Blood Lies

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Paul’s clear blue eyes flashed angrily. “Merciful heavens! Is it possible Trent planned to sell her? If so, I shall find that miserable excuse for a man now and save the queen’s hangman a day’s work!”

  The earl’s handsome features remained calm, and the policeman could see years of experience and wisdom written in small creases along his face as well as in two, old linear scars that paralleled his jawline, which St. Clair surmised to have been caused by a very sharp knife. He wondered just what ‘political’ activities might have left such permanent imprints on a peer of the realm.

  “Sit down, Paul,” the earl said gently, a strong, reassuring hand touching that of his son. “It will help no one if you allow emotion to define your actions. The inspector is correct to suspect such, for that sort of foul organisation is all too common, Paul, as you surely know. Inspector, my niece has suffered from seizures before, but it has been more than two years since her last episode. This man in Queen Anne Park. Did Beth describe him?”

  “She said he spoke with a funny accent. That he frightened her and wrote in a book. I assumed him part of such an operation, and that he made notes regarding her appearance.”

  “Ah. That would make sense, but the description provides very little to go on,” the older man replied.

  St. Clair suddenly brightened. “But wait! Beth also told me something else about this man. I hesitate to admit this, sir, but I fell asleep whilst she napped, and when I awoke, your niece had disappeared. I rushed out to find her, and she was several blocks from my home in a public house.”

  “What? You found her in a pub?” the viscount asked. “Why on earth would she go there?”

  “In truth, I wish now I’d taken more time to speak with her about it, but at that moment, I was so relieved to find her well and unharmed that my policeman’s senses failed me. She did tell me, however, that she’d followed a man who looked like the one in the park. It turned out that the man she followed was the publican.”

  Aubrey broke into a wide smile, and he began to laugh. “So she decided to investigate on her own whilst you slept? How like our Beth! Inspector, when you get to know our little duchess better, you will realise that she can be somewhat difficult to control. She is highly intelligent and curious, but also somewhat headstrong. Do not blame yourself for her rash behaviour. Only praise the Lord for keeping her in His care whilst she escaped yours.”

  St. Clair sighed. “That is kind of you, sir, but Whitechapel is neither Westminster, nor is it Scotland. Rash behaviour there may lead to disasters beyond imagining.”

  “True. True, but even country life has dangers beyond your imagining, Inspector. One day, you will understand, but for now, would you describe this publican for us? Perhaps, my son and I have seen a man similar.”

  “He is tall. Quite tall, actually,” St. Clair said. “I am six-foot-three, and John’s easily two or three inches taller than I. He’s muscular as well. He once boxed in Manchester, but one too many punches left him rather weak in limb, so he took over his father’s pub.”

  “Hair colour?” Paul Stuart asked.

  “Dark. Like mine, but long. Similar to the length you wear your own, Lord Marlbury. Just at the shoulder. Does this strike as at all familiar?”

  “No, I fear that it does not,” Aubrey said. “Inspector, Beth does not always have clear recall, as I’m sure you observed. Her concussion most likely caused her to suffer memory loss, but there might also be other factors at work. As I said, she is highly intelligent and kind and thoughtful and resourceful, but also very sensitive. And she has endured many hardships in her young life. I would know that William Trent can no longer reach her, if that can be made possible. How might we aid your investigation without further risking my niece?”

  St. Clair watched the play of life in the park, thinking of the many dangers facing children in London, his fears for Elizabeth painting a dark picture. “I would not wish any harm to come to her, sir. She is a precious young lady. I can see why she is dear to you all.”

  Paul stood. “She is more precious than you can imagine, Inspector. Father, we should not remain out here long. Elizabeth will wonder why we linger. Her independent nature might bring her through those doors any moment, in fact. Shall we rejoin the others? Inspector, my father and I shall speak more of this with you tomorrow. At Leman Street.”

