Blood Lies

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Code?” the youth with the eye patch asked.

  “Did your brother tell you nothing?” Sir Thomas asked, adjusting his spectacles. “Redwing reveres a system of numbers. They believe these numbers have power in the spiritual realm. Thirty-three is a favourite, and…wait, a moment. Edmund, was not Duchess Patricia’s body discovered in March?”

  “It was. The third of March…oh, I see what you mean. Another thirty-three. Third day of the third month.”

  Galton leaned back, wiping at his eyes. “I grow too old for this. Edmund, I’ve no idea how much this map helps us, but it’s clearly meant as a message—if not a warning. Then, according to the list your man France put together, Duchess Patricia’s murder was the first in this long ritual.”

  “Ritual?” the one-eyed man asked. “Pertaining to this number thirty-three, then?”

  Galton nodded. “So it would seem. Redwing often practises extensive rituals. Some reach across time, others across space, you might say. I know of one that was enacted in five separate places at once.” He continued, “So then, the one the press calls Fairy Fay is number eight, and Eddowes is sixteen. Edmund, could it be the duchess is right? That Jack is indeed a member of Redwing? Is William Trent behind all of this?”

  Reid gulped the last of his pint. “Aubrey’s thought that for weeks now. He denies it to our duchess to keep her mind at ease, but she is stubborn.”

  Galton laughed. “So she is. But your Charles St. Clair is also resolute and insightful. Those three together form an interesting combination.”

  “Indeed they do.” The detective inspector glanced at the face of the younger man at their table. “How’d you lose your eye again?” he asked casually, lifting his hand to signal the landlord for a second round. “You’re buying this time, Galton.”

  The youth leaned back into the chair, and his crooked smile widened. “I told my girl that it was in an affray over her honour, ‘course, but to you gents, I’ll give the same truth my brother would’ve had, God rest his soul. I had nodded off whilst on the night train out of King’s Cross, bound for Yorkshire to attend my brother’s funeral. I was alone in my compartment when I was roused from my slumber by an unseen hand.”

  “Unseen?” Reid marveled. “Were both eyes shut then? This was a dream my friend.”

  “Nay,” he argued, “no dream, but a nightmare nonetheless. After being shaken so violently, my eyes had opened wide like a baby bird’s beak. This thing, which I shall call it, for I know not what it was, well, it yanked me clean out of my seat, threw me to the floor, and then pulled my head up to its—well, I’ll say its mouth, but it had no such a thing. Yet, I heard words in my head, as clear as a church bell. She will bear the reborn son, and that son shall lead us. His shall the world become, and his blood our freedom purchase.”

  Galton nearly laughed, but in truth, he had heard these words before—or at least he had seen their like. “You know this from where, boy?” he asked, pointedly, noting that Reid’s face, too, showed recognition.

  “From only that moment,” he continued. “My brother, the late Sir Harold Malmsby, a man you and yours knew well, had once warned me about Shadows that speak. I’d thought him mad or jesting, yet here it was, and here was the voice, speaking in riddles. What does it mean?”

  Galton took a breath and then forced a laugh. “Nothing! Tis but a riddle we’ve seen left here and there. Nathan, you and your brother spent too much time wandering the moors near Malmsby House. Your good father, may he rest in peace, may have died penniless, but he certainly left a legacy as a storyteller. Seriously, boy, how did you lose that eye?”

  Sir Nathan Malmsby shook his head and set his mug down heavily. “It is all true! This shadowy thing whispered the words I’ve just said, and then—well, as best I can explain it, this Thing put its ghostly finger through my left eye, and it’s not healed since, and that’s been six months past. My eye is there, but it bears a red mark, like something clawed it, and I can see through it no longer.”

  Reid leaned forward and lifted up the black eye patch. Beneath was a bloodied eye with a cloudy lens, along with what appeared to be fresh, crimson slashes that ran diagonally from the inner eyebrow to the outer corner of the eye.

