The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  As he read, something Della had said tickled at his brain, and he glanced up. “Della,” he called in a whisper.

  She paused, turning to face him. “Yes, brother mine? Am I playing too loudly?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just I was wondering what you meant earlier about the cocoa. You said you had a report for Charles.”

  “Oh, yes,” she told him as she continued to play. “I spoke with Mrs. Meyer. She’d seen it all.”

  “Seen what?”

  “The maid. The new one. She’s from London, I think.”

  “Gertrude Trumper?”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” she said, leaving the piano and joining her brother on the settee. “It’s quite a curious story. The maid offered to take the chocolate upstairs. Mrs. Meyer had watched from her office. She’d been going through the ledgers, and Mrs. Smith was teaching one of the scullery maids how to make cocoa. This maid—Trumper, I mean—sat nearby at the kitchen table. When the cocoa was finished, the scullery maid poured it into a silver pot and started to place it onto the tray for the footman. That’s when it all happened.”

  “When what happened?” he asked, looking at Beth to make sure she still slept. The duchess lay quietly, her breathing regular.

  “That’s when Miss Trumper added the cinnamon.”

  Paul blinked. “How is that important?”

  “Because she poured it from a bottle kept in her apron pocket. Why would a chamber maid keep cinnamon in her pocket? You must admit that it’s a mystery, brother mine. A very deep mystery. Might it be that it wasn’t cinnamon at all? That the maid was mistaken? Something certainly made Samson ill, and I doubt it was anything as common as cinnamon.”

  Paul’s entire body went cold. Had Trumper intentionally tried to poison Elizabeth? Surely not! But what if Beth had drunk the cocoa?

  “I’m sure Miss Trumper did nothing deliberate,” he assured Adele. “You’re quite a thorough investigator, sister mine. I’m very proud of you.”

  “Shall I be the ICI’s first female inspector then? Cousin Charles promised me a warrant card.”

  “I’ll make sure you are the first ever, darling. Do continue playing now. It is helping our cousin to sleep.”

  Adele returned to the bench, and her talented fingers caressed the keys, filling the room with sweet music. However, in Aubrey’s heart, a great sense of dread had taken hold. He’d have to speak with Charles right away.

  Gertrude Trumper might be a Redwing spy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunday 1:24 pm – Drummond House

  “Lady Delia, that song was perfect,” Sir Thomas Galton told the blushing seventeen-year-old. “I’d no idea you had such a lovely voice.”

  Cordelia Wychwright sat opposite the handsome baronet, a demitasse spoon in her right hand, a cup of Darjeeling in her left. She stirred three cubes of sugar into the tea as she replied. “You’re very kind to say so, Sir Thomas. My music teacher, Mr. Primrose, thought me good enough for the stage, but of course, my parents would never agree to such a public display. And by ‘the stage’, of course, I mean opera. Music halls are so very common, don’t you think?”

  “I cannot imagine your beauty upon any stage other than Covent Garden,” Galton replied. “Do forgive me, I see that Haimsbury and Aubrey have arrived with the duchess. I must offer my hellos.”

  He set down his cup and bowed slightly, kissing her hand before departing. Wychwright glanced at her mother, who sat across the large drawing room along with Victoria Stuart and Lady Cartringham. The baroness nodded towards Aubrey, silently reminding her daughter that her prey was not Sir Thomas Galton but Paul Stuart. The subtle prompt caused butterflies to rise up in the girl’s stomach, and she reached for the cake plate in an effort to banish them.

  “Well, if it isn’t Delia Wychwright,” a pleasant voice spoke at her elbow.

  The girl’s chin jerked up. “Good heavens!” she gasped, using a serviette to wipe cake crumbs from her small mouth. “Michael Emerson. When did you get here? I’d no idea you were in London!”

  Dr. Emerson laughed. He stood six feet tall with short, prematurely grey hair, laughing blue eyes, and a smooth face. He removed his gloves and placed them in the left pocket of his cutaway. “An honour to see you once more,” he said, taking her hand and offering a friendly kiss. “May I join you?”

