Then to St. Clair, he explained. “I’ve put a Bath chair next to that door. My wife was unable to walk toward the end, so we had the chair built for her. It’s a bit small for my nephew, but it will get him ‘round if he needs it, though I expect he’ll try to walk even when ordered not to. But having it will make it easier for the doctor as well.”
“You’ve thought of everything, sir,” St. Clair remarked. “I cannot tell you how beautiful Reid’s balloon looked as Elizabeth and I galloped into that clearing, Trent’s men at our backs.”
The duke gazed lovingly at his beautiful granddaughter, and he placed a hand on St. Clair’s forearm. “It’s you I need to thank, lad. You’ve been her knight more than once, and you have forever won a place beside my hearth. And, from what I’ve heard, she would agree.”
Though St. Clair wondered what the duke meant by ‘what he had heard’, he made no remark. Instead, he turned to watch the picturesque scenery go past, more to hide his face from the duke’s perceptive gaze than to admire the beauty of the landscape. “You’ve a magnificent setting here, sir.”
“She is a grand place, isn’t she? Drummond Castle lies at the foothills of the real highlands—up where Briarcliff sits—that’s Paul’s estate. Aye, but we’ve got a beauty all our own. Castles come and go, houses rise and fall, but it’s the land that remains. We’re just passing through, I suppose. It’s all God’s land. Aye, and what a jewel He’s given us in Scotland!”
As their carriage halted, Paul’s eyes opened, and he appeared to be half dreaming. “Beth. Beth…” he called out, and she whispered into his ear, her hand on his heart. “Sleep now,” she told him. Obediently, his eyes shut again, and he was once again dreaming.
St. Clair helped Elizabeth down from the carriage, and seeing her limp, the duke suggested the detective carry her into the castle. “Follow Laurence there, Charles. He’ll show you where Elizabeth may sleep tonight. There’s no point in putting her into her usual apartment, since she clearly cannot climb. We’ll make up a sitting room with a comfortable bed for her. Paul is down the hallway on the left. You can’t miss it.”
The duke and a footman eased the earl into the Bath chair, unlocked the brake, and wheeled it into a pleasant cornflower blue drawing room, often used by the family after dinner. There were two, beautifully crafted French doors that opened onto a colourful rose garden and the sea cliff beyond, and on the northwest wall, a white marble fireplace and cheerful fire greeted them. St. Clair carried Elizabeth into a connecting drawing room, this one with emerald green wallpaper and row after row of books on painted, white shelves. Over the fireplace, which shared a chimney with Paul’s blue room, hung a painting of three beautiful young women in matching yellow dresses and white sashes, standing near the edge of the sea cliff.
Charles eased Elizabeth onto her makeshift sleeping couch, but she had nearly fallen asleep again. “Captain?” she whispered, and he stroked her hair.
“You’re safe,” he told her, and she nodded, falling into dreams once more. Wishing he could kiss her properly, he satisfied himself by kissing her hand. “Sleep well, little one,” he said. “May you have beautiful dreams.”
As he stood, St. Clair’s gaze fell upon the large portrait. “Who are they?” he asked the butler in a whisper.
“Those are the Stuart ladies,” Laurence replied as the two men left the drawing room and shut the door. “The duchess will sleep better, if we do not disturb her.” As they walked, the butler continued, “The Stuart ladies were considered the most eligible and beautiful women in all of Scotland. If you recall the portrait, sir, the tall one in the middle is the youngest, Lady Victoria Regina, who lives in Paris. The others are the twins, both deceased now. Lady Abigail Charlotte married Lord Aubrey’s father, and Lady Angela Marie married Robert Sinclair, the Marquess of Haimsbury.”
“Sinclair, you say? How curious. I might be related to the Sinclairs, or so claims Lord Aubrey.”
“Really, sir?” Laurence asked, with a tilt of his head. “Well, sir, after the marquess died in a duel—some say he was murdered—Lady Angela disappeared with their only child, a son. Two years later, their bodies washed up on the shore, for she had set sail; some think to escape the man who’d murdered her husband, and the ship was destroyed in a brutal storm. I’m told that it broke the duke’s heart. I would tell you more, but I’m not up on my histories, as I’d like. I’ve been studying with our parson on Sunday afternoons. The duke likes his gentlemen and ladies to read and learn, so since my elevation to butler, I’ve worked doubly hard. It’s a rare place to serve, sir. The duke, I mean. He treats us all like family.”