  “It is as you say,” the Leman Street detective said flatly. “Well, join the ranks, lad. Many of us have such rakes and scars upon our persons. This is not a flesh and bone army we fight, but one made of sinister smoke, as from the pit of hell. This map troubles me, gentlemen. The next number after Eddowes is number seventeen—here, Galton. See? Yet, I can find no crime in any police archive since Catherine Eddowes’s death that matches a house on Goulston. If this is a roadmap for murder, then we may have sixteen more ahead of us. Should I start posting men at all these other locations? Our ranks are thin as it is.”

  Galton took the fresh mug of ale brought by the barmaid and gulped it down all at once, surprising everyone. “Perhaps. In truth, I cannot say, my friend,” he continued, wiping his mouth of foam, “but I must report this to our inner circle. You’ve done well to bring it to us, Reid. As always, your loyalty to the cause shows the truth of your soul. Malmsby, since you’re filling your late brother’s shoes, I want you to take a message to our contact in Kent,” he said, handing the young man a small envelope. “Go to your brother’s old territory near Gravesend and give this to a baker named Switham. He is a rotund man with a jolly laugh and thick spectacles. He and his wife Meg will put you up for the night, but be back here in two days with the baker’s reply. If you find any sign that Trent has been seen at the docks, if there is anything amiss, send word the usual way.”

  “Usual way?” the boy asked eagerly.

  “You know. The code. Telegraph it to me at Whitehall.”

  Clapping on a wool cap and downing the last of his beer, the youth nodded and pulled on his overcoat. “I’ll not let you down, Thomas.”

  “You’d best not, lad. You might be a baronet now, but you’re amongst many with far grander titles who know less and receive little due, so think not that you have privilege here. Even the duke considers himself just a foot soldier. Off with you now!”

  The lad turned and headed toward the door, scuttling off into the night toward Whitechapel Station. After a few minutes, Sir Thomas lowered his voice and whispered to his two companions, Reid and another, a man named Malcolm Risling, the second son of Lord Pemsbury. He’d said little during their conversation, having learnt long ago that social rank held no part in their dealings. Risling was thirty-one and unmarried, and he had an innate ability to sense truth in any situation. He now spoke in whispers.

  “Thomas, I’ve been watching a man in that corner over there. No, don’t turn. His is a face known to me, although I cannot say from where. He kept his eyes upon us as we spoke, and his gaze also followed the lad as he left just now. I’ve a bad feeling about that young man, but more to the point, I have no great trust in his claim to be Malmsby’s younger brother, but if he is, then we must question his loyalty. I have looked into it, as you suggested. Our dead comrade did have two younger brothers, but one died in North Africa, and the other—well, his location is unknown. He left home at fifteen over a quarrel with their father. The last known location I have been able to ascertain was near Brussels in the company of a widowed countess. I think she found him amusing, or so my contacts tell me. But this countess also has ties to the other side, and possibly to William Trent.”

  Galton’s face blanched. “Can we have made such a mistake at so perilous a time? May heaven prove you right soon, if this is true, Risling! And may that same wonderful heaven intercede where we may have failed. I must send word to Aubrey at once. They may be riding into danger!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The staff at Branham met the duchess and her knights at the front entry, Cornelius Baxter, the butler, at the head.

  “Welcome home, my lady,” he said warmly, his thick eyebrows arching in unison with ea
ch word. “Lord Aubrey, what has happened? Gracious heavens! Come in quickly. In this room, gentlemen. Bring the earl to the fire. Shall I send for Doctor Price, my lady?”

  The group followed the butler through the expansive, tiled foyer and into a quiet drawing room to their right. There, a bluestone fireplace rose to the coffered ceiling, flanked by large portraits of Elizabeth’s mother on the left and her father on the right. Several overstuffed sofas dotted with comfortable pillows sat about the carpeted salon, and a black Labrador retriever, who had been sleeping by the pleasant fire, jumped to her feet at the approach of her mistress. The dog nuzzled the earl’s hand, recognising an old friend.

  “Hello, Bella, my girl,” Paul said sleepily as the men laid him upon the sofa nearest the blaze. The dog’s thick tail fanned the air, and she licked at his fingers. “Good girl,” the earl said thickly, closing his eyes.

  “He’s lost a great deal of blood,” the tailor explained to the butler. “Baxter, my old friend, we must send for Doctor Price, for my field dressing skills can only go so far. The bullet passed through, but it must have nicked a vessel. I had thought not, but he continues to bleed despite all attempts to stop it.”

