Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Well, Smith be damned!” Sinclair shouted. “I intend to speak to this man, whether he likes it or not! Merriweather’s address was used to mail threatening letters to my fiancée, and I intend to charge him or shake him until he rattles out the name of who is behind it!”

  Reid tried to offer a measured response. “I understand, sir, I do, but if we go in there now, Merriweather will only refuse to speak and defer to his lawyer. We cannot intimidate a man claiming to have a heart problem, now can we?”

  “No, I suppose we cannot,” Charles replied bitterly.

  Reid shot a furtive glance at Abberline. The latter thumped a black bowler against his thigh, his thick brows rising high. “There’s another item that you should be aware of, Superintendent.”

  “Regarding the estate agent?”

  “No, sir,” Abberline explained. “Regarding Moira Murdoch and K-Division.”

  “No more bad news, Fred. Not today.” Sinclair’s fingers tensed into balls, his jaw tightening. “All right. Go ahead. Get it out.”

  Fred Abberline sighed. “George Steed sent men to the French Hospital this morning to speak with Miss Murdoch, and according to Dr. Kennedy, the girl suffered a sudden, cardiac arrest. I’m afraid she’s dead, sir.”

  “Dead?” Sinclair threw his hat to the floor. “Damn that man! I shall have Steed’s head on a platter, if his men did anything to cause that woman’s death!” he bellowed.

  A nurse near the doors to the registrar’s office strode towards the three men, clearly unhappy. “Please, sir, St. Mary’s is a place of refuge and healing. If you and your friends intend to disrupt that mission, then I must ask you to leave.”

  “Yes, of course, it is. Forgive me,” Sinclair whispered, regretting the infantile response. “We’ll be leaving in a few moments. You have my word.”

  The nurse seemed satisfied by this and left to help a man who’d just entered the main doors, staggering from illness or inebriation.

  Charles bent down and picked up the hat, brushing it off as he sighed audibly. “I am sorry, Fred. It’s been a long day, and I’ve had two whiskies, a tall brandy, and very little sleep.”

  “Then perhaps, the best use of your time is to return home and rest, Charles,” Abberline suggested, his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “There’s no time for that, Fred. If these murders in Victoria Park imply danger to Elizabeth, then I have to get to the root of it.” He nearly said more, but every face in the large waiting area was fixed upon him, so he swallowed down the anger and lowered his voice. “I have to meet Warren, but I want to go over all the evidence you’ve collected on the Park Murders and the Lyceum case. Meet me at Whitehall tomorrow at ten.”

  “We have the circle meeting tomorrow, Charles,” Reid reminded him.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Sinclair replied. “Tomorrow afternoon, then.”

  “Anytime tomorrow could prove difficult,” Abberline explained. “The Lord Mayor’s procession, you know. Despite the fact that we’re not welcome by Major Smith inside his precious square mile, our men are expected to provide escort during His Worship’s stroll around the east.”

  “What stroll?” Sinclair asked.

  “The city’s incoming Lord Mayor, Alderman Whitehead, has decided to join with Frederick Charrington to host a meat tea for two thousand of our east end poor folk at the Mission Hall in Mile End,” Fred Abberline replied. “We’re to attend and make sure no one upsets His Worship’s lovely day. Orders from the Home Secretary.”

  Charles grew quiet. “I see. Well, I’m all in favour of providing meals for the poor. Mr. Charrington is a sincere Christian man, who merely wishes to aid those in need. Very well. Do what you must. In the meantime, I’ll see if I might punch a hole in Major Smith’s bluster.”

  5:45 pm

  It was late afternoon, and Dr. Alexander Collins received the visitor with his usual detached manner. This was a professional call, and he sat behind a large mahogany desk, sipping now and then from a small glass of mineral water, delivered to him monthly from a health resort in France.

  “How may I be of service to you, Dr. Price?” he asked in a polished voice. “Of course, I know something of your reputation, for I recall reading several of your excellent monographs on the mind and nutrition. Though I don’t always agree with your conclusions, I found your methods and attention to detail most refreshing in one so—shall I say, experienced?”

