After burying Cozette, Paul departed Paris with his daughter, and though no one in government or the police made the connexion, three days later, Monsieur Fermin’s bloated, lifeless body was found floating in the Seine, his neck broken. The death was ruled a suicide.
The girl, Adele Marie, was a miniature of her father, with Paul’s soft chestnut hair that fell down her back in beautiful little waves and his clear blue eyes and dimples. He had missed Christmas with his parents, but when he explained the truth to his father, Lord Aubrey had welcomed the child with open arms, making her his legal ward and adopting her as his own. Because of the strong family resemblance, some did whisper, but it was assumed that it was the father’s indiscretion that had led to an addition at Briarcliff. No one had suspected it was the son’s.
Now, as he thought about sweet Adele, grown tall and nearly eleven, he resolved to tell Elizabeth all.
Charles had not yet fallen asleep. After the others had retired, the newly titled detective spent several hours talking with the duke and Kepelheim about the inner circle, learning the fine details of recent activities, including all that the circle knew about William Trent and Duchess Patricia’s murder. Now, though physically exhausted, he lay awake pondering his own part in a centuries old plan.
Who am I really? A policeman? A peer of the realm? A royal heir?
Dressed in Connor Stuart’s nightshirt and a paisley patterned, silk dressing gown, he finally despaired of trying to sleep and left his bedchamber, walking into the large private parlour of the late earl’s apartment. Over the fireplace mantle, hung a portrait of Elizabeth, painted when Beth was very young, perhaps three or four. Scattered throughout the room, Sinclair found numerous photographs of Elizabeth at various stages of early childhood, including one as an infant, taken at her christening. He held the hand-coloured image, his eyes misting over as he thought of the possibilities of making Elizabeth his wife—and of one day, perhaps, having a son or daughter with her. His heart ached, fearing the dream was but an illusion, a fantasy.
Setting the photograph back onto its position of honour near a large leather chair, Charles’s mind switched into detective mode, and he began to wonder just what sort of man Connor Stuart had been. The books upon the shelves covered a broad range of topics: science, mathematics, geography, politics, and warfare, but also poetry, medicine, biographies, and numerous volumes on history.
“Apparently, Cousin Connor, you were a well-read man,” he said aloud. “Beth seems to have inherited your love of books.”
As he thumbed through various volumes, he discovered a wall-safe, hidden behind a set of six books titled Peter the Great and the Expanding Russian Empire. Charles had learnt to crack safes during his years of policing, so he tried his hand at the three dial strongbox, and after several attempts, its movements finally yielded to defeat. Opening the door, the detective found an envelope, written on the outside with the disturbing legend, “For my father, should anything happen to me.”
Looking at the portrait of his beloved Elizabeth, Charles felt a sudden stab of anxiety. Her father had penned this strange phrase and secured this envelope sometime before November 1876. Had he, too, been given a premonition of his own demise, or was there another reason for this precaution?
Not sure whether or not he should be doing so, Sinclair’s investigative instincts at last overcame his doubts, and he opened the envelope, finding a note in cipher. He spent several minutes trying to decode the message, but it was far more complicated than the Redwing missive from earlier, apparently requiring a keyword, and since he had no idea what the inner circle’s key might be, he placed the envelope with its strange contents into his pocket, intending to speak with the duke and Kepelheim about it the following morning.
Turning away from the bookshelves, Sinclair opened a magnificent, hand-carved mahogany wardrobe. Inside, he found several, beautifully tailored suits. “I wonder if Martin made these,” the marquess whispered to himself as he explored the cedar-lined interior. Recalling the portrait of the earl back at Branham, Charles could picture the handsome Scotsman wearing these tartans, tweeds, and silks. Trying on one of the suitcoats, he glanced at himself in the mirror. The fit was an inch too large in the waist, slightly long in the arms, but overall looked quite nice. Without thinking, he put his hand in the pocket and found a much-used briar.
“So Connor Stuart smoked a pipe,” he mused. “Strange that Beth said she didn’t like pipe smoke as a girl. Now, what is this?” he said aloud, his left hand finding a small key. It looked like it might fit a suitcase or perhaps a strong box. “What other secrets might you have had, Cousin?”
Assuming the key fit a lock nearby, he decided to search for something within the room that it might fit. Besides the bookcases, the parlour also held a large desk. The top drawer contained a small, combination lap desk and folding blotter, so the detective removed it and set it aside. Beneath the blotter, he uncovered a small, locked diary. Charles placed the key into the lock, and it turned easily.
“Perhaps, I shouldn’t...” he whispered to himself. “No. It is too intrusive. I’ll speak to Uncle James about it tomorrow.” He placed the small diary and its key within the deep right pocket of the dressing gown and continued his search. The third drawer on the right held a selection of stationery engraved with ‘Drummond Castle’ and the duke’s crest, but he also found several sheets with a different crest and ‘Connor Stuart, 6th Earl of Kesson’ printed across the top.
