Blood Lies

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “That he’s tall and handsome, and that he goes to Paris a lot. Oh, sir, your wife’s back!”

  A black hansom cab had pulled in front of the home, and Amelia St. Clair alighted, planting her feet upon the sidewalk, a grim expression on her face as she gazed at the blue-painted, front door.

  Charles had risen to his feet, the girl still clutched within his arms, and he prayed Amelia had reconsidered her harsh demands whilst away. A moment passed, the front door opened, and Charles held onto the girl tightly, determined she would not be evicted.

  “Why is that child still here?” his wife shouted as she entered the parlour.

  “Keep your voice down, please, Amelia,” he whispered. “She is sleeping.”

  “All the more reason to raise my voice, Charles. Girl! Wake up! It is time you left for a place more in keeping with your age and social status!”

  Amelia handed her hat and cloak to Wilsham and then walked straight to her husband. “Give her to me, Charles.”

  St. Clair, usually compliant if not conciliatory toward his wife, refused to back down this time. “I will not. She is here because she needs tending and protection, Amelia.”

  “Others with more experience and less to lose may tend to her, Charles. That is the purpose of orphanages and work houses, is it not? Now, hand her to me.”

  “No!” he shouted angrily. “Do not say more! I will not abandon this girl; do you hear me? Now, if you worry about silverware, or jewelry, or anything else in this house, Amelia, you are free to hide them or remove them. However, if you ask me again to remove this child, then I shall do so, but I will go with her, and you will not see me more.”

  Amelia started to reply, but her husband’s stern expression kept her silent—for now. The raised voices had wakened the girl, however, and she looked up at St. Clair’s wife.

  “I shan’t take anything,” the girl said simply. “Why are you always so sad?”

  Mrs. St. Clair’s face paled, and her mouth flew open. “I am not—that is, I’m—what impertinence! Charles, I shall be upstairs until your temper returns to normal.”

  She turned to leave, but the girl spoke again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I am not any help to you, am I? I didn’t intend to hurt you, Mrs. St. Clair. The Captain says…”

  “The Captain! Child, you are rude and disrespectful! My husband is not to be addressed with such insolence!”

  Charles set the girl onto the floor. “Go sit by the window, little one,” he whispered. “Amelia, I will speak with you in the kitchen.”

  “I have a headache,” she countered, turning toward the staircase.

  “Now,” he whispered tightly, taking her arm to stop her.

  St. Clair guided his wife down the hallway, pausing only when they had reached the passageway betwixt the dining room and the small kitchen. “I will not have you speak to that little girl in such a way, Amelia. No, do not say one word more, else you will find my temper flaring far more than you ever thought possible. I have tolerated much from you because of Albert, but I will not have you endanger the life of another child because of it!”

  “That girl is not our problem,” the woman countered angrily.

  “She is without a home, so for now, this will be her home until I say otherwise. Is that clear?”

  “You would order me about in my own home?”

  “It is my home, too, Amelia, and for the foreseeable future, it shall be hers. If you press me on this, then I will leave this house to you and find a new place to live—for myself and for this girl, should she need one. Do not test me!”

  He turned around, fearing his own rising tide of anger, because, for the first time since marrying her, Charles suddenly wished he had never done so. He walked back into the parlour, gazing at the small girl who stood near the window, her face pressed against the panes. Amelia had followed, and she was about to continue their argument, when the child turned toward them.

  “Is that one of your policemen coming this way, Captain?” she asked as a young man in blue splashed through the cold winter mud to cross the busy street, dodging a beer wagon, a costermonger selling imported vegetables, and a dog cart.

  The policeman knocked, and Mrs. Wilsham, still in the parlour close to the girl, rushed into the foyer and opened wide the front door. “If it isn’t PC France,” she said with a motherly grin, happy to see the lad for many reasons, not the least of which being that his arrival had prevented the St. Clairs from escalating their argument further. “Come in, lad, before you catch yer death. Where’s yer coat? It’s the Devil’s own out there, and that’s no mistakin’ it.”

