Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “My cousin’s experiences grow more and more interesting with each passing day,” Sinclair noted. “Was this in ’81?”

  Galton nodded. “It was. How did you guess?”

  “Something Paul mentioned today,” the detective answered. “Or rather Colonel Stuart told me about it.”

  Sir Thomas laughed. “Ah, yes, that. It’s a genuine rank, you know. Our Aubrey holds similar ranks in many countries. But I’m here to explain about Sir Clive Urquhart. It’s why I came with Edmund. It was I, who ordered his release.”

  Sinclair sat forward, his dark brows high. “Why would you do this?”

  “Circle matters and a plan unknown to Lord Aubrey, ordered by your uncle. The duke wants Urquhart to panic and report back to his handlers. I’ve placed men to follow his every movement and keep watch on all his houses. The builder keeps two apartments in the city, in addition to that garish mansion on Grosvenor Square. He is also part-owner of a brothel familiar to you, sir.”

  “Familiar to me? I do not frequent brothels, Sir Thomas.”

  “No, Lord Haimsbury, I know that you do not. However, this one sits directly across from your home on Columbia Road. We think Urquhart might go there, so we’ve placed one of our men inside the house.”

  “As a prostitute? I hope he looks good in a dress,” the marquess quipped.

  “No, of course, not,” Galton explained, smiling. “He’s posing as a resident customer. One who has plenty of coin and too much time on his hands, so he’s rented a room there for amusement. I know you must be angry that we’ve arranged Sir Clive’s release, but we need to know the identities of every man and woman inside that hellish group. Urquhart’s not Ripper. We’re sure of that, and he probably doesn’t even know his identity, but Redwing is responsible for the murders. We’re convinced of it.”

  “And the threats against the duchess? This ‘Saucy Jack’ person? Do you know his identity?”

  “No, of course not, else we’d have removed him as a threat after that first letter, sir. We have never and will never intentionally place the duchess in harm’s way, Lord Haimsbury. Never.”

  Charles turned to stare out the windows, recalling his first visit with the duchess the previous month. “We must not fail her, Thomas. I cannot fail her.” He took a deep breath and then looked at Reid. “Wormwood,” he whispered to himself. “Wormwood!” Rising to his feet, Charles pulled the bell rope, and then turned towards his friends. “Are you staying for the meeting?”

  Both nodded. “I’ll need to be away by eleven, if that’s all right,” Reid said. “Emily wants me home before a new day begins. She’s not seen much of me lately.”

  “Yes, I imagine that’s true of all who work on the Ripper case,” Charles responded. “I’m sure James will be glad to conclude by then, but leave early if you must.”

  The doors opened, and John Miles entered. “You rang, my lord?”

  “Miles, is our tailor about?”

  “He is, sir. In the music room. Mr. Kepelheim has been playing through some of the music a composer sent to the duchess today. A Señor Puccini, I believe. The duchess and Lady Adele have only just joined him. Shall I fetch him, sir?”

  “Yes, please, but ask him to say,” he began, trying to think of some story that Beth would not question. “Tell him... Tell him that I require his advice on what to wear tomorrow for my photography session. It’s a lie, but I don’t wish to alarm the duchess.”

  “Very good, sir,” Miles said, leaving to fulfill the request.

  Thomas Galton smiled. “You’ve learnt a great deal about our duchess’s curiosity in a very short time, sir. You’re right to use caution. Elizabeth is highly intelligent, and she instinctively tries to aid the circle in our endeavours, even when it runs contrary to her own safety and wellbeing.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen that curiosity and intelligence in action many times already, and generally, I’m happy to seek her opinion,” Charles replied, “however, my fiancée’s physical condition is somewhat delicate just now. She is weary and prone to fainting, so I prefer she remain oblivious to our pursuits. She worries, you know.”

  “It’s been my experience that the duchess requires distraction, sir,” Galton suggested. “A task to occupy her mind and direct her energies. This hospital the earl mentioned to me might provide ample service to that end. With your permission, I could begin searching for a suitable location.”

