Blood Lies
Book One of The Redwing Saga
By Sharon K. Gilbert
Blood Lies – Book One of The Redwing Saga
By Sharon K. Gilbert
www.theredwingsaga.com
Published by Rose Avenue Fiction, LLC
514 Rose Avenue, Crane, MO 65633
First Print Edition April 8, 2017
Kindle Edition April 8, 2017
All Content and Characters © 2016 Sharon K. Gilbert
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 0-9980967-0-9 • ISBN-13: 978-0-9980967-0-4
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
About the Author
Books by Sharon K. Gilbert
From the Author
I love history, and I love to write, so it’s not a surprise that a merging of these two great loves would eventually produce this series of novels. For decades, I’ve read (devoured in some cases) the works of great British writers like Doyle, Dickens, Austen, Stoker, Shelley, and more recently Wilkie Collins and G. K. Chesterton. Though the style and formality of these 19th century writers are no longer in vogue today, I find them both beautiful and edifying, for they remind me of a time when gender roles seemed rooted in firmer soil, and religion and religious teaching were almost universal.
Today’s young reader is awash in a sea of social media and net-speak that—for me—would soon make of my brain a grey soup, fit for neither creativity nor compassion. And so, I have decided to immerse my poor brain in phrases and polite conversations of a less technologically advanced time, that of late 19th century England and Scotland. Since I always write from a Christian worldview and hope to use fiction as a means to teach others about spiritual warfare, I have decided to commence this Redwing Saga with a seminal event in London’s criminal archives: Jack the Ripper. Many writers have used Ripper as a springboard for fiction, however my tale—whilst providing a solution to the crimes—will wander far afield of traditional interpretation.
History purists will likely find my version of the Ripper murders disappointing if not infuriating, but wherever possible, I have included true facts, embroidering them only as needed to fit with my plot, and I have depicted historical persons as clearly and truly as my research permits (again sprinkling in additional traits or opinions to fit the plot), but also adding a few whose names most readers may have never before heard. One such example is American journalist Harry Dam, who actually did work for The Star during the time of the Ripper slayings.
The grammar and spelling of this novel are primarily British, and much of its style would be considered antiquated and formal now. Despite my best efforts to faithfully represent both 19th century British phrasing and spelling, I’m sure that somewhere within these pages—and in the books to come—I will fail in this attempt. For this, I beg your indulgence and forgiveness. Other strange inclusions to my American readers will be references to housing units. In Britain, our ‘first’ floor would be the ‘ground floor’, and our ‘second’ would be their ‘first’, so I have maintained a British point of view, in keeping with my characters. In short, if you find a phrase, spelling, or reference that seems odd or out of step, look it up, and you’ll most likely discover yet another difference ‘twixt British and American English’.
As to the secret history of monarchs, there is (to my knowledge) no such true parallel, however, histories are written and codified by those who control media, so I shall leave such to your discretion and discernment, gentle reader. As with the Ripper murders, I have endeavoured to keep to the facts where I must, but use my imagination and perhaps literary licence (yes, that’s how the British spell it) for the remainder. The characters in this series of books have already grown upon my mind and heart, and I hope they will yours as well.
I have visited England and Scotland, but of course never in the 1880s, so I have done my best to provide a picturesque but earnest representation of that pivotal time in history, when the industrial age, like a spirit doorway, opened its mechanical gates into a vast increase in knowledge and the mass transport of peoples across the globe—in fulfillment of Christ’s prophecy. The peoples of London and Scotland spoke with a wide variety of dialects and accents, so you will find conversations which include speakers whose speech patterns and pronunciations differ from those of the main characters, and quite possibly from your own, dear reader. I’ve done my best to convey their interesting rhythms and sounds in written form.
Redwing is a fictional name, but it is based upon those many human/demonic alliances that are even now preparing the way for AntiChrist. The white bird (dove) represents the Holy Spirit, of course, and the ‘red spot’ on one wing indicates the dark desire of every Redwing member, whether human or spiritual, to forever murder the Spirit of Christ upon the Earth. This symbol is a sign of their intent, but you and I know that such a goal is doomed to failure from the start. Christ is the beginning and the ending—He created all, and all humans and fallen entities who now oppose His Spirit will find themselves judged and sentenced to eternal death, no matter how intricate their war plans.
Our Saviour is returning soon, but as Christians, living in a world ruled—for now—by His enemies (who know their time is short) we must daily follow St. Paul’s admonition in Ephesians 6 to always be dressed for battle:
Put on the full armour of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places. Therefore, take up the full armour of God, so that you will be able to resist in the evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm.
Finally, I’d like to thank my husband for reading through this manuscript twice. Is that not love? Also, a huge thanks goes to Karla Akins, who was kind enough to read the manuscript as well. You are a wonderful friend and a gifted writer, Karla. And to each of you who buys this book—many, many thanks and prayers.
Sharon K. Gilbert
February, 2017
For the love of my life...
My treasured husband has always been and will ever be both my Paul and Charles, and he has always treated me like his very own Princess, so it is to him that I dedicate this book. Derek, you are my heart and soul, and your sweet voice and gentle eyes have revealed Christ’s love to me every day since first we met.
