Reid answered for his part. “Evidence is kept as long as it is possible to maintain it in proper condition, and space grows rare these days. Also, Lord Aubrey, did not Duke James press Whitehall to remove all of the paperwork regarding the duchess’s murder? I remember myself, being asked to secrete certain documents via messenger to him at Drummond House. Perhaps, the jewels took a similar route.”
“I suppose that is possible,” Paul answered, “but that merely raises more disturbing questions. If someone within our inner circle conveyed the evidentiary items, then how came these to Urquhart? Edmund, I fear your police force may have servants to our enemy’s cause within its ranks.”
Reid removed his eyeglasses and nodded. “So, it does appear, Lord Aubrey. I hear the clock chiming six. Should not her ladyship and St. Clair have returned by now?”
Paul tried to rise, losing his balance and catching himself before he fell by reaching out for Price’s arm.
“Steady,” the doctor warned. “Do not tear your stitches again!”
Ignoring the advice, Paul remained sitting for a moment, and then tried once more to stand. “Reid, prepare your conveyance at once. We cannot delay longer. I’m driving over to the abbey to fetch them both.” He slowly rose to his feet, swaying slightly, but Baxter and Price caught him as he fell.
“You go nowhere, my lord,” the old butler said with a heavy heart, for he dearly loved the man like a son, though he would never tell him. “I shall send a horse with Mr. Clark, our Chief Groom, a man who can shoot down a flea in the dark with his eyes blindfolded. He will give our fastest stallion to my lady and the superintendent, and Mr. Clark will ride alongside to defend their path as they make for, uh, Mr. Reid’s conveyance.”
Paul didn’t like it, but he knew the butler’s plan might be their best chance, so he nodded to Baxter, who bowed and left to put the plan into action.
Charles had heard enough, and though they had brought no timepiece with them (he cursed himself for leaving his pocketwatch at his bedside), the detective knew it must be growing dark, for tiny shafts of light which had been filtering down from openings in the ground above their heads had ceased to shine.
“Beth, we have to go!”
She had fallen to her knees, her trousers picking up gravel and blood stains, as she searched the cavern floor with her bare hands. “But they must be here!” she cried, her voice trembling. She moved the lantern to a spot nearer the great patch of crimson, feeling along the uneven altar of death with both hands.
“What do you search for, darling? Please, allow me to help, for we cannot remain here, Beth, we cannot!” he said.
“My mother’s rings and necklace. I sent to H-Division last year asking for them and was told that no one had recovered such items. She wore them that night—she always wore them. They are all I have left to remind me of what she sacrificed for me, Charles! I need to see them! Sir Clive Urquhart, that awful man, came here claiming he had them, but that is impossible. No, I think he is in William’s pay, and was sent here to see what I remembered from that night. Oh, where are they!?”
Charles picked her up gently and brushed dirt from her face and hands. “Stop, dear. Stop! Your mother still wore them when she arrived at Leman Street. I myself saw the rings and necklace, taken from her poor form.”
“You have them?” she asked, her face open and amazed. “But you never said. Oh, but I suppose you wouldn’t have. I was only a girl, and they would have been part of the evidence. Are they still there, Charles? Is Sir Clive lying, as I suspected?”
“Truly, Beth, I do not know, but… Wait! Hush, hush…listen, oh merciful heaven, I think…!”
He turned down the lamp and held her close, straining his ears for sound. From far down the length of the great cavern, toward the sea, St. Clair could hear the faint echo of footsteps and hushed voices, speaking to one another. His heart froze.
“Beth, we must go now! I fear that men, whose only intent is to cause you harm, are coming up from that direction.”
“That would be the pirate cove,” she said, her eyes glowing in the low light. “Charles, we cannot go back up through the tunnels that connect to Branham. I do not trust my memory to find the way William used that night, and the other passageways are blocked. We must return up the abbey steps.”
“Then we pray to our Lord that He protects us, and that the abbey is not already filled with gunmen!”