  “Would you?” Sinclair asked, relieved by the idea. “Honestly, I’ve no time, but it is a project near and dear to our duchess’s heart. Might one of your contacts—a trustworthy fellow, of course—know of such a place? Perhaps a warehouse or factory, preferably in a safer section of the quarter?”

  “I have two reliable men who could take up that commission, Lord Haimsbury. Prescott and Sykes. I’ll put them on it right away,” he said as the library doors opened to admit the tailor.

  “Our duchess cast several suspicious glances my way as I left,” Kepelheim whispered, shutting the doors. “But Mary Wilsham took care of that. Brilliant woman! She asked Her Grace to translate a small book she’d discovered whilst visiting the Haimsbury library. A collection of German fairy tales with many lovely watercolour illustrations, and now Elizabeth is reading them to Della and our ingenious Mrs. Wilsham,” he boasted. “Your former housekeeper is an absolute gem, Charles, and I am delighted that she’s joined our little family. Now, how might I serve? I presume your wardrobe tale was fabrication—ah, a play on words! And I hadn’t even intended it.”

  Sinclair smiled as his loquacious friend joined the trio at the table. “Wormwood,” he said simply.

  Kepelheim stared for a moment. “Ah, now, why does that ring an ominous bell? I have heard that word mentioned only recently. Oh, wait. The missive from that Jack fellow. Didn’t he write about wormwood in his foul letter?”

  “He did,” the marquess replied. “Do you still have it? I’d thought it inside my coat pocket, but for some reason, I only have the outer envelope.”

  Martin reached into the ample pockets of his suit coat and withdrew the pages. “I managed to steal them back, when you weren’t looking. I was afraid our duchess might discover them. You’ve a habit of leaving your jacket lying upon a chair in her parlour, you know. Now, let’s see. Wormwood is also the address of this Merriweather, of course. Did you speak with him?”

  “I arrested him, actually, but he’s since slipped Reid’s net. Lewis Merriweather now enjoys the lesser confines of a hospital bed at St. Mary’s.”

  Kepelheim showed no surprise. “I see. A heart attack?”

  “Yes. How did you know?” Sinclair asked, somewhat mystified.

  “He’s famous for them,” Martin explained, smiling as he twirled his silvery moustache. “Doctors seldom catch onto his antics, but the estate agent has often used his heart as a negotiation tactic. One day, though, it may prove to be real, so caution is probably best. Oh, here is the wormwood reference. Shall I read it aloud?”

  “Yes, please,” Sinclair answered.

  “Very well,” Kepelheim said, holding the pages in his right hand. “All of it? Or just the bit with the riddle?”

  “I think the riddle suffices, Martin. We’ll need to put our minds together to decipher it.”

  “Very well. Here, then, is Jack’s hideous rhyme: ‘Find the glass, the shining one, numbered ‘mongst its brothers near, keyless doorway to the dawn, crying child awakens fear. Dying dreams of princes be, to subtle asp and owls arise, Keepers howl and Watchers beam, as Wormwood’s poison seeks its prize.’ I wonder, might ‘wormwood’s poison’ refer to the letter itself? It was posted from 33 Wormwood, and it clearly affected our duchess adversely.”

  “But not like a poison would,” Galton said. “I fear there’s much more to the threat. The first is an instruction. We must ‘find the glass’,” he quoted. “A drinking glass?”

  Charles stood, pacing as he
pondered the riddle. “Not a drinking glass, or rather I don’t believe it is. Poison might imply a vessel of some kind, but this phrase, ‘shining one’. I wonder, might glass be a reference to a mirror?”

  The doors to the library opened, and Paul Stuart entered quietly. “Are we starting early?” he asked as he joined the three men near the windows. “I just learnt about Urquhart and Merriweather, Charles. I know it rankles, but Thomas did the right thing with regard to the builder. I’ve spoken with Risling, and he’s placed three men to keep watch on Urquhart’s movements. For the present, the ferret has gone to ground. What’s that? Not another horrid note to Beth, I hope!” he exclaimed, pointing towards the pages in Kepelheim’s hand.