“And so you all are!” the duke’s baritone rang out as he left Paul’s drawing room, shutting the door behind. “How’s my granddaughter?” he asked the butler.
“Sleeping, sir.” The duke tapped St. Clair on the shoulder and then tiptoed toward the green room, peeking in through the door as he opened it. “Princess?” he called in a whisper.
In the semi-darkened room, Beth turned slightly, but it was clear that she’d fallen into a deep sleep.
“She’s off, and who can blame her?” he whispered and shut the door. “I imagine it was draining to spend an entire day in that cramped balloon basket, but she’s here and that’s all that matters. Thank you for that, Charles. Mr. Laurence, if you can do so without waking our sleepers, open the windows in both rooms. The moon’s full tonight, and the skies are clear. The sea air will do our princess more good than any doctor’s pills.”
“I should take that as an insult were I not accustomed to it, Your Grace,” a gentleman’s voice replied.
Charles turned to find himself looking at an extraordinary man. His hair was black on the sides yet white in the middle, and he wore a garish, red and green checked waistcoat over a pair of peacock blue trousers. A gold monocle dangled from a silk strand encircling his thin neck, and his feet were shod in shiny red leather.
“I am Dr. Lemuel,” he said to the detective. “The earl appears to be in relatively good condition, Mr. St. Clair, and I understand you and your friend are to be thanked. So, I thank you, sir. Now, if you and the duke wish to continue your conversation in another part of the house, I should very much like to examine the duchess—in private.”
James and St. Clair exchanged glances and both left the hallway. Charles walked with the duke past Paul’s drawing room and out into the large corridor that led to the west entrance. Once there, the duke paused and burst into laughter. “Take no note of Lemuel, lad. He’s always like that, but he’s the finest doctor in the area. Now, what do you say to sharing a bottle of my best scotch?”
St. Clair was more tired than he dared mention, but the duke’s clever planning and deep pockets had provided the means of their escape, so he followed the gentleman eagerly, arriving after five minutes’ walk to a leather-paneled room where two large Irish Wolfhounds lounged by a massive stone fireplace.
“Sit down, lad. I’ve asked the staff to leave us alone for an hour whilst we talk. Reid’s already gone up to bed, and he’ll likely leave at first light to return the balloon. More’s the pity. I’d have enjoyed taking her out over the coast.”
“Yes, Edmund mentioned that you are also an avid aeronaut. I fear your granddaughter did not inherit that love of flying.”
“And you, son? How about you?”
“Sir?” St. Clair asked, unsure of just how to reply. “I fear my boots seem to work best on solid footing, though Reid did teach me the basics of operating the balloon. Perhaps, I might have enjoyed it more had I not been so worried about Beth’s—and your nephew’s—welfare.”
“Well said, son. If you’re hungry, there are sandwiches on that tray over there, and we’ve plenty wine, if scotch is not your passion. We distill our own here, so I’ve been drinking this lovely spirit since I was a lad. You look all in, Charles. Relax. Take off your boots, if you like. I want to have a heart to heart with you, and you may as w
ell be comfortable.”
Taking the duke at his word, Charles selected two beef and cheddar sandwiches, set them onto a blue china plate, and joined his host near the fire. “Scotch is fine, sir, if that’s what you’re having. I’ve not been drinking it as long as you by any stretch, but my aunt and uncle served it on special occasions.”
“So? Your aunt and uncle are Scottish?”
St. Clair shook his head. “No, actually they were brought up in Liverpool. They passed away some years back. We moved to London when I was twelve. My parents were killed in a train accident when I was very young, and my aunt and uncle took me in. To be frank, I remember nothing of my life before the accident. A doctor once told me that I’d sustained injuries that left me with memory gaps. I suppose that is one reason I was so concerned when I found your granddaughter had suffered a blow to the head in ‘79.”
“Aye, that concussion. Trent is an evil man, Charles. Evil to the marrow, and he’s not even a man, I’ll wager, but you’ll learn more about that side of things soon enough. You remember nothing about your parents then?”
“Nothing,” he said, taking bites whenever he could. “As I said, my memory is gone from that period of my life.”
