Jim Carson, a bright law student working his way toward acceptance at Gray’s Inn, popped into view. “Found it, sir! Here it is. Just as it arrived yesterday morning, still in its pouch.”
Morehouse chewed his pipe as he unwound the heavy string that fastened the top of the leather packet, fumbling inside for the memo. He found a small white square of paper, bearing seven sentences:
Sir, the investigation into suspect John Langan requires Home Office approval. Not sure why we’ve hit political roadblock. Also, G. Lusk wants pardon for Ripper accomplices. Has written to H.O. May flush out news, but I doubt it. Abberline suggests bringing in bloodhounds, but Sir Charles refuses.
Request your help.
—Reid
“Bloodhounds?” he said aloud. “Carson, fetch me that Ripper box file from the Yard, will you? And send a message to Sir Charles asking him to join me for luncheon at one. Café Royal. Got that?”
The young man’s cheerful if somewhat harried face appeared again, his arms filled with official governmental, red boxes. “Yes, sir. At once, sir, though I’m not sure Sir Charles is working today. It is Sunday, sir.”
Morehouse blinked, his mind rolling through this phrase as if it had been spoken in a foreign tongue. “Sunday? Ah, yes, I see what you mean. Crime does not take a break, even on Sunday, so I’ve no idea why Warren would do so, but I imagine you’re right. Make a note then that I wish to speak to him first thing tomorrow.”
The young man’s mouth dropped open as if to speak, but he waited a moment, praying his superior would realise that he, too, had been asked to work on a day ordinarily reserved as a day of rest. “Very good, sir,” he said at last, grateful that he had a job at all. “I believe the Royal opens today at two, so I’ll dispatch a commissionaire to make the reservation in your name for tomorrow afternoon at one. Would you like your boxes now or later, sir?”
“Later. It is Sunday after all,” Morehouse said with a wink. “Forgive my calling you into work today, Carson. Yes, I’d simply lost track of the days. Each seems the same to me with my wife out of town. I’ll pop home and then be back this afternoon, so I’ll go through the boxes then. You should go home, as well.”
“I could stay, sir.”
“No, no. Go see your new bride, and ask her to indulge an old man for his absentmindedness. Tell you what, take her some flowers. On me. There’s a fiver in my pocketbook, inside my overcoat. Right side. No right as you look at it. I guess that’s my left then.”
“That isn’t necessary, sir. Katy understands that my job sometimes...”
“The job must never take a backseat to our wives, Carson. That is a lesson I learnt too late in life. My dear wife spent far too many nights all alone, and were she home today, I’d be there with her now. She’s at her sister’s, you see. Millie’s been ill. Now, take that fiver, lad. I insist.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you.” Carson fished in all the pockets of the coat, but found no wallet. He did locate the five-pound note, though, inside the lining’s hidden pocket. “I’ve found the banknote, sir. Your pocketbook is missing though. Shall I begin a search?”
Morehouse was now engaged in opening a thick stack of mail, and he waved automatically for the secretary to proceed with his instructions. Donning his own overcoat and grabbing an umbrella against the threat of rain, Carson pocketed the five-pound note and headed toward a small flower stand near the end of Downing Street. Katy liked tulips and daylilies, but they usually sold out quickly, so he ran to the flowerseller, a smile already crossing his wide face as he thought of his bride of two weeks, waiting patiently with Sunday dinner at home.
Alone now, Sir Robert, who’d been knighted that year for his service to the Yard, had just opened an envelope with no postmark, but with his name emblazoned on the exterior in a flourished hand. Morehouse read through the disturbing letter, which contained dark implications if not outright threats:
7, October
9 a.m.
Sir Robert,
You do not know me, but I know you very well. I have watched as your career soared even in those early years when your choices in company were not always completely ‘legal’. You needn’t worry, however, my good fellow. I am reliable when it comes to keeping secrets. However, if you wish your dark liaisons in Paris, Vienna, Brussels, and Rome to remain sub rosa and not dismay your lovely wife, nor cause your superiors to regret your meteoric rise to so high a position, then you will meet with me in your office this evening at six.
