Chapter Twenty-Seven
24th December, 1859 – Rose House
“Uncle Marty! Uncle Marty!” the boy shouted, rushing forward to meet the party of winter travellers in the massive foyer. Martin Kepelheim grinned from ear to ear, kneeling as the boy slammed into his arms for a bear hug.
“Charles, my boy, how good it is to see you again! Why, you have grown even taller since I saw you in May. You shall surpass your father soon, I imagine.”
The boy’s light blue eyes sparkled in the glow of the chandeliers that hung from the lofty ceiling. He was indeed long of limb and far taller than any of his friends, but he smiled readily and had a gentleness of heart seldom seen in one so young. “I shall be very tall,” he said in a northern brogue. “So says Auntie Tory.”
“And you are very well spoken, also, for a lad of only four years,” his friend said as several footmen unloaded luggage from the coach.
“Four-and-a-half years,” the lad corrected. “Mother will be glad to see you. Are you going to stay for a long time, Uncle Marty?”
“I shall stay until you are quite sick of me,” he said with a laugh. Kepelheim took the boy’s hand, and the pair of them walked towards a large drawing room, where several footmen had erected a twenty-foot tree. “I see Christmas preparations have begun. Is your father home?”
“He’s in the city, but Mother’s home. She’s going to have a baby. Did you know that, Uncle Marty?”
“Is she?” he teased. “Well, then, it’s probably a good thing that I’ve brought gifts for a newborn Sinclair, isn’t it? And I think I’ve even remembered to bring a few books and toys for a certain young man who likes to look at stars and learn about nature.”
Charles Sinclair beamed as he led his friend to a curved leather sofa near the roaring fire. “Father promised me a telescope this year. One he found in Paris when he was there.”
“Did he?” Kepelheim asked with a wink. “Well, then, you and I shall be able to examine the stars close up, won’t we?”
Victoria Stuart entered, wearing a pair of woolen trousers topped by a crimson riding coat, her dark hair plaited into a thick braid that followed the curve of her back. “Martin, how good to see you!” she greeted the guest, her hands out.
Kepelheim took Stuart’s hands, kissing her right. “And a delight to see you again, my dear friend. Is your brother joining us this year?”
“He is. In fact, he should be arriving this evening, if the ice storm holds off. Those forecasts in The Times are often wrong, though, aren’t they? Robert and Abigail arrived this morning, and Paul’s upstairs. He’s come down with a cold or something akin to it, though it does little to slow his enthusiasm. It’ll be a challenge to keep him in bed. How was Vienna?”
“Long and trying, but I have much to report,” Kepelheim answered, casting a quick glance at Charles. “I cannot speak more here, but later, I’ll explain. For now, let’s enjoy the beauty of this incredible landscape, shall we? How is Angela?”
Tory walked towards a trio of floor to ceiling, arched windows that overlooked the snow-covered valley below. Charles had remained near the tree on the opposite side of the great room; selecting ornaments and candles and handing them to men on ladders, but Victoria kept her voice soft regardless.
“She has suffered from a few odd spells, though Dr. Hendricks thinks it nothing to worry us. Robby seldom leaves the house now, and he’s told Palmerston not to expect him in London until well after the start of the year, if then. Angela’s due date is only a week away, you know. We’re all praying she’ll deliver for Christmas.”
“But these spells you mention. Are they related to health or to something else?” he whispered.
“Something else, I fear. We’ll explain this evening at the meeting. Reggie Whitmore’s coming up from London, as is Sir William Galton. Oh, and Duke George sends his regrets. He’s dealing with health issues of his own just now. Trish will be here, however, I think. Or at least Connor hopes she’ll attend.”
“He still keeps faith that she will agree to wed, I take it?”
Tory sighed. “He does, but I wonder if she isn’t already looking elsewhere. No, forget I said that, Martin. It is only rumour.”
A footman quietly stepped up to the pair, bowing as Victoria turned. “My lady, I’m to tell you and Mr. Kepelheim that Lord Aubrey awaits in the library.”
