She actually laughed, and it made his heart much lighter. “How very strange, Captain. Do you recall our conversation when you stopped by to see me on Tuesday?”
Charles smiled. “Before or after I returned to your library, Duchess?”
She blushed slightly. “After, Captain. And I am so very glad you did return. I am sorry if it seemed that I was dismissing you. I worried what my butler might think, you see. It is complicated, but I preferred he not...”
“That he not make assumptions about our, uh, friendship?” he suggested, kissing her hand.
“Something like that. But you asked if we might meet again soon. And you said you’d like me to join you for supper this evening. Do you recall?”
“Of course, I do. However, I’d planned to take you somewhere a bit nicer than the Brown Bear Pub.”
Again, she laughed, and he wanted to embrace her—kiss her once more. “I would have been happy no matter where you took me, Captain.”
“Really? Even if I brought a packed lunch and asked you to share it with me on a blanket with a bottle of wine?”
“Especially then, for such a simple repast would have allowed me to get to know you better, would it not? Oh, my darling Charles, you are quite wonderful, but I fear our time slips away from us. When Paul arrives, it’s very likely that all our plans will have to change. I know my cousin, and he will have some great plan of his own devised. I only hope it includes you, for it is important that you see the tunnels at Branham. And I always feel safer whenever you are nearby.”
“If Paul constructs a plan that allows me to do that, then I shall follow wherever you lead, Duchess. And together, we will find a way to keep you safe from this Saucy Jack fellow and anyone else who might seek to cause you harm.”
Four tense hours passed before Paul Stuart arrived. He came in an unmarked clarence drawn by a matched pair of chestnut mares, but the coach’s driver was in fact Sir Thomas Galton, Paul’s right-hand man at Whitehall, and the person he trusted most outside his own family. Arthur France and a dozen, fellow officers formed a protective phalanx through the Leman Street mob to the coach, where the earl and St. Clair helped Elizabeth inside and then joined her, Charles sitting opposite whilst the earl sat next to his cousin.
“Paul, you must take her out of London as soon as possible. Beth cannot return to Queen Anne House,” St. Clair began as the carriage rolled into motion.
The earl smiled. “I’ve done better than that, my friend. It is what delayed my arrival; details take some time to work out. We three are on our way to board a train.”
“A train? What? We three? Paul, I cannot simply leave London without contacting Scotland Yard,” he answered as they moved along Leman Street toward Whitechapel Road. “Paul, perhaps...”
Aubrey smiled. “Relax, my friend. It is all arranged. I have left word with Sir Charles Warren that you are with me for the next few days. Trust me. Warren will not object. He knows from experience to steer clear of my path whenever possible. Now, I have also sent word ahead to a skilled and reliable tailor to meet us at Victoria Station, and he will take your measurements to be fitted for any items you may require whilst at Branham—or wherever it is we must travel from there. Kepelheim is a swift and gifted artisan, and he can provide your attire within forty-eight hours or less. In the meantime, should you have need of anything, I keep a small wardrobe at Branham Hall, and since we are of similar height and build, that should do for now.”
He then turned to the duchess. “Darling, you know me well enough to trust I am thorough, and since it is possible that Branham will not provide safe haven for you, I have asked your lady’s maid to pack your trunk. It is on the luggage rack of this carriage even now. I’ve also arranged for a special to take us into Branham Village rather than trust to rail schedules, and once there, a close friend awaits to convey us to the hall. Also, a special train means only we and our tailor friend will be aboard as passengers. And before you ask about the crew, St. Clair, I can tell you that this special is a one-of-a-kind. It is owned by my family, and we vouch for everyone aboard her.”
St. Clair’s face brightened. “You are indeed a thorough man,” he said, much relieved. “How long is the journey to Branham Village?”
“An hour, perhaps ninety minutes, depending on the tracks and routing,” Aubrey replied. “Branham is in northeastern Kent, and pastureland lies twixt here and there, which sometimes means sheep or cattle upon the tracks.”