  She gulped audibly, for her mother’s visual remonstrance cut through the air like an angry shout. “Uh, yes, of course,” she answered politely. “Only, Lord Aubrey might also be joining us. Were you in church this morning? I didn’t see you there.”

  “Yes, I was. Towards the back. Your song was quite lovely,” he answered, sitting beside her. “Aubrey’s joining you? Excellent. The earl probably doesn’t remember me. I challenged him at one of Oxford’s chess matches, failing miserably. He’s far too skilled for me, I fear. I suppose, like most of us country folks, you and your parents are in London for the wedding. Quite exciting, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes were fixed on Aubrey, and Cordelia replied automatically, as trained to do. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Emerson took note of her apparent coolness, assuming she preferred to be left alone. “Well, as I said, it’s a delight to see you again,” he continued, standing. “If you’ll pardon me, I should say hello to our host.” Emerson bowed slightly, and then left to find Duke James, who was engaged in an animated discussion with Reginald Whitmore near the turning to the gallery.

  The physician noticed Emerson and called out, “Michael! Over here, lad!” Once Emerson drew near, Whitmore made the introductions. “Duke, this is Michael Emerson, the finest physician ever to leave Edinburgh. Michael, this is His Grace, Duke James.”

  “A pleasure, sir,” the young man answered, shaking Drummond’s hand. “Thank you for inviting me today. I assume I’m here to meet my new patient.”

  “If by that, you mean my granddaughter, she’s just arrived. I say, Charles!” Drummond called. “If you can tear yourself from your fiancée’s side, there’s someone you should meet.”

  Sinclair stood just inside the gallery, some ten feet away, speaking to Beth and Kepelheim. “Excuse me, darling,” he told the duchess. “I believe this may be the new doctor Reggie mentioned to me. Paul will keep you company whilst I sound him out. Do you mind?”

  “No, I suppose not,” she answered. Elizabeth had been somber during the church service, her mind still on Ambrose and Snowdrop. The mare had given birth to a white and grey colt overnight, but as of eight that morning had failed to rally. Marsden felt certain she would die before the day was out, and Beth hadn’t wished to leave her.

  Stuart put an arm ‘round her shoulders. “Come with me, Princess. I require a chaperone when speaking with Lady Cordelia. Stay close and keep watch upon me, will you?” His teasing brought a smile to her face, and the two left. Charles joined the duke, Whitmore, and Emerson.

  “Is it my imagination, or is the duchess somewhat out of sorts this morning?” Reggie asked.

  “She’s lost a stallion and possibly a mare as well. You know how much Beth loves her horses.”

  “So she does. I’m very sorry to hear it. Elizabeth takes such losses to heart. It’s the sort of thing a good physician must keep watch on, you know, which is why I’d like to introduce the man I mentioned to you last week. Lord Haimsbury, this is Dr. Michael Emerson.” Whitmore turned towards the younger practitioner. “Michael, I’ve told Lord Haimsbury all about your eminent qualifications, and he and the duchess have decided to give you a try. Tread carefully, now. Remember, Sinclair is with the CID.”

  Emerson extended his hand, and Sinclair noticed he wore a gold band on the right, ring finger. His palms were smooth, his grip firm, eyes filled with intelligence and mirth. He had the look of someone trustworthy. I just pray he is. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Emerson. I understand you’re Lord Braxton’s son.”

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p; “Guilty and proud of it,” he replied with a bright smile. “Our family seat lies close to your own, Lord Haimsbury. I believe Rose House overlooks the Eden, correct?”

  “So I’m told. My childhood memories still lie in a mist, but they slowly return.”

  “That’s right. You were thought long dead, were you not? Extraordinary! I remember it now. My father spoke of it many times when I was a lad. I think you and I are close to the same age. I was seven, when your father died. Tragic, the way it all played out. His murder, I mean.”

  “Murder?” Drummond asked. “All my sources indicate it was a duel.”

  “That’s true, sir, but locals believe it was unfairly fought. There was even a coroner’s inquest to determine if trickery were involved. Only one witness was called, though—a footman.”

  “Then you know more than I,” James answered. “Charles, I’m going to visit with my granddaughter. Emerson, I’d speak more to you of this, when you’ve the time.”

