I know from my Cousin Paul that the two of you have remained in touch, so he has no doubt informed you that I have spent much of the past four years in Paris with my Aunt Victoria. Tory is my grandfather’s youngest sister, and she has accomplished what she tells me no school or tutor could have done; that is, she has turned me into a finished lady with proper respect for the system of noble houses in our fair land. In short, I have learnt to disregard all propriety in favour of doing whatever I deem is best!
I cannot tell you what a relief this has been to me, for I have no great desire to lead the life of a typical society woman, who exists only for ‘the season’, and spends each week looking for opportunities that best show off the latest Paris fashions—behaviour I find tiresome to say the least. Most men would probably find my attitude shocking, dear Captain, but I pray you do not, for I long to use my brain rather than my social position. My aunt admires that resolve, and she has actually encouraged it. I dearly love Aunt Victoria!
Now, my dear Captain, I also wish to say how very sorry I was to hear of your Amelia’s passing. Paul kept this from me until very recently, for his own reasons I presume. Dear Paul has become rather secretive of late concerning many things; he oft repeats to me that ‘it is for your protection, Beth’—and though this angers me just a bit, I love and respect him, so I forgive him this easily. I would have attended Amelia’s funeral to support you, my dear friend, had I but known. She always struck me as a lonely woman in need of affirmation from others, a trait my own dear mother shared with her. I pray both women are now at peace.
And so it is to my mother that I come at last. It was her tragic end that brought me to your door nearly ten years ago, and it is that very same kind of tragedy that now echoes throughout the streets of your beloved Whitechapel. The Paris newspapers have written of little else since late August, but there were stories of crimes beginning as early as December last, which must concern you greatly. I expect your desk is stacked with letters and witness reports, each attesting to a singular truth, but what I have to tell you—what I must tell you—would, if it were known to the public, shake the very foundations of England, and it would then echo throughout the entire realm of Christendom.
Therefore, as you must now suspect, I shall say nothing of it in this letter. This missive serves only as a means (I pray) to bring you once again to my side, dear Captain! There is more danger in my world now than ever before, and I would again claim your protective hand.
Beginning tomorrow, I shall be in residence in London until three weeks before Christmas, when I must return to Kent to celebrate with our staff and the wonderful farmers and shepherds who tend our lands. Would it be possible to meet with you soon, perhaps, even this week?
You may send word to me at Queen Anne House, Westminster.
Until then, I shall remain ever and always…
Your very own,
Elizabeth
As Charles read the final words, he suddenly realised he could not hear his heart—he had stopped breathing, and his face had grown warm. ‘Your very own’, she had signed it. What might that simple line imply? Dare he imagine such a thing?
“So, is it another crank letter about old Jack?” his friend asked, shutting the door behind him as he entered.
Charles turned, completely startled. He had been so absorbed by the extraordinary letter that he’d not heard the door open. “Wh—what?” he stammered, hastily returning the letter to its envelope. “No—I mean, yes. No. Actually, no. It’s from an old friend, who mentions the Ripper murders in passing. No clues, no suggestions. None. So, I... Well, I’d best be off to Leman Street. Reid’s expecting me for a late morning chat about the Eddowes and Stride cases. If anyone asks, I shall be out for the remainder of the day.”
Taking the letter with him, Charles then left to find a hansom.
The old city of Westminster had originally grown up as a service area for the well-known abbey and eventually the Palace of Westminster. Formerly known as Thorney Island, an eyot, which had once risen above the old Tyburn River where it met the Thames, the area had eventually developed into a palatial estate with surrounding parks, administration buildings, and of course Buckingham Palace. With so many ancient buildings now used by government, including the recently rebuilt Palace of Westminster, now called Parliament, the old city had become a common equivalent to English government, law, and all its entails.