  Arthur France removed his helmet and tucked it beneath his left elbow. “Thank you, Mrs. Wilsham. Inspector St. Clair, sir?”

  St. Clair crossed to the constable. “France, I assume that Morehouse has sent you to fetch us. Sorry, we got involved and lost track of the day. We’re just about to have tea,” he lied, wishing to avoid further sharp words with his wife. “Won’t you join us?”

  France took a breath. “No, thank you, sir. Chief Inspector Morehouse did send me, sir, but not as he thinks you’re late or any such, but because we’ve had a visit. There’s a gentleman—a right angry one, if you ask me, sir. He’s at the station house and claims he’s the girl’s father.”

  The child joined the two men in the narrow hallway, her dark brows knit together. “My father?” she asked France, “No, that cannot be.”

  Amelia motioned to the servant. “Fetch the girl’s shoes and other clothing, Mrs. Wilsham. She may keep the shirt, of course, as a gift. Our good deed is finished. Let the father remove her to his own home; we’ve more pressing matters to attend. Charles, I would speak to you privately once you’ve returned,” she said, casting an angry glance at her husband. “Good afternoon, Constable France. Thank you for your news. I will see you at the hospital fundraiser next week, I take it? Yes? Well good. I shall say good day to you all then.”

  With that, the lady of the house left the hallway and glided upstairs as if she’d won the entire battle and now dismissed them all from her presence.

  The child’s eyes followed the woman’s retreat with fascination. “She seems very unhappy,” she said softly.

  Charles finished putting on his coat and hat and swept the girl into his arms once more. “So she is, little one, but Mrs. St. Clair’s mood is my fault, not yours. Now, let us see who this man is that has come to claim you. Remember, I will let no one harm you. Do you believe me?”

  She kissed his cheek, her arms around his neck. “Yes, I do, Captain. I truly do,” she whispered, and PC France led them all back across the road and into a waiting hansom.

  “Well?” bellowed the tall, imposing gentleman. “Is she here, or isn’t she?”

  Chief Inspector Morehouse showed no ruffling at all, but kept his eyes fixed on the pacing man. Their visitor rose well beyond six feet tall, and his physique was that of a man accustomed to outdoor pleasures. He looked to be no more than forty and wore a charcoal grey vicuna overcoat with an astrakhan collar and matching hat. His black boots shone like mirrors, and his chin bore the slender, dark stubble known only to those accustomed to daily shaving, but having missed one or two days. He wore no spectacles, but his vision appeared to be sharp, as he had signed for the child’s personal items without so much as a squint at the small typewriting on the form. His left hand bore a curious signet ring, and his trousers and waistcoat were made of finest Merino wool and fit as if tailor-made. The man had access to wealth, of that there could be no doubt, but was his tale a true one? Morehouse’s ‘inner voice’ had been screaming no for nearly an hour.

  “Where is she?” the man shouted to the entire station house. In the nearby cells, several street urchins, who’d been arrested for pickpocketing the previous night, began to imitate the man’s strident calls. A quick word from Sergeant Taggart sent them all scurrying back to the corners of th
eir cells in subdued silence.

  The street door opened, and St. Clair brought the girl in just as PC France appeared to be finishing a joke. “And so, the monkey said his would be the last tail they’d ever tell!” he said with a wink. The girl broke into musical peals of genuine laughter, and she giggled as St. Clair set her down onto the floorboards, her large eyes riveted to France’s crazed ‘monkey’ face.

  “Look at me, Elizabeth!” the well-dressed man shouted, stomping the floor with a gleaming, black boot.

  The girl jumped, spinning ‘round toward the man, whose pale grey eyes quickly assessed the disapproval of the policemen who now saw themselves as the child’s guardians. Recovering himself, the tall man’s face softened, and he bent down and whispered, “I’ve come to take you home, Elizabeth. Won’t that be nice?”

  Her face blanched, and her bottom lip trembled. The girl’s right hand shot toward St. Clair’s reflexively, and she stepped close to the inspector’s side. “You are not my father!” she said emphatically.

