hallway. “Is Ada feeling better today?”
“Still feverish, sir. She and two other maids is all sick, but Lady Victoria’s nurse and Mrs. Meyer is takin’ care of ‘em. Keepin’ ‘em all three huddled together in a little bedroom near ta the kitchens, just in case it’s catchin’.”
“A good idea. Have you any symptoms?”
“No, sir. I’m right as rain, my lord,” she replied, surprised that he’d taken the time to ask. “In fact, we all had last night off, sir, so after you and the duchess left for the theatre, a few of us took in a show. Me an’ Gertie sat with Mr. Lester, the first footman. The real tall one with the dark hair and freckles. He’s Irish, but still quite nice.”
“Yes, I know him. He’s kin to a Lester who works at Drummond House, I believe. Which show did you see?”
Her eyes lit up. “A magic show over in Piccadilly at a place called Egyptian Hall. It were somethin’ jolly remarkable!”
“Magic, you say?” Sinclair asked as they reached the top of the servants’ staircase. “Card tricks?”
“No, sir. This feller reads folks’ minds, and there were a woman there what predicted the future and summoned up ghosts! Six of ‘em! Sittin’ right there wif her, inside somethin’ she called a spirit cabinet. You could see right through ‘em, sir. Then this other fella, he sawed a woman in two. It were pretty awful, if ya ask me, bu’ Gert seemed ta like it.”
“Ugh,” he answered with a grimace. “I’ve seen enough of the real thing, thank you, but I’m glad you’re enjoying life here. You say the theatre is called Egyptian Hall?”
“Yes, sir. Oh, and I nearly forgot! I seen a woman there that I recognised, sir. She’d done a dye job on her hair, but I know it were her.”
“Who’s that? Another maid?”
Aggie shook her head. “No, sir. It were that lady doctor. The one from the castle.”
Charles stared at the slender housemaid, his eyes rounding as the realisation hit home. “Do you mean Lorena MacKey?”
“Aye, sir. I’m sure of it. I got a good memory for faces, and I’d stake my life that it were her.”
Lorena MacKey! The very woman he and Paul had been trying to trace for over a fortnight!
“Aggie, was this woman sitting in the audience?”
“No, sir. She works there, I think, which don’t make no sense at all, as she’s a doctor, ain’t she? I seen her servin’ a drink to a fella, and then she sat down with him. Seemed real strange. I just thought I ought ta tell ya, sir.”
“I’m very glad you did. Thank you. I’ll see what I can discover about her, but tell no one else, all right? So, you say the sick maids are improving?”
“A bit, sir. One’s Sally Lynch. She serves downstairs, and the other’s Kitty Gillespie. She’s been poorly since last night.”
“But you’re feeling all right?” he asked, descending the servant stairs beside the young maid.
“Yes, sir. Thank you for askin’, my lord. You’ve always been real nice.”
“That’s kind of you to say, Aggie, and I pray your good health continues. I understand Dr. Price will be here by midday, so be sure to report anything out of the ordinary to him. Now, I must be off to have my picture taken. Have a pleasant day!”
MacGowan turned left at the bottom of the steps to fetch a water pale from a broom closet, but Sinclair turned right towards the kitchens. As he strode into the warm space, he surprised two young cook’s assistants, who were just removing a batch of biscuits from one of the large ovens.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said politely. “How are you this morning?”
The younger of the kitchen maids giggled. “Fine, my lord. Care for a chocolate biscuit? Just baked, sir.”
“I’d better not,” he replied with a grin. “Mr. Kepelheim will complain, if I arrive with crumbs on my new waistcoat, but save me some for later, will you? Has either of you seen Mrs. Wilsham this morning?”
“She said she was goin’ to Haimsbury House, sir,” the older girl told him. “About an hour past. Said she wanted ta see the gardens and then mayhap take a look at her new apartment. Should we have stopped her, sir?”
“No, no. It’s fine. But if you see her again, please, tell her I asked about her, will you? I want Mrs. Wilsham to settle into our routine as a member of the family, so anything you can
do to assist in that regard is very much appreciated.”
Charles pushed on through the kitchen complex and left by way of a large door that opened onto the lower tier of the east gardens. There was a steep incline here that had been tamed with a flight of seventeen brick steps, and he climbed up each, whistling an old Scottish hymn as he went, content that Elizabeth loved him and grateful that she had survived the terrors of the previous night, unharmed. It had rained lightly overnight, but the morning sun had already warmed the air into an imitation of early spring. Despite the dying vegetation all around, greenbottle flies buzzed lazily, and a few straggling honeybees collected the last bits of pollen remaining on the faded summer blossoms.
“Tis a lovely day,” a man’s voice spoke as the marquess neared the top of the steps. The sound arose from somewhere beyond the corner of a tall, hawthorn hedge. Charles expected to meet the voice’s owner as his feet stepped onto the gravel path, but he saw no one. Assuming he’d overheard a workman speaking to a fellow labourer, he continued along the path towards the stables and the Haimsbury gate beyond.
“However, winter is not far off,” the voice spoke again, but this time it sounded as if it originated from behind him, so Charles turned, again finding no one. His strides grew shorter, and the marquess slowed, expecting the voice to speak again, which it did. This time from his elbow.
“She really does love pink roses.”
Charles stopped, his bootheels biting into the fine gravel as he spun to his right. There, a very tall young man stood watching him. He wore elegantly made clothing, certainly expensive, that fit him like a glove. He was at least two inches taller than Sinclair, and his raven hair gleamed in the morning sun. The man’s eyes were shaped like perfect almonds, lifted at each corner, and the irises shone with an icy blue hue. The pupils were strangely shaped—ovals rather than circles, and they elongated vertically, like those of a cat.
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