Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  The detective sat, and a lean waiter in uniform arrived to take their drink orders. “Just water for me,” the marquess said. Then noticing Warren’s surprise, Sinclair explained, “I have a police matter to take care of this afternoon, Commissioner, so I need to keep a clear head. Once done, I plan to go home and sleep. A long night has continued with a long day.”

  “Ah, yes, Joe Dunlap told me you were at the Lyceum last night.”

  The mention of the A-Division superintendent raked against Sinclair’s eardrums like nails on a chalkboard.

  “Dunlap! Commissioner, if that man has filed a complaint with you, allow me to explain. I was only involved at the Lyceum because the proprietor brought me there. Mr. Irving and I had spent the evening at my uncle’s home, and he hoped my experience with the Ripper murders might help shine light on that poor girl’s demise.”

  “And did it?” the commissioner asked.

  “Not really. As I’m sure Dunlap mentioned, it’s his case, and he was loathe to let me anywhere near it, once he and his team arrived.”

  Warren smiled patiently. “I’m sure that’s true, Charles, but I have no problem with your being involved. If this girl is Ripper, then it’s actually H-Division’s case, which means Joe will have to allow you in. Sure you wouldn’t like a whisky?”

  “No, thank you, sir. Trust me when I tell you that I shall have ample opportunity for spirits later, when my Uncle James joins us for supper.”

  The commissioner laughed, wrinkles crowfooting at the corners of his bright eyes. “Drummond does love his Scotch! Not surprising as his family distills it. Congratulations, by the way. Not only a marquess, but an engagement, as well. Capital news, I say! Calls for a celebration.” He leaned in close, his hands on the table. “Charles, just so you know, I was not privileged to any inside information regarding your true heritage. I’m told Morehouse knew something about it, but I’ve been outside that loop.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your candour,” Sinclair replied, placing a white linen serviette across his lap. “Honestly, it’s been one lovely surprise after another for me this past month. Not the least of which is becoming engaged. Elizabeth has already made me the happiest of all men, and we’re not yet married.”

  “Yes, I can see that she has. You know, I always suspected there was more to you than meets the proverbial eye. Damned, fine detective! That’s what you are. Titles aside, you’re a fine man, Charles.”

  Sinclair smiled. “Thank you, sir. Coming from you, that means a great deal. You asked to see me. Is it about my inheritance or the Ripper investigation? Should I have brought my files?”

  Warren swiped at his waxed moustache, clearing his throat. “No, of course not. But, yes, it does connect to Ripper. I know you’re busy, so I’ll get to the point. This Ripper business is much worse than anyone dares to imagine. For one thing, from the reports crossing my desk, it’s clear that the number of murders is far higher than most realise. I’m not sure how you’ve managed it, but the papers report only a fraction of the true crimes.”

  Sinclair’s voice dropped to a whisper. “May we speak of this in private, sir? I’d prefer those same newspapers remain ignorant of the breadth of this man’s true evils.”

  “Ah, yes, I understand. I’ve lost count of the number of visits I’ve received from T. P. O’Connor and his ilk. The Home Office sends a runner to my office twice daily, asking for updates on Ripper, and I despair of anything new to offer. If this girl at the Lyceum is his work, then it’s very bad news indeed. Mutilated street women in the east is one thing, but such a crime in the west is unthinkable!”

  The detective sighed as the attendant brought their drinks. After waiting until the lad departed, Sinclair replied, his voice low. “Commissioner, if you imply that the lives of Westminster citizens are any more precious than those of Whitechapel prostitutes, then I beg to differ with you. Whilst I consider one such Westminster citizen first and foremost in my heart, I believe even Elizabeth would agree that all human life is precious, no matter whose it might be.”

  “Even that of this Ripper?” Warren asked. “If indeed he is a human at all.”

  Charles paused, digesting the odd remark. “Am I to take that last part literally, sir?”

  Forcing a laugh, the commissioner shook his head. “Just ignore me. It’s already a long day and getting longer.”

  “Sir, if I told you that I found the remark insightful, what would you say?” the marquess asked.

