Nodding, the little tailor bobbed off toward the engine. Paul looked up at Charles. “If all is well, then we must make for Branham Hall with all speed. I expect to remain there two days, no more, and then we must travel to a safer location. I shall send word to the Yard if you like, Charles, explaining that your services have been seconded by the Foreign Office until further notice. It is not the first time we have employed the investigative abilities of the CID in service of our cause.”
St. Clair helped Paul on with his coat and then lifted him to a more comfortable position in the compartment seat. “Thank you, Charles,” the earl said with genuine affection. “Beth, darling, would you mind fetching my overcoat from our compartment? It’s cold suddenly.”
She kissed his cheek and nodded, turning back toward the other end of the special train. Once she’d left the front compartment, the earl spoke swiftly. “Charles, if for any reason, I do not survive this, you must promise me that you’ll keep her safe.”
The detective’s brow furrowed. “Don’t speak of such,” he whispered, but Aubrey clutched at St. Clair’s forearm, intense pain etched upon his lean features. He coughed, and his breathing came with difficulty.
“Promise me!” he implored. “Beth trusts you, and I believe she would follow whatever you asked her to do. And make sure you send word to the duke. Beth’s grandfather. He knows our current plans, and he expects to hear something from me by end of day.”
Before Charles could answer, Kepelheim returned with a slip of paper, written in a strange series of numbers and letters.
“This makes no sense to me,” the tailor said, handing the note to Aubrey. “I imagine you have changed your cipher since last I served.”
“We have. Just a week ago, so I pray this is the new one. The fact that it is gibberish to you, old friend, cheers me, but I know with your head for ciphers, you would translate it easily in time. I’ll give you a guide to the new one, when we reach the hall.”
Stuart took the paper, mentally translating the strange symbols. “Thank the good Lord! We are safe for now. My man in Branham Village says that no enemy ranks have been spotted.”
Beth returned with the overcoat, placing it across the earl’s chest and shoulders. “Here you are, darling.”
Just then, the train began to slow, and a clanging of bells signaled the approaching station.
“We’re at Branham,” she said. “I can see the platform up ahead.”
“And just in time,” Charles answered, looking to the earl. “Your man awaits with a coach?”
“He does,” Paul said, wincing again. “I’ll need your help with the trunk and baggage. We must be on the road to the hall as quickly as possible. It grows dark soon, and I’ve no wish to be on that wooded road after sunset.”
CHAPTER NINE
It was nearly seven o’clock by the time the three men, the engineer, and George Cummins, Paul’s Branham contact, had transferred all the luggage and weaponry (Paul had brought a small arsenal) to the carriage. Cummins, a gnarled but well-dressed man of mid-fifties, bore a harsh red scar on the left side of his face, but he smiled readily and honestly, taking care to assist the duchess in keeping her feet on the uneven, gravel path. Kepelheim and St. Clair helped the earl into the interior of the spacious landau, covering up both him and Elizabeth with two of four blankets that Cummins had thoughtfully placed inside.
“Fret not, Princess,” Paul assured her as he settled into the richly upholstered seat. “Mr. Cummins and I have been through many scrapes. He can hit a fox at half a mile in pitch black. I’ve seen him do it. I trust George with my life, and now I am trusting him with yours, which I prize more highly than any other.”
St. Clair felt concern, but he tried to keep his manner positive for her sake. Recalling Paul’s warning, the detective’s eyes scanned the woods for signs of danger as they passed. “You keep strange company for a diplomat, Lord Aubrey. Your group of men grows more intriguing by the minute, but perhaps they are better called agents,” he said with an impish grin.
Paul laughed, cringing as the small movement brought deep pain to his shoulder. “Yes, well, you will no doubt be meeting more of those agents in the coming days, Cousin. And now, you are one of our company as well. This coach bears no Branham crest, but some may still recognise it. We must keep our eyes on the trees to either side of the road, but, it is my hope that a decoy I dispatched earlier will have drawn off any local mischief.”
Elizabeth looked at him sharply. “Decoy? What can you mean by that? Surely, you have not endangered my maid!”
