“I think I understand, sir.”
Whitmore pressed his hand firmly against Sinclair’s shoulder, a wide smile softening his gruff exterior. “You’ve grown into a fine young man. Your father would have been very proud. If ever I can offer advice or counsel in his stead, I hope you’ll call on me. As I said, I’ve plenty of time. I’ve no children, and my wife died three years ago. She was a fine woman, and I loved her for nearly thirty years. I know what it is to worry about a loved one.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Reggie.”
“It’s easier, knowing she is with our Lord,” the physician said, putting on his hat. “Son, Redwing has used many devious tricks over the years, and I doubt that we’ve seen the last of their villainy. Keep watch on the duchess. She’s to rest all day tomorrow, but if there are any new symptoms or changes for the worse, send for me at once. I’ll ask Emerson to stop by and introduce himself, and I’ll see you on the eighteenth if not before. Congratulations, by the way. Beth’s hand is one many have pursued.”
“I am grateful to the Lord each and every day, that her beautiful hand has been pledged to mine,” the detective said as Whitmore entered the coach.
“You’re a gentle-souled man, Charles. It’s a pleasure to see it. And may I make one further observation? It seems to me that you are overwrought and overtired. I know that the recent crimes must require long hours of police work, but even the most valiant efforts will fail, if your health fails. That will do nothing for Elizabeth. Sleep, Charles. Sleep. I have a soporific powder I can offer, if you require aid.”
“I have no trouble getting to sleep; just trouble finding enough hours in which to accomplish it. I’ve already planned to sleep late tomorrow. Good night and thank you, Reggie. For everything.”
In a moment, the carriage had disappeared through the stone and ironwork gate, and Charles turned back towards the large house, surprised to find Paul Stuart waiting for him in one of a dozen chairs that were scattered about the sweeping portico of the south entry.
“Tory went up to sit with Beth. I thought perhaps you might wish to speak to me.”
Charles sat into a chair next to his cousin. “You’re a mind reader amongst all your other, many talents?”
“I knew you’d say that,” the earl answered with a dimpled grin. “You wonder about Beth’s previous troubles, as Whitmore puts it. Charles, it is a strange tale, and one that I did not always participate in, but I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Paul, I only want to protect her. Anything you can tell me will surely help.”
The earl leaned against the back of the willow chair, his long legs stretched out before him. “She was three when it started. Terrors in the night, and she’d wake up crying. Connor hadn’t yet returned to diplomatic service, for he remained at home during Beth’s early years. That first time was in 1871, the night of her third birthday. I wasn’t there that night, though I’d planned to be. When I finished at Eton, my father decided to take me with him to Vienna, and we’d planned to stay at Branham for a few weeks before leaving. He’d been assigned a task in the British embassy there, and he asked if I might want to observe.”
“Uncle Robert taught you how to spy?” Charles asked.
Paul smiled. “He did, or at least he participated in that education. James provided what my father did not. Just as you did at Harrow, I’d passed all my exams at a young age, so I’d already been admitted to Oxford for that fall. Knowing I’d not be able to see much of Elizabeth over the summer, I asked my parents if we might spend a few weeks at Branham before I left with Father. We’d originally planned to arrive on the seventh, so we could be there for her birthday the following day. I’ve told you that she’d been given into my care when Beth was born, but I realise now just how poorly I administered that duty. In truth, Charles, had you not disappeared, and so we thought then died, you would have been given that job at her birth. I imagine you’d have been much better at it than I.”
Sinclair shook his head, the evening breeze blowing through his dark hair. “I doubt that, Paul. You’ve kept watch on her faithfully all these years. But we mustn’t look to past mistakes or regrets. They’ll only serve to blind us to the present. I rejoice in where I find myself now, Cousin. Really, I do. I believe all this has worked out according to God’s plans.”
