Blood Lies

by Sharon K Gilbert

  France sipped Turkish coffee from a stoneware mug. “He is at that, sir. I’ll fetch two clubs from the armament cabinet, just as a precaution.”

  “Good idea, but once done I may need to leave for an hour. Miss Ross mentioned seeing a man near my house. She thought him a reporter. I want to make sure Mary’s all right. I’d hate to think some of this riff-raff have moved up to Columbia Road.”

  “I could go, sir, if you prefer to remain here. I assume it’s why you joined us today.”

  “It is, Arthur. No, I can go there on my own. It shouldn’t take long, and I can have luncheon whilst there. Mary Wilsham’s dear to me, and I’ll not see anyone molest her.”

  “Me neither, sir. Blimey, there’s another one!” the young inspector exclaimed. “Toff slummer from the west end most likely here to join the parade. What is it about Jack that brings out these people, sir?”

  “I wish I knew, Arthur. Fetch those batons, will you? I want to check on Miss Ross again, and then you and I shall join Reid and Abberline for a little exercise.”

  The superintendent made his way through the thick knot of uniformed officers from J and K Divisions who had been brought in to help maintain order. The surrounding cells were filled with drunks and prostitutes, and the station house sounded like a cacophonous representation of Babel.

  “Sunders, how does our lady fare?” he asked as he sat into a chair near the narrow couch.

  “She’s in very poor condition. I found some medicinal cream in her purse, Mr. St. Clair. A mercury preparation.”

  His face fell. “She has syphilis?”

  Sunders nodded. “Most likely. It is the bane of such an occupation, is it not, sir?”

  “It is. Keep watch on her, will you, Thomas? It looks as if Inspector France and I may need to lend a hand outside, and then afterward, I’ve an errand to run.”

  In the lobby behind him, through the connecting door, St. Clair could hear the already riotous station house lobby explode suddenly into auditory anarchy. “What now?” he muttered, recognising O’Brien’s voice amongst the mayhem, apparently shouting questions to someone who had just entered.

  “Sounds like trouble,” Sunders said with a wink. “If this continues, you might have need of that pistol you keep disguised under your coat.”

  Charles smiled, patting the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. “Now, Sunders, you know that firearms for inspectors and higher are now permitted. I carry it merely as a precaution.” St. Clair rose and headed toward the knot of people who had gathered near the booking sergeant’s desk. O’Brien and Dam hovered at the centre of a dense cluster of reporters and rioters, and betwixt them stood a woman—one who had no business being in Whitechapel.

  “Good Lord!” St. Clair cried out, pushing past France into the chattering field of humanity. The woman appeared to be doing her best to answer the reporter’s questions whilst the American photographer snapped photo after photo from a variety of angles.

  “And is it true that you returned to England because of these rumours surrounding the murders, Your Grace? Or might there be a more, uh, how shall I say it, personal reason for leaving the pleasant occupations of life in the Parisian countryside?”

  Charles reached Elizabeth before she could answer, deftly taking her by the elbow. “Beth, what are you doing here—alone, without an escort?” he whispered.

  O’Brien scribbled quickly into the pages of his notebook, and Harry Dam snapped several photographs of the superintendent and the imprudent duchess.

  “Superintendent St. Clair, sir,” O’Brien interrupted. “Did we hear you address the duchess by her Christian name? My, but that is quite unusual for a police detective, is it not, sir? Speaking so intimately to a high peeress of the realm. Is the duchess here on business or pleasure, Mr. St. Clair? Would you mind offering a quote for our readers to go along with this touching photograph?”

  The detective started to reply, but it was Elizabeth who turned toward the reporter, her dark eyes wide. “Who are you?” she asked plainly, surprising both the reporter and the detective. “Wait, I believe I know. I have seen you before, only yesterday, in fact, skulking about my gardens. A police station may prove a dangerous place for you now, sir, as I imagine that many here would happily remove you and your American friend to a quiet cell, where you may reconsider the propriety of your insinuation.”