  Baxter’s distressed face revealed a deep affection for the earl, regardless of earlier stories, and he nodded before disappearing into the foyer once again. Mrs. Alcorn, the housekeeper who had taken over for Mrs. Larson three years earlier, brought in tea and hot water.

  “I can fetch our medicine chest, if that helps, Mr. Kepelheim.”

  “Yes, that would help. Thank you, dear lady. You are a blessing as always. And perhaps brandy? I believe the earl keeps a cask or two in the cellar, is that not so?”

  “Quite so,” the buxom lady replied with a glance toward Elizabeth’s other companion. “And you, sir? May I bring you something stronger than tea as well?”

  “Mrs. Alcorn, this is my Captain Nemo,” the duchess explained, “but you may call him Superintendent St. Clair. We would never have made it here without his aid.”

  “A pleasure to meet another friend to our young duchess, Superintendent. Will a brandy do, or would you prefer something else?”

  After the tense journey, Charles longed for a drink, and he nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Alcorn. Brandy will suffice nicely. You will do me a great service, I assure you.”

  “Mrs. Alcorn,” the duchess said, “there used to be a small supply of Aunt Victoria’s favourite cognacs. Do we still have any? If so, bring one of those.”

  “The Danflou or the Le Burguet, my lady?” Alcorn asked from the doorway.

  “Either. The Danflou is quite nice, if we have enough. I imagine it will require decanting, though.”

  Baxter had returned just in time to overhear the last of this exchange, and he answered. “I have taken care of that already, my lady. This afternoon, when the earl wired that you would be arriving, I took the liberty of preparing a number of his favourite spirits, the Danflou amongst them. Mrs. Alcorn, you will find four decanters on my desk; each is marked.”

  The housekeeper curtseyed and left the drawing room, shutting the doors behind her. Kepelheim opened the earl’s shirt once again, which was stained to the waist with fresh blood. “If the bleeding does not stop soon, he will need a transfusion,” he said, glancing up at St. Clair.

  “He may take my blood,” Elizabeth offered, ignoring Charles’s vigourous, objective shake of the head.

  “No! I will not allow that, Beth, nor would Paul.”

  She sat into a chair next to Aubrey, her head against his, tears mingling with the blood still seeping from the stitched bullet hole. “He gave his blood to me when I was a little girl. I fell down a great cliff and suffered a deep wound to my leg. It bled as this does, and Dr. Lemuel insisted that I would die without blood. Paul had just turned twenty-one, and he had come down to Glasgow to visit with us—my parents and myself. He gave me three transfusions over the course of two days. I only survived because Paul was there for me. The doctor told us then that his blood is compatible with mine, because had it not been, I would have died. I owe him my life!”

  Charles pulled up a side chair, covered in blue silk, and gently put his hand on Elizabeth’s forearm as he sat. “Let us try mine first. Paul would himself refuse your blood if were he conscious, dear heart. And if he and I are truly cousins in some way, perhaps then, mine will suffice. And there is far more blood in my veins than in your slender body.”

  She began to weep, leaning into Charles for strength as she gazed at the earl’s pale face. “He did all this for me! For me! If he dies, my heart shall die a thousand times over, Charles!”

  “I will not let that happen,” he promised, kissing her hair softly. “Not so long as I have breath.”

  Mrs. Alcorn returned, carrying a large, brown leather medical bag. She set the bag onto the table nearest the earl and opened its brass buckles. Inside, she had placed a large bottle of 1857 Glenlivet single malt.

  “A footman is bringing up the decanters Mr. Baxter prepared, but in the meantime, I hope this medicine meets with the doctor’s approval,” she said with a wink. “There are four glasses as well, should my lady require a stiffener.”

  “Mrs. Alcorn, you are an angel,” St. Clair said, rising and kissing the housekeeper’s hand.

  “Oh, go on!” she giggled, her entire body jiggling. “Now then, Mr. Baxter has sent our first footman Mr. Milton to the village for Dr. Price. I cannot imagine he’ll be back here before an hour from now, given the distance and the time, but I know that you, Mr. Kepelheim, possess certain skills, and I’ve trained as a nurse, so how may we proceed for Lord Aubrey? If you believe a transfusion is in order, well, I’ve assisted at those also, and I know the procedure. Mr. St. Clair, if you’re to be the donor, then you’ll want to find a sofa. This can take a lot out of a person; even a grand, great man such as you.”