Morehouse struck a match and lit the gas lamp just inside his office. It was nearly six, and most of the lonely Sunday workers within Whitehall had long since left for the day, their arms loaded down with red wooden boxes containing secret government papers, leaving only a few, faceless men and women to mop floors and empty dust bins.
As he entered the now familiar space, Sir Robert headed straight for his desk drawer, top right, unlocked it and then removed his revolver, making certain it held a full complement of ammunition. He’d told no one of the mysterious letter, but he had sent a package to his solicitor with instructions that, should he be reported dead or missing, the contents of three sealed envelopes should be delivered personally to the addressees on each.
The first was to his dear wife, who had patiently loved him despite his many shortcomings, for thirty years of marriage. The second to his lifelong friend and colleague Fred Abberline, with a confession regarding the duel now facing Sir Robert and a copy of A’s note attached. The third was to be sent to Charles St. Clair, again with a copy of the note and a complete confession of not only the indiscretions with the contessa but also Morehouse’s secretive investigation into St. Clair’s background, an assignment he had received shortly after the young policeman was posted to H-Division as a detective constable.
Sitting in his desk chair, the investigator thought through all he’d accomplished, his eyes proudly scanning a wall filled with framed citations, awards, and photographs—two with Mr. Gladstone and one with Queen Victoria herself as she made him a Knight of the Garter on the 23rd of April, 1888.
His office sat in the corner of the second floor of No. 6 Whitehall Place, and it contained a marble fireplace, six large bookcases, a settee and tea table, smoking chair and stand, a magnificent world globe set into a figural brass holder, and a curio of curved glass where all his Crimean War ribbons and medals gleamed from within their velvet boxes alongside a St. George’s Cross and a solitary carved figure, given to him by the contessa. This last, small item rarely garnered any notice from visitors, but as his eyes paused upon the figurine—that of a white bird with upraised wings and bowed head and a single ruby set into its left wing—the aging detective realised what he must do.
Taking the pistol and setting it into his lap, he turned his sharp eyes toward the doorway, praying as he waited.
Finding their way back up the stone steps to the old and defiled sacristy proved even more difficult than descending. Charles led the way, keeping the lantern high and close to the wall, but its candle had begun to sputter as it burnt down.
“We are nearly there, I think,” he said, hoping to keep his voice reassuring. “Keep watch on your feet, Beth. The rise on these steps varies, and they are sometimes slippery.”
She followed, ever holding his strong hand, trusting in his leadership, in his capacity and courage to defend them both. As his boots met the sacristy floor, Charles quietly thanked God, and then turned to help Elizabeth ascend the last and rather high step.
“I wish to remain no time in this foul room,” he said, moving swiftly toward the door that he remembered led to the hallway, and once through, to a series of doorways and rooms he prayed would take them to the entrance. He had trusted in Elizabeth’s remarkable memory for turnings when following her through the maze of stone and timber, but now as they entered the darkened chambers, devoid even of moonlight on so cloudy a night, he pulled her close, praying he could guide them to safety.
“Never fear, my love,” he whispered. “W
e shall reach the end soon, and then we will run to Branham if we must!”
“I am in your hands,” she told him. “The path, Charles, is left, left, right, left, right, then left again into the main room.”
He praised the Lord and quickly kissed her on the forehead. “You read my mind. Well done! Now, in a few moments, prepare yourself to run.”
“You have a pistol, I see,” spoke the man in shadow.
Sir Robert’s right hand gripped his revolver, kept hidden beneath the desk. How could the visitor know?
“You make assumptions,” Morehouse replied coolly. “Come closer and show your face. I take it you are A.”
“I am called that for now. My face is not material to our purpose. Suffice it to say that my knowledge is. And that knowledge is vast and very old.”
“And this knowledge is used for blackmail?”
The Shadow’s head tilted to one side, and Morehouse thought he perceived a faint smile, though it was difficult to tell. “Such a human complaint. Blackmail would not be required, if you understood what it is I offer you.”
