Kepelheim wound a small rubber tube around the policeman’s upper right arm and then inserted a sharp needle which was attached to another thin rubber tube that ended in a large glass reservoir, held now by Mrs. Alcorn. As the blood flowed downward into the tube, the reservoir slowly filled, until a pint of dark red blood stood ready for use.
“Now, I’m going to stop the flow, and I want you to rest, Mr. St. Clair. I will try but half this at first. Then we shall wait to see how the earl fairs with a strong policeman’s bold blood in his veins.”
Mrs. Alcorn used picture wire to attach the reservoir to a tall candle stand.
“Very clever, my good Mrs. Alcorn,” the tailor said with a wink.
She smiled. “We had to make do in the war. Few supplies and far too many soldiers to bind up.”
“Quite so,” he replied solemnly. The tailor now turned his attention to the earl, who had slipped past sleep into a deeper, dreamless state. “He is very weak now,” he said to Elizabeth. “But he is a strong man, and I have seen him in worse states than this.”
Elizabeth gazed at this tailor with new eyes, and she wondered what secrets he and her cousin had shared—what adventures, many she suspected on her behalf. “You are a kind man,” she told him. “If ever there is anything I might have within my power to do for you, Mr. Kepelheim, you have but to name it.”
He blushed, his eyes glowing from the praise. “Seeing you safe and happy is my reward, dear lady,” he said honestly. “Now, let us see if this blood can make a difference for such a good man as this.”
He released a clamp on the tube that descended from the reservoir, and St. Clair’s blood began slowly flowing downward into the earl’s pale arm. “This part of the procedure will take longer,” he explained. “His veins cannot accept so quickly what Mr. St. Clair so bravely gave. In ten minutes or so, we shall know more.”
Ten minutes passed, and the tailor checked the earl’s skin and pulse. “No rash, which is good. Good. So far, it is good.”
Another ten minutes passed, and whilst the tailor listened to Paul’s heart using a binaural stethoscope, the great doors to the foyer opened, and Baxter could be heard talking with the doctor and giving orders to the first footman. The butler opened the drawing room doors, ushering in a tall, thin man with white whiskers, wearing a slate grey Inverness cloak over a black frock coat. The medical man removed his hat and cloak and headed straight for his patient.
“Good evening, Mr. Kepelheim. I see your ministrations have been put to good use. I’m delighted you proceeded with the transfusion,” he said, examining the earl’s eyes. “He is in a coma, I think. Or nearly so. Such does not occur in a man so vital as the earl unless much blood has been lost. Yet I see you found another strong gentleman to provide what Lord Aubrey needs most. No, no, my friend. Do not move,” he said to St. Clair. “Your part may not yet be over, and you must recover, so lie still.”
Charles obeyed, keeping his sea blue eyes focused on Elizabeth, who sat as still and pale as a statue.
Baxter entered the room again, whispering something to the housekeeper, who nodded and left the room. “Mrs. Alcorn will bring you all a cold supper, my lady. In the meantime, if I may speak to the superintendent? No, sir. I shall come to you.”
The large butler swept gently past the tailor and the doctor, who were both hovering over the earl’s prostrate form now, and he moved to the policeman’s left side so as not to be in the way of the instruments. “Sir,” he whispered. “We’ve had a message from London. Our footman can make neither head nor tail of it, for it is in a cipher. I do not pretend to know all that Lord Aubrey engages in, but I know enough to recognise this as a message for him. What shall we do?”
St. Clair sat up slightly and tapped the tailor’s arm. “Mr. Kepelheim. A word.”
The makeshift doctor whispered something to Dr. Price, who nodded, and then the tailor moved next to Baxter. “I am all attention,” he whispered to the detective.
“Can you read the note Mr. Baxter received from the footman?”