“Ah, well, perhaps Robert has decided to convene a small meeting in advance of this evening’s discourse,” Martin said. “Please, my good fellow, tell Lord Aubrey that we shall join him in a moment.” The circle agent then walked back towards the massive evergreen and tapped the boy on the shoulder. “We’re off to speak with your Uncle Robert, Charles. Shan’t take long. I hear that your Cousin Paul is ill. Perhaps, he would appreciate a visit.”
The boy stood and wiped dust from his hands. “Yes, he’s sneezing quite a lot, but Dr. Hendricks says he’s not really sick. I’ll go see if he’s better.”
The sensitive child then signalled to his aunt, who bent down, and Charles kissed her cheek. “Love you, Auntie Vic,” he said with a great grin.
She kissed his small hand. “Love you, too, Charlie Bob,” she replied with a wink. “Tell Paul not to overdo.”
The adults left the room, and the youngster watched them leave, whilst his own, much older self wandered the halls of his childhood home, trying to sort through a wealth of mysteries and clues.
In the year 1888, the adult Sinclair’s eyes popped open, and he reached out for Martin Kepelheim, his breathing quick.
“I remember!” he gasped. “It was Christmas, and there was a huge spruce tree in the Pendragon room. You gave me a box of Austrian chocolates and two books on astronomy. And father—my father gave me...” he paused, tears running down his cheeks. “Father gave me a hand-crafted German telescope. Uncle Robert was there with Aunt Abigail. I remember them, Martin! I remember how the earl would lift me up and swing me over his head, and my father kept laughing and telling him not to drop me. Mother—oh, Martin. Mother was about to give birth, wasn’t she?”
Kepelheim stared, speechless for a moment. He looked to the earl and Victoria. “Perhaps, we should stop for now.”
“Why, Martin?” Sinclair asked, anxious to recover more of his memories. “There are so many questions in my mind now that seek answers. Please, don’t stop.”
The tailor took the detective’s hand, his aging eyes filled with worry. “Charles, if you are strong enough to recall these memories, then I encourage doing so, but let us wait until your mind processes these memories first.”
Charles shook his head. His mind was alive with a thousand images, and he had no patience to wait. “No, Martin. Whatever method you’re using, it’s working. Please. My memories have been obscured for a reason, don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps,” the tailor answered patiently, pouring a glass of water. “Drink this.”
Sinclair obeyed. “Then, the memories must contain information Redwing wants buried.”
Kepelheim looked at Tory and Aubrey. “Yes, that is likely. Very well, but will you agree to ending the session, if we think you in danger?”
“Danger? What danger lies in memory, Martin?”
“More than you can ever imagine,” he muttered.
“What do you mean?” the detective persisted.
Martin sat again, his hands tense. “Consider the implications, my friend. You said that your mother expected a child. Yet, you have no siblings.”
Sinclair’s mouth opened to speak, but the simple statement suddenly crystallised as his first words emerged. “But... She died,” he whispered sadly, as that dark memory returned. “My sister died. Her name was Charlotte Victoria. She died the night she was born. New Year’s Eve.”
“Yes, Charles. She did. I am so sorry. Do you still wish to continue?”
He wiped at his eyes, dread pulling at his heart.
“But my sister was born healthy, Martin. I remember hearing her cries, and the doctor said she was well and strong. But how can that be, if she died? What happened?”
“We never knew. It is a tragic tale, and I confess that it is why I chose to tell you this story, Charles. Not to bring you pain, but to use a time that was both joyful and painful to rouse those indolent memories from their long slumber. Forgive me, my friend. I have worried that you would recall these under circumstances outside our control.”
“That’s what you meant. In Scotland at my first meeting,” Charles whispered. “You said I would begin to remember one day, and that the circle should be ready for it.”
“Yes. These memories were stolen from you by design. Redwing must be behind it, but let us use that stratagem against the enemy.”
He slumped into the sofa, his breathing coming in anxious pants. “You were there, Tory,” he whispered, looking at his aunt with a wan smile. “You called me Charlie Bob.”
Victoria’s dark eyes filled with tears. “Yes! I did call you that. It seems so long ago now. You were a delightful boy, Charles.”
