“So then, perhaps her tale is true,” Charles said. “This woman, this Maggie Campbell, she said she was ten at the time, and she saw a strange man dueling with your brother in the garden near the cliff, which she could see through an opening in the well room wall—like a bowshot window.”
Paul nodded, his eyes narrowing with concern. “Yes, we have such windows in the well room, originally designed for guards to use defensively. It is one of three such towers. The room is circular and connects to the kitchen. One window does overlook the rose garden and the cliff beyond it.”
Charles wanted to get drunk suddenly, and he poured a large shot of scotch and downed it with one gulp, much to the surprise of all. “Then, it may be this woman’s tale is true. She told me that the man with whom your elder brother dueled not only thrust him through with a blade, one she described as looking like fire, but that he then pushed your brother over the cliff.”
“What?” the earl gasped. “Did she know who this man was?”
Sinclair shook his head. “She could not recall his name, but I asked her to describe this murderer, and she gave me a description that could fit Trent, though his hair was longer. He wore strange clothing and spoke with an accent, but perhaps this was Trent in another shape or disguise. What do we truly know about the man? Also, I asked Maggie if she’d told anyone at the castle, and she said that she reported it to your father.”
Now Aubrey looked as if he needed a drink, for his once pale face had flushed with rage. “I cannot believe it! If my father knew this, then he never said one word to me! Can William be ageless? Ian died the day I was born, Charles. My mother, I’m told, nearly miscarried because of it, so this would make William what—sixty at least? Impossible! He looks no older than forty at most.”
“Not impossible for those with occult powers,” Kepelheim remarked. “I have only recently seen documents that describe a man of suspect birth who bears all the characteristics and physical traits of William Trent, and if Trent is this man, then he travels as companion to another far more devilish. Some of these documents are over three hundred years old.”
“Satan’s man, he is, of that there can be no doubt,” spoke one of the two men unknown to Charles. “Lord Haimsbury, it is my honour to see you again, though you may not remember me. I was the rather sullen driver who conveyed you, your cousin, and our dear one from Leman Street several days past. I am Sir Thomas Galton, a London member and Eton friend to Lord Aubrey.”
Connexions within Charles’s brain clicked into place, and he smiled. “Sir Thomas, I thought something about you tickled a memory. May I offer my thanks to you for your aid on Elizabeth’s behalf? Paul mentioned you often during that rail journey to Branham. He places great faith in your abilities, sir. And, I believe, I had seen you even before that day, had I not? In Whitechapel, at the Brown Bear.”
Galton bowed slightly. “Your memory for faces is indeed accurate, my lord. I have met with our Edmund Reid there once or twice, and I’ll confess to you, sir, that the duke asked that I also begin to look into your activities several years ago, though he did not tell me that the detective whose steps I dogged was in truth the Marquess of Haimsbury.”
“Neither did that detective know it then, friend Galton! I assure you that this news is fresh to me. I only learnt some pieces of it last night.”
“Then, it honours me to be among the first to call you such, sir. Yes, I took the train up from Euston and connected in Carstairs to arrive in Glasgow this morning just after dawn. I’m told that you and our duchess—whom Lord Aubrey and the duke often call ‘Princess’, far more than a nickname, which you must now realise—that she and yourself had faced one of Trent’s many shapes on the moors, and that he disappeared at sunrise. That is his way. I have seen it with my own eyes. And my eyes have seen something else this circle must know. William Trent. I have seen that hellish fiend this very day. In Glasgow.”
Everyone gasped, and the duke’s eyes flashed angrily, but Charles showed no sign of surprise. “Indeed?” the detective remarked. “It makes sense. If Trent took the form of a wolf upon those roads last night, then perhaps he hopes to draw us into the open by returning to human shape.”
Paul agreed. “Yes, Charles, that does make sense. He hopes to tempt us into leaving the castle, no doubt.”
“Quite. Why else would he appear in his own human form to a man he surely knows is a circle member?” Charles asked. “You are certain it was Trent, Sir Thomas?”
