The Parliament of Blood

by Justin Richards

  Sir William had listened patiently to Eddie’s brief description of how Charlie had gone missing and turned up dead.

  They were in the workroom at the end of the corridor that led past Sir William’s and George’s offices. The room was lined with cabinets and cupboards, and dominated by a heavy wooden table. Eddie hadn’t been surprised to find Sir William at work, even though it was Sunday. He knew George was showing photographs to some old bloke in his own office a short distance away.

  Sir William paused to dip what seemed to be a piece of dirty glass into what appeared to be a dish of water. The water began to steam and bubble and Sir William watched intently.

  ‘He was a mudlark for a time,’ Eddie said. ‘Up to his knees pulling bits of coal out of the river bank, was Charlie. Rags, shards of metal, copper nails too, he said, if they were repairing a big ship down the docks.’

  Sir William lifted the glass that wasn’t glass from the water that wasn’t water. The liquid stopped steaming and bubbling at once. He carefully put down the fragment of glass and turned to look directly at Eddie. ‘Oh, Eddie,’ he said. ‘I am afraid that death is a part of life. Especially for the young and the vulnerable. Fever, poverty, violence, bad luck. Whatever the cause, it is sad, but it happens.’ He reached out and put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. ‘And I am sorry for your loss, I truly am.’

  Eddie shook off Sir William’s grip. ‘Weren’t fever or plague or nothing,’ he protested. He hadn’t realised it until now, but: ‘It was my fault. I asked him to find that carriage and he did. And then he turns up down by the river, with the blood drained out of him like all the others.’

  Sir William was shaking his head sadly. But as Eddie finished speaking, the old man was suddenly still and alert. ‘What did you say?’ he demanded.

  ‘I said it’s my fault.’

  ‘No, no, no. Drained of blood? Like all the others?’

  ‘That’s what I said. But you’re not interested, not in Charlie. He’s just another poor kid who died of bad luck to you, isn’t he?’

  Sir William was staring intently at Eddie. ‘This may be very important,’ he said seriously. ‘Tell me everything you know, right from the beginning.’

  Bodies mysteriously drained of blood were exactly the sort of thing that Sir William Protheroe thought his department should be investigating. But the hearsay and gossip passed on by young Eddie was hardly reliable evidence and probably stemmed from unsubstantiated rumour.

  Nonetheless, Sir William wrote a short note to the duty sergeant at Scotland Yard and asked Eddie to deliver it. Eddie was less than impressed, until swayed by the promise of a ha’penny.

  Sir William expected to hear nothing for several days, perhaps even a week, and then a reply probably by third-class post denying any knowledge of such things. So when the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police himself turned up that same evening to tell Sir William that there was absolutely no truth whatsoever in these stories, he suddenly became much more interested.

  ‘So, forgive me Sir Harrison, but you came all the way here – on a Sunday no less – to tell me in person that these rumours are not worth my time?’

  Sir Harrison Judd’s eyes narrowed. ‘There have been some unexplained deaths recently,’ he admitted. ‘But no more than usual.’

  ‘And some of these poor unfortunates have been drained of blood?’

  ‘One always expects some blood loss when there is murder involved.’

  ‘Not with poisoning,’ Sir William pointed out. ‘But the murders were committed with a blade then?’

  ‘That is yet to be determined.’

  ‘And how many not-at-all unusual murders involving the loss of blood are we discussing, Sir Harrison?’

  ‘I am not discussing any,’ the Commissioner said sharply. ‘If and when we need the help of your rather unorthodox methods, Sir William, we will ask for it.’

  Sir William smiled. ‘And I shall of course be delighted to oblige. Just as soon as that time comes.’ He stood up and reached across his desk to shake Sir Harrison’s hand. ‘I appreciate you taking the time to come all this way not to ask for my help.’

  ‘Yes, well, that wasn’t the only reason,’ Sir Harrison admitted.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I also came to see a member of your staff. Mr George Archer.’

  This was a surprise. ‘Really? And may I ask why?’

  ‘I would like him to identify a body. Someone he knows, or rather knew, quite well I understand.’