PROLOGUE
3, March, 1879—East End, London
It was well past midnight by the time Annie Donovan had finally earned enough to pay for a night’s lodging in the dosshouse. As she stumbled through the dark, the choked backstreets and alleyways of Spitalfields teemed with an eclectic mix of nightlife: drunks by the dozens; gaunt beggars in bug-ridden rags with outstretched, bony hands;
bleary-eyed dockworkers staggering home from their wharfside labours; exhausted chars and pale-faced, hourly wage housemaids who scrubbed and polished middle-class homes by day but scrounged for a warm place to sleep each night; and the occasional silhouette of ad hoc lovers pinned against sooty brick walls or broken windows, heaving rhythmically to the sad, symphonic strains of weeping and public house revelries. All around this east end sea of flesh, floated a silvery mist, rising into the miasma like dragon’s breath on a winter’s evening.
Annie’s blue dress, once her Sunday best, was ripped at the shoulder seam, thanks to the excited pawing of an impatient trio of Russian sailors, but she walked with her chin held high, a music hall tune playing in her head, and she imagined herself to be a regal queen without a care, a silken pocketbook heavy with silver, dangling from her bejeweled fingers. Each footfall of Annie’s worn boots echoed against the thick fog as she walked along the muck-stained cobbles. Passing by a street corner, she could just make out the familiar form of a quick-paced duo, a greasy sailor’s cap sliding off the man’s balding pate, his excited grunts spilling a cloudy mist into the night air: customer and product, sharing a bit of warmth and a sip of cheap gin before exchanging a coin or two. Sighing, Ann Marie Donovan wondered how she’d ended up in such a dismal, doom-ridden place.
Married at sixteen, the bright-eyed daughter of a lawyer’s clerk had taken the train from Manchester toward a fresh start in metropolitan London with her new husband, a handsome young cartwright named Bill Donovan. Six months later, Bill had been charged, found guilty, and sentenced to ten years in Pentonville for theft and counterfeiting, leaving his desperate wife to scratch out a meagre living on the miserable streets of Whitechapel. Finding respectable employment for a girl with few skills had proven impossible, so Annie had set up a back alley ‘shop’, selling the only commodity she owned—her body—earning small sums by offering nightly entertainments to anyone willing to pay. Now, twenty years old and looking twice that, Annie had learnt the tricks of staying alive from her street sisters. She slept in a rented bed when she could, on the street or in doorways when she couldn’t. Lift your skirts if you must, but never be too proud to beg a penny from a passing Christian. Tonight, a warm bed awaited at Flower and Dean Street, if only Mr. Cooper hadn’t already sold it.
“Posies, Miss? Buy a posy from a blind girl,” came a pitiful call from around the next corner. Annie’s weary steps slowed as she reached Fashion Street, little more than a connecting lane that ran south of Christ Church. With Spitalfields now serving as refuge for the mass exodus of beleaguered Jews fleeing the Russian Empire’s deadly pogroms, the Anglican church building seldom housed a congregation, unless one counted the peddlers and prostitutes that littered the lawn and cemetery day and night.
Donovan stopped and gazed at the girl, who sat all alone on the steps of the church’s main entry. She can’t be more than six, Annie thought with a sharp pang.
“Buy a posy, won’t ya?” the girl called sweetly, her blind, blue eyes hidden behind dark green glasses.
Annie fetched out a pearl button from a tobacco tin, and handed it to the child. “I’ve no money to give you, luv, but here’s a pretty button for your dress.”
The girl reached out timidly. Her small, soot-covered fingers closed around the offering, which she then slipped quickly into her apron pocket. “God bless ya, Miss,” she smiled. “What colour?” she asked, touching the wilted carnations in her basket. “I fink I go’ pink and yellow still. Pick your favourite. Nuffin’ cheers like yellow—so said me mum afore the typhus took ‘er las’ year.”
Annie wiped a tear and brushed at the girl’s dirty curls with her own bony hand. “No need, pet. You keep it. You got a place to bed tonight?”
“Yes, Miss,” the girl lied. “Thanks, Miss. Keep safe.”
“You, too, pet. You, too.” Annie returned the rusty tobacco tin to her own pocket, gazing up at the dim light of the gas lamp near the church’s doorway. With a sigh, she turned north toward Brushfield Street and ‘Cooper’s Rooms and Rents’, a miserable heap two blocks west of Commercial. She could still hear the flower girl’s plaintive call as she disappeared into the rising fog. Her mind on the child and her own sorry life, Annie suddenly cried out. Her ill-fitting, right boot had struck something in the lane, causing her to trip, and she tumbled forward onto her face.
“Lord ‘elp us!” Donovan gasped, slowly picking herself up from the rough cobbles and brushing her hands. As she did so, she noticed her hands felt slick, wet. Fearing she’d cut herself, Annie checked her palms in the pale light of the street lamps, finding dark stains on both. “What in the name of…?” she asked aloud, her left foot still caught in something soft and wet that blocked the path.
Looking down, Annie realised with horror just what it was that lay upon the rough dirt and cobbled surface. Something beyond imagination. “Oh, merciful heaven! Help! Help!” she shouted, tears sliding down her dirty face as bile rose to the back of her throat.