“Good,” Charles answered. “That will give Beth plenty of time to explain just how the tunnels beneath Branham connect to murders in Whitechapel.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was nearly five o’clock by the time the trio boarded the special train for Branham, and once they had settled into their compartment and commenced the journey, Elizabeth began to tell her reasons for asking both men to view the great maze of passageways beneath the Branham grounds.
“You ask how the tunnels connect to Whitechapel, Charles. To understand it, you must better understand me. When I was a little girl, and particularly whenever alone in the house—Branham Hall, I mean, and most usually at night—I had a recurring dream. A nightmare actually. Though some form of this nightmare has plagued me for as long as I can remember, two months before my father died, the dream crossed from my sleeping life and appeared to my waking eyes.”
She paused as if struggling against the cruel memory, her eyes downcast, her hands clenched. Charles watched her breathing, her strain to regain composure, and he marveled at her inner strength.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and continued. “We’d been planning a trip to Glasgow, my mother and I. My father served as governor-general to India for a time, and then afterward, he was assigned a diplomatic post in Vienna. He’d been there only a few weeks when he wrote that he would be meeting us at Drummond Castle for a short holiday. Truthfully, I was always closer to my father than my mother—though, I’m not sure why. I suppose my father had a gentler spirit. My mother, though she loved me, often seemed distant. Charles, in truth, I loved my father dearly and believed he could do no wrong. Each time he left, each time he sailed away, I felt as if he took all my happiness with him.”
She paused again to regain her calm, and then looked to her cousin. “Paul, I’ve never told you this story, but I have told Grandfather. If he told you, then it is more than I know. As I said, we were preparing for our train trip, when I heard a man’s voice in our garden. It was the fall of the year, and the Branham gardeners had been working countless hours switching out plantings and modifying soils. I knew these men well, for I used to play around them, and they’d often instruct me as to the plants and seasons, so that I might better appreciate their labours, although as a little girl, I didn’t realise that was their purpose, at least in part. They were very kind men, and they told me stories whilst keeping me company. Because my father was so often posted abroad, I spent much of my time alone.”
St. Clair could picture her as a small child, younger and even more vulnerable than the adolescent he’d met in ’79. Imagining her as a lonely little girl only made him love her more deeply and want to protect her all the more.
Elizabeth continued, her eyes taking on a faraway look, as she recalled painful memories. “The voice in the garden was unfamiliar to me, so I looked out my window to see if someone new had been hired. I think my nurse was calling me, but if so, I ignored her because I could see a very strange person standing in the garden, staring up at me. Now, I know you will both think me imaginative, and well, I suppose like all children I was, but this man spoke to me—not with words, but with his thoughts.”
“Thoughts? Beth, surely not!” Paul interrupted, shaking his head. “You were most likely dreaming,” he said, but his own experience had proven otherwise. During the earl’s years in pursuit of Redwing, he, too, had heard thoughts—voices inside his mind from outside forces—but Paul hoped to keep that truth from Elizabeth, to sh
ield her from it, lest her fears grow stronger. Charles, however, recalled Elizabeth’s previous story of an animal that talked to her, an animal that terrified her so much that she had suffered from a strange physical episode as a child in his house back in ’79. He wondered if there might be some connexion ‘twixt the two.
“Beth, did this person...” he began, but Aubrey interrupted.
“There was no real person, Superintendent. Elizabeth dreamt it all.”
The duchess grew angry. “Nonsense! Don’t you think I know a dream from a real event?” Paul’s eyebrows arched in a way that she recognised, and she backed down—but only partly. “Very well, Cousin, think me mistaken, but you will not change my mind!”
St. Clair wanted to know more, so he leaned forward and touched her hand, hoping not to appear too forward to the earl. “Please, go on, Beth. I’m interested in hearing, if you would tell it.”
