“I’m glad you like it. It’s an old family recipe,” she answered. “My father enjoyed his tea with citrus and cinnamon. Charles, do I make you uncomfortable? Forgive me, if I’ve done anything to make you feel, oh, I don’t know...”
“Out of my depth?” he suggested. He’d done his best to relax, but St. Clair wondered why she had asked him to drop by—surely not to exchange tea recipes. “No, Elizabeth, you’ve only been gracious. As always. Or at least, as I remember you. It has been four years since we last met.”
“Four years, three months, two weeks, and a few odd days. I last saw you at Aubrey House, in June of ‘84.”
“I remember,” he admitted. Charles recalled every second of that brief encounter, but he dared not reveal that to her. Not yet. “Truthfully, I would sit here all day, if you wished it, but your letter made it sound as though your mother’s murder somehow intersects with crimes now haunting the east end.”
She set the teapot to one side, and he noticed that she’d turned slightly pale, perhaps caused by the mention of her mother.
“I am sorry if that dark memory brings you distress,” he said, leaning toward her as he set his own cup on the table. “And I do not intend to rush you. Please, forgive me, Beth, if it sounded as if I... What I mean is that you should take all the time you need.”
“Charles, you have nothing to apologise for. Yes, I have much to tell you, but it is not an easy truth to tell.”
“Then, tell it in your own time,” he said gently.
“Thank you, Captain. Forgive me, I know that I promised to call you Charles, but…”
“I rather like Captain,” he admitted, “and I’ve missed hearing you call me that. Please, Elizabeth, whatever this truth is, you may trust me with it.”
“I know,” she whispered. “All right. To begin with, I had not planned to return to England until next spring, but all the Paris newspapers have been filled with reports of the horrors you and your men now encounter, not that far from where my mother and I were left. They began December last, did they not?”
“Perhaps,” he answered, wondering where this was heading. “Much depends on whose theory is being presented. Not all the murdered women suffered the same injuries, but it is possible the killer alters his method in order to obscure his crimes.”
She thought about this for a moment, and he could see genuine fear cross her face. “Yes, I imagine he might wish to do that. Last year in Paris, the dismembered body parts of several women began washing up along the Seine. Were you aware of that?”
He nodded. “Yes. A colleague visited last month from the Sûreté, asking if the Ripper’s crimes might not be connected, but there is no evidence to indicate that.” She is terrified. Is this why she returned? “Elizabeth, why do you ask?”
The telltale tremble of her lower lip again caught his eye, and she turned away for a moment, perhaps perceiving his intuitive gaze. “I believe them to be connected, Charles. No, do not ask me to explain the reason. It is—well, it is something you’d probably find impossible to credit.”
“I would credit anything you tell me, Beth. Will you not trust me?”
“Oh, Charles, I want to tell you everything, but I cannot. Not yet. Will you allow me to proceed with that which I may reveal?” she asked. “I promise to be more forthcoming later.”
“Forgive me. Yes, of course. Go on.”
She paused again, gazing out the nearest window at the north gardens, and he noticed a tear slide down her cheek. “After I read the reports of the murders here in August and September, I made plans to leave for Kent. You see, I believe your victims are but a continuation of a long history of atrocities, and, as I say, not all the victims lived in London. Some were in Paris. Others in Rome. Three in America, that I know of, and a few more in St. Petersburg.”
“Elizabeth, how can you know this?” he asked, certain that she would again demur.
She rose from the settee, crossing past several armchairs to stand near the large window. “I know. Let that suffice for now,” she whispered, her back to him.
St. Clair followed her to the window, putting his hand on her forearm and turning her to face him. “Beth, won’t you, please, trust me?”
She shook her head, unable to look him in the eye. He kissed her hand, and she began to weep. “I do trust you. It’s just that...you will think me mad. Oh, why can’t I just live my own life? I hate all of this! Why must these men hound me?!”
What does she mean by ‘men’? Plural, Charles wondered.
