Aubrey sat back from her, his hands still on her own. She was trembling, and he longed to take back his harsh words and rash actions. “Come in.”
Kepelheim’s large head popped into view, a tape measure draped around his ample neck. “Lord Aubrey, the man is almost exactly your measurements! I have never seen such a thing; you could be brothers! In fact, it’s a funny thing, now that I think about it. Were your hair darker and short instead of dashingly long, and perhaps a slight change in the eye colour and nose, a small tweak to the brows—why you might even be twins.”
Elizabeth smiled, her heart lightened by the tailor’s gentle manner, glad for a reason to smile. “I have chosen twin sentinels, have I? Thank you, Mr. Kepelheim, that is quite delicious! And I shall use every opportunity to remind both men of this fact!”
Even the earl began to laugh, and all three were enjoying a moment of welcome merriment when Charles returned to the compartment.
“What did I miss?” he asked, as he sat down opposite Elizabeth.
Paul and Beth exchanged glances, and then burst into a fresh round of laughter. “Superintendent, have you ever considered wearing your hair a bit longer?” he asked St. Clair, leaning toward Elizabeth in a conspiratorial manner.
The policeman’s dark brows knit together in a puzzled frown. “No. Hardly. Why?”
“Just curious,” Paul replied. “Charles, you did tell me that your family is from London, correct?”
St. Clair pulled his shirt sleeves down and reached for his suit coat. “Liverpool and London, yes. Yet, my ancestry is Scottish, I believe. The St. Clair family there has some distant connexion to mine, or so my late wife told me, claiming that some spelt it differently—Sinclair, I think. I’m not sure there’s any evidence to back it up, but she insisted upon it.”
Paul blinked, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Really? Good heavens! We might be cousins. My aunt married a Sinclair.”
“Does he jest?” Charles asked, looking to Elizabeth with all seriousness written across his face.
Kepelheim tapped the detective on the shoulder and nodded. “Even I know this to be true, Superintendent. Angela Stuart Sinclair, isn’t that right, Lord Aubrey? She was your mother’s sister, I believe.”
Paul nodded, leaning toward Charles. “You see, if you’d studied your own family history, then you’d know the name St. Clair originated—or so my mother said—in a village in France, Saint-Clair–sur-Epte, and that it has deep connexions to the founding of Normandy. It is sometimes spelt out fully, S-a-i-n-t, but over the years it was often shortened to St. Clair and then Sinclair, of course, based on the original French. I’ve cousins that spell it both ways, and a few that use the abbreviation as you do. Have you ever visited the Castle Sinclair in Caithness? It’s a complete ruin now, of course, but it once stood proud. It came tumbling down when a war broke out over inheritance. George Sinclair of Keiss claimed the right to the castle and the title in 1679, but not everyone agreed. A nasty business it was, so says Uncle James. He’s our family historian. We’ll have to see just how your St. Clair family weaves into ours. As I said, Charles, we might just be cousins, which may explain our physical resemblance, but might also mean you and Elizabeth are related as well.”
Charles forced a smile, but something about it unsettled him. Not that he’d mind being related to either Paul or Elizabeth, but his policeman’s senses were tingling, and he began to wish he could see more clearly just what forces were at work to bring him into the lives of these two titled cousins.
“You said they fought over a title? What would that have been?” he asked.
“Earl of Caithness, if memory serves,” the tailor said with a wink to Aubrey. “And I believe it is currently in abeyance. The duke would have much to say about it, I think. As would your wonderful father, Lord Aubrey, may he rest in peace. Some say you, in fact, could lay claim to that title as well.”
“I’ve enough titles to last a lifetime,” Paul said wearily. “The only title I now desire is to be called Elizabeth’s husband.”
Immediately, he wished he could unsay it, for he saw the strain it placed on her in the sudden paleness of her fair face. He took her hand and kissed it. “But that will wait until she agrees to it. I’ve much to prove in the meantime, Mr. Kepelheim. For now, I should walk the length of the train to make certain we were not boarded at that water stop.” Then leaning toward Elizabeth’s ear, he whispered, “Forgive me, darling. I had no right to say it.”
