Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “A healthy child is all I ask, sir,” Charles admitted. “And before you remind me, I intend to tell Beth all about Albert. Since her condition precludes going to Brighton on Saturday, I thought perhaps I’d ask Mrs. Smith to pack a picnic lunch that Beth and I could enjoy in private at the other house. Is that all right?”

  Drummond beamed. “Anything you want, Charles. Laddy, I’m so proud, I’m ready ta bust!”

  “So am I, to be honest,” Sinclair answered. “I’m a bit giddy, in truth. Beth is very happy. As am I.”

  “She slept well last night?”

  “Yes, she did. Reggie gave her a sleeping draught, but she awoke around midnight, and I confess that she and I talked for almost an hour before she finally drifted off again. Thank you for agreeing to let me sleep in her room, sir.”

  Drummond laughed. “Son, you and she are two peas in a pod. I truly do believe God made you for one another, so who am I to separate you? Besides, you’ll be married in about a week, and I want that great-grandchild happy and protected!”

  “As do I, sir.”

  “Good,” the duke noted. “Now, Charles, I wanted to mention something else to you, and Paul does know about this. When Connor died, I named Paul as my heir, as he was next in line after Elizabeth. Beth had no interest in another title, and she suggested I name Paul, so I did. However, with you back with us, and as you’re the elder nephew—and since you’re my great-grandchild’s father—it only seems right to keep it in the direct line. I want to name you heir to the Drummond title. How does Duke Charles sound to you?” Sinclair nearly choked on the whisky, and his uncle slapped him on the back playfully. “Reminds me of the first drink we shared back at Drummond, son. You tipped it back, and it tipped you back. So, what do ya think?”

  “Well, sir, in truth, I have no wish for more titles either, but if that is your desire, and since it would eventually go to our child, then I’ll be pleased to be named as heir, but only if Paul agrees.”

  “He’s already said yes. The earl wants to serve this new endeavour of ours from the field. It’s where he’s most at home, Charles. Paul is indispensable as a field agent, and he commands his team with ingenuity and respect. I imagine that will put Delia Simpson’s nose out of joint.”

  “Sir?”

  Drummond laughed. “Baron Wychwright’s girl.”

  “Ah, yes, I see. Curious that she and Lady Cartringham paid an unexpected call.”

  “Not curious at all, son. Once you get to know Margaret Bellville better, you’ll realise she’s a bit of a schemer, as is her cousin Delia. Maggie has five sons and no daughters, so she plays the role of surrogate mother to Cordelia.”

  Charles took another sip of the whisky. “Making a good marriage is important, I suppose. Paul must marry someone, after all. Delia’s actually quite pretty, though a bit scatter-brained.”

  “Aye, and she’s clearly set her cap on your cousin, though I suspect she’d be chasing you, if she thought you interested. Poor Cordelia is convinced that she must snare a husband soon or languish as an old maid forever. It’s her father’s fault. Wychwright hasn’t a bean, and his estate burns up the dosh faster than grease through a goose, so he’s hopin’ to remedy that by making a sound marriage for his daughter. I’m sure that’s the real reason she and her cousin, the Lady Cartringham, were here yesterday. Snooping about in hopes of running into your cousin.”

  “That is Paul’s problem,” Sinclair said. “And, as you say, his continued absence from England will likely put young Lady Delia’s pretty nose out of joint. Speaking of Paul’s field work, how soon did you want to begin soliciting the government for assignments?”

  “We already have several,” the duke said proudly. “I’ll show you the orders later, but it means Paul and his team will be travelling soon. Right after the wedding, in fact. He’s asked if he might train Laurence. He said he spoke to you about it.”

  “Yes, he mentioned it. That’s up to Matthew. Whatever he wishes is fine with me.”

  “Good. Now, Charles, I want you to remain always in London as Director General of the agency. No field work for you, son. I want you near our girl and my great-grandchildren.”

  “As do I, sir.”

  A hand knocked on the library doors, and it opened to reveal Kepelheim, who entered. “Forgive me for interrupting. I assume you wanted privacy, Your Grace, but our photographer is here. Charles, he asks a moment of your time. I think it worth it.”