Be there, Sir Robert, or I shall be forced to mention the name of a certain contessa to your faithful and lonely wife, Lady Martha.
I shall be there at the stroke of six. Do not disappoint me.
A.
Morehouse re-read the letter several times, thinking back to rash acts of his youth that commenced whilst studying in Brussels. She had been older, experienced, and exquisitely beautiful, and her tastes in men had run a strange gamut from young and virile to almost childlike and feminine. Foolishly, the naive Morehouse had allowed her dark demands to steer him into waters far deeper than any twenty-year-old British male dared try to navigate, but in he had gone, nearly drowning for his foolishness.
Morehouse had, at last, escaped the woman’s control one year later, his mind and body spent, and his faith nearly shaken. The things he had seen! The depravities!
Upon returning to his trusting father, Morehouse had given his heart to brighter faith and even considered entering the clergy, but his father had turned him instead toward keeping order and upholding the law. So, he had joined the police force at twenty-two, never regretting it, leaving his raucous past behind and buried.
Until now.
Someone knew. They knew!
Who is this A? he wondered.
The clock struck eleven, and Morehouse lowered his head onto his desk and began to pray.
The bright sunshine of morning soon lengthened into afternoon, and Charles St. Clair found himself with time on his hands. Though the earl’s condition had improved, Price had asked the duchess to sit with her cousin to help restrain the earl’s rash inclinations to rise and risk tearing open the wound. Kepelheim had decided to use the hours to work on a pair of trousers in St. Clair’s size, borrowing Mrs. Alcorn’s shiny, new Warwick sewing machine and experimenting with its four different stitches. Left to his own devices, the detective chose to explore the expansive grounds.
As he strolled past a line of armed men, Charles paused here and there to ask directions or talk weaponry, and eventually his feet had taken him to one of the four entrances to the hedge maze. This one stood on the western edge of the maze, and at first, St. Clair hadn’t noticed it. He’d passed along a collection of intricate knot gardens and colourful rose beds, walked through an ironwork gate, and at last discovered himself standing before the tall entry.
Unlike the entrance from the north side of the house, which rose up at the end of the statuary park, this one emerged unexpectedly at the end of a verdant hallway of ancient yews. Turning back to look, St. Clair blinked, for behind him also stood an entrance, as if the evergreen hallway ended in mirrored archways.
He looked again at the first entrance, making sure that he had not mistaken his position, but indeed there it was, and the great oaken door stood open, as if enticing him to enter.
Then he heard the voice.
“Charles!”
St. Clair’s breath caught in his throat, and his heartbeat began to quicken. He turned once more, and behind him, near the other, mirrored entrance stood a very tall man with dark hair, his back to the detective.
“Charles!” the man called, cupping his hands to his mouth. “Charles! Where are you, lad?”
“I’m here!” St. Clair answered. The man paid him no heed, but kept calling the name over and over as if frantic.
Behind him, he could hear movement, so the detective turned once more,
and to his surprise, discovered a small boy, not more than four or five perhaps, standing near the entrance at that end of the strange, reflected hallway.
“Are you Charles?” he asked the youth, who stared at him curiously. The lad had jet black hair and light blue eyes, and he appeared frightened. “It’s all right. I’m a policeman.”
“I’m lost,” the boy said, his voice hinting of Scotland. “Where did everybody go?”
“I’m not sure,” St. Clair said, walking toward the child. “There’s a man calling for you. Don’t you hear him?”
“The earl?” the boy asked.
Assuming the boy meant Lord Aubrey, he shook his head. “No. Come with me. I’ll help you to find the house.”
The boy started to walk toward Charles, but before their hands could touch, a great wind rushed through the yew corridor, and the sky overhead turned to pitch as thousands of ravens blotted out the sun.
“A storm is coming,” the boy said, backing away, terror filling his eyes. “He is coming!” The lad then turned and ran back toward the other entrance.