She smiled, a weary, sad smile, and he knew he could say nothing more to ease the moment. “Charles, will you keep our duchess safe whilst I take a stroll along the cars? Kepelheim, come with me, won’t you? I’ve an idea for that new shop you mentioned to me last week.”
The two men departed, closing the compartment door and leaving Charles and Elizabeth alone.
“That is the earl’s ring, is it not?” he asked, wishing simply to hear the bad news quickly. “I do not recall its being there when we kissed in your library, or had you hidden it away knowing I would be visiting?”
“Why would I do that?” she asked angrily. “If I intended to marry the earl, then I would not have permitted you to kiss me!” She held up her left hand, determined not to be ashamed of such a pretty ring from so gallant and loving a heart. The centre diamond dazzled in blue white sparks against her face. “It is a beautiful ring, and I would not hide it. Paul asked me to marry him only last night—three days after you and I met.”
“Then I wish you both all the best,” he said curtly.
“You misunderstand me, Charles. I accepted his ring only—for now, as a promise to him that I shall accept his proposal of marriage at Christmas. And only then.”
St. Clair felt little reassurance at this, so he began to stare out the window at the passing woodlands, hoping she would not see the great despair etched upon his face. “What have I misunderstood?” he asked, knowing instantly that the anger in his voice betrayed his feigned composure. He suddenly hated Paul, though he knew it was unfair and unmanly to bear the kind earl any grudge. “If you plan to accept him at Christmas, how is that any different?”
“One might say it gives me a little time to consider...other options,” she said, her voice lowering to a whisper.
He looked at her, seeing the strain the conversation had placed upon her heart and regretting his anger. He opened his mouth to speak, but she put up her hand to stop him.
“Before you say anything more, Charles, please hear me for a moment. Do you think Paul your enemy? Good heavens! He has left us alone for this very reason, so that we might talk. My cousin knows me better than I know myself, and he has admitted to me that he has reason to doubt my affections. No, do not speak yet! Not yet. I do not know my heart, Charles. I cannot, and in some ways I fear to examine it closely. Paul and I have been—well, you might say promised to each other since the day of my birth. I have loved him with all my heart for as long as I can remember.”
“Yes, I know that very well,” he said somewhat petulantly, the anger returning. “It was the earl’s name you called over and over that terrible night, ten years past. But you were a child then, Beth—that I can understand, but now…”
“No! Let me speak,” she insisted, once again putting her hand to his lips. “Please, Charles, please listen. There is so much more to me—to all of this dark nightmare—than you can even begin to guess. Though Paul wishes it were otherwise, the story of the man in the garden is true. It all happened, just as I have said. I’m sure that Paul knows it to be true, but he pretends it is not. I think he does this to help me, but sometimes I wish he would trust my courage. I pray the truths you’ll soon discover will not alter your affections, Charles, but if so, then I shall understand. For once you know all, you may no longer wish to be—well, to be more than a friend to me.”
“That would never happen,” he assured her, taking her hands into his and kissing them. “Dare
I hope, Elizabeth? Were you another woman, I might have said that you have bewitched me, but truly it is your gentle spirit and pure intentions that have won my heart. Your beauty and grace are beyond measure, but even that might prove less to me without your beautiful soul to complete it. As a mere commoner, a lowly policeman, society would deem me foolish for speaking to a duchess this way, but in truth, I am yours, entirely. Yours to command. Yours to toss away like so much dust, if you choose. I would wish it to be no other way. Dare I hope, Beth? Dare I imagine a future for us?”
She nodded, her eyes staring at his hands. “Yes, Charles, you do.”
In answer, he pulled her to him, kissing her mouth, her cheeks, her hair, unable to constrain the fierce emotion overwhelming his heart. “I love you so very much, Elizabeth,” he whispered, and she started to reply—but without warning, the train lurched, and then screeched to a dead stop, the cool autumn air split by the high-pitched scream of iron wheels upon iron rails.