  “Of course, sir. I look forward to it,” the man answered. He turned to Charles. “I do hope I didn’t overstep. I’d forgotten your mother was also the duke’s sister.”

  “I’d love to hear about my family,” Charles said. “There’s so little known about my disappearance. Anything you might add can only help.”

  “In truth, I only know a little, but my father could tell you more. He’d hoped to come down for the wedding, but poor health precludes travel at present. Congratulations, by the way. I’ve known Elizabeth for many years, though the last time we spoke, she was only twelve. She’s grown into a remarkable woman.”

  “I look forward to meeting your father, Dr. Emerson. I’d no idea the Braxton estate was so near Rose House. Before you leave today, I’d appreciate a word in private.”

  “Would now work? If you’re amenable that is, Lord Haimsbury.” Emerson smiled, and his already handsome features brightened, giving him an almost childlike appearance. He bore a faded scar above his left brow and signs of an old infection dotted the area below his right ear. When not speaking, Charles noticed the man’s head tilted slightly to the left.

  “Yes, thank you. Reggie, do you wish to join us?”

  “I think I’ll tuck into those little cakes,” Whitmore answered, winking. “Be sure to mention Kelly,” he whispered to Emerson before walking away.

  “Kelly?” Charles asked as he led Emerson into a small drawing room beyond the gallery. “In here, Doctor. Booth, could you let my uncle know where we are?” he called to the butler. Once inside, the marquess shut the door and turned the key.

  “I prefer no one stumble in whilst you and I speak. Which Kelly does Whitmore mean?” he asked as they took matching leather club chairs on either side of a tall fireplace.

  “Marie Jeanette,” Emerson answered. “I understand she is your latest victim. I may know her.”

  “We list her as Mary Jane, though they might be the same person. Is your connexion professional or personal?”

  It took a second for the implication to resonate in the physician’s mind, but once done, he shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no, not personal! Not at all. I treated her. I spent two years at the Castor Asylum. Miss Kelly suffered migraines, brought on from poor diet and despondency. I assume my patient is the same woman as your victim. Moderately tall, fair hair, blue eyes. Quite pretty, in fact. Well kept. Clean, I mean. Many of the local patients, particularly those from Limehouse and Spitalfields, seldom bathe. Even if water were abundant, most would avoid washing. Marie often arrived in company with a well-dressed gentleman. His name escapes me, but I could consult my records, if it assists your investigation.”

  “It might,” Sinclair said. “Miss Kelly died quite horribly. I prefer not to offer details, for there’s much we’re keeping out of the press, though Fred Best from The Star has already penned a scathing report.” He paused, weighing whether or not the man could be trusted. Both Price and Whitmore recommend him. Please, Lord, don’t let me make a mistake!

  Emerson waited patiently, his breathing easy. Finally, he leaned forward in the chair. “You’re concerned about the duchess, and you wonder if I’m trustworthy. Sir, I understand. I do. My late wife meant the world to me,” he said, glancing down at the gold band. Twisting it, he explained. “She passed away from typhus three years ago. Shortly after the loss of our only child. Both are with our Saviour now. I wear the ring on my right hand as a reminder that they stand at the right hand of the Father, nearest our Lord. Tis a comfort on dark, lonely nights.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Sinclair answered. “I lost my son in ’78. Smallpox. My late wife and I were separated when she died, but I believe I understand the depth of your loss. Were I to lose Elizabeth, all life would stop for me. My heart would simply cease to beat.”

  “Then you have found your perfect mate,” he said thoughtfully. “Lynette was mine. Reggie said you’re concerned about the duchess’s health. He’s reviewed his findings with me, and though I’ve not yet had an opportunity to speak with George Price, his reputation amongst London physicians is incomparable. Both men have diagnosed pregnancy. I assume that is why you wished to speak in private.”

  “Yes, and I’m very glad Reggie explained it to you. The circumstances of conception are difficult to explain, but...”

  “You are with the inner circle,” Emerson interjected, causing Sinclair to stare, mouth open. “You’re surprised. Yes, I know all about that august group’s noble cause. My father served as an agent when a young man, and he’s consulted with Dr. MacPherson several times since. Both men research ancient languages and texts. I assume the circumstances you mention relate to Redwing in some way.”

