“That’s increasingly more important these days, isn’t it? It’s a challenge to provide for a growing family,” he said as he walked back and forth on the thick rug. “She has a very pretty face, like her mother.”
“You’re kind to say so, sir,” Charlotte replied bashfully.
The door opened once more, and a straight-backed man with a thick moustache entered. “Lord Haimsbury, good of you to come. Charlotte, take little Vi with you now. I’m sure his lordship has more important things to do than carry a baby about all evening.”
Charles kissed the infant’s chubby cheek. “Oh, I’m not so sure, sir. Babies are much more pleasant than criminals, and they smell better, too. This one in particular. I’d forgotten that wonderful, infant smell,” he said as he handed the child back to the mother.
Warren laughed and then kissed his granddaughter. “So had I until just recently! Four children. Two girls grown and married. Two boys, both in school, and there’s another grandbaby on the way come next March. Life goes on. Do sit, Charles. We’ll be uninterrupted for an hour or so. Coffee?”
“Only if you’re having some, sir,” Sinclair replied.
“Charlotte, ask your mother to prepare a pot of strong coffee. Cream and sugar, of course. And perhaps those little cakes from last night. There’s a good girl.”
The daughter left the room, and Warren took out his pipe. “Hope you don’t mind. Fanny detests smoke, so I try to do it only in her absence.”
“Not at all,” Sinclair answered.
“Aubrey couldn’t make it?”
“No, I’m afraid the earl is occupied in another investigation this evening. I know your note asked me to bring him along, but I promise to share our conversation with him later. The circle is meeting tomorrow morning, and if you wish, I can share your thoughts with all the members then.”
The commissioner’s pipe refused to light, so he tapped the bowl against his heel, sending dark ash spilling onto the thick, wool rug. “Fanny will be cross about that,” he muttered. “Fine woman, my wife. Yes, I’d appreciate it, if you’d pass all this information along to the duke and the rest of the circle, of course. When you hear it, you’ll realise just how my discoveries join with your own.” He used a crochet needle to scrape out the inside of the pipe’s bowl and began filling it with fresh tobacco. “You ever smoke?”
“Not really, sir. Not since Cambridge, but even then it never seemed to satisfy, so I stopped after a week. Of course, I never tried a pipe.”
“There’s your problem. Pipes are what real men smoke. Keeps the mind functioning. Pity Aubrey couldn’t make it, though. Does he smoke?” he asked, lighting the pipe with a match.
“Sometimes, but only when in disguise, or so he tells me. I read through the information in the packet you gave me, sir. And I’ve shared its contents with the duke and with my cousin. Martin Kepelheim was also there, and he recalled an unsolved murder from ’71 that implies a connexion to you and that Syrian expedition.”
“Kepelheim’s a sharp man with a remarkable memory. Glad he was there.” He stared at the pipe, his eyes taking on a faraway look. “Poor Conroy Smith. His death was completely unnecessary—tragic. Absolutely tragic! And all because of that blasted crate!” he exclaimed, the escape of air puffing his lips. “Charles, that box sat unopened for over a year, and I wish to heaven it had remained in the bowels of the museum, never to see the light of day! But you see, that March, Smith took it into his head to discover what lay inside. Not a coincidence. No, sir, not a coincidence. It’d all been planned, you see. Going back for many years. Perhaps, thousands, I don’t know. But I believe it was always intended to be opened that very night.”
“What plan is that, sir, and why that night?”
“Do stop calling me ‘sir’, Charles. You’re a marquess, and soon I’ll no longer be your superior. Not as of ten o’clock tomorrow. I’ve resigned as commissioner.”
“Not because of Matthews, I hope. He’s wrong about Ripper. Your actions have not impeded the investigation.”
Warren puffed on the pipe, his eyes thoughtful. “It’s kind of you to say so, but it doesn’t really matter now. I have to leave that office, you see. Otherwise, I’ll end up like Morehouse, dead on the floor with six bullets in my brain.”
“Bob did not commit suicide,” Sinclair said firmly.