“And that is?”
“Life, Sir Robert. Merely life. Embellished with both wealth and power. Is that not why you pursued your shady endeavours with the contessa? Did she not open your eyes to truths beyond mere, mortal imaginings?”
Morehouse’s mouth went dry as he recalled the debauched nights spent with the bloodthirsty woman with the unwholesome appetites. “How...how can you know about that? I told no one of those...experiences.”
“I know all, Sir Robert, but your dear wife need never hear of your dark deeds. She need never hear of the ceremonies in which you participated. The nights of wild abandon, the illicit drugs and fetishes, the animal lusts foisted upon innocent...”
“Stop! Stop! You have made your point! What is it you want from me?”
“Not much. Adoration. Alliance. Amour. Who knows?”
Morehouse’s hands grew sweaty, and he swallowed hard as his forefinger tapped the revolver’s trigger. “And if I give you these things?”
“Then, you may have whatever your heart desires—within reason, of course. Ultimate ends are not necessarily within my control, you understand, but I might be able to postpone that end,” the voice spoke. “Do I detect shame lurking within your heart, old friend?”
“I am no friend to you, nor to your kind, if indeed you are Redwing!” Morehouse shouted, his heart hammering in his chest from fear.
The Shadow remained still, merely indicating annoyance by the tiniest movement of a shoulder. “Is that the limit of your imagination, Mr. Morehouse? Pity. One wonders how it is you were nominated and accepted for so prestigious an honour as Knight of the Garter. But then, perhaps, someone unseen whispered into Her Majesty’s ear one night.”
“I suppose you claim to be that whisperer?” Morehouse asked, his throat a desert.
“I’ve been known to make suggestions. Dreamers dream, and fools follow. Both live life with eyes willfully shut. Are you blind, Sir Robert? Do you sleep?”
“If by that, you mean my eyes are closed to the realities of the world, then you are the fool.”
“And you begin to test my patience,” the Shadow replied.
“You test mine, sir. Flesh and blood bleeds, no matter how vast a man’s knowledge. If you intend me harm, then come forward and test my mettle!”
“Flesh and blood?” the man shape laughed, and the booming sound nearly broke the detective’s eardrums, though he knew at once that it came not from a mouth, but rang instead within his own head. “Flesh and blood. How deliciously biblical! I truly enjoy such futile, human jibes. I am so much more—eternally more than puny man will ever hope to be. I stride across continents with a mere thought! I fly through the heavens with the sun upon my magnificent scales! Your attempts to slow my progress will ever fail, and your material weapons will never find purchase in a body as glorious as mine. I am beyond your measure, Sir Robert. Beyond your ability to perceive as a whole. A being as far above you, as you stand above the punctuation on a page.”
Morehouse trembled now, his hand shaking. “What—what are you?”
“I am your oldest nightmare,” the Thing replied, stepping forward into the light. His face was unfamiliar yet strangely known. He was tall, nearly seven feet in height. His hair was shoulder length and fell in dark waves about his broad shoulders. His attire appeared old-fashioned, yet vastly expensive. But it was his eyes that most troubled Morehouse, for they shone like fiery lamps!
“You are a man!” Morehouse shouted, jumping to his feet and firing all six rounds into the being’s midsection. The room filled with acrid smoke, and the weapon grew warm in Sir Robert’s hand, but as the smoke cleared, the shadowy figure had not moved.
It stood.
And it smiled.
“No! Impossible! You should be dead! How—how can…?”
“How can this be?” the creature asked, revealing six bullets within the palm of his left hand, pristine and shining upon a leathery glove. “Because I control all you see and experience. Including your weapon. And now, my dear Sir Robert, you will either agree to worship me, or you shall die in your secret sins.”
Morehouse thought of his wife, knowing she would never understand. He thought of his iniquities, his many mistakes, but rather than worship this devil, he fell to his knees, and lifted his eyes toward heaven. “God help me! Christ Jesus, forgive me, please, and save me now, I beg you!” he cried out just as the pistol, which had emptied into a Shadow, turned in his hand and fired six impossible bullets into his brain.