  The three men returned to the drawing room, and Charles walked in just as Elizabeth was reading an article from the latest edition of Le Figaro to Amelia. St. Clair winked as he entered, and the little duchess winked at her Captain in return and then continued to translate the difficult political articles for the woman who had scorned her claims at reading Jules Verne in the original language. Seeing her rescuer returned, the little duchess excused herself and approached the detective, who now sat near the window, alone.

  “I take it that my uncle and cousin did not wish me to overhear your conversation, Captain,” she said, sitting next to him on the sofa.

  St. Clair smiled as he helped her to sit. “They were showing me the view from your grandfather’s front portico. It’s breathtaking. Your Grace, is that the park you told me about, or were you speaking of the one behind Queen Anne House?”

  She paled slightly, and he instantly wished he’d said nothing. She leaned in close to whisper. “You promised to call me Beth,” she reminded him.

  The inspector smiled, noticing his wife’s easy manner and laughter as she sat talking with the duke. “I did promise. Beth it is. I’m very sorry that my wife treated you so unfairly. She isn’t a bad person, but she... Well, Amelia has been through much that has left her scarred and bitter.”

  The girl sighed. “Yes, I can see that. She has the same look my mother used to wear. It is strange that she is dead. I know that I should be weeping, but I find it difficult to do. I did love my mother, Captain, truly, I did—I do,” she corrected, her eyes downcast. “The funeral will take place at Branham, of course.”

  “That is your family seat, correct? In Kent?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Branham Hall is my home, when I’m not in London, that is. I’m not sure when it will all happen, though. There’s to be a public service here in London first. The queen has sent her condolences and will likely come to the funeral.”

  “You know Her Majesty?” he asked, realising at once how naive the question sounded.

  “Yes. She’s a lovely person. Her grandson, Prince Albert Victor, is a friend of mine. He’ll come, I know. In fact, I’m certain that hundreds of peers and royals and politicians will be there. I’d prefer it to be private, but then my grandfather is making all the arrangements. My Aunt Victoria’s been ill, but she hopes to come.” She paused, her brows pinching together as if something disturbed her. “Tell me, truly, how does your investigation affect her funeral? Will you need to—to keep her body whilst you look for her murderer? I’ve already told you that it is William. Do you need more than that?”

  Charles knew that the police surgeon had not yet completed his work on the torn and bloodied corpse, but he had no wish to disclose too much. “Sadly, Beth, I fear the courts will not accept your testimony—not just because of your age, but because of your head injury.”

  She sighed. “I’d thought that might be the case.”

  “Beth, I shall do all within my power to see that Trent answers for his crimes. As to your mother’s body, I imagine we’ll need to keep it for a little while longer. My superior will be the one to decide when we might release her back to your family. Beth, I am so sorry for your loss. If I could reset time and change it for you, I would.”

  She gripped his hand and moved closer, setting her small head against his shoulder. “You are quite wonderful, Captain. Will you come to the funeral?”

  “I will, if you wish it.”

  “I do. It would help me more than you could possibly imagine.” She swallowed, as if forcing down dark thoughts. “I think that there i
s more I’m not remembering, and...”

  “Do not try to stir up the memories, little one,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Give your heart time to work through it all.”

  She turned to gaze out the window, her fingers gripping his. “You asked me about the park. It is the one behind our house. I saw the tall man there, but not just once. Many times. He would always wait until after my mother had gone, and then come over to talk to me. I remember more about him now, but much of it is still rather like a dream, Captain.”

  “And it is a dream that troubles you, is it not, little one?”

  She smiled, relaxing a bit. “I like it when you call me that,” she confessed, her dark eyes fixed on his. “It makes me feel protected and safe.” Lord Aubrey had been watching them, and the young duchess offered him a slight smile. Apparently satisfied that his niece was in good hands, the earl returned to his conversation with his son. “Uncle Robert does not want you to ask me questions, does he?”

  St. Clair had also noticed Aubrey’s gaze. “He’d prefer you not remember experiences that frighten you. Is that wrong?”

  “It is understandable,” she countered. “Uncle Robert has been like a father to me since my own died—that is whenever my grandfather is away on business. Did I mention my father to you? I cannot recall.”