“I pray that is so, Charles.” The earl sighed, his heart heavy with regret. “As I said, we’d planned to be at Branham on the seventh of April, but a bizarre snow storm hit the highlands on the sixth, and we were stranded at Briarcliff for three days. Tory had taken ill with a mysterious fever, and James was in Argentina at the time as part of a delegation from Britain, providing aid to those affected by the yellow fever epidemic. Those were strange days, Charles. It was like something worked to keep us all from being at Branham on the eighth.”
The sun had long since set, and the clear night sky glowed with a winking field of stars: Cassiopeia pursued by Perseus; Algol the ‘demon star’ contained within. Draco, Taurus, and Cepheus. And low on the horizon, winged Mercury accompanied by Orion the Hunter; and nearby the brilliant dog star, Sirius, howled at the waning moon. Familiar shapes and ancient histories of gods and goddesses, and of the deluded humans who served and interbred with them, stood etched upon an inky vault, reflected now along the glittering, grey waves of the River Thames. Charles found himself drifting into the past as he listened to his cousin speak. Something about the story tugged at an old memory.
“You know, Paul, I’ve an odd recollection that may be part of my lost memories returning. I dream of it sometimes. Images of a crying child, wrapped in a tall man’s arms, and of a woman screaming for him to put her down.”
“Martin mentioned this in our meeting tonight. He’s concerned that your pursuit of these memories may prove harmful, but I think them important.”
“Perhaps, but the images are like smoke,” Sinclair replied, shaking his head. “Little more than vapour that vanishes if I push too hard. Please, continue. Beth had a dark dream?”
The earl looked at his cousin with concern. “Charles, if your memories are returning, perhaps…”
“For now, they do little more than tease, refusing to be prised from their hiding place,” he insisted. “Please, tell me about Beth’s dream. The eighth was her birthday.”
“Very well, but, Charles, if you think your memory is returning, then the circle can help.” Sinclair’s brow shot up in protest, speaking volumes. “All right! All right! I can see you don’t wish to speak of it further, but I hope you’ll trust me, if you need to talk. Yes, Beth had a dream. A very troubling one. She ran all the way from her nursery and into Connor’s bedroom, crying from fear. Patricia and Connor shared a large apartment, of course, but each slept in a separate bedroom. You’ve seen its layout. Similar to that here at Queen Anne. Betwixt the two bedchambers stands a bath and two dressing rooms, so with four doors to separate them, Patricia seldom heard anything that passed in her husband’s bedchamber.”
“I find such a design rather impersonal, actually,” Sinclair observed, relaxing into the chair. A large greenbottle fly buzzed lazily around the pair of cousins, avoiding their swats, but keeping close.
“I agree,” Paul said, waving at the persistent fly, “but it’s how most peerage marriages are arranged. It saves embarrassment when a lady’s maid or valet enters, but also provides solitude when a marriage is less than perfect. I fear that Connor’s was in that class, as the letter you discovered in Scotland revealed. He loved Trish dearly, madly, but Patricia held no such deep affection for my cousin. I guess I should say our cousin, though. You met him, by the way. Many times. At Rose House, at Drummond, but also here in London and once at Branham, I think.”
“Did I? Why can’t I remember any of that?”
“Martin believes you’ve been taught to forget those early years, but he expects it to flood back one day soon. The enemy must have some reason for trying to
obscure your past.”
“Yes, I imagine so,” Sinclair replied, noticing a stout man approaching the gatehouse. “Go on. Beth ran to her father.”
“Yes, and Connor took her into his bed to comfort her,” the earl continued, his eyes also glancing towards the main gate. “Is that another of those annoying reporters?”
“Probably,” Sinclair replied. “Go on.”
“Yes, all right. As I said, Connor brought her into his bed. He loved Beth in a way Trish never could. Beth’s mother had a difficult time expressing emotion for some reason. But then, Duke George had a similar temperament. Beth is more like her father, who was like our uncle—open and honest. She feels deeply and loves deeply.” The earl paused, fresh regret tearing at his heart for a moment, but he mastered it, forced it down, and continued. “As I said, Elizabeth ran to her father’s room, and Connor then asked Beth about her dream, and she said that she’d seen too many faces.”