“Then continue with the story, Martin. Help me to recall it all. Please. When I marry Elizabeth, I want to do so as a fully functioning member of this family, and I would know just what truly happened to my mother and father—and perhaps, also, my sister.”
Kepelheim took a deep breath, and then returned to the tale...
Rose House – 24th December, 1859
The meeting of the inner circle commenced at eight o’clock that evening, inside the private library. The room had been designed and built by Robby Sinclair’s father, Charles Robert Arthur Sinclair I, 9th Marquess of Haimsbury. In the absence of Duke George’s attendance, James Stuart, Duke of Drummond, led the meeting. After submitting their praise and petitions to the Lord, he opened the floor to reports. The men and women who gathered ‘round the oval table had known one other for many years. Sir William Galton had inherited his position from his father, and his grandfather before him. Galton served in the Palmerston administration, but also in the Foreign Office for ten years, previous to Lord Palmerston’s election that June. He was an expert in geopolitics, ancient iconography, Egyptian mythology, Celtic pagan practises, and ciphers.
Beside Galton, sat Lady Victoria Stuart, who’d joined the circle as a twenty-one year old, using her brain but also her beauty to tease information from foreign diplomats. Tory had a knack for insightful examination of a set of seemingly unrelated facts, making her indispensable when trying to interpret the enemy’s movements.
Robert Stuart, 11th Earl of Aubrey, sat next to Victoria. The earl’s contacts within governments of the world rivalled that of any king or queen, and the circle often jibed that if Redwing truly wanted to install a great ruler upon England’s throne, they would have chosen this remarkable descendent of the Stuart monarchy. At forty-six, his black hair had already begun to silver at the temples, but his clear blue eyes were bright, and his mind sharper than any in Redwing’s mad membership.
The earl stood, looking at the others at the table: Connor Stuart, able-bodied, quick-witted son to Duke James; Reginald Whitmore, physician to Her Majesty, chemist, and an expert in ancient languages; Edward MacPherson, clergyman, educator, soldier, and expert in spiritual entities and pagan rituals; and the inimitable Martin Kepelheim, musician, astronomer, chemist, linguist and code-breaker; painter, philosopher, poet, and one of the most accomplished field agents the circle had ever trained.
Kepelheim glanced up as Aubrey spoke, his hand raised. “Lord Aubrey, if I may? It will take but a moment, and I believe it relates to what you are about to discuss.”
Aubrey smiled. “Forgive me, Martin. I’d forgotten James promised to allow you to open. Your information relates to the American problem?”
“American politics? Is that what you intend to discuss? Well, in truth, this does not connect directly, however it will no doubt become an issue if war erupts there.”
“I can assure you, Martin, war is inevitable; probably, within the coming year.”
Kepelheim sighed. “Ah, well, the group to which I was attached in Vienna will no doubt play a hand in mounting that war, financially at least. They are a fiercely loyal Redwing nest called Die Herren vom Schwarzen Stein or Lords of the Black Stone. These serve as the ‘hidden hand’ behind a more public fellowship of gentlemen philosophers known as The Arcadians. These Arcadians have a London affiliate, but the inner ring of that group calls itself ‘The Round Table’.”
“The Round Table is already known to us,” Aubrey replied bitterly. “If you’ll recall, Duke George’s traitorous father, Henry, was a member.”
“Robert, that is mere speculation,” Victoria argued. “We’ve no proof that Henry attended their meetings, nor that he was Redwing.”
“Henry is dead, and debating his loyalties will only divide us,” Drummond interrupted. “Martin, this first group in Austria. These so-called ‘Lords of the Black Stone’. Did you infiltrate it?”
“Yes, sir, I did. Briefly. Their core doctrine is based partly on Teutonic mythology and partly on Templar mysteries, derived from texts discovered in Damascus during the Crusades.”
Victoria glanced at Kepelheim. “This Black Stone they appear to worship. Is it a star?”