“I am. And he appeared fully human as of this morning, but Trent can take many forms, so you must come to know them all, Lord Haimsbury, if you are to catch him. He has taken the form of smoke and shadow, slipping beneath windows and doors where he may, and some claim he can vanish at will. There is some truth to ancient legends of vampires and werewolves. We deal with him in flesh, but he can find us in animal or even spirit form. We must be prepared to fight them all.”
“Mr. Palmer,” the duke spoke to the second gentleman, who sat next to Kepelheim. “I’m told you bring ill tidings, also.”
“I fear that is so, Your Grace. Lord Haimsbury, I am honoured to be here at your first meeting, and I share your shock and disbelief, for when my father first taught me our family’s mission, I wondered if he had not lost all reason.”
The group laughed, for each had experienced this in his early days.
“So, my friends and fellow warriors, I tell you that one whom you knew and who, too, cared for our dear duchess, has fallen at the hands of Trent. Sir Thomas was the one who first surveyed the scene, perhaps ten minutes after it occurred, but then I was called in. You see, Lord Haimsbury, I serve as Chief Investigator for the Foreign Secretary, and he tasked me to make certain no espionage was involved. There was not, but it was also not a suicide as the authorities have now ruled it to be.”
“Suicide!” Galton shouted. “Are they blind? He was shot six times! How can a man shoot himself six times in the head?”
Palmer pursed his lips and looked calmly at his London friend. “Justice and the wheels that grind therein are often subject to outside control and ‘greasing’, shall we say, by men of means. Lord Haimsbury, I am sorry to tell you that your friend and colleague Sir Robert Morehouse is dead.”
Charles felt shock. Dead? How could he be dead? Morehouse had taken him in as a detective constable, taught him to police, taught him to think. He’d proven friend during times of joy and in times of sorrow. He had wept with Charles at the graveside of his young son and again at that of his estranged wife. They had chased criminals together, traveled together, laughed together, cried together. And they had both responded to the scene over nine years before when Patricia, Duchess of Branham, had been found dead and mutilated next to her unconscious daughter in Spitalfields.
“It is like the world is falling down around me,” he whispered, his head in his hands, a tear tracing his cheek. “Bob and I—we shared much heartache and triumph. He drove me mad with his demands for perfection, but in many ways he was like a father to me. You say Trent did this?” he asked, anger filling his mind and heart.
“So it seems,” Palmer replied, “for several workers reported seeing a tall man with a cane, lurking in the building after hours, and others claim to have heard a man’s voice speaking to Sir Robert only a few moments before the gunshots sounded.”
“Then that devil must account for all his crimes,” Sinclair vowed. “If it means my own life, he will pay.”
Aubrey touched his cousin’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Charles. Bob was a good man. He will be much missed.”
“So he will be.” Grief rained down the detective’s face, and he poured himself a shot of scotch, and lifting the glass high, said, “To Sir Robert Morehouse, gentlemen. The best policeman ever seen in Whitechapel, and the dearest friend any man might find. May he be there to greet us when we, too, are at last called to our Saviour’s side.”
“To Sir Robert,” they al
l said reverently, raising glasses high, eyes bright with tears, and as they drank, each head bowed as they pondered the truth in Sinclair’s words.
James stood, and placed one hand on Paul and the other on Charles. “Let us also toast to both my dear nephews. May they live long and live well. And when I am gone, may they always remember this night, when the Lord reunited us. May their courage never fail. May their minds be ever sharp. May their weapons be not material only, but also spiritual, and may they remain ever and always friends.”
Paul smiled, clasping his cousin by the shoulder and raising his glass once again. “To my heroic Cousin Charles. The 11th Marquess of Haimsbury!”
All echoed the toast, and the meeting then fell into a less formal one, the Londoners huddling with the earl whilst the duke and Charles shared a brandy near the fire.
“Well, lad, how does it feel to be rich and titled?” he asked Sinclair.