  George Price had spent most of the past two hours seeking a reliable physician for the duchess to consult in London, and his enquiries seemed to return again and again to one name: Alexander Collins.

  “I suppose that is one way to put it,” the good doctor replied, genially. “Your reputation is a stellar one within our profession, Dr. Collins, but I confess to surprise when my colleagues, again and again, recommended an alienist to serve as second consult to a pre-nuptial, gynecological examination.”

  The alienist waved a hand and offered a rare smile. He looked over his spectacles, his small eyes blinking. “Gynecology and obstetrics, for one automatically flows into the other, does it not, once formed my primary practice, Dr. Price. However, in dealing with these women day in and day out, I have learnt that it is the mind of woman that suffers most, particularly in our modern age. Your practice is now in Kent, correct?”

  “It is. Although for many years I have traveled ‘twixt Kent and London. I’ve been semi-retired in Branham village now for ten years, since the death of the previous duchess.”

  “Ah, yes, I see. Do you still serve the Branham family?”

  “I do, but as my age continues to increase unabated, a situation preferable to the alternative, mind you, I seek someone to replace me. After touring your institute, Doctor, I must assume your schedule is far too busy to apply for such a position.”

  Collins glanced at his diary. “Nonsense, Dr. Price, I am never too busy to add a client such as the duchess, but if, as you seem to indicate, you seek someone to run here and there as a peeress crooks her little finger, that would not work in my busy schedule. However, I happen to know a fellow who completed his studies in Edinburgh. He worked as apprentice here for two years, and has already found himself called upon by several countesses and even in one desperate hour to see our sovereign, when her own physician had himself come down with the grippe. Would such a person be of interest to you?”

  Price welcomed any help, so he nodded. “If this man pleased Her Majesty, then he must be a rare individual. I once was called upon for a consultation with that good lady, and I can tell you it takes a man of strong will and persistence to accomplish medicine within those gilded halls.”

  Collins wrote down a name on a small card and handed it to his visitor. “He is presently in London as it happens, but I believe that he spends part of the year in Scotland. He is a man of talent, knowledge, and with a liking for modern methods. I believe he would work quite well for your lady’s needs.”

  Price leaned upon his cane and stood, glancing at the card which read, The Hon. Dr. Michael Emerson. “I’ve heard his name mentioned by others. Honourable?”

  “Emerson’s father is Lord Braxton.”

  “The earl?”

  “Yes. Michael is the second son, and he chose to go into medicine rather than ministry, which is what his father would have wished. Emerson is a devoted man of faith, but he overcomes his religious bias, when it comes to science. I believe he is currently staying at his father’s London home in Mayfair, on Hanover Square.”

  “Ah, yes. Braxton House is near the parish church. A lovely home. Rather new.”

  “Less than thirty years old, I believe. Will there be anything else?”

  “No, I think not. Thank you for your time and assistance,” Price said, standing to leave, but then paused. “Might I ask one question more, sir?”

  Alexander looked up from his paperwork, patiently folding his hands. “Certainly
.”

  “I understand from the newspapers that you offered Scotland Yard your help with this terrible series of murders. Have you a theory?”

  Collins smiled. “Many theories, sir, but as Dr. Doyle’s new, fictional detective is fond of saying, I lack data. It seems to me, that the police do not truly wish to solve the crimes, most probably because the women whom the man victimises are considered expendable. I offered and was told my services were not welcome. If there are more murders, and I can almost guarantee there will be—and soon—then perhaps the police will seek me out. This killer is a madman, and he exhibits tendencies which mark him as a tortured individual driven by aberrant associations. I have an Austrian colleague and friend with whom I have corresponded on the matter, a brilliant young alienist named Sigmund Freud, and he agrees with me. In his mind, this tortured man kills his mother over and over, but his fury—his rage, if you will—is never diminished permanently, so he must continue to murder, each time more horribly than previous.”