Warren took several deep draws on the briar, and then exhaled. “No. No, he did not. I wish I could alter the official findings, but it’s beyond my remit, you might say.”
“I met with Bob’s widow earlier today, and she gave me a letter that Morehouse wrote the night he died. Apparently, their solicitor had been instructed to forward it to me upon news of Bob’s death, but as I was in Scotland, it somehow missed me, so it was returned to Martha for safekeeping. He mentions someone who called himself ‘A’—no name, just the initial—and that this person murdered him.”
Warren nodded. “Ah, yes, I can’t say that surprises me. Might you have any idea why this person killed Morehouse? Is there any proof we might use to bring him to justice?”
“None,” Sinclair said. “I fear that this ‘A’ person could be anyone.”
“Or anything,” Warren added.
“Anything, sir?”
“Not human, I mean,” the commissioner said matter-of-factly. “You don’t even flinch when I say that, Charles. I see the duke has taught you a great deal in the past month. Pity about Morehouse. Did his letter offer any explanation or clues?”
“Very few, but there are confessions within it that pertain only to me.”
“Ah, yes, I think I know what you mean.” He paused for a moment, the pipe in his mouth, and it seemed to Charles that his friend’s hand trembled. “That crate,” he muttered. Smoke floated all about his head like a vaporous wreath, and he leaned heavily against the mantelpiece. “The crate. Yes. Do forgive me. It’s been a long day. You asked why that night. Thirty-first of March, 1871. A very significant date, numerologically speaking.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Sinclair replied as Fanny Warren entered, pushing a large, wooden tea cart.
“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. Cream and sugar, Lord Haimsbury?”
“Two and a splash,” he said. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Warren.” She prepared the detective’s coffee and set two small cakes onto a green and white, stoneware plate. “These have diced apple and pecans with a little current jam on top. My sons call them apple pie cakes. Would you care for fruit? Cheese?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be dining at home in an hour or so.”
“Just black for me, Fanny,” Warren told his wife. “I’ll get fat if I don’t cut back on these sweets. Oh, and two cakes, I think. Make up for the lack of sugar in the coffee. Thank you, my dear. We’ll want some quiet, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Ring if you need anything.” Fanny smiled and left the men to finish their discussion.
Warren set his pipe to one side and took a sip of the strong brew. “Fanny’s a discreet woman, but I’d not want her to overhear these dark matters. Where was I?”
“Numerology,” Sinclair reminded him.
“Ah, yes. Occult numerology. March is the third month. Thirty-one is thirteen written backwards. This lot often encode their secrets in backward fashion. They call it mirroring. I’m not sure why mirrors play such a role in their rituals, but if you ever find one of those foul things, you must destroy it, if you can.”
Thinking of Saucy Jack’s riddle and of Beth’s childhood dream, Sinclair found this comment strangely apt. “Yes, I’ve read something along those lines as well. Do you think this includes all mirrors, or one type in particular?”
“You’ll know it when you see it. I’ve only found the one, near where I discovered a cave at the foot of Hermon, in fact, and in its black surface, I beheld things most unspeakable!” he remarked with a shudder. Then, tapping his pipe again
st his shoe, he seemed to struggle for thought. “Let’s see now. Oh, yes. I was talking about the numbers. Mirroring. As I said, thirty-one is thirteen backwards. Now, both thirteen and thirty-one are prime numbers, as is the year, 1871. March thirty-one is thirteen weeks following New Year’s Eve, effectively doubling the occult power of that number. Thirteen, I mean. It is the ninetieth day of the year, aside from leap years, which ’71 was not, and ninety is thirty times three, which reveals a hidden ‘thirty-three’, a particularly powerful number, especially when linked to thirteen. Redwing and their ilk revere these numbers, Charles. Think they have some sort of magical significance, bring them power; so their rites and rituals are performed on the days which will have the most impact. That day in ’71 was also a Friday, another favourite occult day. But more importantly, the date was nine days before one important to you, my friend. Nine being three times three, another hidden thirty-three. Are you beginning to see?”