“Thank you, Charles,” she said, clearly uncomfortable. “Very well. This man, he was tall—very tall. Taller than either of you. Yes, I know what you are thinking, Cousin; I can see it in your eyes. You would tell me that everyone looks tall to a child, but this man stood next to a statue in our north garden that I know to be six feet high, and he was easily a head higher. He stood there, his monstrous thoughts entering my mind, and he smiled and waved as if I should have recognised him, yet not even one of the gardeners appeared to notice his presence!”
Charles considered her words, her body posture, her eyes and mouth. He’d interviewed and interrogated a thousand or more witnesses and prisoners over the years, and he could instinctively tell when someone lied—even one most accomplished in doing so. Elizabeth was telling the truth. The animal she’d feared as a child might, indeed, be connected to this strange man in the garden.
“Beth, do you believe this person meant to harm you?” he asked. St. Clair could see her shoulders relax, knowing that she was believed.
“Yes! Though I cannot tell you why precisely. His smile appeared more malicious than friendly, and his eyes…oh, those eyes! They burnt like two red lamps!”
“What did he say to you? What words did you hear in your mind?” Charles continued, taking note of Paul’s sudden silence.
“He bade me come down to him, saying he only wished to protect me. He said I was in danger, and that he’d been watching me since my birth. But… But, he also told me that... Charles, he told me that my father was going to die.”
She turned toward their compartment window, staring at the passing countryside, her face reflecting the little girl Charles had carried, had cared for, had come to love. He could picture her now, standing before a high window and hearing this demonic speech in her mind.
Paul, too, looked out the window, and his thoughts seemed far away. “Connor died two months later,” the earl said softly, his eyes fixed on the woods beyond the rail line. “A hunting accident. And that is all it was, Elizabeth. A tragic accident. There was no prediction of that sad day. It was nothing more than your imagination. You must drop this.”
She started to reply, but seeing the harsh reproof in her cousin’s eyes, she suddenly stopped and drew a deep, laboured breath before replying. “Yes, I suppose, you are right,” she whispered tightly. “It was, as you say, an accident.”
Charles leaned toward her, his hand on hers. “Beth, is that what you truly believe?”
“It is what happened, Superintendent,” Paul insisted sternly.
St. Clair glared at the earl, unable to comprehend his sudden coldness, but before he could speak further, the train slowed to a stop. Paul opened the exterior door, and both men stepped out to look down each direction of the line, making certain that no one had forced the special to halt.
As they returned to their seats, the interior compartment door slid open, and a short man with a moon face appeared. “Just a water stop,” he said, sitting next to Elizabeth for a moment. “So good to see you again, Your Grace,” he said with a tip of his Bowler hat, which he then set to one side. “You are Superintendent St. Clair? I’m Martin Kepelheim, and now would be an opportune time to take your measurements; that is, if that is still our plan, Lord Aubrey. Is it? You look as if something has happened. Did I miss something whilst I spoke with our engineer?”
Paul’s face was grim. “No. Nothing has happened, Martin. Forgive me. We have been speaking of dark matters, and I suppose my mood has darkened as a consequence. We three are in need of your smiles and excellent storytelling. Forgive me, Charles, my mind has been elsewhere. Beth, dearest, you remember Mr. Kepelheim, don’t you?”
She put out her hand and offered her best smile, the kind she had been taught to wear whenever circumstances required polite conversation, but when your heart and soul have no means to produce a genuine smile. “Mr. Kepelheim, of course. I hope you will pardon me. I’ve not been myself today.”
The tailor bowed and kissed her hand. “No need, dear lady. These times try all our souls, do they not? Mr. St. Clair, if you will step this way, I shall endeavour to take your vitals, for I have a fabric with me that will certainly bring out your remarkable eye colour. This way, sir.”
Elizabeth made use of their privacy to speak to Paul whilst St. Clair met with Mr. Kepelheim, the reliable tailor, who not only fashioned the earl’s clothing but also served in his network of London spies.
“You are angry with me,” she said simply.
“Why, Beth? Why did you not bring that letter to me first?” he asked.