  “The same one, actually,” Charles answered. “We’re trying to solve the riddle.”

  The earl reached out and took the letter. “May I?” The tailor released them, and Aubrey sat down next to Reid, scanning through the words. “Shining one. A mirror?”

  “So our marquess has just suggested,” Kepelheim answered. “Oh, but wait. That phrase has a second meaning, and it is a spiritual one. How well do you know your Bible, Charles?”

  Sinclair paused before the fireplace. “Fairly well. My aunt and uncle had me memorise entire passages as a boy, and even at Harrow, we were encouraged to study it. Why?”

  “Eden,” Kepelheim said simply. “When Ed McPherson arrives later, he can probably tell you much more, but the tempter in the garden was not a snake. That is a simplification, perhaps even an obfuscation of his true nature. No, he was a creature called the Nachash.”

  “The what?” Charles asked. “I don’t recall any name like that in the Bible.”

  “I’m sure the duchess has a copy in here,” the tailor said, rolling a tall ladder towards the religion section of the library’s many shelves. He climbed up two rungs and stretched to retrieve an old, leather-bound Torah and a copy of the 1599 Geneva translation of the Bible. “Ah, yes, as I suspected. Our dear lady has many sacred texts, but these will make our point. Genesis chapter three, verse one,” he said, opening the Geneva edition. “‘Now, the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field,’” he read aloud. “Now, the same in the original language,” he continued, opening the Torah. “Do you read Hebrew, by any chance, Charles?”

  “No,” he replied. “I can hack my way through Latin and Greek, but we did not tackle Hebrew at Harrow or Cambridge.”

  “Pity. If you ever wish to learn—assuming, you have the time, of course—I’d be pleased to teach you. Or Mac could. He’s much more proficient than I, particularly in the nuances of the individual pen strokes. But here is what that same verse says in the original: ‘Nachash hayah ‘aruwm chay sadeh.’ That first word, Nachash, translated as ‘serpent’ in our English Bibles, is actually the name of a type of creature, though not a serpent. Nachash actually means ‘shining one’. As I said, Ed could give you the etymological research for translating it thusly, but he believes—and I agree—that Eve spoke with a type of throne guardian. A spectacularly beautiful, winged saraph. The seraphim are very powerful.”

  “Shining one,” Charles repeated, leaning against the marble fireplace. “But why have we been taught that it’s a snake?”

  “As I said, it may be deliberate obfuscation or just poor scholarship. Our forefathers knew it to be a shining creature from Jehovah’s throne room, but we modern readers have lost that knowledge. The Nachash is serpentine in form, and his appearance brilliant, shining like polished brass. As with the Lord’s other heavenly creations, it can also speak. There is an English word, however, that fits this creature much more aptly than serpent.”

  “And what is that?” Reid asked.

  “Dragon.”

  The room grew quiet, and Sinclair stared thoughtfully into the fire. “Dragon. All of this sounds so familiar, Martin. Like I’ve heard it all before.”

  The tailor grew concerned and crossed the room to touch his friend’s shoulder, reassuringly. “Do you have any idea why it is familiar?” he asked.

  Sinclair’s breathing seemed to quicken as he gazed into the bright flames, and he began to recite, “‘For the star, and the fiery dragon under it, signifies yourself, and the ray extending towards the Gallic coast, portends that you shall have a most potent son, to whose power all those kingdoms shall be subject over which the ray reaches. But the other ray signifies a daughter, whose sons and grandsons shall successively enjoy the kingdom of Britain.’” He glanced up, and his entire face had blanched to white. “Why would I say that?”

  “I’ve no idea,” the tailor lied. “For now, perhaps this talk of dragons should be put aside.”

  “No, Martin, we have to solve this riddle,” the marquess insisted, leaving the fire and sitting beside his cousin. “We cannot falter on this. Beth depends on us.”

  “True,” Kepelheim replied, taking a chair opposite the two peers. “But you’ve had little sleep, and I believe your memory is trying to awaken, Charles. I beg you to allow it to slumber a bit longer.”