“Not exactly,” he answered. “It is a stone that fell to earth eons ago and lies, yet undiscovered, somewhere in ancient Assyria. There are numerous theories regarding this stone. Some say it once formed half of the gateway to Eden. Others that it is the stone upon which Jacob’s head rested. Still others, that a fallen angel was imprisoned within it before the flood, and that he will emerge and destroy the world of men in the final years before Christ’s return. If freed, they say, this creature will summon thirteen brethren, and these will then join together and break the locks of Time, releasing Abaddon and his demonic hoard.”
“How can Time be unlocked?” Whitmore asked.
“I cannot say, but the scrolls contain mathematical formulae and symbols that defy interpretation or decipher. I’ve seen them for myself. They are genuine.”
“Martin, if you cannot read them, then how can anyone?” Galton asked.
Drummond put up his hand as a call for calm, for many at the table began to whisper to one another, each questioning the information. “It matters not if we believe in such a possibility. What matters, my friends, is that Redwing believes it. Go on, Martin.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kepelheim said softly, handing a thick folder to the duke. “This contains detailed information of what I uncovered. The Arcadians have amassed a large and faithful following. These men think themselves nothing more than a fellowship of philosophers and scientists. They’ve no idea that their leaders meet in secret and employ necromancy and blood rites to summon up spirit guides. Some within their ranks are more than human, by all accounts; altered through ritual magic. But others are devils in disguise.
“These men believe that we are moving into a new, golden age, which will commence within the next one hundred years. I managed to decipher two of their sacred texts, and I’ve included copies in this report. Their complex calculations predict a great upheaval of the world systems through war and economic collapse. These shakings are viewed as a chaos engine that will drive us out of an ‘age of sin’, which they call the Kali Yuga, and into an age of enlightenment and prosperity. War is ever on their minds and upon their lips. Many have already begun to invest in America, for most see that nation’s current, political division as an opportunity to stoke the fires of this chaos machine.”
The duke looked at the young Marquess of Haimsbury. Both he and Connor Stuart now scribbled notes on sheets of paper, whispering to each other. “Robby? Is there something you and my son would like to contribute?”
Robert Sinclair stood, bowing slightly to his elder respectfully. “Forgive me, sir, but yes. Connor and I’ve been working on a project for
some months, and Martin’s information regarding the timing of this new age fits with what we’ve surmised.”
“And that is?” asked Lord Aubrey.
“It is simply this: Our Lord told us to expect a series of wars in the final years before his return. Europe has certainly had her share, beginning with Napoleon, whom many in the circle thought to be a type of AntiChrist, if not that devil himself. Russia emerges as a challenger to the Ottoman Empire, but Germany and Austria show no sign of relinquishing their chokehold on the economies of Europe. It seems to me—to us,” he added, looking to Lord Kesson, “that civil war in America is inevitable, but that this will only strengthen that nation as they move into the next century. We have examined all the geopolitical possibilities that follow a civil war there, and we believe it a domino whose fall will lead to a war for Turkey’s empire. This will culminate in a world at war, beginning as early as 1900, but certainly in the first two decades of the next century. If Redwing wishes to place a male of the right age upon the English throne and inhabit him as part of this chaos engine Martin mentioned, then that son must be born before the turn of the century.”
Aubrey’s face paled as the implications of the theory hit home. “If England is to accept this son as king, then he’ll have to become wildly popular, else the citizens would never allow it. And he would need to be old enough. At least ten or twelve, I’d say. That means he must born in the 1880s or early ‘90s. Is that your opinion?”
“That is exactly what we believe, Uncle Robert. And Connor and I also believe that Redwing intends to use Charles to father that child.”
“Charles? Why Charles?” the duke asked.
“Because he descends from the Stuarts and the elder twin. But, sir, our research proves that Redwing and all its associated groups such as The Arcadians and the Lords of the Black Stone, have conducted rituals for centuries to produce a purified blood for their endgame. It is the Sinclair blood, sir. As you know, my father was convinced of this, and everything I find confirms it. If Connor and I are right, then Redwing requires a daughter born of the younger twin’s line—in fact, a daughter born from both lines would be preferable, as it would strengthen the blood tie.”
The Blood Is the Life Page 41