  “Is it possible that our Lord has brought you to us? Honestly, I have worried endlessly about Beth’s condition, not because of any possible scandal. Neither she nor care a whit for that, but because of how it all came about—and now, her health issues. Doctor...”

  “Michael. Just call me Michael, sir.”

  “Then you must call me Charles.”

  “An honour,” Emerson replied. “By health issues, do you refer to these early symptoms Whitmore mentioned?”

  He nodded. “To a degree, yes, but also the extremity of them. She rarely has a moment when her stomach isn’t roiling, and she finds eating quite challenging. Tea and dry toast form the bulk of her diet, but even those can send her reeling. My late wife’s pregnancy had few such troubles. Does Elizabeth’s extreme nausea and dizziness indicate a problem?”

  “You seem to me a man who appreciates candor, Charles, so I’ll be blunt. Yes, the symptoms you describe can be caused by complications, but there are a few women whose delicate constitutions react violently to pregnancy. We’re only now studying the physiological changes during the months of infant growth and maturation, and I fear that very few physicians have enough experience to be considered experts. It is one reason I served at Castor. The large female patient population included many with pregnancies in various stages, and I kept copious notes, asking many questions throughout. I’ve several theories regarding the duchess, but I need to examine her before offering them.”

  “Then, we should arrange for you to do so as soon as possible,” Sinclair replied. “Would tomorrow be opportune?”

  “This afternoon is better, if you haven’t other duties,” the doctor answered. “I have two visits to make outside London tomorrow, but if that is your only option, I could reschedule them. I shall make myself available to you as a priority.”

  Charles stood, shaking the man’s hand. “I feel as if a great burden is lifting off my shoulders. It’s been a whirlwind week, and I pray the one before us brings a season of rest. Knowing that Elizabeth is well would offer that repose to us both. This afternoon at five?”

  “Certainly. At her home, or do you prefer your own?”

  “Hers. Queen Anne House, just north of St. James’s park and west of the palace.”
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  “I know exactly where it is,” Emerson said, adding the appointment notation to a small leather book. Charles led him to the door, opened it, and the two men returned to the main drawing room, where a small crowd had gathered, including Edmund Reid. The duke motioned to his nephew.

  “Charles, it looks as if you’ll be leaving us,” Drummond explained, pointing to the inspector. “Beth wants to say goodbye, though. She’s in the music room.”

  Without pausing, he found his way there, entering and shutting the door. The duchess stood alone at the piano, her right hand playing a haunting melody.

  “I hope this sad tune isn’t an indication of your mood,” he said as he drew near. “I’d no idea Reid would come to fetch me, Beth. Really, I am so very sorry. After missing our picnic last evening, you must now doubt the wisdom of becoming a policeman’s wife.” He expected her to argue or play coy, but instead she threw her arms around him and began to weep. “It’s Snowdrop and Ambrose, isn’t it?” he said gently. “I’ll tell Reid that I cannot leave.”

  She shook her head, though her face still pressed against his chest. “It isn’t that. It’s memories, I suppose. When I saw Edmund enter, I knew he’d come to fetch you. He insisted to me that there is no new case, but only the continuation of another. I cannot explain why, but I suddenly felt overcome with emotion, so I retreated here and asked Grandfather to tell you. Do you think me a coward?”

  “You? Darling, you are the bravest of us all. What memories tug at your heart?”

  “Memories of you. Of the man I first met in ’79. Your extreme kindness and unabashed love. Charles, it frightens me sometimes—the way I feel about you; the way I desperately need you. If the enemy ever took you from me, I don’t know what I’d do. It would kill me, I think.”

  He kissed her forehead, upturning her heart-shaped face in his hands so that her eyes looked into his. “My precious little one,” he whispered, “you are the brightest star in all the heavens. I would scale any mountain, slay any dragon, swim any ocean, were to ask it. Our connexion is beyond that of poets to describe. One week from now, you and I shall stand in this house as husband and wife. Nothing will prevent that. Nothing. That’s what you fear, isn’t it?”