  George visibly paled when asked to attend the mortuary. Sir Harrison would say no more, and Sir William told George to take as long as he needed – certainly he did not expect George to return to the Museum today.

  ‘I shall look after Mr Blake and make sure he gets back to the redoubtable Mrs Eggerton,’ he assured George. ‘Now, off you go. And I pray this episode will not be too traumatic.’

  The elderly Nathaniel Blake was wedged uncomfortably into George’s desk chair, a blanket over his shoulders like a shawl, examining the photographs from the archive through a magnifying glass. He seemed happy to be left to his work, confessing that so far he had found nothing untoward about any of the photographs.

  ‘Let me know at once if you do,’ Sir William said.

  ‘No idea, these young whippersnappers,’ Blake rasped in reply. ‘No idea at all how to compose a picture. Bad as Fox Talbot himself. Might as well be photographing a window.’ His grumbles lapsed into mutters.

  Sir William returned to his own office, leaving the door to George’s room half open so he could easily glance across the corridor and make sure Blake was all right.

  ‘No peace for the wicked, it seems,’ he said to the tall figure that stood waiting for him.

  ‘Indeed not,’ Lord Ruthven replied. ‘Forgive me, but I shall not disturb you for long.’

  ‘Your men came for the canopic chest,’ Sir William assured him. ‘As you can see.’ He described the scratches on the floorboards with the toe of his shoe – the scratches the men had made ineptly manhandling the heavy casket.

  ‘Indeed. I am told that it is now safe and sound at the Club, together with the sarcophagus. And four of the canopic jars.’

  ‘Then I trust you are satisfied.’ Sir William held open the door, but Lord Ruthven made no effort to leave.

  ‘I will be,’ he said. ‘Just as soon as I have the fifth jar.’

  Sir William frowned. ‘The fifth jar? There is no fifth jar.’

  ‘Oh I assure you there is.’

  ‘No.’ Sir William shook his head. ‘I opened the casket myself. Four jars only. As is usual I believe.’

  ‘But there is a fifth compartment in the chest.’

  Sir Williams’ eyes narrowed. ‘The chest that, from your words just now, I think you have not yet seen. So how can you possibly know there is space for a fifth jar?’

  Lord Ruthven hesitated. ‘I – it was described to me.’

  ‘Well, I can assure you again there is no fifth jar. Or if there is, I have no idea where it might be.’

  Lord Ruthven stared back at Sir William for several moments, his expression unreadable. ‘Then I am mistaken,’ he said at last. ‘But should you happen to find a fifth jar or discover evidence of one, you will let me know?’

  ‘Of course. Good day to you.’

  ‘And to you.’ Lord Ruthven walked briskly away, leaving Sir William alone with his thoughts in the doorway of his office.

  Before he could arrange those thoughts into a shape, he was aware of a figure standing in the corridor, just outside George’s office. Nathaniel Blake.

  The blanket had slipped from one of Blake’s shoulders so it hung across him vaguely like a toga. The man was staring down the corridor, past Sir William, slack-jawed. The flesh of his neck wobbled where it bulged over the collar and Sir William realised that the man’s whole body was trembling. Blake raised a hand, pointing down the corridor in the direction Lord Ruthven had just gone.

  ‘That man …’ he said, voice hoarse and throaty
.

  ‘Lord Ruthven, what of him?’ Sir William walked quickly over to Blake, worried he might be about to have a seizure he was shaking so much.

  ‘That man,’ Blake repeated. ‘That was him.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Sir William gently took Blake’s elbow and led him back into George’s office.

  ‘I told Archer about him. Came to see Fox Talbot, tried to stop his research. Over thirty years ago.’

  ‘Lord Ruthven? I suppose it’s possible.’

  Blake was clutching at Sir William’s sleeve. ‘But – I photographed him. And then when we developed the plate, he wasn’t there. Just didn’t show up.’

  Sir William let go of Blake, allowing the man to sink into the chair beside the desk. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘It’s haunted me ever since. Of course I’m sure.’

  Sir William could tell Blake was sincere, yet this was extraordinary. ‘Can you be certain it’s the same man? I mean, after more than thirty years.’