Deciding he’d start making notes about his discoveries, Sinclair began to look for writing paper. Not wishing to use any of the engraved pages, he shut that drawer and opened the topmost on the left, finding envelopes, a variety of penny and halfpenny postage stamps, and a few coins. Beneath the envelopes he found a stack of blank stationery. Taking several of these sheets, he closed the drawer, took the blotter, an ink pen, and a bottle of ink and sat into the leather chair. He set the ink bottle onto a small smoking stand and opened the blotter.
To his surprise, it contained a letter, apparently written but not posted, many years earlier. A letter written by Connor Stuart. Sinclair considered whether or not he should take the letter to the duke, but his natural curiosity won out, and he decided to read it first.
23 November, 1876
Patricia,
I shall keep this short, for I doubt that you have any desire to read more than a few lines from me. Suffice to say that I know everything. The man in Paris, the secret meetings in Hampton, and even your indiscretions in our own bed! I never deceived myself into thinking you loved me as much as you loved Ian, but I did imagine you held me in some esteem. I have been thoroughly disabused of that notion.
I plan to speak to my attorney tomorrow in Glasgow, and I intend to seek full custody of Elizabeth. She will never, I repeat never be permitted to witness your infidelities with that man, nor will I allow her to be in danger of any kind. I do not trust William Trent. I’ve had him investigated, Trish. He is Redwing. I know you have no desire to hear about circle matters, but can you not at least care enough about our daughter to protect her from the enemy? I’ve not yet said anything to my father, but I will.
Elizabeth knows, Trish. She knows. I do not yet comprehend how she discerned it, but she’s having nightmares again, and the blame lies squarely upon your shoulders. There was a time when I could not have imagined not loving you—but in truth all love in my heart for you has died. You murdered it. I will not permit you to ruin Elizabeth’s life in like manner.
I will not press for any financial settlement, but if you think you will marry Trent once our divorce is final, then think again. If you do, I shall see to it that you are stripped of your title and lands and all will immediately pass to Elizabeth. There is a morals clause in your father’s will that you probably do not recall. He placed it there because of your infatuation with Ian. I shall not hesitate to seek enforcement of that clause if you so much as become engaged to Trent.
>
Do not put this to the test, Patricia, for you will lose. –Connor
Sinclair stared at the extraordinary letter, feeling completely stunned. Though he imagined no one awake at this hour, he knew he would never rest until he’d told someone about this, so he decided to seek out Kepelheim rather than the duke. He dressed and found his way to the tailor’s rooms, knocking softly.
To his surprise and relief, the door opened quickly.
“Come in, friend Charles. I’d thought it might be you. Perhaps, you read my mind, eh? Come in!”
“Thank you, Martin. I didn’t wake you, did I? If you’re sleepy, just kick me out...”
“No, no, my dear friend. You find me awake and contemplative. Apparently, that is your current state as well. Sherry? You look as if a small glass might do you a world of good.”
Charles entered the cosy parlour connected to the guest room suite and dropped into one of two forest green chairs near the cheerful fire. “Yes, thank you. In truth, Martin, I rarely drink, but oftentimes this past week I find myself in need of what Mrs. Alcorn calls a ‘stiffener’. My mind cannot rest.”
“Of course, it cannot,” the tailor agreed, pouring two small glasses of an oloroso dulce and handing one to the detective. “Think how different your life is suddenly! You left Whitechapel with naught but the clothes upon your back and love in your heart and suddenly you find yourself heir to a huge estate and a peer of the realm. A high ranking one, at that. Haimsbury is the oldest marquessate in our kingdom.”
“Really? I’d no idea.”
“Most don’t, but those who study such matters are keenly aware of it, as is Her Majesty. And there is another matter that the duke has been discussing with me, regarding his successor, being as you are the elder nephew. Can you imagine yourself a duke, my friend?”
Charles gulped the spirit down and held out the glass for a refill. “A duke? Perhaps, I need more than a stiffener. Isn’t Paul his heir, or perhaps Elizabeth?”
“Beth wants no part of another ducal title, so yes, Aubrey is the current heir, but as I say you are the elder nephew, and your uncle has told me that he hopes you will accept it. The earl only agreed to being named as heir because there was no one else at the time. James has discussed it with the earl in private, and I understand that he seemed quite relieved. Paul prefers to keep his chains as light as possible, and titles and lands can weigh one down. But you have a look about you that speaks of more than just an unexpected inheritance. Tell me, Charles, what has happened?”
“You know I’m staying in Connor’s old rooms.”
“Yes. The duke had wanted you to stay there from...well, from the moment he knew you were on your way. He’s looked forward to welcoming you back into the family for many years.”
“Has he?” Sinclair asked, the impact of the tailor’s words hitting his heart.
“Indeed, he has. My investigations into you began long ago, as I’m sure you now realise. The duke, you see, thought you looked familiar when he first met you in ’79.”
“How can that be, Martin? James had not seen me in almost twenty years, and only then as a small boy. I’d changed dramatically in those years.”
“Yes, that is so, but even I was startled when first I saw you in person. Not on the train, of course. I’d been shadowing you for many years. With so many of us within the circle dogging your steps, Charles, I’m surprised you did not notice us sooner!”
Sinclair laughed, sipping at the wine. “It doesn’t speak well for a policeman, does it? When you saw me you were startled, what do you mean?”