  Charles liked her, and he praised Almighty God that such wonderful people served here. “I am in your hands, Mrs. Alcorn.”

  “All right then. I can fetch syringes, or would you prefer to use the tube method, Mr. Kepelheim?”

  “Tube is more efficient. Let us transfer a small amount first and see how Lord Aubrey responds. He is not in danger of death yet, but I do not wish to push him closer.”

  Charles and Kepelheim moved a second, long sofa close to the fire, and set it parallel to the one where Paul now lay. Searching the large medical bag, the tailor found several needles within a long black leather case marked with a large gold ‘B’ for Branham, and along with it three flexible rubber tubes.

  “I see you have had need of these before,” he remarked to the housekeeper.

  “Yes, one of our grooms was kicked by a horse last summer, and Dr. Price left this transfusion kit for the hall’s use. It saved our groom, that is certain. His son gave the blood, and it worked well. That same groom stands outside even now, his shotgun loaded, keeping watch along with thirty other men from the estate.”

  “You are a woman after my own heart,” the tailor said with a wink. “And these have been boiled?”

  “I did so before I stored them, but perhaps I should do so again. We’ve a pot of boiling water on in the kitchen right now for whatever purpose you require. Our cook, Mrs. Stephens, is keeping an eye on it.”

  “That would be best,” Kepelheim said, handing the entire kit to Alcorn. “Boil the needles as well. I have seen what sepsis can do to a man, and I’ve no wish to see it again.”

  “So have I,” she replied soberly, bustling off into the main hallway toward the back staircase.

  The tailor felt for the earl’s pulse, counting as he checked his pocket watch. “It’s still strong enough, but it grows weak and rapid. His heart struggles to keep up its good deeds.”

  “Beth, perhaps, you should wait in another room,” Charles suggested, wondering how she might react were the earl to lapse into a coma, or worse—to die.

&n
bsp; “I will not leave him,” she insisted. “Nor would I leave if you were lying upon that couch, Charles. And I know Paul would understand. I also know that he would share his blood with you. I pray it is a match, but if not, I am prepared to give all I have, Mr. Kepelheim.”

  “That will not be necessary, dear lady,” he said softly. “But he will need some from our good friend St. Clair, and soon, I think.”

  The minutes ticked by at a snail’s pace. Elizabeth remained by Paul’s side, watching his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. St. Clair paced back and forth, wishing he’d been the one who’d taken the bullet; wishing he’d paid more attention to the earl’s warnings. Only fifteen minutes had passed by the time Mrs. Alcorn returned, but it felt like an eternity to those awaiting.

  “All clean,” she said. “And we’ve had a telegram from the station in the village. Mr. Milton found the doctor eating his supper, and they left for Branham five minutes ago. They will be here in thirty minutes or less, I should think.”

  “God be praised for that news,” Kepelheim said, lifting his clasped hands to the heavens. “You may have noticed the telegraph lines coming into the gatehouse, Superintendent. The Duke of Drummond had those strung whilst our beautiful duchess learnt the latest dances in Paris.”

  Beth smiled, knowing the tailor was trying to keep her calm. “My grandfather is prudent, is he not, Charles? And I shall show you all my new dance steps once we reach Scotland, Mr. Kepelheim.”

  The tailor nodded. “I look forward to it, my lady. Now, we must begin. Mr. St. Clair, if you will lie down here on the second couch, your head even with the earl’s, and roll up your right sleeve, please. I cannot promise that this will be comfortable, but it will not be unbearable to a man of your disposition, I should think. Mrs. Alcorn, do you have anything with sugar in it? Lemonade perhaps? Punch or very sweet tea? Biscuits? We shall need them to quickly restore Mr. St. Clair’s vigour. Energy is lost when blood is lost.”

  Elizabeth rose, taking the blue chair now, her face a mask of ash. The Labrador nosed the earl once, and then moved to her mistress’s side, sitting as if waiting for the procedure to begin.