  Price shuddered. “Can such a man walk the streets of all London, or does he pursue his lustful purpose solely within the east?”

  “He has already exceeded the bounds of the east by murdering at the Lyceum, has he not? And he will continue to expand his reach, if he is not caught. On that you may rely.”

  “I see. Well, thank you, Doctor. I’ll see myself out,” Price said, walking towards the open door. “I appreciate your time and the recommendation.”

  As the village physician exited the building, a male patient was being escorted in through the same side entrance, and he paused for a moment, his wild eyes focused intensely upon Price’s face.

  “I know him!” he told the two porters. “Really, I do! He’s an old friend. Or someone he has touched is. Who is it now?”

  “I’m sure you’re just imaginin’ that,” the taller of the two attendants said.

  “No, I’m sure I know him—I can smell it on him! Smell someone... Someone from long ago.” The incoming patient’s eyes rolled up in his head, and the porters hastened their steps.

  “Hurry up,” the shorter man urged his companion. “We gotta get ‘im underground before the sun sets.”

  Price heard none of this, but the patient turned his head towards the ageing physician as he passed beyond the exterior doors. In response, George shivered, as if someone had just walked upon his grave. Once outside, he raised his hand to hail a hansom, and for the briefest of moments, George Price had a haunting vision of what was to come for the madman—as if it had been implanted into his mind by an unseen hand, just as a seed is planted into soil.

  Inside the institute, the porters rushed to lock their runaway charge into his cell, where he’d be monitored for changes and subjected to the next phase of the experiment.

  “Get ‘im inside!” the older of the two insisted as they passed through the final door into the fourth lower level.

  It had taken six years to excavate and construct the enormous labyrinth of cells beneath Castor Institute. This level, nicknamed ‘Hell’ by the attendants and porters who worked here, provided rooms for twenty-six patients, thirteen on each side of the corridor. The rooms were more cells than medical facilities, bearing only a single bed with one electric bulb for lighting, and that rarely lit. The central hallway was tiled and scrubbed and beautifully illuminated, and it often played host to the curious and the wealthy—the men and women of Redwing, who underwrote the cost of the secret experiments.

  “Here ya go, old man,” the elder porter said as he and his colleague ushered the excitable patient into room thirteen. “Strap ‘im down, Edgar. You’re new ta all this, bu’ this one’s a right corker when it comes ta findin’ ways ta get out. Dr. Collins says we’re ta keep a careful eye on ‘im. Lessin’ ‘e gets into more trouble.”

  Edgar Parsons pulled the leather straps tightly across the inmate’s broad chest. “Don’ seem like the kinda gent what would care ta escape,” he said. “Must be near ta sixty, I reckon, by the look of ‘im.”

  “Ya cain’t tell wif these blokes,” Milton Grimes answered. “Latch ‘im up good, now. Nighty night, Mr. Thirteen. Don’ reckon you’ll be sleepin’, bu’ mayhap you’ll catch a dream or two.”

  The medical assistant injected the unwilling subject with a hypodermic needle, filled with a blood red substance. “Don’ you go ‘owlin’ too much, now. Me an’ Edgar ‘ere wants ta sleep a bit, an’ your screams makes it a trial, ta be sure.”

  The two men checked the latches and straps one last time, and then shut and locked the door.

  The patient watched them as they left, his hungry mind on other things.

  Dark things. Living things. Things filled with hot blood.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  6:33 pm

  Sir Charles Warren’s modest, semi-detached home stood at the corner of Prince and Upper Rupert Streets in Soho. Sinclair had visited once before, when he and the late Bob Morehouse joined with three other CID detectives to discuss the Martha Tabram case in early August of that same year. The plump streetwalker had allegedly met a customer, the friend of a Grenadier guardsman, in a secluded stairwell, but never returned. A Spitalfields man named John Reeves had discovered Tabram’s savaged body at approximately 4:45 a.m., the morning of the seventh on the first floor landing of the stairwell and shouted for the police. Tabram had been stabbed thirty-nine times, a manner of attack all too similar to the slaying of another Spitalfields woman, thirty-eight-year-old Annie Millwood, back in February. News reports connected the two women, and Warren had called a private meeting in his home to discuss how best to proceed. That night, no one dared to imagine how much more blood awaited the east end detectives, courtesy of the creature the press would eventually dub ‘Jack the Ripper’.