Still holding her in his arms, the detective glanced out the window. “Why are we stopping? Surely, we cannot need water again so soon,” Charles said, suspiciously. Alert to all possibilities, he opened the exterior door and looked along the tracks toward the forward part of the train but saw no sign of danger.
“This could be nothing, but it may be a trick,” he said to her as he climbed back inside the compartment. “If we have been stopped intentionally, then it is likely a ruse to lure your protectors aside. I don’t dare leave you alone, Beth. You’ll have to come with me.”
He helped her to her feet, and then cautiously slid open the inner compartment door. The interior of the train had gone quiet, but Charles could hear voices outside—on the other side of the tracks, arguing and shouting.
Then, suddenly, rapid gunfire!
Whilst being measured by Kepelheim, Charles had removed his shoulder holster, and he suddenly realised it was still inside the rearmost compartment of their car. “Beth, do not move,” he told her, and then St. Clair briefly returned to the tailor’s ‘fitting room’ and withdrew his Webley revolver from the leather holster. Returning to her, he put Elizabeth behind him so his body might shield her. “Keep close to me,” he said tensely.
They moved forward, one step at a time, inching their way toward the engineer’s compartment. As they entered the next car, four more shots rang out, and then a fifth and sixth, in quick succession, followed by chaotic shouting. Then, as if out of nowhere, Paul Stuart appeared from the side steps, blood staining his left shoulder. Kepelheim, too, bobbed up the stair, his grizzled hair in disarray, his face florid and sweating, a revolver in his hand.
“It was William’s team, I’m sure of it!” Paul shouted, bending to catch his breath.
“You’re hurt!” Elizabeth cried out, rushing past Charles to reach the earl. “Charles! Mr. Kepelheim! Please, help him to sit!”
Paul gasped for air as they eased him into the foremost compartment. His face was pale, beaded with sweat. “It’s just the shoulder,” he assured her. “A scratch. I’ve had far worse.”
Kepelheim removed the earl’s coat and waistcoat. Beneath it, the white silk shirt had already become soaked with crimson. “That’s good,” the tailor said, ripping open the pearl button closures to expose the wound. “Dark blood is good. Bright is bad.” He pulled the earl forward slightly to get a better look at the backside of the shoulder. “Also good. The bullet has passed through cleanly. I imagine it hurts a great deal. Let me dress this now, and then whisky, I think. Mr. St. Clair, my new Scottish friend, would you be so kind as to ask the engineer, a nice chap named Lester, if he could give you my medical bag? It has a bottle of Scotch whisky in it.”
Charles glanced at Elizabeth for a second, wishing he could take back all his angry thoughts and selfish words, and then dashed forward to fetch the bag.
Paul’s breathing was laboured, but his face bore a wan smile as he gazed at his cousin. “Never fear, Princess. It’s nothing.”
She kissed his hand, regretting their previous conversation, placing his right palm against her cheek. “You are always so brave, my wonderful knight. My darling, what can I do to help? Do you want water? Shall I fetch anything for you? Paul, my love, tell me how to help.”
He grew quiet for a moment, his eyelids squeezed together as intense pain flooded through his shoulder beneath the tailor’s probing fingers. Beth swiped at his long hair, finding a small stain of blood beneath. “Is this another injury?” she asked Kepelheim.
The tailor checked the linear wound, which formed near the earl’s right temple. “It’s nothing,” he lied, for he recognised the track of another bullet, clearly meant to penetrate the skull and end the earl’s life. “A branch scratched him, I think. There were wild bushes by the tracks. Only that, my lady.” He smiled at the duchess, but he could tell by her expression that she doubted his explanation.
St. Clair returned with the bag and a message. Sitting next to Kepelheim, he looked at the earl, recognising the deadly nature of the wound at once. “Mr. Lester tells me he wants to make sure no one unexpected awaits at the village station, so he has signaled ahead. He said that if the earl’s man is not there, or if his reply is not according to the code you have arranged, then we will not stop at Branham, but instead proceed southward on a new track.”