Paul shook his head, his long hair wet with sweat, his words beginning to slur now and then. “Of course not. I would do nothing to put Alicia at risk. I sent her in a special that left two hours before our own. George has told me that she arrived at the station without incident, and that she is doubtless waiting for you now. I imagine she’s roused the entire household. Poor Baxter!” he finished, wincing with pain.
“Do not speak, but rest now,” she told him. “I expect Mr. Baxter will have the household ready and prepared, if not all armed with whatever weapons they may muster,” Elizabeth said proudly, her eyes on the detective. “Baxter is my butler, Charles, and he has spent his entire life in service to the Branham family. I daresay he would defend even you, Paul, should the need arise.”
Aubrey smiled, his mind easing as they neared their destination, though his eyes looked less clear. Flinching as he moved, he kissed Elizabeth’s hand. “He tolerates me, my dear. I have not been a favourite to your man Baxter since I put a snake in his pantry. Mind you, Charles, I was but a lad of fourteen at the time, but knowing his fear of the creatures, I simply could not resist. Poor Elizabeth,” he continued, his face growing pale. “She was—what, dear, perhaps a year old?—and Baxter had just brought—had just, uh, brought her into his pantry to show her ‘round.”
The earl sat up slightly to look out the window, and severe pain shot across his features for a moment. “No, no, I’m fine. Really, Beth, I’m fine. What was I saying? Oh, yes, the snake,” he muttered, his thoughts appearing to wander. “Baxter would often play horse and rider with—with uh, with—with Elizabeth, Charles. He’d carry her on his broad shoulders and bounce about, ah…but that is when my ill-chosen gift decided to—to appear, you see. Ah!” he cried out as the carriage passed over a series of deep ruts left by heavy rains in late September, and Kepelheim’s thick brows knit into a worried line.
Paul’s eyes had lost focus, but he continued his story. “I am ashamed to admit it, but Baxter very nearly dropped my dear cousin from that lofty perch, as he hopped about, trying to kill the creature with—uh, what was it again?— his, uh, boot heel, that’s right.”
Elizabeth’s face became a mask of worry, but rather than alarm the earl, she took up the story to help him whilst Kepelheim opened Aubrey’s shirt to re-examine the wound. “That’s right, darling,” she said. “He stamped at it with his boot. Charles, the entire household was in an uproar. My mother later told me that I was actually laughing, for the housekeeper, Mrs. Larson, who has now departed this life for a heavenly ring of keys, had rushed in to see what had caused our ordinarily composed butler to begin dancing about in a room filled with delicate china. Paul believes Baxter has never forgiven him, you see,” Elizabeth said as she stroked the earl’s damp hair. “In truth, Baxter has grown quite fond of you in his old age. Paul?”
The earl had gone quiet.
“Paul?” she asked again, but Kepelheim shook his head.
“He is unconscious, I think,” the tailor said. “Probably best. The pain must be unbearable, and I’ve no morphine in my bag.”
Charles kept his eyes on the woods as Paul had asked him. Burnt orange and crimson hues painted the autumnal hills, and the setting sun scattered rosy fingers amongst the shadowy pines that covered them like a regal crown. “It’s beautiful here,” he said to Elizabeth, hoping to take her mind off th
e earl’s grave condition.
He could see tears tracing the curve of her cheeks as she looked up, and Charles wanted to take her hand, but he dared not. Instead, he continued speaking. “How far is the manor house from the sea?”
Beth glanced up again, wiping at the tears. “Not far. Fifteen miles or so. Perhaps twenty. I’ve never actually measured it, of course, but there is a marker stone on the riding path near the old abbey that says eleven miles. I used to walk there as a girl.”
The memory seemed to disturb her, so Charles changed the subject. “I’ve never been much of a sea lover. These beautiful trees, however. How their colours sparkle in the sunset! You know, I think autumn is my favourite time of year.”