The butler handed the tailor a cream-coloured slip of paper bearing a string of nonsensical words and numbers scrawled hastily across it in three lines. Putting on a pair of spectacles, he appeared to be working out the message based on the changes he’d seen in Paul’s note on the train. “The letters and their arrangement have altered somewhat, but it is similar to our former code. Let me think a moment. I may be able to determine, based on positions of—yes! I think it says, ‘Danger. Traitor in London. Leave at once.’ And it is signed Galton. I know this man. Sir Thomas Galton. He is a worthy and honest companion to the earl and a central figure in our work. If he says we are in danger, then you can believe we are.”
St. Clair considered their options, which seemed few. “Is it possible that this refers to the ambush along the rail?”
Kepelheim thought this over. “Perhaps, but I do not think so. The time on this indicates it arrived after we left the station for the hall. No, I think this means fresh danger. Mr. Baxter, you said that you have men guarding the house and grounds. We must warn them to be alert all the night, for we cannot possibly move the earl for a day at least.”
The tall butler nodded, his face filled with concern for the earl. “I shall see to it, sir. And I shall join them, too, if it comes to that.”
St. Clair admired the aging butler. He could just picture this massive gentleman bouncing Elizabeth on his shoulders, stamping out a garden snake in his pantry. “Mr. Baxter,” he said, “if you require additional armaments, I believe you will find quite a selection in the earl’s luggage.”
Baxter grinned, his greying brows rising high. “I have already taken the liberty of availing myself of one or two items from that prolific bag, sir. Now, my lady,” he said, turning to the duchess, “if neither you nor the doctor require anything more, I shall take a turn around the park outside. It is a beautiful night.”
Beth nodded as Kepelheim rose, his hands bracing his aging knees as he did so. “And I shall take in the night air with you, Mr. Baxter. The stars this time of year are breathtaking.”
Dr. Price shared a quick word with the tailor before nodding once again as agreeing upon an action, and then returned to his patient. “I’ve asked Mr. Kepelheim to shorten his stroll should we send for him. If the earl requires a second transfusion, another pair of hands will be very helpful.”
Kepelheim and Baxter stood near the doors, and the tailor looked back just before they closed. “Mrs. Alcorn’s nursing has given her experience in this procedure as well, Dr. Price. Should I not be available, you may call upon her skills in my stead.”
The doors shut, and the room grew quiet. Price continued checking the earl’s skin colour and vitals. His lined face was one that Elizabeth knew well, and she recognised concern when she saw it.
“Doctor, will he die?” she asked him bluntly.
The doctor looked back at her, taking a moment to reach for her hand as a father might. “My dear, the earl is a strong man with a strong heart. He would not leave you, and he shall not. The transfusion appears to be compatible, for I see no indication of fever or flushing of the skin. His pulse has grown stronger since my arrival, which is a very good sign. Put your mind at ease, my lady. You’ve this other kind gentleman to thank for his part. Without his blood, I fear we might not be so hopeful as we are now. In fact, the earl would most certainly have died.”
She broke down, weeping joyful tears mixed with the release of strain, held within her body for two hours. Charles sat up, but he was restrained by Dr. Price. “No, no, my generous friend. You, too, must recover. You will do her no good if you remain weak. An hour more, and you may get up and comfort her. For now, be still and rest.”
Mrs. Alcorn entered just then pushing a tea cart, laden with cold meats, cheeses, fresh bread, and a bottle of red wine. “I would have taken this to the dining hall, but that seemed a bit posh for our
purposes, my lady. Our men must recline, so better to bring the supper to them. Our footmen and grooms and Mr. Kay, the new underbutler, have all joined the others outside—for a stroll. My lady, your maid awaits in your apartment whenever you are ready to retire. I think she’s napping, to be perfectly honest.”
“No need to waken her, Mrs. Alcorn. I shan’t be retiring anytime soon. If I must sleep, I may do so here.”
They ate their supper quietly. Elizabeth made a cheese and beef sandwich, cut it into four small triangles, and handed one to Charles. “Do you need help?” she asked him seriously.
He smiled and pushed himself up a bit higher against the cushions. “I think I can manage a small sandwich on my own.” How selfless she is, he thought, how beautiful. Yet, his detective’s mind was filled now with questions that only the earl could answer. Just what was the secret that so many were protecting, and how did it connect with Whitechapel?
