“Get on the stallion!” Clark shouted, jumping down to take Elizabeth from St. Clair’s arms. “Once you are mounted, I will hand her up to you, and then you must make for Parker’s Clearing. It is to the southeast of the house, on the far edge of the woods near the brewery. Can you find that?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I shall guide him,” she said, kissing the groom’s cheek. “Mr. Clark, you have saved us! But there are evil men behind, and they will emerge any moment from that door!”
St. Clair had taken his seat on Paladin, who calmly bore his new rider as if he knew the stakes. Charles reached down and helped Elizabeth to find her place in front of his, and with the stranger’s prophetic words still echoing in his mind, he took but a second to thank the man. “God keep you!” he said, spurring the horse forward.
“But what of him?” she asked as the wind whipped their faces, his arms around her whilst holding the reins.
“He is well armed, and I expect he came for a fight. We must pray we see Clark again, but now he is keeping our pursuers occupied, and my only job is to see you safely to Parker’s Clearing!”
“What then?” she asked.
“Then, we rely upon the plans of my new cousin, I should think. What is this horse’s name?”
“Paladin.”
“Fly, Paladin! Fly as if the devil himself follows, for by our Saviour’s blood, I know that to be true!”
They rode through a gauntlet of brush and boughs, but despite the darkness, Paladin managed to keep his riders from suffering even one scratch. The horse’s hooves flew across the packed dirt path, his mind fixed on one singular purpose: to keep them safe and deliver them to their destination or die trying. No horse could catch him, no stone impede him. It was as if he wore the wings of Pegasus, and neither the lady nor the brave gentleman in his care felt the slightest bump, so smooth was his progress.
Beth leaned forward against the horse’s long mane, keeping her eyes on the path but trying to stay clear of St. Clair’s line of sight. They rode for what seemed like an eternity, and Charles held her tightly, praying as they raced through the dense woods.
“There!” she cried out as the path curved to the left. “Just beyond that rise is the clearing!”
Charles did not need to signal the horse, for the animal seemed to know their goal, and he tore ‘round the corner, his hooves digging into the earth as he leaned into the maneuver. Nor did Charles have need to coax the horse to go faster, for Paladin could see their prize ahead and he doubled his speed when no other animal could have; despite his heart near to bursting, Paladin flew!
“What is that?” Elizabeth called out as they neared the clearing. In the centre of the grass-covered area stood Edmund Reid, and next to the stalwart detective his greatest surprise. Wings indeed!
“It’s a hot air balloon!” Charles cried out, recognising his H-Division friend as the horse slowed and stopped. “Reid, can it be you?”
The detective reached up and helped Elizabeth as Charles climbed down from the saddle. “No time for reunions, St. Clair. The earl is already inside with our luggage. We must get you and the duchess into the basket, and then fly!”
Charles needed no further instructions. He picked Elizabeth up and handed her to Reid, who had already leapt into the square basket. Above them, several hundred feet into the air, soared a great oilcloth balloon of white and green, emblazoned with ‘Queen of the Meadow’ on her mighty sides.
Elizabeth dropped into the basket’s interior, falling to her knees at seeing Paul’s pale face and bandaged arm. “My Paul,” she whispered, holding him tightly.
The earl’s eyes brimmed with bright tears, “You are both safe! God be praised!”
St. Clair jumped inside, and he glanced back toward their path, and so far it was empty, but he knew the band of William’s men could not be far behind, for he had seen a knot of mounted riders far to the east, riding up to join their comrades from the cavern. “What of Kepelheim?” he asked, finding only the four of them inside the balloon.
“With the weight of the luggage, she cannot lift more than four at a time,” Reid explained, untying mooring lines as several footmen and groundskeepers aided his work. “Mr. Baxter and Mr. Kepelheim have armed themselves and will cover our escape should your pursuers reach the grounds ‘ere we reach altitude and those lovely clouds above.”
Beth turned to the aeronaut. “But can we not take Mr. Kepelheim at least? I am but a little thing. I barely count as one.”