  Sinclair stood, straightening his waistcoat. “Thanks for the drink and the talk, sir. I’d like to look at this property on Pall Mall soon, if we’re to begin taking assignments.”

  “Good. As I said it’s a bit rundown, but it’s large and would allow for offices, training space, and private meeting rooms. How about Monday?”

  “Yes, that will work, assuming I’ve nothing else on. Don’t forget to stop in and say hello to Elizabeth,” Charles added.

  Drummond gulped the last of his whisky and patted his nephew on the back once more. “Just try an’ stop me!” he declared. “Kepelheim, I’ll see you at supper.”

  The tailor winked at the marquess as the duke passed by them. “Apparently, our circle leader is in a rare mood. It seems to me, Charles, that the duke smiles much more, since you returned to us. Now, if you don’t mind, we’ll see just what it is that has so energised our photographer.”

  In a moment, the two men entered the drawing room. “Good day, Mr. Blackwood,” Sinclair said. “Did I mistake the timing of our next appointment? I’ve not yet hired that secretary, so it’s possible with all that’s happened today, that I’ve forgotten a session with you. Forgive me, if I have.”

  Blackwood sat with a small box file on his lap. Standing as the marquess entered the room, the photographer clutched at the file. “Oh, not at all, sir! Not at all! No, our next appointment isn’t until next Tuesday, I believe, or so we had discussed, but I am amenable to alteration as required. No, I am here on another matter—well, a connected matter, but not the former.”

  The marquess started to laugh. “I’m not sure just what you mean, Mr. Blackwood. How may I help you today?”

  The photographer remained standing, waiting politely for his host to sit, and he began to shuffle on his feet.

  “Oh, do sit, Mr. Blackwood,” Sinclair said as he chose a sofa near the fireplace.

  Returning to his chair, the slender man appeared grateful. “Ah, yes. Thank you, sir. I beg forgiveness for intruding on your day, but I thought you should see these prints right away.”

  “Why, Mr. Blackwood? Did I blink?”

  “No, sir. Actually, your image is quite resplendent in all of the poses. Nary a blink. However, there is a strange flaw; an abnormality, you might say, in several that requires explanation. And to be frank, I can find none.”

  He opened the file and handed six large prints to the marquess. “Martin, come look at these,” Charles said as the tailor joined him on the sofa. “These were the last series,” he continued. “Wearing that silly robe. Now, why...oh, wait. I see what you mean, Mr. Blackwood. Is this the man you saw behind me?”

  Blackwood nodded, his face somewhat pale. “It is, and I assure you, Lord Haimsbury, that I have not altered the plates! I have used no inappropriate techniques, nor unusual chemicals. In fact, this is the tenth set of prints from those same dry plates. I developed them again and again to make sure nothing had contaminated the solutions or the plates, but no matter what I do, the man’s image persists.” He then gulped loudly. “But in two of the photographs, you’ll notice that his position shifts towards the west railing, which allows a full view of his, uh, lower extremities.”

  “Yes? Why is that important?”

  “Sir, he has none!” Blackwood jabbered. “His lower limbs and feet do not exist!”

  “I see,” Sinclair said calmly, as he gazed at the curious images. “May I keep these?”

  �
��Certainly, sir, and I do apologise. This has never before happened to me. If there is a fault in my camera or my process, then I shall discover it, but alas, so far, it remains a mystery.”

  “So it does, Mr. Blackwood. Not to worry. Say nothing to anyone else, will you? And if you discover further discrepancies, let me know at once. The duchess and I appreciate your flexibility with regard to scheduling, and we’d be pleased to work with you at Haimsbury House next week. Tuesday, you say?”

  “Oh, yes. Ten in the morning?”

  “Certainly,” Sinclair replied, standing.

  “I look forward to it, Lord Haimsbury,” Blackwood replied.

  “Oh, one thing more, sir. A gentleman came by my studio yesterday evening, asking if I were the photographer privileged to be recording your image for posterity, and I answered yes, that I was indeed. He asked me to give you this. Said he’s a friend. I did not say that I would do it, but I thought you should know.” He handed the marquess a small envelope. “I’m puzzled as to its significance, but much in this life is a mystery, is it not? Tuesday, then?”