Charles thought for a moment. “Nine days later would be the eighth of April.” He paused, sudden realisation filtering through his bones like burning ice. “Elizabeth.”
“Yes, Elizabeth! That is the duchess’s birthday, is it not? She turned three years old that day. Three! A highly charged number of tremendous power! Her mother was slain on the third of March. Third day, third month. Another thirty-three. Do you begin to see it?”
Warren’s eyes were wild and wide, and the smoke from his pipe circled above his head like a silver apparition. Charles cleared his throat, trying to think logically. “I see how these dates seem to point to a system of numbers for Redwing’s rituals, but... Wait just a moment,” he said. “Beth turned three that year, but that is also when her nightmares began. Her very first vision of a shadowy entity that’s been haunting her ever since, commenced that very night. Commissioner, are you telling me that Smith loosed something when he opened the crate, and that this freed prisoner emerged to wreak havoc in my fiancée’s life?”
“That is precisely what I am saying!” the soldier replied, leaping to his feet, coffee spilling all over the carpet. Ignoring the fallen cup, he went on, pacing as he spoke, words spewing forth in a constant stream. “These creatures are all about us. Watching us! Their domain adjoins with ours in a way unimaginable by current science. Charles, you know me to be a man of sound mind. Logical and methodical, yes?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve always admired your approach to problems. It is similar to my own.”
“Well, before coming to work as commissioner, I spent many years in the Levant, mapping out the terrain, and it was not just about scouting for the Army, either. I believe that certain men in high office wanted me to go up that mountain. Hermon, I mean. To the very spot where these Watchers descended to earth long ago.” Warren paused for a moment, wiping his brow and setting the pipe onto the mantel. “It grows warm, doesn’t it?” he muttered, his eyes falling on the spilled coffee. “Warm. Yes. What was I saying again?”
Charles began to worry that this conversation might be overwhelming Warren. “Hermon, sir. You said something about Watchers.”
“Ah, yes. The Watchers. I found their temple and much more, but when I wired back with news of what I’d discovered, I was ordered to bring it back at once. No further archaeological investigation, no dickering with the locals, nothing. I was told to get the stone off that mountain post-haste, and put it on the next available ship. The stela was monstrously heavy, and we had to slice it lengthwise to lighten it for the sledge, but being thinner, it cracked on the way down.” His face grew somber. “A man died shortly after. Poor chap. Poor, miserable man. Run over by the sledge. And then three nights after, another of our men died of a mysterious fever. In all, I lost three men taking that accursed stela down the slope. And now, because of me, one of those foul Watchers walks the streets of London—has been since ’71. I believe this creature has been slaying women ever since.”
“Sir, are you telling me that some sort of fallen angel was imprisoned within that stone?”
“Yes!” he shouted, regaining his seat near the fire. “It had been imprisoned, for how long I cannot say, but when I broke the stone, it was released! It slew those three men, perhaps out of spite, perhaps as an energy source. I’m not sure.”
“But then, why go back into hiding until 1871, when the crate was opened in London?” the detective asked. “Why not remain free—remain in the Hermon area, where it must have once lived?”
“I tread upon slippery ground here, Sinclair, theologically speaking, but it is my belief that Watchers have territorial rights. I suspect this creature had to receive permission to travel to England, which is precisely where it wanted to be! By voluntarily placing the stela on that ship, I, in essence, gave it permission.” He paused, his eyes filled with agony and regret. “It then waited until ’71 to emerge, because of the occult significance of the date, Charles, and because Elizabeth Stuart was about to turn three years old!”
“You believe Beth is the reason it emerged then?” Sinclair asked, his heart beating quickly, the rush of icy fear numbing his thoughts. “You think Elizabeth is the reason it wanted to travel to England?”
Warren nodded. “I do. She’d been born the year before in ‘68—the very year I was asked to survey Mount Hermon. Can that be coincidence?”
“No. Probably not. And now, you think this creature—this Watcher—is killing women in Whitechapel?”
“You think me mad?” Warren asked, his face still.