Reid shook his head. “I made that very case, my lady, but Kepelheim refused to leave Baxter’s side. They have formed a friendship, I think. But with God’s mercies, we shall see our tailor friend again. That man is made of stern stuff!”
Paul drew her close and held her fast. “Keep down here, all of you! As we ascend, we are still prey to rifle fire. St. Clair, keep down! Elizabeth, stay near me now.” His eyes rolled, and he appeared close to fainting. Blood seeped from the bandage.
“He is bleeding again!” the duchess cried out. “We shall need to tend his wound.”
As the great balloon lifted into the night air, St. Clair searched the luggage and found there the medical bag Price had given to the tailor. Pinned to the strap was a short note. “Instructions inside. A doctor awaits at your destination. My prayers go with you all. – K.”
Looking inside the kit, Charles found it well stocked with medicines, bandages, tubes, needles, and even brandy. “That blessed tailor’s thought of everything!”
Edmund Reid lowered a thick rope to the duchess and asked her to hold it. “Keep this line taut, my lady, as the superintendent and I practice our craft. St. Clair, you will find a rifle to your right, fully loaded. Use your keen eyes, and if anyone aims at this balloon, shoot!”
And so they rose, higher and higher into the clouds and the night. A bullet sang past once or twice, but Reid and St. Clair made short work of those taking aim. From their height, they could see Clark astride Sadie, her mane flying in the wind as she galloped. Clark, turned backward in his saddle, fired shot after shot into the mounted men who thundered behind.
Others were on foot, and Charles could see them split into two parties, one moving into the east gardens toward the hall, and the other racing southward toward the clearing. Charles blessed the plans that left most of their enemies without horses, for speed of foot was no match for speed of hoof, and Clark reached the main entry long before the raiders. The last thing the detective could see were Clark, Baxter, and Kepelheim standing shoulder to shoulder, guns at the ready, to guard their lady’s passage to freedom, though it may cost them their lives.
“What wonderful men they are!” he cried out, tears blurring his vision. And the Queen of the Meadow rose up into the clouds, out of sight, and Edmund Reid, aeronaut deluxe, set his sights on Glasgow.
CHAPTER Fifteen
Sir Thomas Galton knelt beside the body of Sir Robert Morehouse, taking careful note of the scene. A friend at Scotland Yard had sent word to the inner circle member, who then rushed to arrive even before CID’s A-Division detectives. Galton worked quickly, removing any evidence that might connect the murder to their cause. Inside Morehouse’s desk were two leather-bound notebooks which, though they probably had no bearing on their work, Galton tucked into his satchel to read later.
He looked at the honours framed on the wall, at the books, and lastly at the curio cabinet, pausing his gaze at the carved bird. Looking once more into the halls behind, Galton removed the figurine and placed that, too, in his satchel. Lord Aubrey would want to see this, he knew.
Wishing he could remove the revolver, Galton chose to leave the body and gun as he’d found them. He said a quick prayer over the fallen detective and then made for the nearest exit.
Three hours after Galton ran into the night, a coach and four pulled up to the grand entry of a garish new home in Grosvenor Square. The eclectic attempt at neo-classical style ha
d been designed and constructed by the home’s outrageous but very rich owner, Sir Clive Urquhart. And it was the very same builder who now alighted from the carriage in the company of his mistress, Susanna Morgan, and a tall gentleman of imposing appearance, both in formal dress.
“We have much to discuss, my dear Sir William,” the builder said, leaning into the carriage and handing the driver a five-pound note.
“You will see Miss Susanna safely to her townhome, yes? Very good, my man. Goodnight, my dear. Give your man a kiss now. So sweet, is she not, Sir William? And a pretty singer, too. Go now, my man! Go!”
He stepped back from the carriage, waving with his cane as he walked toward the front entry. An impressively dressed butler opened the door, and both men entered the marble and gold foyer.
“You see the lovely, big-bosomed woman in that painting—the one depicting Venus?” he asked Trent. “Miss Susanna posed for that, though do not tell my wife. She is an understanding and most accommodating woman, but to know such comparisons, for that painting is very accurate I can tell you, would give the good Lady Margaret too much heartburn, eh? Come now into my private salon, it is back here on the right past the Pan fountain. He pipes us to our pleasures, no?”