He put an arm around her, and she buried her face in his chest, clinging to him like that same, small girl from long ago. He knew she was lost in harsh memories. He had seen her mother’s savaged body—decapitated, torn and shredded. And only now, to his regret, did Charles connect a murder ten years past with those currently terrorising the east end parishes.
“I am so sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’re afraid, and I’m doing nothing to help. Is it Ripper who worries you? Beth, I know the press reports must tear open that old wound for you, but I can see no clear connexion to your mother—or to you. Why do think he might harm you?”
She looked up at him, bright tears tracking her cheeks, and she took a deep breath to steel her courage. She kissed his hand and then returned to the settee. He followed, sitting once more opposite her.
“Because, he already has.”
“What?” he whispered.
“He already has. Many times, and the connexion is an ancient one, Captain,” she began, her face pale and her eyes lost in old memories. “I may not tell you all, for it is a closely held and well-guarded family secret that perhaps one day you may hear, but not today. I fear that it is not my decision to make. Suffice it to say that there exists an international group of well-heeled but black-hearted men who have performed unspeakable rituals like those seen in the murders of the poor women of Whitechapel, over and over for many hundreds of years. It is a collective known only to those outside it as Redwing.”
He sat forward, his brow furrowed. St. Clair had heard this name before, whispered inside shadowy meeting halls and rumoured within Trinity College’s dormitories, but he had never heard it spoken in a manor house before—and by so pretty and genteel a mouth. “Yes, I’ve heard of Redwing, but they are myth, Elizabeth. Pure ghost story to terrify college freshmen or frighten school boys on All Hallows’ Eve! Such bloodthirsty men as these night terrors portray cannot possibly exist—not in a civilised world. Not here. Not in England.”
“Yet they do exist, Charles. They do. I have seen them. I have witnessed their black deeds on the grounds of my very own home! I watched whilst their ceremonies of blood extinguished more than one life, including my mother’s, and I nearly paid for it with my own!”
He was stunned into silence. He knew her to be sincere, yet her claims sounded like those told by a drawing room mystic, meant to frighten foolish women and spook children. A rational man could not deem such superstitious infamy to exist.
“I am quite sane,” she said evenly, reading his expression. “Sane but terrified, if I am truthful. Absolutely terrified.”
Her hands, neatly folded into the lap of her dress, were visibly shaking. He thought of those small hands, tightly gripping his own almost ten years before, and he recalled the trust in her large eyes—the same trust he saw there now. Somehow, instantly, he knew it all to be true. And if this shadowy group lay behind her mother’s murder, then it was altogether logical that Elizabeth might be their next target.
No wonder she is terrified!
“Forgive me. How can I help?” he asked at last, seeing her body posture relax at his simple offer. “Tell me what you need of me, Elizabeth, and I shall do it, without question. I promised long ago to protect you, and I do not intend to break that promise. Not ever.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, and her chin quivered. For a second, he saw the li
ttle girl’s face return. “No, you must forgive me, Charles. I’ve thought about this conversation—this confession—for so long, and I’ve dreaded how you might react. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to know that you believe me.”
She began to weep silently, and he nearly went to her, but something restrained him. He paused, his heart stopping again, and he listened to her breathing, her efforts to regain composure; to be a duchess in the presence of a commoner. Or perhaps something more: to summon up courage in the presence of overwhelming fear. Whichever, Charles vowed inwardly to help her no matter what the cost to him, personally or professionally.
After a moment, her head lifted, and she had found her inner strength. “Aunt Victoria would call me a silly woman for that!” she joked with a forced laugh. “Paul can tell you all about Redwing, far more than ever I could. He has been following their deeds across the globe, but most lie within the boundaries of Europe. I believe that they have branches in North Africa and Palestine, and also across the Atlantic into America—in particular Chicago and Washington. I’m told that some of the players operate in the American west as well, but these, I believe, are but ancillary operations. London is their heart, and it is here they wish to erect their new government—a central base of operations from which to rule and reshape the entire world. And they will accomplish it, if we do not stop them soon.”