  Blake looked up at him, his flabby features pale. ‘But that’s just it. I remember him so well. Etched into my memory if not the photographic plate. It was the same man. The very same. Even after all these years, the very same. Don’t you understand – he hasn’t aged or changed at all.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Liz’s father had planned to spend Sunday afternoon at the local church. Usually she accompanied him, but today she had other plans. She walked with him to the church.

  ‘Not staying this week?’ her father asked.

  ‘I thought I might get some air. If you don’t need me.’

  ‘Goodness me no, you please yourself. It’ll be cold air, mind. Rather brisk out today. Though I expect I feel it in my old bones rather more than you do.’

  ‘I have a coat,’ Liz pointed out. ‘If I get too cold I shall go home and make up a fire.’

  ‘Your mother always felt the cold,’ Oldfield remembered. ‘Especially in her feet. I hope you have sturdy soles.’

  ‘I shall be fine.’

  Her father smiled and patted her gently on the shoulder. ‘In search of sturdy souls – that could be the story of my life. Perhaps I shall write a book of my life.’ He stared off into the distance. ‘Used to keep a journal. But that was a long time ago.’

  ‘You must show me it one day,’ Liz said. He had never mentioned a journal before, but perhaps it would be something they could read together. All too often the house was silent as they both sat and read.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure it is really for your eyes,’ her father said quietly. He was still staring off into the distance, into his memories. ‘In fact, I fervently hope that no one ever has cause to read it.’

  Liz smiled and kissed him gently on the cheek. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Some things in this world are very bad,’ her father replied. He shivered. ‘Evil.’

  ‘Like the theatre?’ Liz suggested with a small smile, unable to resist the temptation to tease him just a little.

  He smiled thinly, sadly. ‘Oh, you mock me, my girl. Though nothing good ever came out of the theatre. It breeds decadence and vice. It appeals to man’s baser instincts. And woman’s too, I think. No,’ suddenly he was as serious and solemn as Liz had ever seen him. ‘Take it from me, while God watches over us all in his infinite wisdom, so do others who wish only evil and destruction.’

  Slightly unsettled by the exchange, Liz left her father in the vestry with the rector and church wardens. She would have liked to stay, to make sure he was all right. But she had promised – or almost promised – Henry Malvern that she would try to get to the afternoon rehearsal at the Parthenon Theatre. She shuddered to think what her father would say, especially in his current mood, if he knew where she was going.

  Liz arrived early for the five o’clock rehearsal, and Marie Cuttler greeted her as though they had been friends for years. The actress still seemed a little tired, and her eyes lacked some of the depth and energy Liz had seen in them before.

  ‘I am having such trouble sleeping,’ she confided in Liz after they had spent a while going through their short scenes together. ‘Tell me, do you find it easy to learn lines?’

  ‘Oh, I shall have no trouble,’ Liz assured her quickly. ‘The maid says very little. I am sure I know her lines already.’

  Marie smiled. ‘I am sure you do. But Henry has not yet appointed an understudy. I’m sure I won’t need one, but being so tired, I wonder if it might be a good idea …’

  ‘Understudy?’ Liz echoed, scarcely able to believe what she was hearing. ‘Understudy the role of Marguerite? Me?’

  ‘Well, it’s up to Henry,’ Marie said. ‘But he mentioned the idea to me yesterday, depending how well we felt you managed the part of the maid.’

  Henry Malvern was indeed delighted to hear that Marie thought Liz up to the role of understudy for the leading part. He arrived on the dot of five o’clock and spent a few minutes talking to each and every member of the cast. Liz could almost feel their awe and respect.

  Liz’s own feelings were mixed. What if she was actually called upon to perform? She was nervous enough about how she would be able to play the maid, but at least she could arrive late and leave immediately after the performance each night.

  But put against that was the opportunity, the experience and the excitement of rehearsing a leading role opposite one of the luminaries of modern theatre. To be asked, and after such a short time involved with the production, was such an honour it was almost humbling. Could she really turn down the offer?

  Malvern sensed her uncertainty. He took Liz’s hand in his and held it so tight she could feel the seams in the leather of his gloves.