A knock sounded, and the efficient butler entered, carrying a large, red leather box. “Is this what you wanted, sir?”
“It is, Laurence. Thank you. Set it on the table here.”
The butler complied and then left the room. The duke leaned forward, his hand upon the mysterious box. “I’ve not yet read these, Charles, but I suggest you do. Kepelheim sent them with Reid, and he told me in a letter posted two days ago that he’d either send them or bring them. I pray that man will reach us here in the coming days. If he survived what must have happened after Reid effected your escape, then Kepelheim will join us here. If not, then we must mourn a good man and a faithful friend to our cause.”
“You’ve not received any telegrams from them?” St. Clair asked with concern.
“Not yet, but there could be any one of a dozen explanations for that, son. I’ve asked members of the London team to go over there and get back to me tomorrow. This isn’t the first time Branham’s been through an attack, nor will it be the last. Now, relax. You’ve earned your rest.”
Charles took a long drink of the whisky, nearly losing his breath by doing so. James slapped his guest on the back playfully. “It takes a real man to gulp down that fire! Well done, son!”
“Yes—well, yes,” he coughed, his throat an inferno. “Well, uh, Kepelheim. Yes, he’s far more than a simple tailor, of that I know. The cause? The London team? Is all this connected to what Lord Aubrey calls the ‘inner circle’?”
“It is. And you are now a member, not just by your selfless deeds, my boy, but also because of your blood.”
Charles set down his sandwich and stared at the duke. “Forgive me, sir. Did you say my blood?”
“I did. Read the contents of this box, Charles. In it, I’m told, you will find proof of what Kepelheim explained to me in this letter.” He held out a cream envelope, handing it to the detective. “Read it through and then examine the documents and photographs that Kepelheim secured for us. After, you and I shall talk more, because I want you to know just how your life intertwines with ours. Blood is at the heart of what our circle defends, and yours is an important part of that, Charles. And it answers, for me at least, a question that has nagged at us all since that night in ‘79, when Elizabeth first came into your keeping.”
Something about the box called to him, though St. Clair could not explain it, but his brain was far too weary to comprehend much—not just now. “I promise to read the letter and examine the box, sir. However, I must forgo it until later this evening, or even the morrow, I beg you. My mind simply cannot hold it now. All I want to do is sleep.”
The duke nodded, sitting forward. “Fair enough. It’s a secret that’s kept for a long time, so it will keep a bit longer. I’m just—well, it’s selfish, I know, but I’m anxious to share it all with you, Charles. But you’re right. Drink some wine and enjoy a morsel. You can sleep in the room opposite Elizabeth’s if you wish. I’ll have the room made up. I doubt you’ll want to be far from her.”
St. Clair wondered just how much the duke suspected, but he would not refuse an offer that allowed him to make sure of Elizabeth’s wellbeing. “Thank you, sir. She is precious to me. To us all.”
“Well said, son. I’ll go have a talk with that doctor now. You rest. I’ll send in Laurence. He’s recently become butler since old Brannon’s retirement, but he was my valet for four years, so he can be yours tonight should you require it. And, I’m told you left your home with naught but the clothes on your back. My son was close to your size, as is Paul. I’ll have my man collect a wardrobe to get you through until we can see to your needs with new items. If Kepelheim shows up, he’s the fastest needle in London, so we will make a Scotsman of you before you can sing Annie Laurie. And you’ll need a kilt! My bootmaker can be here tomorrow if you’ve a need. I see yours have seen some wear.”
St. Clair gazed down at his boots and saw they were stained with crimson and grey stone dust. He let his head drop against the chair’s high back as he pictured that horrible scene. “Your Grace, these hellish stains are but a glimpse into the chilling altar of death Elizabeth showed me beneath that abbey. It is where she watched her mother strangled and far worse. That ground is painted red with human blood. God help me, I shall tear Trent’s eyes from his head when next we meet!”
“I’ve no doubt you will, son,” the duke said proudly. “I’ve not one doubt that you will.”
Charles took the duke at his word and retired into the makeshift sleeping chamber across from Elizabeth and Paul. His room was part of a small suite of parlours, and when he entered, a young footman named Carlton had delivered hot water, towels, soap, a razor, and small mirror. He also left a nightshirt, linen, and all the clothing the detective would require to maintain his appearance for the next week. He found that Connor Stuart’s clothing was slightly large for him in the waist but that Paul’s coats and overcoat fit him almost as if he’d been measured for them. The shirts fit as well, though half an inch short in the arms—but overall the earl’s borrowed clothing would do nicely.