“Beth, I believe all, and I shall speak with Lord Aubrey about this Redwing group as soon as possible, but what connects this shadowy conspiracy of men to murders in Whitechapel?” he asked.
“For that, my dear friend, you will only believe me if I show you. And the setting is not in London but in Kent. In the caverns and tunnels that connect Branham Hall to an old abbey and from there to Hampton-on-Sea beyond. It is a truth that will rob you of your sleep from here on out, dear Captain, as it oft robs me of my own. However, if you trust in God, and you believe that our Saviour died for our sins and rose again on the third day, then you have trusted in worlds and events unseen and unseeable by our natural eyes. It is a matter of faith. And it is only that faith which can destroy this evil. And evil it is, Charles, for Redwing receives its power not from financial wealth—though they use wealth to gain human power and control—but from spiritual wickedness and unholy rites. You will understand my meaning fully once you have seen their meeting place and beheld the evidence of their deeds. Will you come to Branham with me and discover my proof?”
St. Clair wondered if time had stopped. Not a sound, not a breath, not a crackle from the fire, not an insect wing beating time in the garden air, not even the autumn breeze could be heard, only a thick cloud of silence that nearly stole his thoughts existed now. It was as if this moment, this decision would forever alter the direction of his life—and perhaps hers as well.
Suddenly, he stood, lifted her into his arms and held her close. “I will die for you, Beth, if that is what it takes. Yes, tell me when and where, and I shall go with you to Branham and learn your truths.”
She broke down completely now, melting into his strong embrace, her tears staining his shirt as she wept without remorse. She refused to allow her mind to think beyond this moment, to entertain any possibilities beyond his friendship, for Charles was her knight errant, who had saved her as a child, and who now, had vowed to protect her as a woman. She could not tell him more, although her heart longed to do so. She had other obligations. Old obligations and an old ‘secret’ that meant she could never marry anyone but Paul Stuart. Thinking of this and wishing these moments in St. Clair’s embrace would last forever, Elizabeth’s tears flowed freely, and she buried her face in his shoulder.
She remained in his arms for many moments, but the chimes of Westminster reminded them both that the afternoon continued unabated, and a soft knock on the library door caught Beth’s ears. “It is my butler, letting me know that it is three o’clock,” she said, wiping at her eyes, and she left his embrace as the door opened. “I’ve kept you too long, Superintendent. Thank you for coming.”
He was being dismissed, and it puzzled him. Had he done something wrong? “Yes, and I intrude upon your afternoon, Duchess. I do hope you will share the rest of your information about these men. Redwing, I mean.”
The butler had entered, and St. Clair feared that he had completely mishandled the entire visit. She needed him, but it seemed he’d failed her, somehow. The butler bowed to the duchess, and she took the detective’s hand, shaking it—and her hand trembled as if fear had suddenly gripped her heart. “Yes, I did promise,” she replied, scarcely able to look directly into his eyes. “Charles, I hope you know that it’s not that I do not trust you. It’s just...well, rather complicated. If I may, I would continue this later and tell you more. Once, I’ve gained permission to do so.”
This last made no sense at all, but the butler had brought his hat and overcoat, so St. Clair took them and bowed, feeling dismayed and a trifle embarrassed. “I look forward to it, Duchess.”
Within a few moments, the detective found himself standing outside the magnificent mansion, the October breeze blowing through his dark hair. What did I do wrong? Perhaps, she regretted the embrace. Did I misread her emotions?
“No,” he said to himself suddenly, his mind made up. “I did not.”
Turning on his heel, St. Clair ran back up the high portico steps and rang the bell. It took several minutes for the tall butler to answer, but he did not appear the least bit surprised to find the detective standing outside. “Hello again, Superintendent,” Miles said with a slight smile. “Did you perhaps forget something?”
St. Clair walked inside, handing his hat and coat to the butler. “Yes, I did, Mr. Miles. Is the duchess still in the library?”
“She is, sir, but she has asked not to be disturbed. She has a headache.”