  ‘Let me talk to your father,’ he said.

  ‘I really don’t –’

  ‘Please,’ he insisted. ‘Let me try.’

  ‘You think he may remember you?’ Liz asked. Malvern blinked in surprise. ‘You told me that you had met before.’

  ‘So I did. But that was a long time ago. Whatever the outcome, whatever happens, I should very much like to meet your father. As I remember, and I do remember our meeting well, he was an extraordinary man.’

  Still not sure that this was the best course of action, Liz eventually agreed, and Malvern insisted in coming home with her after the rehearsal. He hailed a cab outside the theatre and before long they were standing in the hallway of the house Liz shared with her father. Elizabeth Oldfield standing with Henry Malvern – it seemed incredible to Liz.

  There was no sign of her father in the drawing room. ‘He may not be home yet. Or he might be in his study,’ Liz told Malvern quietly.

  Sure enough, at that moment her father’s voice called out: ‘Liz – is that you?’

  ‘It is,’ she replied. ‘And I have brought someone to see you.’

  Malvern held up a finger. ‘Please, allow me to speak with him alone. Just the two of us.’

  ‘But surely, I should introduce you.’ Liz made for the door.

  But Malvern stayed her. ‘No. Alone. I really do think that would be best.’

  Liz nodded. ‘Very well.’

  Malvern knocked at the door. Without waiting for a reply, he opened it and stepped inside, pushing the door shut behind him.

  Liz waited nervously outside, straining to hear what was said. But almost at once, she heard Malvern cry out:

  ‘Liz – quickly!’

  She tore open the door and ran into the room. ‘What is it?’

  Malvern was still standing just inside the door. But Liz hardly noticed him. All her attention was on her father – slumped forwards upon his desk. She ran quickly over.

  ‘He was barely conscious as I came in,’ Malvern said, hurrying to join her. ‘He tried to say something, but he must have used the last of his energy calling out to you for help just now.’

  ‘He has a pulse,’ Liz was relieved to find. ‘Very weak. He looks so pale.’ The old man’s eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. ‘Father – Father, can you hear me?’

&n
bsp; ‘I’m sorry,’ Malvern said when there was no reply. ‘It took me a moment to realise he was in trouble. Something of a shock.’ He wiped a handkerchief across his pale brow. ‘Let me get a doctor.’

  ‘Yes,’ Liz agreed. ‘Yes, thank you. But, do you think we should move him?’

  ‘I really don’t know. I could carry him up to his bed. He would be more comfortable there. I don’t think he is in any immediate danger – he seems to be asleep.’

  ‘He has had a busy week, and he is quite frail at the best of times,’ Liz said. Perhaps she was clutching at straws, but it could be that the old man was simply exhausted. ‘Yes, please,’ she decided. ‘If you will help me carry him up to his bed, and then I shall sit with him while you fetch the doctor.’

  There was a sudden movement from behind them, which startled Liz. But it was just the curtains blowing in a breeze through the open window.

  ‘He must have felt unwell,’ she said as she closed the window. ‘He so rarely opens the window. He feels the cold.’

  She helped Malvern lean her father back in the chair. Then Malvern got his arms under the old man and hefted him gently over his shoulder.

  If either of them noticed the two small splashes of red that had seeped into the blotter beneath Horace Oldfield’s head, they thought nothing of it.

  George slept badly that night. His thoughts were full of memories of his apprenticeship and of the offer that Sir Harrison Judd had made him.

  When he was first out of school and learning his trade as an engineer, he had been apprenticed to one of the chief engineers of the London and North Western Railway. There were several apprentices, but the chief engineer had recognised George’s enthusiasm and aptitude and taken him under his wing. By the time that George left for another job, his apprenticeship complete, the two of them were firm friends with a mutual respect for each other’s abilities and talents.

  The chief engineer’s name was Christopher Kingsley. And George had last seen him that evening, stretched out pale and dead on a mortuary slab.

  ‘Sorry to ask you to do this, but he had no family,’ Sir Harrison explained. ‘His wife died of influenza years ago.’