  “Your Grace, I only meant that...” O’Brien muttered, but Beth stepped toward him, her gloved forefinger denting the reporter’s waistcoat as she spoke.

  “You only meant to spark a fire in hopes of igniting a conflagration of new subscribers for your rag of a newspaper, did you not, Mr. O’Brien? Oh, yes, I know your name, and I imagine most of my family also know it. Lord Aubrey, for instance,” she said, her voice lowering to a whisper. “Shall I send for my cousin? I believe his is an acquaintance you have made already, or am I mistaken in that, Mr. O’Brien? He gave you a marvelous quote for your paper last summer, written intractably upon your back, did he not? Or would you rather deal with me? A helpless female peeress, you imagine. I may appear physically helpless, but I wield a mighty club, nonetheless. Shall I prove it by reminding your superior, T.P. O’Connor, that his political ambitions require a constant source of funding?”

  Charles had released her elbow, surprised to find Elizabeth so ready and able to defend herself against the merciless hack, but he also knew that the press was but one danger this day, and already several unsavoury types had managed to work their way through to the perimeter of the melee, and St. Clair feared the duchess might be in physical peril.

  “Your Grace, will you come with me, please?” he said, once again taking her arm. “Please.”

  She turned toward him. “What?” she asked, for the room’s noise level was deafening and the irritating reporter continued to ask questions, his pencil scratching out copious notes in shorthand.

  St. Clair shouted to be heard. “You should not here, Duchess! Where is Lord Aubrey? Why is he not with you?”

  She shook her head, pointing to her ears, and he wondered if she truly did not understand, or did not wish to.

  Harry Dam had maneuvered closer and was clicking his box camera’s shutter over and over, and St. Clair’s frustration level rose higher and higher until, at last, it snapped.

  “Enough!” he shouted, jerking the camera from the reporter’s hands. “If you want this back, Dam, then you will remove yourself from this station house now! No more questions. Not even one. Everyone out! Else, I shall have you all arrested!” he shouted.

  “On what charge, Superintendent?” Dam asked.

  “Vagrancy, assault, annoying an officer of the law, I care not. Just get out before my good humour wears thin!” St. Clair shouted.

  As the throng broke apart, Elizabeth’s gaze fell upon the woman in the parlour, and she gasped. “Oh! I know her!” she cried, pushing through the crowd toward Ross.

  St. Clair worried that someone might try to rob Elizabeth, or worse harm her, so he waded through the mob and grasped her arm once more. “Beth, please,” he said, but she paid him no heed. “Elizabeth!” he shouted, and suddenly you could hear a pin drop.

  She spun toward him, her eyes wide.

  “What are you thinking? You cannot just come here as if it’s a pleasant day in St. James’s park!” he shouted so loudly that all within the station house turned to gape at the couple.

  France came to his aid, gently touching the enraged superintendent on the arm as if to snap him back to the present. “Sir, she is fine, thanks to your quick intervention. Would it not be wise to remove the good lady to Mr. Reid’s office?”

  Seeing Beth amongst such a hive of potentially dangerous men, St. Clair had imagined the worst, and suddenly he began to realise the true depths of his affections for the beautiful peeress. Briefly, he considered sending for Aubrey to escort her to safer ground, but he thought better of it after
seeing her eyes. They had grown round with fear—not fear of the crowd, but fear of him.

  “Elizabeth, forgive me. France is correct. Please, allow me to take you upstairs to a quiet place. Then you may tell me why it is you have risked your person, if not your life, to come here on a day when Whitechapel is an armed camp.”

  She pondered his words for a moment, and it seemed that she felt torn by warring thoughts. “Very well, but Charles, I know that woman.”

  “You couldn’t know her, Elizabeth. Now come with me, please.”

  “I’m sure I do,” she insisted. “I met her...where was it now?” she began, but suddenly her face paled. “Oh! I remember now! She talked to me that day at your...” All colour drained from her face, and the duchess put her hand on St. Clair’s arm. She leaned forward to whisper. “Ten years ago, at your house,” she said tightly, and she seemed to grow unsteady on her feet.