  Sinclair nearly spoke, but Aubrey preceded him. “Martin gives sound advice, Charles. And over the years, I’ve learnt to follow it. If he thinks you should disregard these old memories for now, then...”

  “But dragon may be the key to everything!” the detective insisted. “Dragon. Mirrors. What if the riddle refers to both? A mirror and this throne guardian creature? Martin, might one of these seraphim you mentioned be involved with Redwing? Is that possible?”

  “Quite possible,” Galton said. “Forgive my interrupting, Martin. I’ve not studied the ancient texts as deeply as you, but I’ve heard Mac speak often about a group of powerful Watchers who lead England’s branch. They call themselves ‘the round table’, and this group consists of thirteen humans and thirteen spirit beings, some demons, others much more powerful. And there is an old tale of a Watchtower, where Redwing claims one can see the future.”

  “Riddles within riddles,” Aubrey moaned. “And what are these ‘keyless doorways’? Might they also be mirrors, or is it something else?” he continued, setting the pages onto the table in irritation. “I hate riddles! Give me straightforward battle any day. Crying children, owls, mirrors. Why can’t this man just speak plainly? One moment he threatens in broad terms, and the next writes poetry! It is frustrating to the point of madness!”

  Sinclair had regained strength, and he took the sheets to read them through again. “Paul, I think you’ve hit on something. What if these notes come from two individuals? The coarse, rude man threatens openly, whilst another uses subtle language and riddles. One human, the other not.”

  “Oh, that is very devious,” Kepelheim said, darkly. “Do you think this riddle comes from the spirit being, then? One like the creature you encountered in the park?”

  “What encounter is that?” Aubrey insisted, growing worried. “Charles, what haven’t you told me?”

  “It’s been a rather eventful day, Cousin, but I promise to reveal all this evening,” the marquess said, standing once more. “And I’ll also disclose why Warren wanted to speak with me today.” He pushed the chair back and stood. “I think I’m beginning to understand our battle a bit more clearly, gentlemen. For now, I promised to spend an hour with my intended. I’ll see you later. Martin, are you staying for supper?”

  “With Mrs. Smith making carbonade flamande? I would be nowhere else! I’m sure Duke James will be here as well, since it is one of his favourite dishes. But then, your uncle has so many favourites.”

  Aubrey laughed, winking at his cousin. “If it’s meat and served with potatoes, it’s his favourite. Charles, go spend time with Elizabeth. We’ll see you at supper.”

  Sinclair required no further encouragement, so he departed the library, and once he’d shut the doors, the earl’s face grew much more serious. “Did you bring it?” he asked Galton.

  The London circle lieutenant placed a small, leather-bound notebo
ok onto the polished tabletop. “I felt rather strange, sir, rummaging about over at Loudain House. If the marquess ever learns that I entered his property without permission...”

  “I’ll tell him myself, Thomas. When the time is right. Is this all you found? A single journal? I’d felt certain there’d be more. Cousin Connor and Charles’s father spent many months inside that house. I cannot believe they left us only one book. Might there be more at Haimsbury, I wonder?”

  “Possibly,” Galton advised, “but I think you’ll find this one contains a great deal of information. It’s dated 1860.”

  “’60?” Kepelheim exclaimed, reaching for the diary. “Here, let me see it. Paul, your Cousin Connor and Robert Sinclair were a formidable team, much like you and Robert’s remarkable son. Robby once told me that he’d left clues for the circle in his London houses, but I never dared hope we’d actually find them. Let’s see now. January is when it all began.”

  “When what began?” Reid asked, moving his chair closer to the other men.

  “The beginning of the end, one might say,” Martin replied mysteriously. “And that line in the riddle about a ‘child’s cry’. I’m certain that it refers to this year. And I fear it will become all too clear to Lord Haimsbury soon. He is beginning to remember, my friends. And once that mental wall crumbles, we can expect Charles to lose himself for a time. I just pray that it does not happen at a moment when he is needed most.”

  “When Beth needs him, you mean?” Aubrey asked.

  “Precisely. Now, let us see what clues Connor and Robert left us.”

  Chapter Nineteen