Trent found the statuary and paintings vulgar and pretentious, but he needed Sir Clive’s assistance, at least for the present, so he indulged the nouveau riche bounder by admiring every gauche colour and ridiculous pose. “Marvelous!” he gushed. “Simply marvelous! Of course, these styles reach back to antiquity. Ah, the world then was quite different, was it not, Sir Clive?”
“Decidedly, so. Yes, it is decidedly so. Please, sit here, Sir William. By the fire. My butler and new maid—another lovely lady, by the way—they will serve us in a moment, but before we indulge in cigars and cognac, let us discuss the little problem in Kent.”
William sat into a massive leather wingback and leaned into its sumptuous embrace, his face aglow. “What of Kent?” he asked, his eyes closed, long fingers drumming the chair’s right arm.
“My men, they have telegraphed me that your raiders failed at Branham. It seems that our little bird escaped with her gallant men in a hot air balloon.”
“A hot air balloon!” Trent laughed. “How delightfully unexpected. You must give credit to the duke and his wretched little band for creativity. We needn’t worry, though, Clive. Despite what the Stuarts might believe, their plans to escape merely offer us a new and far better opportunity. Blood lies behind all, my greedy friend. Blood is the life.”
“Blood? Whose blood? I do not understand. Perhaps, it is my builder’s brain, which cannot compare to your magnificent mind, but I had thought our goal was to ensure the marriage of the duchess to the earl. Has that changed?”
Trent swung one long, muscular leg over another, as he tapped at the arm of the chair with an enameled ring. “Plans must always shift with the enemy’s attempts to foil the original. My friend has been plotting a much better blood match, and he shared it with me ten years ago. I think it unlikely to succeed, but I may be wrong. It seldom happens that I am mistaken, but my friend is never wrong—so he tells me. It is but a new strategy, and you have no need to know the endgame.”
“Endgame? A game of chess, yes. I see! Your queen is taken, then you must change your tack, no?”
“Queen is a very nice way to put it, but I think that waiting just a short while longer will provide us an even more powerful blood with which to perform our rituals. And I do love those wonderfully erotic rituals. They provide pleasure and practicality, as we raise up the new king.”
“You lose me sometimes when you speak of blood and rituals, my friend. I am the thinker always, but this I do not understand. Is not the duchess the blood?”
“She is, but hers is only half the source. We need both to achieve our ends.”
“The other—that is the earl, no?”
“Perhaps,” he said, smiling widely as the young maid entered the salon, “perhaps not. It may be that Aubrey’s blood is no longer required, which would much please me. The earl is too smug, and I would love to put a bullet into his brain. My friend will let us know.” Trent untied his tie. “Over here, my dear,” he told the maid, admiring her snug uniform. “I have such a craving tonight. I wonder if you have a remedy.”
Sir Clive grinned, happy to have pleased his new and powerful friend. Snapping his fingers, he called to the butler. “Gerome! We will be wanting my special cart, I think. And bring the absinthe. Libation for our benefactor and music to soothe the darkest heart.”
The butler set a wax cylinder into the mechanism of the Victrola and cranked the handle several times. In a moment, Act II of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake streamed from the beautifully etched horn just as Trent began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
The Queen of the Meadow landed as planned in the south garden of Drummond Castle on the evening of the eighth. The voyagers had fared well for the most part, and along the way, all four passengers had indulged in a picnic meal provided by Mrs. Alcorn. Reid had been particularly happy to find a box of chocolates and other confections included by the thoughtful housekeeper, whom the detective had found to be a bright woman with a loving heart. Had he not been happily married, Reid mused to his companions, he might consider retiring one day by the sea with the gentle housekeeper.