  The man nearly shouted back in return, but he again purposefully made his demeanor kinder, softer—his voice silken and inviting. “Dear, sweet Elizabeth, I might not be your actual father, but I’ve been like one to you for almost two years now. Come with me, darling. Your mother is waiting for you.”

  Like lightning, as if these last words snapped her to reality, the girl’s dark eyes grew round, and she stood directly in the man’s face as he bent beside her. “You are a liar! You are a detestable liar! Murderer! You shall hang for what you did!” she cried out, her entire body quivering.

  Her words split the air like cracking ice, but the man would not allow her to continue. Upon hearing the accusation of ‘murderer’, he’d seized the child by the shoulders and begun to shake her violently.

  Immediately, St. Clair and Morehouse intervened. Morehouse pulled the man to his feet and toward the booking desk whilst St. Clair scooped up the girl and held her tightly, protectively. Outraged, the tall man nearly struck Morehouse, but two officers restrained him, and Sergeant Taggart held up a set of iron manacles.

  “There now,” Morehouse said simply. “Shall we continue this conversation in one of my cells, Sir William?”

  Charles held onto the girl, who had begun to weep into his shoulder. “He lies, Captain! He is not my father,” she whispered. “He killed her! He killed my mother!”

  Sir William Trent’s teeth ground in disgust. “You are the liar, little brat! Prove to me that your mother is dead, you wretched child. I have only done my best for you—and for your mother—since the day I came into your lives! How have you repaid me?” he asked, hoping to gain sympathy but failing. “I am battered and belittled by an upstart girl! Prove to me that Patricia is gone, and I shall be the first to demand justice for her!”

  The entire police station stared at him in unison, and the air grew thick with the rising tide of blue-uniformed anger. Once again, the man’s manner altered, becoming deceptively soft, and he began to whisper in a beguiling tone. “Elizabeth, your mother is in Paris. Just as I said she was two days ago, when you ran away from me.”

  Sir William then turned toward Morehouse and the others, trying to elicit sympathy. “Chief Inspector, if you must know, I was boarding the S.S. Plymouth, bound for Calais, when I looked away—just for a moment—and this one ran off. I sent my man to find her, but Elizabeth is like a little snake in a crowd, and she eluded us both. It was only because my valet learnt of a child being held for questioning at your station house that we came here at all. I showed her photograph to this officer,” he said, looking toward Taggart, “and he agreed that it resembled the child you had taken in. Now, Elizabeth,” he continued, looking at the girl, “you are my wife’s daughter, which makes you my stepchild, and legally, I may take you. Prepare now to leave this place, and we shall meet your mother in Paris in three days. She is terribly worried about you.”

  St. Clair glared at Sir William. “We will not release Elizabeth, if that is her name, without more than that! Come, little one, let’s go up to Mr. Morehouse’s office, shall we? I think he has some sweets in his desk drawer.”

  Morehouse nodded, and St. Clair carried her up the steep staircase and out of Sir William’s line of sight. Once inside the office, Charles shut the door and took her on his knee. “Is your name Elizabeth?”

  The girl nodded slowly. “Yes. It is. I remember now. And I know that man. He did marry my mother, but she is not in Paris, Captain. She is dead. I remember that, too—sort of. It’s like a dream, you know? A terrifying, awful nightmare. William murdered her! I saw him do it! He put his hands ‘round her throat, and she cried out—falling, falling into…into something. I cannot remember all, but I did see it, Captain, I did! I saw it! But…there was…more, and someone else, I think. The animal…with great, sharp teeth, and…oh, why is it so hard to remember?” she continued, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I have a very good memory, usually,” she whispered, choking on the last word. “Would you find Paul for me? He will know what to do.”

  St. Clair wanted to shoot the man below, and he expected he’d one day have the chance considering the man’s temperament. “Paul is your cousin. Is that right? Elizabeth, do you remember anything more about Paul yet? I shall find him for you if you can just tell me more about him.”

  “Beth,” she said softly. “My family always calls me Beth.”