“Too bad,” he said. “No need to announce me, Miles. I can do that myself.”
St. Clair walked briskly past the butler toward the far northwest corner of the house, and then turned left to the main doors of the library. Pushing through, he found the petite duchess gazing out the window that overlooked Queen Anne Park, and she turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Superintendent, is there something we forgot?” she asked, her face filled with a combination of surprise and hope.
“Yes, Duchess, there is. This,” he said, pulling her into an embrace and kissing her lips. She did not resist, but rose up on tiptoe as his arms encircled her waist, and suddenly time, appointments, Ripper, fear—nothing else mattered to either of them.
He held her that way for many seconds, their lips joined as one, and as the electric kiss ended, he stroked her hair, and whispered into her ear. “Shall I go?”
She shook her head. “No, Captain. Not just yet.”
He smiled and kissed her once more.
CHAPTER Six
That Friday evening, at the Lyceum Theatre, Paul Stuart knew the woman on his arm was the most beautiful in all England. October had arrived on the heels of a violent series of storms, but warmer weather had followed, and the stalls and boxes of the Westminster playhouse teemed with wealthy patrons, some few with titles known to all, but most from industrial lines of work; those men who now reshaped London with nouveau riche capital. One such was a builder named Sir Clive Urquhart.
Knighted in the most recent honours list for his contributions to improving the warehouses and docksides of east London, Sir Clive often attended social engagements on the arm of a mistress named Susanna Morgan, a singer from Chicago. Though the beautiful chanteuse’s résumé included no stage experience, she loved attending any and all performances at Covent Garden or the Lyceum as often as Urquhart’s money would indulge her. She and her lover sat now in Lord Aubrey’s private box at his invitation, for Sir Clive had information for the earl, or so he had promised in a note delivered by messenger earlier that week.
“The duchess is particularly lovely this evening, Lord Aubrey,” Sir Clive whispered as the
theatre’s manager took the stage to introduce the evening’s play, Macbeth, starring renowned Irish actor Henry Irving as the eponymous Scottish lord. “I hear that Irving’s MacBeth is superb, and Ellen Terry is always a treat. The play teaches a moral lesson, I believe. One must be careful what spirits entice you, eh—what voices you follow? My father was, as you know, a true Scotsman, though he preferred France for many reasons. This Scottish play must recall your own histories, in a way, Lord Aubrey. And perhaps that of the beautiful duchess. She, too, bears a Scottish heritage, does she not? Blood speaks more clearly than human vows, or so I have read. Is it true that blood always marries blood in the old lines? No dabblings in the dark? No secret trysts with the common woman—or even the common man?”
Paul detested the builder, mostly for his questionable business methods, but now for his thinly veiled insinuations. And this coming from a man who strutted about London with a woman who was not his wife! Still, if he had information of worth, then the earl would endure even such insults—for now. “I cannot imagine what you mean, my friend,” he said with an easy, deliberate laugh. “I say, where is Lady Margaret this evening, Clive? I hope she is not unwell.”
The earl knew that Margaret Urquhart detested her husband nearly as much as did he, but her storehouse of diamonds and satins more than made up for Sir Clive’s other shortcomings. No doubt, Margaret even now lay in the arms of her own paramour. However, had the monarch planned to attend tonight’s performance, the ambitious lady would have ejected her husband’s mistress in favour of herself. Queen Victoria resided in Edinburgh this night, a fact known to all in government.
Sir Clive’s oily glance danced across Elizabeth’s bare shoulders, and he bowed as she re-entered the box after speaking with Lady Ashdown in the box next to their own. “We have missed your radiant presence, Duchess,” he said with a sideways grin. “Susanna, my dear, does not the duchess outshine even the chandeliers tonight? How her face glows! One might think she had shared a gentle kiss before returning, but clearly that is not so, for you, my dear Aubrey, sit here with me—the humble of the moneyed men of England—so how could she do such, eh? My dear Duchess, you blush. How becoming it is!”
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