“Faces? I don’t understand,” Sinclair replied, batting at the noisome greenbottle. The insect retreated and landed upon the nearest window frame, sitting still, its head cocked to one side, as if it listened to their conversation.
“Neither did Connor at first,” the earl told his cousin, “so he asked her to explain. Remember, Beth was only three, and though she’s always been exceptionally bright and advanced for her age, even she had difficulty expressing herself with regards to such a dream. He asked her why there were so many faces, and she said that they were all her faces. Some were older, some younger, but she somehow recognised them as her own. Yes, I know it’s a puzzle, but sometimes dreams are like that. Connor asked her many questions that night as they lay in his bed together, and by the time she drifted off to sleep again, he’d worked it out.”
“And?” Charles prodded.
The man by the gate appeared to be writing in a small notebook of some kind, but he kept his head down, his face shadowed by a large hat. “Should we see just who that man is and what he wants?” Aubrey asked as the butler emerged from the house.
Sinclair glanced up as the servant walked towards them. “Do you have any idea who that might be, Miles?”
The butler nodded, his face revealing irritation. “I believe I do, sir. He’s another of those persistent reporters. I’m surprised he’s dared to return, but with your permission, I shall see to it that he removes himself. Otherwise, I shall be happy to remove him—again, with your permission, my lord.”
“Carry on, Miles,” Sinclair answered, laughing softly. “If you require our aid, the earl and I shall be here, but from what I’ve heard about your training, you do quite well on your own.”
The butler bowed slightly and then left the porch, walking swiftly towards the gatehouse.
Aubrey chuckled, leaning back in his chair to watch. “Reporters would do well to steer clear of John Miles. He’s tossed more men into lockup than most of your detectives.”
“Yes, Tory told me about his many accomplishments.”
Near the gate, the stranger hastily pocketed his notebook and rushed off towards St. James’s Park before the butler could reach him. Miles arrived at the broad gate and took a moment to speak with one of the gardeners, who stood sentry that night. “It looks as if Miles is reminding the young man at our gatehouse of his duty,” Sinclair continued. “You say that Connor had worked out Beth’s nightmare?”
“Yes, he had. He told my father and me the night we arrived. Elizabeth had dreamt she stood in a room filled with mirrors.”
“Mirrors?” Sinclair repeated to himself. “Paul, might this dream connect in some way to the riddle in Saucy Jack’s letter?”
“It might,” Aubrey replied, using his hand to swat at the fly once more as it buzzed past. “Why on earth are these infernal insects about so late in the year?”
“All the recent rains, I imagine. Mirrors. A mirror with brethren, totaling thirteen in all. Paul, we really must decipher this riddle without delay. I wonder, did Connor uncover more of the dream’s meaning?”
“If he did, he didn’t reveal it to me, or to my father. At least, not that Father ever said. Poor Elizabeth. It must have been terrifying for one so young. Those mirrors had shown her possible futures, you see—or so Connor believed. She saw herself in all of them, but each mirror held a different aspect of her past and future. Too many faces.”
“You think this dream was spiritually derived, then?”
“Connor believed it was, as did my father. Beth said that one of the mirrors showed a future version of her with children, and another showed her standing over three graves.”
Charles closed his eyes. Children. Graves. Does this imply a miscarriage, or another tragedy? he wondered. “What child can bear such nightmarish visions?”
“Beth’s remarkably strong, but it truly terrified her,” the earl added, oblivious to the distressing fears now running through his cousin’s mind. “Such a dream would have done as much to me, but there’s more, Charles. Beth said it was a great Shadow who showed her these mirrors. And this Shadow could fly, and it spoke to her with its thoughts.”