She had expected this, and she knew he had every right to ask it. “I can only say this, Paul. The murders in Whitechapel are connected, just as I have been telling you, so I thought it best to deliver the evidence into the hands of the police as soon as possible.”
“Into the hands of one particular policeman, you mean,” he answered, hoping to keep his voice gentle but failing miserably. “I can see the affection you hold for Charles, Elizabeth. I am not a blind man, but I had hoped to be the first you turn to whenever you have any fear. It is my pride that is hurt, and only that.”
She knew she had stung him, but she could not un-do it. Yes, she could have taken the letter to him first, but she had not. That fact alone worried her. What hold did St. Clair have over her heart? She dared not think about it.
“Forgive me, my darling cousin,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I am, as always, in your hands.”
“If only that were true,” he whispered, kissing her in return. “Elizabeth, why was St. Clair at your home on Tuesday afternoon? I happen to know that you had no chaperone there at the time, and...”
Her face went white. “What? Paul, how can you know that? You have someone watching my house, don’t you? Paul, that is completely out of bounds!”
“No, my darling, it is not. You know that it is my task to keep you safe. No, Beth, do not interrupt me,” he warned her. “This is no secret—not between us at least. Elizabeth, I want only to protect you, and I cannot do that unless I know what it is—and who it is that enters your life.”
Her face passed from pale to tinged in pink, and he noticed that she clenched her hands as if trying to maintain her temper. “You spy upon me, and I am supposed to be reassured by that?” she whispered tightly. “And that nonsense about a chaperone does not seem to apply to you, Lord Aubrey. Shall I tell my grandfather how you behaved with me last night?”
Paul sat back, taking a moment to measure his response. It was true that he had pushed the bounds of propriety with her, but it had always been assumed that she would become his wife. He now feared that her desire no longer lay in that direction.
“Do you love him?” he asked her bluntly.
She turned away, her lower lip trembling. “Please, do not ask me that.”
He took her hands, kissing them. “Darling, forgive me if it sounds as if I do not trust you. I do. Completely. It is only fear that drives me. Fear of losing you to someone else.”
She wore his ring even now, and she’d wondered if St. Clair had noticed it when she’d removed her gloves earlier. The bright blue diamond caught the light that filtered through the trees along the line, sparkling like a secret sun as the train slowly began to move again toward Kent.
“But you and Charles have been friends for nearly a decade. Would you imagine him behaving any way that is inappropriate?”
“No. He is a gentleman, but I also think he cares for you, Beth.”
“Perhaps. But it is your present that I wear, Cousin,” she reminded him. “It has not left my hand since you placed it there; nor will it.”
“Christmas seems so very far away,” he said mournfully, instantly regretting the petulant response. “Elizabeth, do you really see us together as husband and wife, or is my hope in vain? No, wait, forgive me, that was unfair. I know you love me—truly I do—but I fear your heart now strays toward another, and it worries me. For many reasons, but most of all because I cannot imagine life without you. I love you so very much.”
“We have been through many trials together, you and I,” she whispered. “Paul, I wish I could say all the words you long to hear, but would you have me lie?”
“Are you saying that speaking love to me is a lie?” he asked, instantly regretting it.
She touched his face, stroking the afternoon stubble that shadowed his chin. “I have hurt you, haven’t I?” she asked, and he heard agony in those words. “Paul, my darling cousin, for most of my life, you have been my solitary friend. I do love you, but sometimes, I worry that perhaps it is not the kind of love you deserve.”
“Beth, I...”
“No, please, let me finish. I want only the best for you, and the woman you marry should love only you. You are that special. That wonderful. Paul, my mind is muddled, my heart divided. I know these past four years in Paris were intended to clear it, but…”
Paul reached out impulsively and pulled her into a tight embrace, kissing her passionately as if desperately trying to keep her as his own. She felt the same thrill she’d experienced the previous night at Queen Anne House, and the same sweet temptation to give in to this overwhelming feeling, but a soft knock on their compartment reminded her they were not alone.
Blood Lies Page 14