St. Clair raced toward the boy, intent on protecting him from the sudden storm, but as he reached the other side, the child had disappeared. Instantly, the sky lightened as the ravens also vanished, and Charles now stood in the centre of the maze. Before him, he could see a tall man with long black hair that spilled across his broad shoulders in waves, his eyes red as flame.
“He is coming,” the man told him. “Death awaits if you do not protect her.”
St. Clair’s pulse raced now, and his ears filled with the sound of screaming winds and deep-throated laughter. He sensed the presence of hundreds, perhaps thousands of entities, and he knew them to be evil spirits; and it seemed as if the hedge maze itself were alive with malevolent thoughts. A violin played upon the howling winds, and he heard the cries of many wolves, circling ‘round him.
St. Clair awoke, his eyes snapping open, as one of the gardeners tapped him on the shoulder.
“It’s time to wake up, Charles.”
The detective blinked. He sat in a willow chair, not far from the yew trees. “I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep,” he muttered.
The man was tall and beautiful in form and face with long white hair, and he touched St. Clair’s hand kindly. “You must keep watch, Charles. Do not fall asleep again. The enemy comes, and only you can save her.”
The man then turned to walk away, his image slowly thinning into a mist.
St. Clair rubbed his eyes, wondering if he still slept, for all around him the gardeners and footmen patrolled as if no one had noticed the vanishing man. He glanced at his watch. Just after one.
He stood up, pinching himself to make certain he was truly awake, wincing at the pain. Several men were patrolling the garden, and they waved. The detective returned their greeting as he walked toward the group. “Did any of you see a tall man with long white hair a moment ago?” he asked them. “He wore a uniform not unlike your own.”
The three men strode toward the detective, the eldest of the trio carrying a rifle. “No, sir. No one like that, anyways, sir. I’m Powers, the Chief Gardener. Are you Mr. St. Clair?”
“I am, Mr. Powers. I thought I saw someone else, though. Also quite tall. And a boy—though, that probably was a dream.”
Powers nodded. “It’s easy to fall into a dream near them yews, sir. Like they cast some spell on a man. They’s more ‘n a thousand years old, them yews. Been ‘ere since afore the first hall, afore even the old abbey. Afore the town, ya know. There’s old legends ‘bout them yews an’ that maze.”
“The hedge maze, you mean? Surely, it is not as old as that, Mr. Powers.”
“No, sir, it ain’t, bu’ the maze what was here afore it must’ve been standin’ for, oh, I reckon over a thousand; two maybe.”
“Wait a moment, Mr. Powers, are you saying this maze was planted on top of another?”
“It were, sir. But it weren’t no hedge maze but an old tunnel maze, what sat just under a green labyrinth. An old hill, ya know. It were used by the Druids, they say. Or some such.”
“Powers, is the duchess aware of any of this?”
“No, sir. The duke—her ladyship’s grandfather up in Scotland, ya know—he made us all promise never to tell ‘er. It were Mr. Paul, Lord Aubrey, I mean, what found it out. When ‘e were in France. Is the earl better, sir?”
“He is, Mr. Powers. Yes. I shall ask him to tell me more about this maze when he is stronger. Thank you, Powers. Thank you very much.”
Charles set off for the house, finding his feet moving more swiftly as he neared the south garden’s main entrance. Catching his breath and praying to God to help slow his heart and ease his mind, Charles walked back toward the house, hoping to find Martin Kepelheim.
Once inside, the tailor met the detective near the staircase, his short arms laden with fabrics and threads. “Superintendent, you arrive just in time. I’ve a pair of trousers for you to try on, and then perhaps…oh, but wait, Mr. St. Clair, are you unwell? What has happened, my friend? Your face is white!”
St. Clair passed by the tailor, and the latter followed him down the smaller hallway and into the lift closet. “Let’s talk upstairs,” he said to Kepelheim. “I have to make sure I’m not mad.”
“You saw something,” Martin whispered as St. Clair threw the level toward the number ‘2’ and the cage began to rise.