Though he’d been exhausted earlier, St. Clair found his curiosity regarding the mysterious leather box more than he could overcome, so after turning up the gas lamps near the fireplace, he settled into a soft chair and began to read Kepelheim’s letter.
6, October, 1888
My Dear Friend Duke,
This will be relatively short (well, short for me at least!), for I must post it before leaving for Victoria Station, but these are the basic facts as I have uncovered them regarding our wonderful friend and knight errant, Mr. St. Clair. I have confirmed your suspicion that ‘St. Clair’ is indeed NOT his true name, but how he came by it is most interesting, as you will see. The official tale is this: his aunt and uncle, a very nice couple who met and married in Liverpool, were Edna and Elijah Burke. They took the seven-year-old St. Clair into their home after learning his poor parents had been killed in a train accident in that same town. Charles attended Harrow and later Cambridge, and when finished, he joined the police force. There are no family photographs of our detective’s dead parents, nor of him prior to 1862. It is as if Charles Arthur St. Clair emerges fully formed out of the aether at age seven. Again, this is the official biography, and I obtained this scant information from your friend at the Yard, so using this as a starting point, I traveled to follow the trail.
You know how I love an adventure, so I took my threads and needles and rode the train north to that great maritime city, Liverpool. Once there, I went to the railway station master and asked where I might learn about a train accident there sometime around or before ‘62. The kind gentleman with the whistle and ledger told me to go to the Liverpool Sun newspaper office, and I hired a cab and foun
d a man named Whitaker. He was a typical newsman, all questions, few answers. I told him I was researching genealogy for a legal case, and he happily sent me to their archives, where I met another fine fellow named Pratt. Simon Pratt. He thumbed through many archived papers, back to the dates I sought, and found nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I tell you nothing. Did I say nothing? The only railway accident that led to death anytime within that period was in 1859, and it was a cow they found dead. Not people. No people. Not even one.
So, I asked about the Burke family, the aunt and uncle, who once ran a green grocery in Liverpool before moving to Lambeth. I was sent again, this time to a registry office, where I learnt that in 1862, a boy child of seven years with no memory of his past was left at their doorstep. The boy was taken shortly afterward by the Burkes, but more on this in a moment. This boy had a note pinned to him that named him as Charles Arthur St. Clair and that his mother had died at a mental asylum. Do not be anxious, friend Duke. I know you, but be patient. There is much more to tell. And if you have not already surmised where this leads, you will soon understand fully by my proofs, because after all, legal proofs are what we require, are they not?
So, where did I go next? Yes. I went to this asylum. After hitting many a bureaucratic stone wall, I found an agreeable nurse named Betty Quincy, who had worked there in ‘62, and she remembered this female patient. The woman was supposedly rescued from a ship that ran aground near Liverpool in July of 1860—yes, I have the date correct. Mrs. Quincy told me that the dying woman gave another nurse a box filled with letters, legal papers, and photographs, and that this nurse has now retired, but this Betty Quincy she remembered her name. It is Ida Payne.
So to Ida Payne I go, and it was a challenge finding her. She now lives under a false name in a fishing village north of Liverpool. It took me three days of twice daily visits to convince her to speak with me, and it was only when I mentioned the name Angela Sinclair that she finally opened the door to me. She told me a new and very interesting tale. Now, this curious and convoluted story was told to me over the course of several visits, so I shall write a short summary now and tell you all when next we meet. Mrs. Payne is a careful woman, but she slowly began to trust me, and she revealed to me that the woman who died was her friend, and that this friend did indeed leave a box with her. I asked about the shipwreck, but this Ida Payne, she denied any wreck. She said it was lies—all lies. She told me that she first met her friend when she arrived in Liverpool on a boat with a Scottish name, and this woman was very sick when they docked, feverish and mad with worry. Ida was there to see off her brother, but noting that the sick woman had no one to help her, Payne took her to see the doctors at the asylum where she worked at the time. The doctors determined that the woman required admission and observation, but days turned to weeks, and weeks into months, and Payne watched her new friend deteriorate into despair and madness.
Blood Lies Page 28