“The Shadow Man has wings?” Charles asked, recalling the police reports of wolf creatures able to fly. “Paul, last month, I found a drawing in Beth’s nursery of a hideous creature with wings. Might this be her Shadow Man?”
“Perhaps. Did you keep it?”
“In all that happened, I think I left it at Branham. It’s probably still there. What else did Connor say?”
“Not much. Only that by the next day, Elizabeth had completely forgotten the dream.”
“Paul, is it possible this Shadow Man causes her to forget? That he manipulates her mind somehow?”
“Quite possible. Wisely, Connor took the time to write it all down, which is what he showed to us. He kept a journal his entire life, in fact.” He paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to speak further. “Look here, Charles. Martin said I should keep this to myself, but you’ve made it clear that you dislike being kept in the dark.”
“What darkness is that?” Sinclair asked, his voice deepening with mild irritation.
“Had the inner circle met tonight, we’d probably have discussed it, but, well, I don’t have it with me now, so I cannot show you. Martin took it, hoping to decipher the contents.”
“Paul, you’re speaking gibberish. Could you translate, please?”
The irritating fly lit upon the back of a vacant chair, still as a statue, its compound eyes fixed upon the two cousins.
“I probably should have sought your permission, but I sent Thomas on an errand yesterday. One related to you.”
The marquess sighed. “I grow weary of puzzles, Cousin. Speak plainly, please.”
“Very well. I sent Galton to Loudain House to fetch anything he could find relating to your childhood.”
“My childhood?” he asked. “Why? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Truly, I don’t know. Martin knows much more than he’ll admit yet. He thinks that these memories could bring you harm, if forced upon you. It is why I hesitated to tell you, but, Charles, I think that your memories are a central piece of this spiritual puzzle. It’s imperative that we uncover them!”
The detective grew silent for a moment, his eyes on the roses that bordered the long, stone wall. “I take it Galton found something, then?”
“He did. A journal, kept by your father. Robby Sinclair lived at Loudain House as a young man, before moving to Haimsbury. However, the journal’s date is 1860, long after Robby inherited the marquessate. It is in a cipher, so we’ve no idea of its contents, but...”
“If my father chose to obscure the information, then it must have value. I’d like to see it, Paul. You say Martin has it?”
“Yes, but, Charles, do be careful. If anything in that journal triggers your memory, it may cause you significant harm.”
“Or it may prove harmful to
Redwing’s plans,” the marquess argued. “I’ll take that chance. For Beth’s sake. I’m very worried about her, Paul. She puts on a brave face, but I think she’s very much afraid.”
“Charles, that’s how Beth’s lived most of her life. However, from the moment she met you, she has looked to you with hope and trust. Now, let’s leave off worrying for the present. This day has been long and difficult. I think a glass of wine and some music might help. Della said she’d play for us. Oh, I nearly forgot. Price’s earlier wire back to Tory said he’d be returning here tomorrow morning. After an hour of relaxation, I recommend you sleep.”
“To sleep, perchance to dream,” the marquess sighed, but then remembered his promise to their aunt. “Paul, I’ve asked Tory for permission to remain in Beth’s room at night. Every night, from now until the wedding.”
The earl’s face grew still, and it seemed that even the breezes had stopped in anticipation of his response. The fly’s wings twitched. “What?” Aubrey asked, his voice strained.
Charles cleared his throat, nervously. “It’s not what you think. I merely wish to protect her, Cousin. If Trent has gained entry into that room, then one of us must always be with her. Not merely nearby, but actually inside that room.”
“And Tory agreed to this?”
“She did, but only because she knows I would never use it for any personal advantage. Paul, I respect Elizabeth, and would never willingly violate her trust or yours. I’ll sleep on the sofa and leave all the doors open. With you sleeping in Connor’s old bedchamber, you’ll be able to keep watch as a sort of chaperone. I hope you’ll not object, but I intend to do this, with or without your permission. I love and respect you Cousin, but Beth’s welfare is my highest priority.”
Blood Rites Page 36