  “You did, though that memory seemed to trouble you.”

  She grew quiet for a moment, turning again toward the window that overlooked the front lawn. “I loved my father very much. More than... Well, more than I loved my mother. I’m not proud of that, but it is true. His death...” she began, but he noticed her lower lip tremble, and she blinked back tears. “His death broke my heart, Captain. But mother’s death, well, it...forgive me, I’m not sure how to put it.”

  As she struggled for words, he marveled at her command of language and social rules. Most children in Whitechapel could barely read English at eleven, but this young lady spoke and read in several languages and behaved with the decorum of a woman twice her age.

  “Beth, perhaps, you should not think about it just now. Your uncle believes you are still in shock, and I agree.”

  She wiped tears from her cheek and took his hand. “You are kind, Captain. Very kind, and I wish... That is, I hope that you will visit me now and again.”

  “I should enjoy that,” he said honestly.

  “Good. The man from the park,” she began, and he could see that same, small tremble of her lower lip. “He whispered things to me, Captain. Strange things that made no sense. They still do not.”

  “Do you recall what he said?” he asked, noticing Lord Aubrey had begun again to look their way. “But then perhaps you’d best not think on that now.”

  “My uncle worries,” she said, “but I want to speak of this. Somehow, telling you about it helps. The man spoke of children and kept repeating something about blood and history. And he took notes in a strange book, covered over with very odd symbols. I told you that he talks strangely, I think. Did I say that?”

  “You did. I thought perhaps it was a foreign accent. Is it?”

  “No. Not an accent. A language.”

  “French?”

  “No, not French. Nor German. Nor Spanish. I’m still not fluent in Italian, but I would have recognised that easily. Though no longer spoken outside of some churches, I know enough Latin and Greek to have discerned those languages as well. I’ve learnt a few things in Russian, and I know how that language sounds. It may have been Russian, but I cannot say for sure.”

  Her breathing had accelerated, and St. Clair could tell that recounting the tale brought her great distress. “But Beth, if he spoke in a language you do not speak, how is it you understood his words?”

  She visibly shuddered. “I don’t know, but I did understand them.”

  “Elizabeth, perhaps, you shouldn’t think on it now.”

  She moved closer to his side, her hand on his. “Captain, you said you would always believe me.”

  “Yes, little one. I will always believe you.”

  Her hand began to tremble, and the lower lip quivered. “The man in the park. He is something quite different. Not like anyone on earth. He...he...is...not human. He is a...” she whispered, but a sudden interruption meant St. Clair would wait nearly ten years to hear the rest. The butler, a thin but kind looking man named Booth, had quietly entered the room to whisper to the duke.

  “Everyone!” Drummond announced as he stood. “I’m told supper is served. Mrs. St. Clair, would you do me the honour?” he asked, giving his arm to Amelia, who fairly gushed as she accepted. Paul and Lord Aubrey followed.

  Lastly, Charles St. Clair put out his hand toward Elizabeth and asked, “May I be your escort, Duchess?”

  Beth’s face had gone pale, but she smiled at him, the slight tremor in her lower lip slowly disappearing as she placed her hand into his. “I should very much like that, Captain,” she said with all seriousness. “Forget what I said a moment ago. I’m sure it was all a dream.”

  He led her into the magnificent dining hall, her dainty arm through his, and he wondered just what it was she’d been about to say. The little duchess spoke no more of her memories that night, but over the years, the detective would learn the dark secrets behind Trent and the strange man from the park.

  Little did St. Clair imagine how the years would play with this simple gathering of new friends. Nor could he foresee just how much Sir William Trent and his friends would influence policing in and around London, particularly in Whitechapel; the deaths to come, the horrors to arise, the terrible and even wonderful future in store, nor could he imagine that it would all proceed out of this moment: when he took the small, trusting hand of an eleven-year-old girl.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  2, October, 1888

  Nearly ten years had passed for Charles St. Clair. Remaining friends with the Stuart clan, the St. Clairs—or Charles at least—met often with the Stuart men and attended numerous family events, including Elizabeth’s birthday party each year in April until she turned fourteen. Two years later, the duchess left to live with her aunt in Paris. Paul and Charles continued to work together in pursuit of Sir William Trent, but the trail grew cold in early ‘86, and St. Clair received orders to discontinue the investigation by newly appointed police commissioner Sir Charles Warren.