Queen Anne House had been designed and completed in 1625 by Inigo Jones in his signature ‘Palladian’ style by order of James I, also known to the Scots and to the Drummond and Aubrey houses as James VI. The king had built the palace for his Danish bride, Anne of Denmark, and it was subsequently passed to Charles I and later to James II, who then gifted the magnificent mansion to Anne Hyde before their official marriage but in honour of their ‘secret’ nuptials after the lady had fallen pregnant with the king’s child. Queen Anne, the king’s second daughter, eventually gifted the palace to her childhood friend and Lady of the Robes, Katherine du Bonnier Linnhe, Duchess of Branham, who proclaimed that the house would always bear the name of her friend and benefactor at court: Queen Anne.
More a palace than a London ducal estate, the home was cross-shaped and featured a large, rectangular main section, two extensive wings, and three full storeys with a ballroom comprising the northern half of the main section’s second floor. Servant quarters and storage rooms were located just above the ballroom, making it rather noisy for any charmaid or footman hoping to catch a good night’s rest during the raucous parties once given by the king. The south entrance was central, formal, and imposing, reaching upward throughout the entire height of the building and ending at the roofline in a dazzling glass dome that spanned the length of the foyer and bathed the rich Roman tiles below in sunshine during the morning and permitted stargazing at night.
Jones had experimented with cantilevered, spiral design by constructing a matched pair of graceful staircases that rose up in gentle curves throughout the centre of the main section, leading up to an expansive balcony landing and thence into the apartments of each wing as well as the wide, central ballroom staircase. Frescoes and elaborate brushwork decorated all the walls and coffered ceilings throughout, featuring Bible scenes and famous mythologies, save for one room: an elegant two-storey private library in the far, northwest corner of the house, which held mahogany shelving from floor to ceiling, and was crammed to bursting with Shakespeare folios, original manuscripts by Dee and Bacon, first editions from Pepys to Dickens, and one entire section specializing in ancient cartographies.
Standing now in this imposing library, Charles St. Clair thought of the adolescent girl who read out the works on his meagre bookshelf, and he laughed. “And Amelia actually wondered if you could truly read,” he whispered to himself.
“Looking for your book, Captain?” a sweet voice asked from a doorway to his right. The entrance had been hidden, formed from a reference shelf, and it now provided a frame for a woman more beautiful, more radiant than Charles had ever imagined she would become.
He held his breath and allowed his eyes to sweep over her. She had retained her petite form, but grown round in all the correct places. He guessed her height to be a few inches beyond five feet—though he observed that she wore one inch heels, peeking just from beneath the hem of her skirts. Rather than wearing the tight chignons and fussy upsweeps now favoured by high society women, Beth’s raven hair was arranged in chic waves that cascaded down her back, leaving her exquisite ears to act as gateways to a heart-shaped face. And oh what a face! Unlike the garish white preferred by many noble women, hers was a naturally sweet combination of cream and pale rose. Her brown eyes, always dark and mysterious even as a child, now held a light in them that both froze and warmed his heart. Her mouth was like a kiss of peaches, and she stared at him now, with that sweet mouth opening into a wide, precocious smile.
“My, but you have...grown up,” was the best he could m
anage, once he’d begun again to breathe.
Elizabeth laughed—how musical it is, like angelic bells, he thought—and she closed the hidden door behind her. “I should hope I have, Captain. Or perhaps, it is best I call you Charles now. Would that be all right? Not impertinent, I hope.”
He took a deep breath and actually had to will his heart to slow. “I’d be pleased if you would, Your Grace,” he managed to say with feigned ease.
She took a step toward him. He could smell her scent now, a mixture of vanilla and raspberries; simple, natural, and refreshingly delightful. “And it would please me if you would call me Beth, as you once did,” she told him.
That beating again—a rush inside his ears. This is madness! he reminded his heart. Stop it now! She is a duchess, and you are but a common policeman!
“Beth, it is then,” he replied evenly.
She smiled again, and his heart urged surrender.