“You will show me the tunnels tomorrow?” he asked, trying to keep her talking.
“Yes, if we are able. I’ve not been there in many years, but I doubt their layout has altered. I once knew them as well as I know the maze outside.”
“Kepelheim said he was lost in that maze for half a day!” he laughed, glad to see her smile at last.
She wiped a crumb from her mouth and swallowed. “So he was. However, I memorised every turn and twist as a girl. I used to race to the centre with my father, and whenever I beat him there, he would always make me feel as if I had performed a mighty feat, lifting me high over his head and telling me what a bright lassie I was. He allowed me to win, of course. Oh, how I miss him, Charles! If he had lived, my life would have been so different. That is my father there, to the right of the fireplace,” she said proudly. “Was he not a handsome man?”
St. Clair gazed at the large portrait, which showed a tall man with muscular build, dark hair and eyes, wearing full Scottish dress in Stuart tartan red. “He looks like a younger version of your grandfather,” Charles said. “A very handsome man indeed. Is the portrait life-size? If so, he was indeed tall.”
“It is. I’m told he stood six feet, five inches. He was athletic and quite strong, but also a gentle man. And a kind one,” she replied wistfully. “I could never understand why my mother married again, but if she felt lonely, then why marry such a horrid man as William Trent?”
St. Clair recalled the brutish man who had tried to forcibly remove Elizabeth from Leman Street in ‘79. Not before nor since had Charles come across a man who exuded evil more than Sir William Trent. “How did your mother even meet a man like that, Beth? What circles in your world could possibly have intersected with Trent’s? And, though I never had the joy of meeting your mother in this life, I cannot imagine any situation where she might have found that man pleasant!”
“I was too young to have any say in the matter, but I remember my grandfather expressing himself in rather colourful language. You know Drummond. He is not shy when it comes to voicing his feelings on a matter.”
“No, he is not,” St. Clair laughed. Then he remembered what the earl had asked: that he contact the duke and report their situation. He made a mental note to say as much to Baxter, who would surely know how best to send a telegram.
Elizabeth did not notice the concern that crossed the detective’s face for a moment, as she continued gazing at Duchess Patricia’s portrait. “My mother met Sir William at the seaside, actually. On the shores of Hampton-on-Sea. The tunnels beneath our property connect to a system of caves that lead to a cove near there. She suffered terribly after my father died. He died that autumn, the very autumn I spoke to you of on board the train in... In a shooting accident in Scotland,” she finished, looking at the earl.
She paused, and St. Clair knew she was thinking of the Shadow Man she’d seen as a child, the one who had warned her that her father would die, but he said nothing. Perhaps Paul had good reason for discouraging such memories in his cousin.
She continued, “We spent several months with my grandfather and Lord Aubrey’s family after burying my father. You recall I mentioned a fall I took when Paul gave his blood to save me, well it was about that time that my father died. It is strange. I have only dim memories of it. I suppose my father’s sudden death caused me to lose track of time—perhaps I was in a state of shock.”
Again, her eyes took on a pained expression, as if she struggled to recall memories long ago lost. “After convalescing for several months in Scotland, my leg had begun to improve, and my mother decided to leave, though I begged her to remain another month. Mother insisted that spring had arrived, and we had lingered longer in Scotland than we should. It was unusual for us to be away from Branham during Christmas, for it is a special time each year spent with many of our dear servants’ families. I have always loved holidays, but somehow even the return to my home for resurrection services did not cheer me. No matter. Mother thought it best, so she and I took a special train south, which brought us back to Branham just as the new lambs were being born. I suppose it was early March. The weather that spring was unusually warm, and Mother thought it would be a nice distraction for us to have a picnic by the sea. She loved the sea as a girl, and I imagine she thought I had inherited that same love of the water, but in truth it is the land that calls to me—the hills, and the meadows, and the woodlands. But I keep many of her prized sea shells in a large window box upstairs. I’ll show them to you tomorrow.”
Charles gazed at the portrait, glad to see the beautiful woman before she became the savaged and mutilated corpse left on Commercial Street in ‘79. “I imagine she made a pretty sight when she was a girl, playing on the sands with her golden curls shining.”