“I did. And now, I would return to our little duchess’s childhood rooms. Martin, this house has far too many secrets, and before I follow her into those tunnels, I want to make sure no one—human—lingers in these halls.”
“Human? As in someone with Redwing, you mean. You worry that the fresh danger Sir Thomas warned us of is already here?” the tailor babbled as he followed the long-legged detective down the turning hallways. Kepelheim placed the trousers and other items on a chair near the landing and checked his pistol. “Humans may think themselves powerful, but even Redwing’s operatives fall when shot. Spirits do not. Did you bring a weapon with you, Mr. St. Clair?”
“I did. Although, it’s in the drawing room just now. How’s your aim?”
“Passable. How is yours?”
“I’ve won the Queen’s prize at Wimbledon each year since turning twenty-five. Does that tell you?”
The tailor passed the revolver to his friend. “It does. Now, let us see what this room holds today. And whilst there, I hope you will explain why you are so insistent upon coming back here.”
St. Clair held the weapon in his right hand as he pushed open the door with his left. As before, the rooms had a foul smell about them, beyond anything musty, but a dark odour that spoke of evil things. “The light is back,” he said as they moved into the playroom. “It’s hovering over the miniature of the maze.”
“I doubt that any bullet would extinguish that light,” Kepelheim observed. “Be careful.”
Charles stepped forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the strange light. As before, it shifted from one colour to another, and the detective imagined hearing voices—as before.
“What do you want from me?” he asked. “I know that you are more than just a reflexion. What are you?”
The light floated above the centre of the model, growing ever more brilliant.
“What are you?” he repeated, but as before, the light suddenly began to dance about the ceiling, darting here and there as if grown manic. “Who is coming?”
The light stopped.
Kepelheim stood just behind Charles, and he spoke in a whisper. “I think you have its attention.”
Charles stepped forward. “Who is coming? You told me that it is Death. That I must protect her. What do you mean by that?”
The light grew larger, and Charles perceived a voice, like a whisper. “They are coming.”
“They?” he repeated, and Martin looked at the detective oddly, for
he had heard nothing.
“Ride. Ride swiftly, or she will die. When you see the horse, ride!”
“Who? What do you mean?” he asked, but the light zoomed back into the miniature maze and vanished in a flash of light.
Charles turned around, and he seemed unsteady on his feet. “Martin, I think I need to sit.”
“Lean upon me, my friend,” Kepelheim said as they left the nursery. The tailor helped the detective to a small parlour near the turning toward the west wing. Kepelheim then sat into one of the chairs, wiping at his brow.
“What happened back there?” the tailor asked. “Charles, did you hear something I did not?”
St. Clair suddenly felt very tired, and he let his head fall against the back of the chair. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Perhaps. Martin, I may have dreamt something—or perhaps experienced something near the maze. Did Paul ever talk to you about an ancient labyrinth that used to exist where the maze now stands?”
The tailor’s old eyes blinked, and he appeared to be weighing his response. “Why do you ask?”
“Mr. Powers, Beth’s Chief Gardener, told me that there used to be an old hill with a labyrinth on it, and that beneath it lay tunnels. A maze of tunnels. He said Paul learnt about that history whilst in France recently.”
Again the tailor grew pensive for a moment. Finally, he leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “Yes, last year whilst in France, the earl uncovered a hidden history about Branham, as it existed before the hall was built. He uncovered this during his travels in Normandy, in fact. Say nothing of this to Elizabeth. She has enough to give her nightmares without learning about the ancient pagan rituals that once took place here.”
“Pagan? Powers said something about the Druids. Is that what you mean?”
“Worse than that. Older than that. If Redwing is the current, human face of an ancient and very evil band of rebel angels, then imagine if you will, Superintendent, what types of rituals Redwing’s forebears engaged in, when paganism ruled our land. I tell you that no sane man could summon up the images without blinding his own eyes! No, the earl will never tell her, and you must follow that wisdom. Our little duchess may possess great courage, but the dark powers that surround her would love to use her in ways so foul that the Ripper’s deeds would seem a lark!”
Blood Lies Page 22