  “Tuesday at ten. Miles will show you out.”

  The photographer left, and Sinclair opened the envelope. Inside, he found a single sheet of cardstock paper, bearing a series of handwritten lines, which formed no known words, and made no sense. The backwardly slanting letters were arranged in peculiar order, and a series of random numbers had been overwritten upon them, with many strange symbols layered haphazardly atop those. As he stared at the curious message, the marquess suddenly grew unsteady on his feet, and he nearly pitched forward onto the carpet.

  “Charles!” Kepelheim cried out as he rushed to catch the detective and help him to a nearby chair. He poured a glass of water and offered it. “The duke’s whisky may have proven too strong, I think. Or else the phantom in these prints has escaped his paper enclosure.”

  Sinclair drank half the water as he stared at the peculiar message. “I’m not sure what happened, but I think it’s this odd card. At first, the garbled writing made no sense, but then it was as if my brain suddenly translated it, and then everything went dark.”

  Kepelheim took the message, his silver brows twitching with dismay. “You can actually read this literary hodgepodge?”

  Sinclair nodded. “For a moment I could. I cannot tell you what it said clearly, but I know it was a threat. The card’s grown very warm of a sudden. Can you feel it?”

  “Yes, and you’ve grown quite warm, too, Charles. I’m sending for MacPherson, for this seems spiritual to me. What time is it you promised to meet Warren?”

  “Six. I cannot postpone. Warren is upset about something, and I think it relates to much more than Ripper,” he argued, trying to stand, but his knees buckled beneath him.

  Kepelheim closed the drawing room doors and poured a glass of brandy. “Here, drink it all. Can you remember anything of this translation that you think you saw?”

  “I did see it. It was as if the entire page came into focus for a moment and then blurred into nonsense. It said, and I’m sure this is correct, ‘Behold, I seem but King among the dead.”

  The tailor’s face paled, and he set down the glass, dropping heavily into the companion chair, eyes wide, mouth slack.

  “Martin, what is it?” Charles asked, leaning forward. “Do you recognise it? I assure you, I do not, but that is what I saw.”

  Kepelheim poured himself a tall glass of the brandy and swallowed it a single, hasty gulp. He stared at the flames in the hearth, his breathing laboured. “I’m too old for all this. Yes, Charles, I do know it. Memorised it many years ago. But, you’ve never heard it before? Nor read it?”

  “No. Why does this trouble you so?”

  The tailor set the glass to one side, wiping his eyes, wearily. “It is Tennyson. Idylls of the King, from The Passing of Arthur section, I believe. Your father loved poetry, and he used to read it to you, when you were a boy. Even as a child, you possessed a keen, precise memory, and you could quote many works by heart, as you’d heard them read so often. The question is why does this verse arise within your mind now? And how is it connected to the gibberish written upon this card?”

  Sinclair shrugged, his entire body aching suddenly. “I’ve no idea. My father read that poem to me? Idylls of the King? Why that one? Was he a lover of Tennyson, in particular?”

  “Not particularly Tennyson, but certain poems had more meaning for him than others. This amongst them. He read it to you nightly. Robby Sinclair loved you very deeply, Charles, and he wanted you to understand all about your inheritance. Look, my friend, allow me to explain more at a later date. I worry that your mind will break, if we proceed too quickly in forcing these old memories. The answers lie within a deep and very dark end of that metaphorical lake, you might say, and I would not have you drown.”

  The marquess felt overcome with fatigue. “Beth’s pregnant, Martin,” he said as he stared into the flames.

  Kepelheim showed no surprise. “Yes, I’d thought she might be. Charles, this is wonderful news.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m not telling Paul yet, so say nothing. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt that I can confide in you. Tell me she’ll be all right, Martin. Tell me Redwing has not already attained their goal.”

  The tailor smiled, the firelight illuminating his round face. “My dear friend, Redwing has no idea just what error they’ve committed by uniting you with Elizabeth. You and she are stronger than anyone could ever imagine, and this child will inherit that unbreakable bond. Thank you for telling me—and for trusting me. I shan’t say a word to anyone else, unless you approve. Does the duke know?”