  Less than a year after the party at Drummond House, Amelia decided her marriage to Charles could no longer be sustained, and she decamped to Ireland with a cocaine addict named Harold Lowry, whom she had secretly been seeing for many months. Lowry had been a close gambling friend and accomplice to Amelia’s baronet cousin, and once he perceived a shift in the harmony of the St. Clair marriage, the vulture Lowry had swept down upon his prey and conveyed Amelia to her doom in Dublin. Though still legally married to St. Clair, Amelia miscarried two of Lowry’s children—both sons—the second in ’85, and she died of a severe typhus infection in June of ‘86.

  Despite all he’d endured after she’d left him, upon learning of his wife’s death from the Dublin constabulary, Charles arranged for Amelia’s body and those of her dead children to be returned to England and buried in a single grave in her parents’ church cemetery in Marylebone. The detective then sailed to Dublin and tried to locate Lowry, but the degenerate gambler had fled Ireland the moment Amelia had died.

  Robert Paul Ian Stuart III, 11th Earl of Aubrey passed away peacefully in his sleep seven years to the day following the Drummond House gathering, joining his beloved wife Abigail in a graveyard near their Glencoe castle, overlooking Loch Leven. Paul Stuart, who had now become the 12th Earl of Aubrey, continued a successful career in diplomacy, serving as special envoy to Paris and then Vienna on behalf of the Foreign Office. Many at Whitehall assumed the young Aubrey would eventually become Foreign Secretary, for his shrewd backroom negotiations and quick thinking had more than once saved England from making serious international blunders,
but the energetic earl had no desire for public office. During his travels, Paul also served more secretively as an espionage agent, though most in Whitehall had no idea such was the earl’s true mission when abroad. He’d used these excursions to continue his search for Sir William Trent, a man he still considered the most dangerous in all England.

  Though his personal life had fallen into shambles, professionally, Charles St. Clair continued to climb the career ladder within the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police, progressing from Inspector underneath Morehouse to Chief Inspector in charge of H-Division and finally to Superintendent in charge of the entire east end. Operating now from Scotland Yard most days rather than Whitechapel, it was to this office, that he received a surprise letter, addressed to Captain Nemo of the Yard, c/o Superintendent Charles St. Clair, Whitehall. He smiled as he recalled the nickname from so long ago, noting the beautifully engraved notepaper that read ‘Branham Hall, Kent’.

  “Not another Ripper letter, I hope,” teased his friend and fellow superintendent, George Haskell. “Seems like the public knows a sight lot more than even Abberline and Reid do. Jack! No more, I say. No more!”

  St. Clair’s nose caught a whiff of delicate perfume as he opened the letter. “I doubt it,” he said happily. “Most Ripper letters don’t come with such lovely scent upon them.”

  He shut his door, much to Haskell’s chagrin, and took the letter to his desk, eager to see what it might say. It had been over four years since he’d seen or spoken to the duchess. Four long years of policing, politics, and policy-making. How had she changed? She had not written once during those years, so why write now?

  He opened the letter.

  30th September, 1888

  My Dearest Captain,

  Before I begin, let me express my most sincere apologies for the long silence. The last time I saw you was four years ago at my cousin’s London home, and I may have seemed out of sorts. I assure you that you had nothing whatsoever to do with my mood—in fact, I was delighted to see you. I had other matters on my mind that day, but seeing you brought me more joy than you can possibly imagine. I pray that you will not hold my four-year silence against me. There is much behind that silence, and one day—when we are able to speak in person—I promise to explain it all. Believe me when I tell you that I have missed you, my Captain. Missed you very, very much.