The detective laughed. “Truthfully, I do not believe it, but if you say it is so, Uncle, then I must acquiesce. I’ve had much to drink this night, something I’m not accustomed to, so perhaps you are all just an illusion.”
“It is true, lad. All true. When my sister Angela died, I was deemed the closest heir to the Haimsbury title, so it’s been in my keeping ever since. I shall have my solicitor draw up all the papers and submit the claim to the crown, but they’ll not object. Kepelheim’s legal proofs and your uncanny resemblance to Paul speak the truth. And I’ll make the transfer to you, probably in the next few weeks, I should think. The estate has five houses, as I recall, several large manufacturing companies, oh, and a nice London mansion that is just the other side of the park behind Queen Anne House.”
Paul stepped over for a moment and tapped Charles on the back. “You’re a wealthy man, Cousin. I think you might even be richer than I. Perhaps, you should pay for Kepelheim’s shopping trip for tartans!”
Kepelheim grinned, his large head bobbing into view behind Paul’s. “I have a list.”
CHAPTER Nineteen
10, October, 9 a.m.
Matthew Laurence stood before a blazing fire. He and his fellow riders had arrived at the farmhouse within two hours after leaving Drummond Castle, having asked at several neighbouring farms about a large red barn with a bird painted on it. Everyone in the area knew the place, referring to it as White Bird Farm, and some claimed it had spirits that came there on full moon nights. Even before they reached the farm, the men could see the black smoke rising over the hills and smell the stench of death.
Thinking of the wolves and their supernatural leader two nights before, and how the moon had indeed been full, Laurence made every effort to enter the burning buildings, hoping to find at least one of the farm couple still alive, but he found both dead inside the front room of the main house, shot through the head.
As they watched the buildings burn, Laurence feared the news would bring comfort to no one within the circle, but he kept careful notes of all he found regardless. The duke had taught him to pay close attention to detail, and so he did. He noted the wolf tracks that ran circles around the farm, closing in on the smaller of the two cottages. He made copies of strange symbols found on the ground near the small cottage but also inside the blackened skeleton of the large barn. When the fires finally died out, nothing remained unburnt inside either house, but it was clear that something evil had lived here. Perhaps the couple knew the extent of their involvement with supernatural beings, perhaps they did not. The painting on the barn may have been made without either knowing what it stood for, but their behaviour spoke against them. Drugging their guests had been done for some dark purpose. The only question to answer now was why.
Once the examination of the farm was complete, the riders spurred their horses northeastward to the thatched roof cottage once occupied by Solomon Lemuel. As with the farm, this house, also, had been torched, but only the roof had burnt. A rainfall overnight must have extinguished the flames before destroying the stonework, which seemed to have protected some of the interior furnishings.
Near the front door, Laurence found the doctor’s body, already decaying and soaked through from the rains. “Stanton, you and Gage start looking through the inside. Parker, you and Anderson check the stables. I want to know every bit of information this man concealed. Bring me all documents you find, along with any clues regarding whoever shot him.”
The four riders followed their leader’s commands and began the work whilst the butler searched the doctor’s body for evidence. The bullet had entered the occipital region of his head cleanly but not exited. The angle of entry made it appear that the shooter had done so from high up on a nearby ridge. “Anderson!” he shouted to the younger of the two men he’d assigned to the stables. “After you finish, take a look up on that hill beyond. Look for any signs of our shooter.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Laurence,” the youth replied with a nod of his head.
The butler opened the doctor’s jacket and fished inside the pockets: A gold sovereign, a Waterman fountain pen, and a calling card from someone named Hannibal Alexander, Esq. His trouser pockets yielded only two peppermint sweets, wrapped in paper, but Laurence took these nonetheless and placed everything into a drawstring bag to deliver to the inner circle. As he stood, he noticed the faint traces of carving on the wooden door to the cottage. The morning sun’s angle made it difficult to perceive the precise shape, so the butler used his hand to follow the shallow lines. “Gage, come here!” he called to a tall man with dark hair. “Bring me a bit of the charcoal left from the fire, will you? That tree took some of the heat, perhaps one of the branches will serve.”