“Please, sit down, Charles. We’ve much to catch up on, but more to the point, I’ve much to tell you.”
He followed her to a matched set of overstuffed, embroidered sofas, installed by Elizabeth’s grandfather, Duke George, for the reading comfort of his daughter Patricia. Though the seating was plush and the room filled with fresh air from a quartet of large, open windows that overlooked the west and north gardens, St. Clair had never felt so ill at ease. He had come here expecting to rekindle a friendship, and he feared now that something far more intimate was igniting in his soul.
Not far from Queen Anne House, in a private smoking room on Pall Mall Street, Paul Stuart held his own secret meeting. The earl sat in a red, tufted-leather, wingback chair, thoughtfully sipping a glass of brandy as he received his companion’s report.
“We believe, Lord Aubrey, that the man left Russia on the sixth of July, but that is not certain. There is scant evidence that he departed St. Petersburg much earlier, but we cannot verify it. However, my operatives have firmly put him in Belgium in August, so beginning with that, we may track his movements.”
Paul gazed into the fire, his thoughts fixed on something—or someone unseen. “And those are?”
The man thumbed through a collection of reports, reading out a series of notations he’d made on each. “Third of August, Brussels: seen in a rooming house going by the name of Prosser. An odd choice for Trent, don’t you think?”
Paul thought now of Elizabeth, of protecting her, and the mental picture of her mother’s mutilated corpse was ever in his mind. “I expect the unexpected when it comes to Sir William, if that is even that foul man’s true name. Go on, Thomas.”
The man pushed his spectacles up higher on his thick nose and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I know and share your concerns, Lord Aubrey. Next, on the seventh of August, he met with two men, both American. They exchanged envelopes, which we believe contained bearer bonds, for Trent met the following morning with a financial agent—one Reginald Anders, someone known to us already.”
Paul had a bad feeling. This dark foreboding had settled into his heart long before, only it now grew stronger with each passing moment. “Anders is another member—low level, but still not without influence. He is toady to Lord Hemsfield, I believe. The man the Italian branch calls ‘the banker’.”
“So he is, sir,” the man agreed. “I’ll see to it that Sir Percy meets with his agents to keep track of the Roman branch. Hemsfield has since left Ireland for sunnier climes, I’m told.”
Paul set down his brandy and leaned forward, his chair creaking, and the fire crackled as if in response. “Left Ireland? When?”
Sir Thomas Galton, Paul’s childhood friend and closest ally, flipped back several pages and read out, “The eighth of August as near as we can pinpoint, when his name appears on a passenger list for the SS Chelsey that departed Dublin, bound for Morocco—Casablanca to be precise. Met with two men, identities unknown, but we are having them followed, and I expect a report within the week. Hemsfield departed Casablanca after seven days, sailed in a private yacht which we believe is owned by our known personage from Spain, Don Miguel de Cortez. Arrived in Rome eight days later, staying at home of Roberto Almardo, arms dealer and exporter of certain women; seen meeting with three known men from Berlin in private salon behind the opera house—I believe you can guess their names, sir—and then sailed to France, residing in Paris at a villa owned by de Cortez. Hemsfield and Sir William met up in Calais, ten days ago.”
Paul’s perfect memory stored each location and detail, sifting through other such mental files for connexions, clues. “Did anyone report a meeting with Sandoval?”
Galton’s eyes rounded behind his reading lenses, growing larger each second. “Good Heavens! I hadn’t even… Wait, let me see,” he stammered, flipping back to a telegram he’d received from their Paris office. “Deniau says he heard someone mention a tall man with a limp and wearing a bright waistcoat. Could be him. No one locally could confirm his identity, but André is convinced this man was following him.”
Paul wanted to smash the snifter into the wall, but instead he choked down the negative emotions, mastering his natural tendency toward rage when unpleasant surprises popped up. Spying often brought him disturbing news, and he knew anger would only cloud his reason. Elizabeth’s continued safety required him to keep his wits at all times.