  “Yes. I had just told him when you knocked. Elizabeth is very happy, Martin. I’ve never seen her so cheerful. She’s already choosing names and redecorating the Haimsbury nursery in her mind. It will be all right, won’t it? Redwing hasn’t won, have they?”

  “My dear friend, we cannot see through to the end of our lives, but the Lord has promised to stay ever near us. I believe this child is part of his plan, not Redwing’s, so let us trust in that. Now, close your eyes and sleep. If you leave by half five, you’ll be at the commissioner’s home in plenty of time.”

  “I’m exhausted, actually. Make sure I’m awake no later than five.”

  “I hope you do sleep, my friend. I’ll ask Miles to see to it no one disturbs you. Oh, and Paul has begged leave to be elsewhere this evening. He said he plans to visit Egyptian Hall. He said you would understand his meaning.”

  The marquess said nothing in reply. His eyes had shut and his breathing grown regular.

  The tailor poured half a glass more of the brandy, staring into the fire as the dancing flames reflected upon the large pupils of his ageing eyes. “I am but King among the dead,” he whispered to himself. “Dear Lord in heaven, keep watch upon Charles, please. I fear for him and for his duchess. His father was right. The twins’ blood is but half of the recipe for conquest. The Sinclair blood is the final ingredient in their plans for a child, one they’ve been after all along. And now, God help us! They have it!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  5:37 pm

  St. Mary’s Hospital sat at the corner of Cambridge Place and Praed Street. Charles had slept only a few, brief minutes when a telegram arrived from Abberline, asking the detective to meet him and Reid at the bedside of Lewis Merriweather. Putting aside all thoughts of Beth and of the mysterious cipher into an ‘I’ll think of this later’ mental closet, Charles paid the hansom driver and entered the main doors, finding Reid and Abberline waiting.

  “Sorry to be late. We’ve had an eventful day at Queen Anne. So, have you gentlemen seen Mr. Merriweather yet?” he asked the inspectors. Reid offered a look that Sinclair had seen before. “Tell me,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  “Charles, I fear that we have few options with Merriweather,” Edmund began quietly, as if resigned to the inevitable. “O
ur estate agent has been given a provisional diagnosis of heart attack, but it seems Mr. Kepelheim’s information is correct about the man’s history. I am now convinced Merriweather is malingering, but I cannot prove it.”

  “Malingering’s a right generous way of calling him a bald-faced liar,” Abberline added bitterly.

  Reid continued. “Yes, so it is. His solicitor sits with him now, making sure every physician on staff here sides with his client. As ordered by you yesterday, we’ve examined the man’s business records and bank accounts—those we could access—and whilst his books reveal nothing obviously illegal, his lavish lifestyle is not explicable by any legitimate income. However, I have no proof. Only theory.”

  “But you did question him? Surely, this attorney allowed you that much.”

  Abberline shook his head. “No, sir, we did not. Orders from Chief Superintendent Fraser, City Police. He sent word an hour ago, ordering us to leave off harassing Mr. Merriweather.”

  “Harassing? Did you go over Fraser’s head to the city’s police commissioner? Smith is likely to be more reasonable.”

  “We did, Charles,” Abberline continued, “We sent a telegram to Major Smith, but he refuses to overrule Fraser, and he insists that the Metropolitan Police have no jurisdiction in this matter. He’s threatened to complain to the Home Secretary. No one from H-Division will be allowed to interview Merriweather again.”

  Charles felt like throwing something. “Smith has no right to issue orders to Met Police with regard to investigating crimes that lie within our jurisdiction. None! Merriweather’s connexion to the Victoria Park murders is undeniable! Is Smith covering for the man?”

  Abberline huffed. “If you can prove that, sir, I’d love to see it, for yes, it seems to us that he provides a hole for this weasel to hide in.”

  “However, we’d not accuse him of that to his face, but as Fred says, sir, it is a strong possibility,” Reid added. “Again, we can offer no proof, but it becomes clear that there are influences at work beyond politics with regard to Major Smith.”