  “That’s it,” St. Clair said, putting an arm around her waist. “In here, quickly.” He pulled her into the parlour, shutting the door and closing all the blinds, so that no one in the crowd might see them.

  “Elizabeth, sit down. Now.”

  She obeyed, and in a moment France had joined them.

  “Sir? Is she all right?”

  “I don’t know. Sunders?”

  The physician left his current patient and felt the duchess’s pulse. “It races. Madame? Miss? Superintendent, do you know her?”

  “Yes, but I prefer this crowd not realise it, though it’s clear that the hacks from The Star already do. Elizabeth, look at me.”

  She glanced up, her pupils large. “Charles? I—I felt rather strange for a moment. Have you any water?”

  “France?” he asked, and the young inspector fetched a carafe and glass from a small desk in the corner, pouring a large serving and handing it to his superior. Charles held the glass to her lips. “Drink this now, darling,” he said gently. “Not too quickly. There. Is that any better?”

  She nodded, fanning herself with her hand. “I grew warm, I imagine.”

  Sunders checked her eyes. “Are you prone to spells, Miss?”

  “Sometimes,” she replied. “Forgive me. I am better now. Thank you. That woman, though,” she continued, pointing to Ross, who still lay unconscious. “I do remember her, Charles. I saw her...”

  “Not here, Elizabeth. I’d prefer we speak of this elsewhere. Do you feel well enough to climb the stairs?”

  “Yes, I imagine so.”

  He helped her to stand, and she seemed somewhat unsteady still. “Lean on me. We’ll have to traverse the crowd once again, but only for a moment. We can take the back flight to the next floor. You are sure you’re able?”

  “If you are there, yes. I can do it.” She looked toward the physician. “Are you the police surgeon?”

  Sunders nodded. “I work at J-Division most days, but I was called over to help out on a case. Have you been ill, Miss?”

  “No, not of late.” She reached into her handbag and withdrew a small gold case. Opening it, she took out a calling card and handed it to the doctor, who read it and whistled.

  “You are the Duchess of Branham?” he mouthed, instantly realising why St. Clair wished to remove her from the crowd. “Forgive me, Your Grace. It isn’t often I meet a duchess, particularly whilst in a police station.”

  She smiled. “You are very kind to say so. Would you do all you can for this woman, please, Doctor? And if there is need for payment—of any amount—have the bills sent to me.”

  Sunders looked at the superintendent. “Sir?”

  “It’s all right, Sunders. If she desires it, then do it. Beth, that is not necessary.”

  “It is, Charles. It is. Now, I shall follow as you lead.”

  They returned to the lobby, where St. Clair handed the box camera to the desk sergeant. “Put this somewhere safe, and do not return it to Dam without first removing the film roll.”

  As they climbed the back staircase, Elizabeth thought of Paul Stuart, recalling his face when she’d accepted his ring and his trust in her promise. Why did she insist on caring for this policeman?

  “In here, Miss,” France said, deliberately avoiding all reference to her station in life, even though he had immediately recognised the child’s face in that of the woman. Once the door had shut, the young officer looked to his superior and pointed toward the lower level.

  “Best no one else down there realises who she is, I think, sir; though it’s still likely to be all over this afternoon’s front pages. Course, now they’ll have no photographs to prove it,” he said to St. Clair. Then to the duchess, he bowed. “Your Grace, if you will forgive any familiarity. I knew you as a child, when sad circumstances, which I shall not repeat, brought you to our station house. It is an honour and a great pleasure to see you again.”

  Elizabeth’s worried expression vanished in light of this simple speech, and she put out her gloved hand to shake his. “It is I who must ask your forgiveness, Inspector France. It is Detective Inspector now, I’m told. You were but a Police Constable ten years ago, and you did much to ease my heart and make me feel safe. You have done well. No, gentlemen, I did not think. I merely acted without considering what strains your station house must now be under. Charles, please, forgive me,” she continued, her eyes downcast as she remembered his passionate kisses. “I have frightened and worried you both. It is only that I have received something that I thought I ought to bring to you at once. It is a letter. And it is signed by someone you and this quarter know all too well.”