“I want André to give us all he knows about this man,” he told Galton. “No matter how small the detail, how insignificant it may seem. How he spends his money, whom he sees, what he’s wearing—everything! Also, tell me if he is observed taking notes in a book.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“And, Thomas, I want a report in three days. So, now, let us get back to Trent. Did he leave Calais? Did he land in England?”
Sir Thomas bit his lower lip, a sign Paul knew meant the answer would not please him. “We lost him after Calais, sir,” he said softly, his head lowering. “But, before you despair, let me tell you that our people saw Trent board the Louisa Maria in Calais, a mail steamer which docks in Gravesend, but also continues up the Thames and delivers to London. She has not yet arrived, and Lloyds believes the ship lost in the storm that ravaged the channel last week.”
Paul took a moment to process this, his mind weighing all possibilities. “Are you certain he boarded the steamer?”
Galton nodded. “My man is convinced of it. William Trent is a singular looking man. He is hard to miss, even in a dense crowd of hauliers and stevedores.”
The earl rose, adjusted his waistcoat, and then glanced at his pocket watch, inherited from his father and decorated with the Aubrey crest. “Have your men keep watch at every dock and train station in London and Kent. I want to know immediately if he is seen within a day’s ride of Branham Hall or Queen Anne House. Understood?”
“We will not fail you, my friend,” he promised, clutching the earl’s forearm. “We’ve been together since Eton, you and I, and I’ll not permit any harm to befall the woman you love. She is dear to us all now—each of us who has taken an oath to protect her and the secret. Redwing will fail! With the Good Lord’s strength, we shall make it so!”
Paul smiled at last, a weary, hesitant smile, but a smile nonetheless. “You are a true friend, Thomas. Forgive my impatience. These murders in Whitechapel trouble me, and they trouble our dear one to the extent that she has returned to England six months early.”
“The duchess is at Branham?” Sir Thomas asked, concern written across his face.
“She is in London, Thomas, so you and I must do all we may to keep her safe. She’s asked me to tea tomorrow, and I hope she will accompany me to the theatre this Friday. I’ve some minor business to conduct at the Lyceum, and I’m sure Elizabeth will enjoy seeing an English play after enduring so many French atrocities.”
“I’m sure she will, my friend. Shall I put men to watch Queen Anne?”
“I’ve already taken care of that, Thomas. Now, I must meet w
ith Lord Pembroke. Thank you for all you do on Beth’s behalf. And on mine.”
The two friends parted, each going out a separate exit, one bound for the east end, the other Whitehall.
On the far side of London, in Whitechapel, a tall man wearing a moth-eaten seaman’s coat and cap penciled names onto the back of a map and marked the front with many tiny, bird-shaped symbols. He walked with a slight limp, his eyes as black as coal, but flickering in a strange, electric manner. Children who encountered the shadowy figure found their memories wiped clean, left only with a strange impression of a tall man with a book. The strange apparition appeared and disappeared at will, moving from one point to the next with lightning speed.
He marked thirty-three locations on the intricate map. One was a humble rooming house, entered only by way of a narrow passage betwixt 26 and 27 Dorset, a modestly finished brick courtyard built by John Miller thirty years earlier. By mid-November, this ill-fated flat, little more than a bedroom with a weathered door and two grimy windows, one of them broken, would be known to all in London as the place of the most horrific Ripper murder yet: 13 Miller’s Court.
Charles St. Clair sipped Darjeeling tea from a gold-embossed china cup, which he imagined would cost more than a week’s salary for most policemen. Across from him sat the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, skillfully pouring tea from the matching teapot.
“Won’t you take a sandwich?” she asked. “I’m sure you’ve missed your luncheon, and my cook baked the bread this morning. It’s quite good.”
He shook his head. “No, thank you, Beth. This tea is delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever had it prepared this way.”
Blood Lies Page 8