  Warren tipped back the Chablis, swallowing half the glass before dabbing at his mouth with the serviette. “You’re a different man,” he remarked. “Much altered from the logical mathematician I first met in ’86. Look, Charles, I think you’ll find that I have also altered over the past two years.” He grew silent for a moment, his eyes on a table near the west wall. “Now, I wonder how it is those two are meeting?”

  Sinclair glanced ‘round at the men: two reporters scribbling into notebooks, scarcely speaking a word to one another. “Fred Best and David Goss, working together? Now that’s a frightening thought. Has Goss jumped from John Walter’s sinking ship?”

  “Not that I’m aware,” Warren replied.

  “Then he’s still with the Times?”

  “So far as I know, he is, which may mean that Best hopes to move to a more prestigious publication. Given the paper’s declining circulation figures, it’s likely that Walter’s son already looks for ways to make the business more profitable, and adding Best’s colourful prose might just be the ticket.”

  “Arthur Walter intends to make changes at the Times? Despite the fact that his father still runs it?” Sinclair asked.

  “Ruins it is more like it, or so says young Arthur Walter. The son sees men such as Best as the future of journalism.”

  “That’s rather depressing,” Sinclair muttered.

  “Rightly said,” Warren agreed. “Charles, were you aware that Best and Goss journeyed to America together last year? Chicago. Not sure what they were up to there, but I very much doubt it was sightseeing. My information says that whilst there, the two men met Michael O’Brien and Harry Dam and formed a mutually beneficial friendship.”

  “Which explains O’Brien’s presence at The Star. He’s in Reid’s lockup just now.”

  “No longer,” Warren replied matter-of-factly. Charles started to object, but his superior preempted the response. “Now, before your ire rises, Superintendent, bear in mind that, despite what the press might claim, I do not command the Metropolitan Police in a political vacuum.”

  “What the devil does that mean?” Charles snapped. “Are you saying that political pressure is responsible for releasing a man who admits to keeping company with Sir William Trent? A man who, at the very least, should face prosecution for obstruction, but who may actually be involved in one or more of the murders? I demand to know who ordered his release!”

  Sinclair’s raised voice echoed throughout the elegant restaurant, and both Goss and Best stopped writing, their faces turned in the direction of Sinclair’s table.

  “Do calm yourself, Superintendent. I am not your enemy. It is not for me to reveal the person or persons behind the order, but suffice it to say that the request came from high up. Very high.” Warren paused, his eyes on the two reporters. “For now, I shall give you this,” he whispered, passing a large envelope to the marquess. “Do not look at the information here, Lord Haimsbury. Read it only when you are certain you are completely alone, and then pass it to the duke and the other members of the circle.”

  Sinclair stared, unblinking. “You know about the circle?”

  “I do, and you will understand my situation—my predicament, if you will—once you’ve read the contents. And when you do, I hope you’ll come see me again, but not in public. Visit me at my home.” Sitting back, the commissioner’s voice rose in volume. “And despite those efforts, I fear my hands are tied. I do hope you unders
tand, Lord Haimsbury. I appreciate your anger, but it is how our world works, I fear.”

  Charles blinked, trying to sort through the odd response. “Really, sir, I...” he began, but Warren signalled for a waiter.

  “Now, now. Enough shop talk. As I’ve asked you here to celebrate your inheritance and engagement, then what say you and I indulge in the superb French cuisine Mr. Nicols and his chefs produce, eh?”

  The detective felt as if he’d been tossed into a choppy sea whilst standing on the deck of a small fishing trawler, for the man’s switch in mood was unfathomable. “Sir?” he asked, trying to follow the strangely twisting conversation.

  “Well, if it isn’t our hard-working proprietor! Good to see you, Nicols,” Warren gushed as he stood to shake hands with a small man in a beautifully tailored suit of silver blue. “Daniel, you remember our rather illustrious detective superintendent, don’t you? No longer St. Clair, of course. It’s Sinclair now, as anyone who reads must surely know. Marquess of Haimsbury. And he’s engaged to the fairest damsel in all our land.”

  Charles did his best to smile. “Mr. Nicols,” he muttered.