The tailor nodded. “Yes, the earl’s man will send a reply signal, if he can.”
Charles looked perplexed. “I’m confused, Mr. Kepelheim. What signal can be sent twixt the village and a moving train?”
Kepelheim smiled. “The earl has equipped this train and Branham station and even the hall’s gate house with a remarkable device based on Heinrich Hertz’s experiments with radiated waves. With this, he is able to send and receive messages through the air.”
“Really? No wires? That is remarkable!” he said, noticing that Paul’s eyes had opened again. “The Yard would be envious of such advances, my lord.”
“If they knew about them,” Aubrey whispered, his eyes rimmed in red. “We often test out such inventions.”
The tailor nodded as he looked through the bag. “One day soon, even your police station will use wireless telegraphy, but for now it is limited only to the earl’s experimental employment.”
“It would seem, Lord Aubrey, that you have left little to chance,” Charles said, relieved to see the earl breathing more easily.
“I failed to foresee an assault from the woods,” he replied, gritting his teeth as Kepelheim cleaned the wound with the whisky. “Charles, we shall need your experience and sharp eyes when we reach Branham station—if we reach it. Ah! Martin, that’s flesh not fabric!”
The tailor shook his head and continued probing. “Such protest. I’m making certain of the path and that nothing remains. There! You are a blessed man, Lord Aubrey. I think that man aimed for your heart. Another inch or two lower, and who knows? But here, let me stitch it up. This part will hurt, so drink this down. All of it.” He handed a large tumbler filled with the amber liquid to the earl, who downed it in one gulp.
“I hope this isn’t expected to put me to sleep,” he joked with a wince of pain. “This is Drummond whisky. I’ve been drinking this since I was fifteen.”
The tailor shrugged and threaded a needle he’d sterilized with a match. “So I know, but it’s all I have. I did not imagine we would be heading into the lion’s maw so soon. I’d hoped to visit the chemist in Branham for supplies. Now, sit still. This will take a little time if I’m to keep your scarring to a minimum. We don’t wish to mar your pretty self too badly, now do we?”
He began to stitch the wound closed, and Elizabeth held the earl’s hand, her eyes watching the tailor’s movements. “Would you teach me to do this, Mr. Kepelheim?” she asked.
All three men showed surprise, and Paul smiled broadly. “Most women would faint at the sight of so much blood, Beth. You do our clan proud, lassie. But I wouldn’t want your pretty hand
s consigned to men’s work.”
“Men’s work?” she asked, her pride clearly wounded. “Are men alone the world’s healers? We race toward a new age, gentlemen, where mere women will bear much of the workload whilst our men once again rush to war. Is that not so, Paul?”
He nodded wearily.
“Well, then,” she continued, “should not women learn such practical skills? I am able to sew and embroider and play the piano as all ladies are expected, but I would learn more useful arts. Yes, yes, I know; even Aunt Victoria would not have me doing manual labour, as she would call it, but I can make better use of the means to which I was born, can I not?”
St. Clair watched her face, flushed with a fire he’d not yet seen in her, and he wished to applaud her courage. “There is much that is needed, which only wealth and generosity may achieve, my lady. The east end is in great need of better hospitals—one for the poor in particular. The London deals primarily with industrial accidents, and even those who are admitted must first meet the approval of the board of governors, and many are turned away and die.”
“People like Miss Ross?” she asked, genuine concern in her eyes.
Charles nodded. “Yes, people just like Miss Ross.”
“Then, it is settled,” she answered. “When we have time to relax our attentions from worry and distress, then I shall make that my goal. A hospital, and perhaps a place where those with aptitude but no funds to pay for education may learn the skills that you apply so readily, Mr. Kepelheim.”
“I like it very much, Your Grace,” the tailor said, clipping the thread with a small pair of scissors. “There! Almost like new.”
Paul took a deep breath and glanced at his shoulder. “Not bad for a tailor,” he said. “Now, we must be nearing Branham. Kepelheim, if you would ask Mr. Lester what word he received back from the station.”
Blood Lies Page 15