The rider broke off several bits of charred wood and delivered them to his superior. “Here you are, sir,” he said in a thick Scottish accent.
The butler took the charcoal and pointed into the house. “See if there’s any paper in Lemuel’s desk. Get me several sheets, if you find any.”
In a moment, the fellow servant returned with six sheets of cream paper. “Will this do, sir?”
Laurence smiled. “Nicely.” He placed a sheet upon one of the carvings and used the charred wood to make a rubbing. After doing this with each of the carved figures, he had used up five of the six sheets. Sighing, Matthew Laurence showed them to his friend. “The duke will not be happy. Anything in the stables?”
“Just the usual, sir. Tack, hay, pitchfork, and an old saddle. Shall we examine all the furnishings?”
“Yes. Everything,” Laurence replied. “Someone has tried to obliterate this house already, so this may be our only opportunity. Use the wagon and strip the place if you have to. I want nothing important to remain. Go through his papers, his personals, his dishware if you have to, but I want to know everything there is to know about this traitor!”
11 a.m.
The hybrid creature known to our company as Sir William Trent strolled as if he owned the world. He had always enjoyed his time in Scotland, particularly time spent anywhere close to the Stuarts. How he had come to loathe that noisome family over the years! Were Redwing’s plans in his hands alone, he would have torn them all into shreds long ago, using his fangs and claws and reveling in their warm blood, but even he—whose life had been unnaturally extended and augmented—had to bow and scrape to the one they called Prince.
It was late morning. Glasgow’s shops teemed with life, and the tall man with a wolf’s head cane walked amongst them like a god. Turning to his companion, a beautiful woman with auburn hair and long legs, Trent asked if she might wish to join him in a quest for a bit of jewelry to adorn her throat. “Lorena, my dear, would you prefer emeralds or diamonds?”
The woman’s coppery locks gleamed in the morning light, and her green eyes would have rivaled any emerald. Her ruby lips parted slightly as she considered the question. “I should prefer blue diamonds,” she said with a tilt of her head toward a jeweler’s window.
William laughed heartily, taking he
r arm. “How perfect! Blue diamonds, indeed! Think yourself a queen, my dear?”
“Perhaps not a queen, as some may wish for, but I am certainly better than many whose blood qualifies them as such.”
“Now, now, Lorena, you must take care. Blood is something to be cultivated, to be painstakingly bred, and the eternal kind which we seek, comes only from carefully laid plans and many sacrifices. Personal and otherwise.”
“True,” she mused, casting her cat eyes toward his seductively. “Tell me truly, William, why do you still yearn for that untutored girl’s flesh, when you could share your bed with a woman who has seen the eternal fire?”
“Watch your tongue, my dear, for that untutored girl has bold friends, and they might just tear your pretty flesh from your bones. Or put a bullet in your brain.”
“Pah!” she said with a swish of her skirts and a snap of her gloved fingers. “They have no power over us—ah, but, the one she calls Paul. Now, that one, I should love to taste and tutor. His muscular form pleases me, and his mind would bring much to our Prince, would it not?”
As they stood before the window glass, Trent’s eyes kept watch on a coach and four bearing the ducal crest of Drummond which had now stopped behind them. “You may get your chance, my dear. I believe that same young man will shortly alight from that carriage. Such foolish men they are to bring her right into my arms. Should I take her now?”
Lorena watched the reflexion in the window, her green eyes fixed on the four passengers who exited the black coach. Two tall men, a woman, and a third man of smaller stature.
“Of course, the other is handsome also. The one called Charles,” she said, licking her lips with anticipation. “And he now has power and riches. I wager he would cover my throat with blue diamonds.”
“He is not to be touched. He is the chosen one. We require his blood; you know this, Lorena. Breeding takes time, and much effort and many generations of work have gone into Sinclair. We must draw our ever-tightening noose about him by slow and subtle means. When at last the great detective realises he has been trapped, then it will, of course, be too late.”
Blood Lies Page 34