  The restauranteur reached out and pumped Sinclair’s arm, a wide grin pasted across his cherubic face. “So good to have you here, my lord! Anything on the menu; it is on the house! Anything! Scallops? Lobster? Lamb? Steak au poivre? Châteaubriand? My chef will happily make anything to order as well. What pleases you today, Lord Haimsbury?”

  “That’s quite generous of you, Mr. Nicols, but..”

  “Daniel. Sir, please, I insist you call me Daniel. Better yet, Danny!” he added excitedly.

  Charles noticed that the two reporters had taken to their feet, apparently believing anything substantive had already occurred. “Danny it is then,” he said. “Thank you. You say you have lamb?”

  “Oui! Of course! Gigot d’Agneau Pleurer. The lamb is roasted over sliced potatoes, allowing the succulent juices to drip and season the rack of potatoes beneath. So good!” he said, smacking his fingers with his lips. “We add cream and Gruyère cheese and secret seasonings, which my wife has made me promise never to divulge. May I suggest a Bordeaux to compliment? You English would call it a claret, of course. We have a Château Latour ’65 from the private reserve. I have saved it for a special occasion. May I bring it to you?”

  “Your private reserve? Mr. Nicols—I mean, Danny—you needn’t go to all that expense...”

  “But it is my pleasure, my lord!” the proprietor sang out. “Please. I am honoured that you are here. All the world talks of your remarkable return from the grave, and of your engagement to the beautiful duchess. And perhaps, if you and your new bride require someone to cater a special occasion, you will think of our services, no?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure we will. Very well. The lamb sounds delicious—and thank you.”

  Warren laughed, his eyes also following the departing reporters. “I’ll have the same, Danny. And I’ll share the marquess’s bottle of Latour, if that’s all right. As he’s off to work in a short while, I doubt Charles will consume the entire bottle.”

  “One glass will suffice, thank you,” Sinclair replied.

  As the two men ate, no more was said regarding the commissioner’s curious behaviour nor of the envelope now secreted within Sinclair’s overcoat pocket. By Thursday evening, the detective would recall this conversation, which by then, would have become crystal clear.

  3:03 pm – The ‘Square Mile’, City of London

  No. 33 Wormwood sat at a crossroad, forming a corner with Old Broad, just one block west of All Hallows Church. The building appeared new, its white limestone scrubbed and polished and not a single smudge of the city’s everpresent soot. Charles had taken a coach from Queen Anne when he left the mansion, and as his driver parked, he noticed a similarly marked brougham waiting in front of All Hallows. Patrick ‘Paddy’ Powers, the chief groom for Queen Anne, had substituted for Sinclair’s usual driver, Haimish Granger, whilst the burly Granger followed orders at 12 Columbia Road. Powers jumped down from the driver’s seat and opened the door for the marquess.

  “Looks like Lord Aubrey beat us, my lord,” he said. “Shall I wait here, or would you prefer accompaniment?” he asked, sliding his suit coat to one side and revealing a new leather holster with its Webley ‘Bulldog’ partner gleaming within.

  “Glad to see you’re sporting such finery, Mr. Powers. For now, you and Trask stay with the coaches. My cousin and I are fairly good shots if required, and I know Aubrey is always armed.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Paul walked up to the carriage, his eyes on the impressive building. “This just went up last year. Galton told me that it cost nearly half a million pounds to build. One wonders why.”

  “Half a million pounds? A million?” Charles asked. “Are the bricks mortared with gold?”

  “Possibly, or perhaps the builder used the extra to tunnel beneath the street in hopes of finding silver inside the Argentinian Consulate,” Aubrey suggested. “In fact, this entire section of the city is rife with consulates from Denmark, Switzerland, Austria, France, just about any country that wishes to communicate daily with prominent bankers and members of the stock exchange. This Merriweather is smart. I’m sure property makes for an easy means of hiding assets.”

  “For example?” Sinclair asked as they climbed the broad, limestone steps to the main entry.