A dozen men and women, having heard the shots, raced toward the second floor office, and the demon knelt beside the human’s dead form. “Pity,” the Shadow said. “I’d have enjoyed torturing you in hell, Sir Robert. Last minute repentance is so unfair.”
He left the gun next to the dead policeman, former sinner, now a citizen of heaven, and rose to a great height, lifted up on three sets of wings, and then disappeared through the open window like black smoke from a chimney.
Sir Robert would be named a suicide by some, though his case and his last confessions, would soon be read by those members whom Paul Stuart called ‘the inner circle’, and this penitent sinner’s legacy would give those who fought the Dragon ammunition to fight on.
Edwin Clark, the Chief Groom for Branham, had saddled two horses, a magnificent, white Arabian-Lipizzan cross stallion named Paladin, and a rare brindle Thoroughbred mare named Sadie. It was Sadie he rode now, for he knew her to be the second fastest horse in their stable. She was fearless and could turn on a dime at midnight. Paladin, though temperamental to most, became a lamb when carrying the duchess, and Clark knew she had wisely worn clothes that would allow her to ride with daring. St. Clair would have to ride with her, for that is what Aubrey had commanded, and Clark had learnt in many skirmishes during his thirty years of service that the earl and his family always gave sound advice. He considered them his generals, and so he, the cavalry soldier, would obey to the letter.
He carried two rifles on his back, both loaded, plus extra ammunition and another rifle in a saddle pack, and in his belt a pistol. He had also brought a small Bible and a cross, for the faithful believer may have followed earthly generals, but his utmost ruler was a king!
On he rode, the stallion tethered beside, and the galloping pair of steeds sped through the dense Branham Woods, leaping over fallen limbs and dodging beneath hanging boughs, racing toward the ruins so swiftly that their hooves scarcely touched the ground.
Elizabeth and Charles had just made the final turn, when voices rose up from behind them. Trent’s men had gained the cavern and many torches made their progress up the stairs faster. Charles paused as he searched for the doorway in the pitch blackness.
“Where is it?” he asked, his heart pounding in his ears. Her arms were around his waist as they walked, but then suddenly h
e perceived the duchess fall, and he turned to help her.
“My foot,” she whispered. “I’ve twisted it, I think. Oh, Charles, I am sorry! But look there! The moon shines for a moment, and the doorway is in sight!”
Picking her up, Charles threw the lamp away, for it had all but died, and he dashed toward the doorway, which he thanked God they had left open, praying they might know what to do once on the other side. Holding her tightly, remembering how he had first held her this way, nearly ten years before when she had been but a frightened child, his long, muscular legs made the forty-foot distance in just nine strides, miraculously missing every fallen stone, rat, and timber that lay across the darkened path.
Once through the door, he paused for a moment, catching his breath, still holding her in his arms, and he realised with dismay that it had taken them nearly two hours to walk here from Branham. Even if both could run, they could never outpace the pack of murderous men that now were but moments behind.
“Beth, darling, I don’t think we can make it back through the woods. Is there another way?”
“I can try to run,” she offered, but he would not set her down.
“I love you,” he confessed, kissing her mouth, cheeks, and eyes as if this might be his last chance to tell her. “You are my heart, Beth, my life. I shall always thank God for allowing me to know you, my darling. Now, I’m going to take you into that covered wood over there. I want you to find your way back to Branham as quickly as you can. I’ll keep these men occupied whilst you…”
“No! I will not leave you! Either we die together, or we live together!”
Just then, a miracle appeared, breaking from beneath the canopy of black oak and Scots pine and galloping through the phalanx of ancient yews. Two horses and a rider stopped within three feet of the desperate couple.
Seeing the pair of magnificent animals, the stranger’s words suddenly flashed through St. Clair’s mind: “Ride. Ride swiftly, or she will die. When you see the horse, ride!”
Blood Lies Page 26