  As Charles entered the austere home, he was greeted by a pleasant looking woman of average height, her auburn curls tied back in a severe chignon, a crisp cotton apron wrapped around her trim midsection. “Lord Haimsbury,” she said politely as she curtseyed deferentially. “It’s very good to see you again, sir. My husband won’t be long. He’s just finishing up a bit of correspondence. May I bring you some tea? Coffee?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Warren, and I apologise for arriving late,” he said as she took his hat. “I had some unexpected police business to accomplish first. I’m sure you understand. What’s happened to your housekeeper? Mrs. O’Leary, was it?”

  “That’s right, sir. You have a very good memory, my lord. It’s her evening off, and I enjoy cooking, so I thought I’d try a new recipe for mutton.” The high-pitched wail of a crying baby echoed down the steep stairwell as Mrs. Warren led the marquess into a simply furnished parlour. “Do come through, Lord Haimsbury.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Warren.”

  “Oh, just call me Fanny, sir. Everyone does. You’ll forgive the clutter, I hope. My husband’s been reading every newspaper he can get his hands on this week. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but he’s scarcely come out of this room in three days,” she said, picking up several papers from the sofa. “It’s become his personal study, which means constant clutter, I fear. I am sorry, sir.”

  The baby cried again, and Charles thought he could also hear a woman singing a lullaby in a bedroom above. “Sounds like someone’s unhappy. A grandchild?” he asked, helping her with the newspapers.

  “Yes,” Fanny Warren beamed. “Charlotte’s first. Mary Violet Wynn Williams, named after our other daughter. She’s a dear child, sir, but as you say, not very happy at present. Did you say tea or coffee?”

  “Neither just now,” he said, “and you must stop calling me ‘sir’ and ‘my lord’. I’m no different than I was when I visited in August. Just Charles, will do.”

  Her round face broke into a smile. “You’re very kind. I’ll let Charles—my Charles, of course—know that you’re here.”

  She bustled out of the parlour, shutting the door behind as she
left, but almost immediately the door swung open again to admit a haggard looking young woman in a flowerprint dress, carrying an infant in one arm and a stuffed rabbit in the other.

  “Oh, I am sorry, sir!” the new mother exclaimed at seeing the guest, her dry eyes ringed in shadow from lack of sleep.

  “I’m not,” Sinclair replied, happily. “Hello there,” he said to the baby. “Is this little Violet?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve not had a wink in two nights. She’s been crying and crying, and I cannot find a way to stop it. Normally, she loves this little rabbit, but not today. I am at my wit’s end, sir.”

  “May I?” he asked, reaching for the child. The woman nodded, and Sinclair took the baby and placed her against his his chest, cooing to her softly. The girl instantly stopped crying.

  “Oh, sir, you are a miracle you are! Here, though, let me put this bit o’ muslin on your jacket. I’d not want to ruin such a beautiful coat.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure my tailor will appreciate your thoughtfulness. Does she eat well?” he asked.

  “Not particularly well, sir. Our doctor’s of the opinion that she’s unhappy with her food, what there is of it. I had a difficult time after Violet was born, and I wasn’t able to produce enough...” she started, but caught herself before finishing, completely embarrassed.

  Charles offered an understanding smile. “I think I know what you mean, Mrs. Williams. I’m Charles Sinclair, by the way. Another policeman. My son had a similar problem when he was about this age. Six months?”

  “Seven, sir. You’re a natural with babies. My husband is the same, but he’s in Chesham just now, working with the railroad.”

  “On the new Met line?” Charles asked. “Is he a construction worker, then?”

  “No, sir. An engineer. He’s helped to design the electrics grids. My Watkin’s a very bright man—like my father. And he’s a good provider.”