  “Unscrupulous men are ever on the lookout for a temporary place to obscure funds obtained illegally, but these same men often require lodgings for themselves, or friends, or goods. The warehouses of the east lie just through that gate, and the rail line is two blocks to the north. Banks abound on nearly every block inside the square mile, and Whitechapel’s plentiful entertainments may be found within a ten-minute walk. I’d say this is a perfect location for Redwing.”

  They entered the building, and a security guard met them. He wore a single action, Colt revolver, snugged within the tooled leather of a belted holster.

  “What can I do for you gents?” he asked in a western American accent.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Merriweather,” Charles replied, showing his CID warrant card.

  “Metropolitan Police? That card don’t work inside the city, and you know it. B’sides, ain’t nobody here today,” the man grunted.

  “No one works today? A Wednesday? That is remarkable!” Sinclair exclaimed. “And if we wanted to purchase property, then I imagine your employer would prefer we consult with another estate agent?”

  “Cain’t rightly say. Like I said, ain’t nobody here. Move along, gents, or else prepare for a big load o’ hurt.”

  Aubrey smiled. “Pinkerton or Rangers?”

  The middle-aged man’s grey eyes narrowed. “Huh?”

  “Pinkerton Agency or Texas Rangers?”

  “Rangers,” he answered warily. “How come? Do I know you?”

  “I doubt it, but I’ve probably worked with many of your colleagues,” the earl replied. “Bob Kinghorn? Bill McDonald? They operated out of Laredo for a time, but McDonald had moved back north to Quanah last time he wrote.”

  “Yeah, I know them men. How’s a Limey like you know ‘em?” the American asked suspiciously.

  “I rode with both for a few months in ’81, on special deputation from Her Majesty’s government,” Aubrey replied as he reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a warrant. The card was enclosed within the worn leather of a folded booklet, three inches across. “You’ll see that there is no expiration on this warrant card, which means that I am still a Ranger. Do you also notice the rank listed?”

  The American stared, and one could almost hear the gears grinding within his head. “Colonel Stuart, sir,” he said at last, saluting. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “That’s more like it, Ranger. My friend and I need to speak with Merriweather immediately. Either he will see us willingly,
or we force a visit upon him—and he does not want that. So very painful, if not deadly. It is his choice.”

  Again, the ranger pondered the situation, deciding at last that any loyalty to his current employer—given the circumstances—was, perhaps, short-sighted. “This way, Colonel Stuart. So, you’re workin’ with the London cops now. That right, sir?

  “For the moment,” the earl replied as the cousins followed behind the ranger, passing through a series of hallways and up a wide flight of marble stairs. “I usually work with Her Majesty’s Intelligence Corps, which is how I came to be in Texas. Long story, but it all turned out well. I’d prefer to keep our business with Mr. Merriweather as quiet as possible, but if Sir Clive happens to stop by, please, send him up.”

  “Sir Clive Urquhart, ya mean?” the ranger innocently asked. “He’s already here, sir. In with Mr. Merriweather. Look, this ain’t gonna get ugly, is it? I’m just a hired gun. I got no dog in this particular hunt.”

  “Good,” Aubrey replied. “Then you’re less likely to find yourself on the wrong end of a revolver. What’s your name?”

  “Crenshaw, sir. Tom Crenshaw. And it’s Captain, sir.”

  “Sorry, Captain. I should have been a little less presumptive. It’s a beautiful day, and there’s a smashing pub up on Liverpool, next to the terminus.” He handed the man a fifty-pound note. “Have a pint on me.”

  Crenshaw considered his options and then pointed to a tall, eight paneled door, painted red. “In there, sir. He ain’t got a secretary or nothin’. Merriweather don’t like havin’ too many folks knowin’ his business.”

  “A cautious man,” Sinclair said.

  “That’s right, sir. Look, I ain’t gonna have a job when this is done, but if there’s anythin’ you need, Colonel, you just let me know.”

  Aubrey handed the ranger his own calling card. “If you find yourself out of work, Crenshaw, come see me at the War Office. I can always use a man like you.”

  The ranger returned down the stairs and left through the side entry. Now alone, Charles smiled at his cousin. “Colonel Stuart?”