  St. Clair had noticed her demure glance, and he wondered if she now regretted their intimate moments four days previously. Wishing they had more privacy now, he took the white envelope she offered. “You handled yourself rather well downstairs, Duchess. I believe O’Brien and Dam will be tending their wounded pride for many days, but France is right. The story is likely to make today’s press, which will then bring a flurry of reporters to your door.”

  “So long as you are there to help shoo them away,” she said, smiling at last. “Charles, this letter. Please, look at it. It is important.”

  St. Clair turned his attention to the envelope. It was addressed on the outside in a flourished hand using crimson ink that sent a chill down his spine. The address read, ‘To the Duchess, Queen Anne House, London – for her Eyes only’.

  “Does this strike as familiar, France?” he asked.

  The young inspector nodded. “It does, and it is with no great happiness that I say it, sir. This came to you, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, it did, Inspector. Read it, Charles. Please.”

  St. Clair opened the envelope.

  Inside, a single sheet of cream notepaper bled with the same red ink. The hastily scrawled words read:

  Dear Duchess,

  Think you’ve escaped old Jack’s long arms? Not yet, my sweet girl. My knife may have missed you ten years ago, but it bit into your pretty mother’s white flesh over and over again. I am saving something special for your tender body. Something tasty. And I shall get ‘round to it—very soon.

  Your crimson knight,

  Saucy Jack

  “That damnable devil! How dare he do this?!” St. Clair shouted, and he slammed the note down onto the desk with such fury that the blow knocked several pens and a bottle of ink off their mounting, spilling the ink like so much black blood across Edmund Reid’s blotter. Elizabeth jumped at the sound, her dark eyes rounding in surprise.

  France hastily daubed at the spill with his handkerchief, staining his hands and trying not to stain his clothing. “I’ll fetch some ink remover from the sergeant’s desk, shall I, sir?” he offered, realising St. Clair would probably prefer a moment alone to calm the duchess—and himself. Softly closing the door behind him, France made his way down the steps, but he could still hear St. Clair’s outrage even on the ground floor.

  “Thi
s beast dares to use such words—such threats! How dare he send these horrid lines to you? To you! And to invoke your mother, when he had nothing to do with it is maddening! How can he even begin to think that…wait. Wait a moment. How can he…?”

  His stream of words slowed as his mind digested the implied truth concealed within the taunting message. At last, he grasped what the duchess had already surmised, noticing only then that she had gripped his arm tightly. “Beth, how does this man know that your mother was murdered in Whitechapel?” he finished.

  “Precisely,” she whispered tensely. “How does he know? If this Ripper madman is nothing more than one or even a group of vile men who hate women, then how does he know about a case that, to my knowledge, has been all but erased from the official police record? Yes, I know about your secret activities on my behalf with Lord Aubrey. He confessed as much to me last summer. Charles, I know that you and Paul removed the evidence regarding my mother’s death so that I might be free from it and would never find her broken body on display in the exhibits of some tawdry wax museum or splashed in ink across the pages of The Star, but clearly this fiend knows all! But here is what is worse, my dear friend, and it is why I so impulsively rushed here today when I learnt you were in Whitechapel. This letter did not arrive in the post, as you can see, for it bears no stamp. Yet, it was found in our post bag this morning.”

  St. Clair felt a massive wave of dread creep into his stomach, as if something far more sinister loomed on the horizon. “He had access to the postman’s bag before it arrived?” he suggested.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “No. I sent to the post office and asked our postman to come by again, and he did so at ten this morning. He said no such letter was in the bag he left with us.”

  He smiled for a moment, remembering the girl who had investigated the publican on her own. “So you have already begun to inquire about the envelope, have you? Shall I issue you a warrant card, Duchess?”

  She returned his smile, and it helped to ease the tension. “Not just yet. Perhaps another time.”

  “And your postman is reliable? Do you know him well?”