“No, sir. I do not. I’ve heard many things that men would call madness this past month, from people who see the world as it truly exists. No, I don’t think you mad at all. In fact, you are probably one of the sanest men in England.”
Warren grew silent, and the mantel clock chimed the hour of seven. He bent to retrieve the fallen coffee cup, but as he placed it against the matching saucer, his shaking hands chipped the edge of the plate. “Fanny will be cross about that,” he muttered, setting the cup and chipped saucer onto the tea cart. He took a linen towel and began mopping up the spilled coffee. “It’s part of a set her parents gave us for Christmas last year.”
Charles watched the man he’d come to admire over the previous two years, slowly fall apart, but he said nothing, not wishing to add to the man’s misery.
Finished with the chore, Warren returned to his chair and hung the soiled towel upon the handle of the tea cart, wiping at his eyes with his hands. “It’s like having a fatal poison coursing through one’s veins, you know? Carrying this burden, this guilt within my heart for so long. Yet, getting it all out lances the toxin. I cannot tell you what a relief it is that you believe me! Charles, I’ve felt all alone in this for years. And then, I saw your engagement announcement. The duke talked with me years ago about Redwing and the inner circle, when we served together back in Egypt. I wish I’d believed him then, but I have no doubts about it all now. The question is, how do we stop it?”
Sinclair listened as the clock’s chimes echoed along the walls, and it was then he realised the baby had stopped crying. “Something’s about to happen,” he said, his deep voice but a whisper, cold fear overwhelming his entire body. “Something dreadfully awful.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Warren asked, his body leaning forward expectantly.
“I’m not sure. Call it a premonition. A sense. I cannot explain it, but I know it as surely as I know that two and two are four. All these murders form a pattern that we’re missing, some aspect of magic unknown to us. And I fear that the worst is yet to come.”
The Castor Institute - Hell
The chimes of Oldford Congregational Chapel struck the hour of midnight, and inside the fourth lower level of the mental asylum, Mr. Thirteen’s body had begun to change.
The man’s aged face grew young and shifted into a malleable mass of unwilling clay, reshaped and repurposed by unseen sculptor’s hands. Thirteen’s appearance began to alter dramatically, and he screamed from fear and agon
y.
His pleas for help would go unheeded, however, for medical attendants who worked these lower levels had orders to ignore all the wretched cries of the inmates, given the explanation that the unfortunate men on Hell Ward, had extreme mental illness and were dangerous beyond belief.
Edgar Parsons had never looked into one of the rooms at night. Left alone whilst his colleague took a quick nap, the twenty-two-year-old attendant crept towards Room Thirteen. Though the room’s single bulb remained unlit, a strange blue luminescence brightened the cell, and Edgar could see the man writhing on the narrow cot, straining against the leather straps. The attendant jumped back and rushed towards the exit, for the inmate’s eyes had already begun to turn.
The pupils elongated into slits. The irises lost their usual pale blue in favour of the transitory yellow.
And then the hair began to grow, and the claws form.
His altered brain sent a storm of unnatural neurotransmitters down the branches of his neurological system, and Mr. Thirteen sat up, breaking his bonds asunder, and he listened to the ancient Voice, speaking inside his head.
The Voice that explained his hunger.
Explained the intense need for meat and blood.
The man thought of the smell he’d sensed upon the older gentleman upstairs. So familiar. So tasty. What was the name again? One he’d known so very long ago, back in Cumbria as a boy, when he worked as a footman at Rose House.
Oh yes. Now he remembered.
Sinclair. Charles Robert Sinclair.
The king among the dead.
END Book 2
To be continued in The Redwing Saga, Book 3,
The Blood is the Life
to be released in December, 2017
About the Author
Science, writing, opera, and geopolitics are just a few of the many ‘hats’ worn by Sharon K. Gilbert. She has been married to SkyWatchTV host and fellow writer Derek P. Gilbert for nearly twenty years, and during that time, helped to raise a brilliant and beautiful stepdaughter, Nicole Gilbert.
Blood Rites Page 43