“And mine,” she answered, smiling. “Our house is surrounded by magnificent gardens, but the old woods have a simple beauty that the even most elegant garden cannot match. There you’ll find carpets of bluebells and stitchwort, and there are great, rolling meadows where sheep and cattle graze. To the south of the hall, you’ll find field after field of lavender and wild poppies, and their innocent beauty always reminds me of a painting by Monet or Van Gogh. I hope you like Branham, Charles. In many ways, this place grounds me, though it also holds much that frightens.”
Her eyes took on a faraway look.
“Beth, these tunnels,” he began, “I worry that seeing them again might…well, that it might cause you pain. Emotional pain, I mean.”
She took his hand, clutching at it, and he longed to hold her, but he dared not, not with Paul so close to death. “Charles, I believe I can face anything if you—and Paul—are with me. Do you think Miss Ross knew something about the tunnels?”
“I don’t see how she could,” he assured her, though he had been wondering the same thing. Charles had said nothing to Elizabeth, but he had come to know Ida Ross well in the past ten years, and he had been mentally replaying many of his conversations with her over and over, realising that much of what she’d said to him during those years might have deeper meaning. “I imagine her illness causes her to speak random words, and it is but coincidence that she mentioned tunnels. Do not let it alarm you.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” she whispered, but it was clear that she found no real comfort in his assurances. “I might write to Dr. Sunders and ask about her. If I send the letter to H-Division, will he receive it?”
“Yes, but I can send him a wire, if you wish, Beth. You’re very kind to offer to pay for Miss Ross’s medical needs. Does the hall receive the London papers?”
“Yes. Why? Oh, I see. You hope to discover whether or not those reporters wrote about me. I’ve no doubt they did. Whilst I lived in France, I often found myself mentioned in the press, though I’m not sure what the public found so fascinating about my life.”
“I find you fascinating,” he admitted. “In fact, I wish I could read French as well as you do. I’d have subscribed to every Paris newspaper had I known you were mentioned even once.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “And you would have found my life rather dull, Captain. I only attend parties when required. Most of my life has been spent quietly. Most of it,” she added, dark thoughts shadowing her face. “But I believe my life is about to take a turn, though I’m not sure of the direction. Oh, I can see Branham!” she cried out suddenly. “Paul, darling, it’s Branham. We’re home!”
St. Clair looked out the north facing window just as the coach turned left at a great bend that followed Henry’s Creek, named for King Henry II when he’d built the original castle that later grew into Branham Village. As the four horses galloped northward, the narrow roadway passed through a wide iron gate, flanked by massive crouching lions of carved stone, and then broadened into a grand avenue of fine gravel, lined on either side by regal chestnuts and graceful elms. Yellow roses, burgundy smoke-tree, pale pink viburnum, purple-leaved forsythia, and a chorus of fall colours cheered their passage toward the sprawling mansion beyond as if welcoming their duchess home.
Containing over two-hundred rooms, including the largest private library in England and a glass-domed solarium, the family seat for the Dukes and Duchesses of Branham had stood for over four hundred years. Despite its age, the family had managed to maintain it well, adding modern amenities in Elizabeth’s grandfather George Henry Linnhe’s time as duke, and more recently the young duchess had added electric lighting to the ground floor and kitchens.
“This is a hall?” Charles asked, dumbfounded. “I’d expected something a bit more, well, sedate and cosy.”
“It is, in fact, considered a palace though not officially, of course,” Kepelheim said, cryptically. “I’ve been here many times before, and each visit brings new things to experience. The gardens! Oh, I hope you will have time to see the gardens, Superintendent. Even in October, they put on a glorious show. And there is a hedge maze that kept me lost in its embrace for half a day last summer!”
“It is simply my home,” Elizabeth said softly, as they drew ever nearer. “When I was younger, I remember reading Pride and Prejudice and realising that, as ordinary as I believed my own life to be, our home would have surpassed that of Mr. D’Arcy’s Pemberley in that wonderful book. I suppose because the main character shared my own name that surely she was myself, but I soon realised that most readers—and Miss Austen as well, no doubt—would consider my home intimidating. I hope, Charles, you will not think so. We are, at heart, just plain folk. As my grandfather told you all those years ago at Drummond House, we do not stand on ceremony. Or at least, we try not to do so.”