“Murder! Police! Help, it’s murder!”
Police Constable Thomas Wenderly blinked to clear his eyes. “Coffee, sir?” he asked the desk sergeant, an imposing Irishman named Taggart, who appeared half asleep himself. “Sir? Would you like some o’ this coffee? I made it myself, sir.”
The older man took the stoneware mug of steaming, black liquid and sipped, licking at his lips as he pondered the strong taste. “Well, lad, at least you can make coffee,” he noted with a paternal grin. “It’s a start. How ‘bout doing a bit o’ real police work, Constable? Here comes Sergeant Littlefield. Lend a hand with that door. Look sharp now!”
Taggart’s peppery moustache twitched as Wenderly pulled the police station door open wide to admit one of Leman Street’s fifteen CID detectives. His pale face and bloodied hands told a dark story.
“It’s murder! Like I ain’t never seen before!” the detective shouted to Taggart, gasping for breath. “Over on Commercial. A woman’s been ripped apart. Head torn clean off. And there’s more...” He paused a moment, holding the door and stepping to one side as a uniformed policeman approached, carrying an unconscious child in his arms. “There’s a witness!”
CHAPTER ONE
Chief Inspector Robert Morehouse gazed thoughtfully at the sleeping girl in his office. After DS Littlefield’s shock announcement of murder and a witness, the entire H-Division police station had gone into nonstop motion. As CID commander of the division, Morehouse had been roused from a deep sleep at 1:13 a.m., hastily dressed, and then followed Police Constable McMillan to the crime scene, one of the most vicious he’d seen in nearly twenty-five years of policing. Morehouse’s second-in-command for CID, Inspector Charles St. Clair, had served as an expert set of eyes in the gloom and fog, whilst sixteen uniformed police constables and their sergeant maintained a modicum of order amongst the curious citizenry, all the while pinching a pickpocket or two found working their way through the densely packed crowd of voyeurs.
The victim’s savaged body had fallen into several pieces and required two wagons to convey it to Morehouse’s morgue, a modestly furnished examination parlour used by Dr. Alan Dollarhide, a London Hospital physician whose scientific curiosity and forensic skill had solved many a crime for Morehouse and often found publication and praise in The Lancet.
Now, what to do with the little girl who had, one presumed, witnessed the crime?
“I’ve given her a drop of laudanum to help calm her nerves. Still, I’m amazed at her overall condition. She’s sleeping when no other child could,” observed Dollarhide from the office doorway. “However, Chief Inspector, if you wish to hear my conclusions regarding our unfortunate victim, that will require time. I’ve only just completed my gross examination. I’ve given all the clothing and other personals to PC France. He’s shown promise with fine work, so I might second him as an autopsy assistant—with your permission, of course.”
“Fine work as in sewing?” Morehouse re
marked with a raised eyebrow.
“Fine work as in evidence collection,” the doctor replied with a suppressed grin. “Lord, will it never warm up? This station house is freezing!”
Charles St. Clair sat at the end of a long, well-worn damask sofa, that served as an emergency bed for Morehouse, but also as visitor accommodation. “She’s a pretty thing,” he said aloud as he gazed at the sleeping girl. “Has she said anything yet?”
Morehouse struck a match and relit his pipe, tapping the bowl to force it to draw. “She called out for her mother at one point, which makes me wonder if our victim might be this child’s mother, or if she had some other role to play—assuming the girl is involved at all. She could be a complete stranger.”
“We’d better get a matron up here,” St. Clair said, his eyes on the girl’s footwear. “Dollarhide, have you ever seen a Spitalfields waif with such shoes as these? They are new and made of fine grade leather. Italian, I’d say. And her stockings, silk ones by the look of it, are soiled at the knees, but clearly done very recently. And they are torn just in the one spot. Her clothing alone would cost more than my entire month’s wages.”
The doctor leaned in, touching the child’s pale hand. “Her skin’s quite good, too. Though the hair is matted with straw and dirt, the scalp is clean and in healthy condition. I’d say this child’s hair was recently washed and regularly so. We don’t see that often hereabouts. And she’s dainty, not half-starved. I sorely doubt this girl is local.”
Charles St. Clair had lost his only child, a son, to smallpox a little over three months earlier, and neither he nor his grieving wife had recovered emotionally. The young inspector contemplated the girl’s heart-shaped face and dark lashes, and he longed to help her if he could. “Did the woman have anything about her that might provide a clue to identifying either her or this child?” he asked.
Dollarhide flipped through a small, leather-bound notebook, kept constantly in his right coat pocket. “Let me see. A jeweled cross, gold—high quality gold, mind you—on a box chain. A wedding ring set with three good-sized diamonds and two sapphires. All superior quality, which makes one wonder why the murderer didn’t take them, because they appear to be expensive cuts. I imagine a jeweler could tell us more. And her skin, what there is that’s left undamaged, is well-cared for, like the girl’s. I’d say both our victim and this child reside in a more prosperous part of London. Perhaps even a wealthy section. A west end kidnapping, you think?”
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