The long journey had not been without its perils. Several times, the threat of men watching them from the ground alerted St. Clair and Reid to arm themselves, but each time the groups proved to be nothing more than curious onlookers. Still, St. Clair had made a note of their locations as best Reid’s navigational skills could provide, and he kept these to share with Paul, who had spent most of the journey asleep, as well as with the duke upon their arrival. The entire trip from start to finish took nearly twenty-four hours, with one stop for their picnic and the second in a field to tend the earl’s wound and wrap Elizabeth’s foot, which by then had become swollen and painful from sitting in one position for so long.
St. Clair and Reid took the rigging in turns, the younger man eager to learn a new skill from the experienced aeronaut, and the pair of policemen spent the long hours sharing case histories and more to the point, theories on the Ripper murders whilst the duchess slept beside the earl. Both detectives agreed that every theory but one fell short, and that was the one which commenced with the discovery of Patricia, Duchess of Branham on Commercial Street.
As they touched ground—all four weary to the bone, the earl still in a fitful sleep—a team of young men ran toward the balloon to tie it down.
“The duke’s an avid aeronaut,” Reid told a surprised St. Clair, “and he’s actually quite good at it. He’ll no doubt want to take this for a spin over the coastline before I return it to Covent Garden.”
“This isn’t your own then?”
“It would take my entire year’s wages to buy even a small one,” he confessed, stroking one of the main ropes and running a calloused hand across the edge of the varnished basket. “This is a beauty, and I’ve had the honour of sailing her many a time, but it’s the duke that arranged for it. And here he comes! What a lion that man is!”
Sure enough, James Stuart raced ahead of his footmen, his arms outstretched toward his guests. “Reid, you old son of a sailor! I knew if any man could get them here, it would be you. Here, Princess,” he said to Elizabeth, “put your arms ‘round your old grandpa. There’s a lass. You dressed just right for adventure. No boots? St. Clair, it’s a pleasure to see you again, son!”
Charles was reaching down to help the earl, but he shook Drummond’s hand first. “Thank you, sir. I am indebted to you, as is the earl. He needs tending as soon as a doctor can come. He’s been bleeding now and then. Oh, and Beth’s boots are inside here, sir. We removed them to examine her foot. She turned it in our escape.”
James kissed his granddaughter’s face as he held her tight. “Did you now?” he asked Beth. “Well, we’ll soon f
ix that. My bonnie lass, you are such a sight! Come now, we’ll put you all into this coach and let the horses do the work back to the house. Reid, can you and St. Clair get Paul out all right? I can hop in if you need my help.”
Reid laughed. “And let you sail away in her? Not likely! We can manage, Your Grace. Here, if one of your lads can take this baggage, it will leave more space for us to reach our arms ‘round the earl. He’s been in and out of consciousness since just after we sailed over Carlisle.”
Several men took the luggage, medical kit, and lunch basket and loaded all onto a small wagon. The passengers were carefully helped into an open carriage, the sleeping earl next to Elizabeth on one side, and the duke and St. Clair on the other. Reid stayed behind to secure all the rigging and tether lines. He performed a final check before deflating the huge balloon and instructing the duke’s men as to how best to load it into a large wagon drawn by a team of Clydesdales.
As they drove, James reached over to the detective and offered a warm handshake and smile. “Once again, St. Clair, you have kept her safe and brought her home. I’ve much to tell you, lad. I know you’re all exhausted, so tonight we shall do nothing but let you recover whilst Dr. Lemuel practises his medical arts on Paul. Lemuel cared for my dear wife and son in their last days. Princess? Does your foot pain you?”
She shook her head, barely able to keep her eyes open. She’d slept only a few hours, for fear of missing Paul should he awaken, and now she let herself relax at last, her head nodding against Aubrey’s right shoulder.
“I can see soft beds are needed,” the duke said cheerfully. “Not to worry, Charles. You and I shall have a fireside chat, I think, whilst these two see the good doctor. Mrs. Calhoun has a fine supper ready for us all, which is catch-as-can style, meaning no sit down, which suits me to the ground. Ho there, Laurence!” he called to the driver. “Take us to the side doors on the southwest side. It’s a much shorter walk to Paul’s room.”
Blood Lies Page 27