Charles wanted to embrace her, to remove all fear from her beautiful eyes, to hold her to his heart so that his might beat in time with her own; and he wanted her to be his and his alone forever. But he dared not think it. Dared not express it. Yet he felt certain that his face held no ability to hide that fact.
She gazed at him and then at Paul, who now slept. Soon, she must make a choice. But not now. Not yet. No one could have foreseen that the choice would soon be made for her.
Back in London, Sir Thomas Galton met with three men in a tavern near the western edge of Whitechapel. The group sipped dark ale and shared opinions as they pored over a strange map of the east end borough.
“You got this where again?” asked a tow-headed youth who wore an eye patch. “From Swanson?”
Galton nodded, wiping ale from his mouth. “Not directly. Swanson had it, but passed it along to Billy Ankerman and now through Reid here, it comes to us. You remember Ankerman from Eton, lads. A rascally boy, stood taller than even our Aubrey. Thin as a rail. Flaming red hair that never stayed combed. Lord Montagu’s nephew.”
The youth nodded. “My brother knew him. I didn’t, of course, though I heard the tales from him. Some, to be honest, are hard to credit.”
Galton glanced anxiously toward another man, who sat opposite him at the table. He and Edmund Reid had known each other for ten years, both men sharing a love of aeronautics and sleight-of-hand. The Whitechapel inspector had served as a member of Paul Stuart’s shadow army of operatives since the ‘duchess murder’ of ‘79. “Yes, well, much what we face is difficult to fathom. As to this map, why don’t you explain its curious route, Edmund,” Sir Thomas said.
“According to the encoded letter connected to this map, Swanson found it in the pocket of a man who’d been knifed to death outside the London four nights past—he then delivered it to Ankerman,” Reid explained. “Ankerman, so the letter says, delivered it to the Foreign Office the next morning. This puzzles me, my friends. If true, then why did this map never find its way into the earl’s hands directly?”
Sir Thomas leaned back in his chair. “The earl’s mind has been elsewhere this week, and he’s not kept regular hours at Whitehall. So, who from the Foreign Office delivered it to you?”
“A chap named Richards. I have never seen him before, Thomas, and though I asked him to remain whilst I sent a wire of inquiry to Whitehall, he
was nowhere to be seen when I returned to my office. We’ve no idea why, but both Swanson’s name and Ankerman’s are penciled to the back of this map. Neither man has been seen since Wednesday, or I would ask them myself. With Aubrey engaged in protecting our dear one, it’s up to us to decide how to proceed. Look closely at the map, lads. It’s marked and numbered in what I’m told is blood, possibly human.”
“How did you determine that?” Thomas asked. “The duke’s laboratory?”
Reid smiled. “His secret laboratory, yes. I’d love to have access to Drummond’s scientists to solve our backlog of crimes. There’s a German chemist named Freiburg working there now who’s been using something he calls an ‘antigen’ to identify human blood. Amazing science, but it’s not been proven a hundred percent reliable yet, so I’m to say that it’s ‘possibly’ human. Now, I must give credit to a fellow inspector at Leman Street for this next part. Arthur France—a clever copper that our St. Clair’s been grooming for the Yard. France is blessed with a talent for recognising patterns, and he suggested that these marks might correspond to crimes. I had France look into it, and sure enough at least some of them correspond to unsolved murders in the east end. That one there on Commercial,” Reid said, pointing to the map, “marked in pencil with the number ‘1’ beside Christ Church is precisely where Morehouse and St. Clair found Duchess Patricia in ’79.”
Galton examined the map with a hand lens. “Are they all numbered?”
Reid nodded. “They are, and the murders we uncovered are in sequential order. Some of the pencil scratchings are faint, and the map’s so stained and creased, it’s hard to discern all, but there look to be thirty-three in total. A number we’ve all seen before.”
“Thirty-three? The number of rebirth to them, is it not? Some aspect of their sadistic, ritualistic code.”
Blood Lies Page 16