Elizabeth smiled, and St. Clair was happy to help distract her from Paul’s situation—if even for a moment. “Oh, she was, Charles! She was! Hers is the portrait on the left, of course, but that was painted after my father died, so you see a woman in mourning. When she was happy, when she was young, she was a vision! There is a painting of her in the west gallery that would break your heart, she is so beautiful. Her large blue eyes, lithe and graceful form. Mother was far taller than I, and her golden hair brought her admirers from all across Europe. But she married Connor Stuart, and he loved her as she deserved. William—well, she met him that March. It was a Saturday. I remember, because it was the day before Palm Sunday. Many of the local families were out enjoying the unusually warm sea air. A few brave souls even ventured into the cold water, though only a few.
“My mother had misplaced her gloves, and we looked and looked for them. I had seen her pack them, but she searched in vain. Then a tall man in a cream suit appeared, her gloves in his hand. He asked if she had lost them, and she said yes, of course. It never occurred to her that perhaps he had stolen them—but it did occur to me. I did not like him, not for even one moment. She walked along the beach with him all that afternoon, pouring out her grief to him. My governess and nurse remained with me, but Mother turned all her attentions to him. Do not mistake me; I was not jealous. But I felt an evil from his foul speech that chilled me to my marrow! I told Paul as much when next he visited.”
She kissed the earl’s damp hair, her eyes growing misty.
“Paul had wanted to come back to Branham with us, but he had government business in France, as I recall. He did come down that May, and he and my mother had some terrible arguments—something very unlike them both, for they had always been such good friends. Paul felt she had chosen unwisely, and he feared that this man—whom no one knew—might cause my mother, but also me, harm. How right his prophecies were! By June, despite everyone’s warnings, Mother had secretly married William, and he moved his things and several dishonourable friends and servants into Branham. It is not that we lack space. Certainly, we have room here for many, but Trent’s behaviour soon revealed him to be a man with dark secrets. That is why I started following him, whenever he would disappear into the tunnels.”
“How did William know about the tunnels? Are they well known to locals?” Charles asked.
She shook her head. “No. Though some of the old sailors tell tales of the caverns and of pirates, most have no knowledge of the tunnels. I believe Henry the Second dug many of them, when he built the original castle that lies at the centre of the village. King Richard built the first hall east of here, but it has since fallen into disrepair, along with parts of the tunnel system. King Henry the Fifth, ordered the current hall be built so he could expand his reach into Calais, but he did not live to see it completed.”
“Wait—the Plantagenets built this house? I thought it was built by the first duke.”
She fixed her eyes on Paul’s pale face, anxiously hoping he might open his eyes. “I have said too much already, but I will answer this one question. The rest you must hear from Paul. Were he awake, he would most certainly be angry with me for sharing what I already have. The first duke was more than I can explain. It is—complicated. Suffice it now to say that our home dates back to the Plantagenets.”
His mind sifted through her veiled hints. Paul referred to a secret that he and his trusted men kept. Elizabeth referred to a secret, which it was not her decision to share; in fact, she feared telling it. What did it all mean? And how did it connect to Whitechapel? Why would William leave Patricia’s brutally beaten and savaged body there?
“He awakens, I think,” Dr. Price said, dabbing a bit of brandy to the earl’s pale lips.
Elizabeth leapt to her feet and fell down on the carpet beside the earl. “Darling, can you hear me?”
His lips moved, and his dark lashes blinked. She touched his hand, and he squeezed her fingers in return.
“Oh, my Paul!” she wept, wiping at his hair and brow. “Open your eyes. Look at me, Cousin.”
The eyelids twitched, and then slowly opened. The blue eyes were bloodshot and filled with pain, but he smiled wanly despite it. “Hello, Princess. Miss me?” Her head dropped to his chest, and he drew his good hand over to touch her hair, stroking it like he might a child’s. “I would not leave you, Princess. Of that—of that, you can be certain. Is that Charles over there? Was he injured also?”
Blood Lies Page 18