  Tears played at his eyes, and he wondered how anyone could hurt such a precious child. “Beth it is then. And you must call me Charles, all right?”

  “Captain Nemo,” she said, wiping the tear from his face. “You’re my lonely Captain, and I shall always be your friend, so you won’t be lonely or sad.” She sighed, playing with a lock of his dark hair. “You have very nice eyes, Captain. Honest eyes. You’re very kind, and I shall never forget you. My cousin will want to thank you, too. His name is James Paul Ian Stuart, and he is the Viscount Marlbury. His father is my uncle, the Earl of Aubrey.”

  Arthur France, who had quietly entered and now stood inside the office doorway, whistled as his eyes grew round. “Blimey, sir! An earl! Just who is this little girl?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was nearly three hours later when Paul Stuart, 5th Viscount Marlbury and only surviving son of the 11th Earl of Aubrey arrived at the Whitechapel station house to collect his young cousin. The viscount apologised to St. Clair for not arriving sooner, explaining that he’d been in Oxford when the message arrived at Aubrey House, and it had taken some time to make travel arrangements and contact the rest of Beth’s family.

  Marlbury was a polar opposite in disposition to the pretender stepfather who had earlier tried to remove the girl from St. Clair’s care. Stuart stood about the same height as St. Clair, several inches over six feet. He had a muscular build, laughing blue eyes, and shoulder length chestnut hair that danced as he moved. It was clear from the moment he arrived that he loved the child dearly, and that she in turn loved and trusted him.

  For their part, St. Clair and Morehouse not only needed to deliver the girl into safe and proper hands, but they also had a murder to solve. They had been unable to charge Sir William with any crime, based solely on the word of a young girl known to have suffered a concussion, so the angry gentleman had disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared, leaving no trace for the police to follow.

  Sitting now with the viscount in Morehouse’s office, St. Clair sought answers whilst Elizabeth enjoyed lemonade and sandwiches with PC France in another room.

  “You found her like that? Torn apart like some animal and then dumped onto your streets?” the viscount asked.

  “I fear we did, Lord Marlbury. A local woman came upon her—the dead woman, I mean. Your Cousin Elizabeth lay unconscious nearby. You recognised the victim then?”

  Tears rolled down his honest, open face, and the viscount wiped at them as he remembered the savaged body—literally torn into pieces—that h
e’d been shown in the police morgue. “God help her! Patricia was so beautiful in life, Inspector. Nothing like what you found. Nothing. And Beth says she saw him do it? So help me, if Trent did that—which would not surprise me in the least—then I shall drag him from here to Scotland and hang him myself!”

  “You will have many honest officers with you, my lord. But we must know our victim’s name. You called her Patricia. Is the girl her daughter? Beth is your cousin, correct?”

  He nodded, regaining his composure. “She is, and I am proud to call her such. Beth’s full name for your records, Inspector, is Elizabeth Georgianna Regina Stuart. Her mother, who was once beautiful and will now be remembered only as the pitiable victim in your morgue is, no...I fear, that she was Patricia Regina Charlotte Linnhe Stuart. Trish married my cousin Connor Stuart, who died two and a half years ago, following a hunting accident. I say accident, because I have no proof otherwise, but if I did, I would add it to my list of accusations against the scoundrel who came here claiming his right to take Beth with him. Trent’s only interest in my cousin is mercenary, as it ever was, but Patricia did not always make the wisest choices. She will be much mourned and sorely missed.”

  Charles admired the young Scottish nobleman, and he suspected that every word he’d said would be fulfilled should Sir William ever cross the viscount’s path. “Beth has asked for you many times,” St. Clair told him. “My Paul, she would say, as if somehow you belong to her alone.”

  The viscount laughed, fond memories teasing at the corners of his bright eyes. “And so I do. It’s a long story that I will gladly tell you one day, Inspector. You’ve shown true colours in your care for her. Beth told me how you protected her. If ever there is anything I or my family might do for you, it is but for you to ask it. My Uncle James is meeting us at Drummond House when he arrives. I hope you will come by there tomorrow evening to meet him.”