The tailor leaned back in the chair and cleared his throat. “It was that summer, I think, when the duke assigned me the task of looking into your background. I decided to commence my investigation by following you so that I might learn your routine and observe your friendships. Since you’d never met me or even seen me, I doubted you would notice a nondescript tailor, but still I kept a low profile as best I could, which made it difficult to see your face without risking your seeing my own. Though you knew me not, I had no doubt of your capabilities, my friend. Like your cousin, you have a mind for faces, so I kept mine from you. I suppose it was the following year when I finally found myself in a position to assess your face without your seeing mine. With a careworn hedge betwixt us, I stood as close to as I am now, and I had five minutes or more to examine the lines of your face. I was surprised you did not hear me gasp, for in truth I did.”
Charles smiled. “Why?”
“It is your eyes. Do you recall my mentioning them on the train?”
He laughed, swirling the spirit in the glass. “I do. You said you had a fabric that would work well with my eyes. I’ll admit to wondering what you meant by it, Martin.”
Kepelheim laughed softly, twisting his greying moustache. “Yes, well, your eye colour is unique, you see. I have never seen its like in any other face. Man or woman.”
“Blue eyes are hardly uncommon in England. In fact, they are more common than brown. Ask any booking sergeant. One of the boxes he has to tick each time is eye colour. Blue outpaces brown by a factor of three.”
“How very interesting! I’d not known that, but it makes sense, I suppose. Many of our forebears in England came from German and Danish stock, did they not? The Celts, however, often have dark eyes like Elizabeth. Your father had brown eyes, did you know that?”
“No. I’ve not yet seen any images other than the photographs, but none that’s been coloured. Do I resemble him?”
“Yes, very much,” the tailor said. “You and Paul have a similar appearance, of course, but you look a great deal like your father. When I saw you that first time, full in the face, it struck me that you were a wonderful echo of Robby Sinclair. Such an energetic and erudite man and a thorn in the side of Redwing, I can tell you that. Your eyes are an interesting combination of both your parents.”
“How so?” Charles asked.
“I dabble in painting, and I can tell you that if one took your mother’s beautiful and unique blue eye colour and added a tiny bit of yellow to it, you’d arrive at yours. Brown eyes are but variations of yellow, you know.”
“Beth calls them sea blue eyes.”
“And so they are,” the tailor agreed. “Azure is one way to describe them, but they are almost a turquoise shade. I had not seen eyes that colour since last I saw you, Charles, and that day, when I saw your eyes and your uncanny resemblance to Robby Sinclair, I knew we had at last found you. Yet my intuition and claims of eye colour mixing were not enough for the duke. I had to find the legal proofs, and so now we have. Had we told you long ago, how might it have changed your path, I wonder?”
He thought about this, finishing the sherry. “I’d probably still be married,” he said at last. “Amelia would never have left a marquess, no matter how little she loved me in the end. And she’d be alive.” His mood grew somber as Charles pondered this.
The tailor leaned forward and touched the younger man’s forearm. “One cannot alter the past, my friend, but we can move forward from the present as best we may. Keep your mind focused upon that. The duke chooses to do that daily. When you and your mother disappeared, I thought your uncle would go into a dark despair from which no man can emerge, but he has come out the other side of that darkness into this beautiful, bright present.”
Charles’s eyes grew moist. “I cannot tell you what that man means to me, Martin. I’ve admired the duke for nearly a decade, but learning that he is my uncle is the second greatest gift I’ve ever received.”
The tailor smiled. “I think I can guess what the first greatest gift is, my friend. Elizabeth, no?”
The marquess nodded, his eyes bright. “She is, Martin. I love her more than life. I suppose that is one reason this letter is so disturbing.”
“Letter?” the tailor asked, reaching out as Sinclair removed the sheets from his jacket pocket and handed them to Ke
pelheim. “Where did you find this?”
“In a folding blotter inside the late earl’s desk, but I also found this,” he said, handing the coded message to the older man. “It was locked inside a hidden safe.”
“Hidden?” Kepelheim asked, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It seems your detective instincts never truly take a rest. But how did you open it?”
It was the detective who now smiled. “Let’s just say it isn’t my first time opening a strongbox. Cracking a dial safe is easy for a mathematician.”
The tailor laughed heartily, wiping at his eyes. “Oh my, yes! I should imagine it would be. Your father would have been quite proud of you, Charles. He, too, had a mind that loved solving puzzles and equations. It was he designed our first cipher. This one looks similar to that early key.” The tailor squinted at the strange symbols. “My eyes are not what they used to be. Can you hand me those spectacles, Charles? Over by the lamp.”
The marquess found the gold-rimmed pince-nez and handed them to the tailor, who settled them onto his bulbous nose. “Yes, it is indeed the code created by your father and the late earl. They were great friends, you know. Let’s see.” He stared at the note for many minutes, his brows squirming with the effort. “No, I shall have to find my old key to make sure I do not mistranslate it, but I believe it speaks of matters that relate to you and Redwing.”
“To me? Why would Beth’s father write about me?”
“The late earl loved you like a son, Charles. As I say, he and your father were quite close, and Connor often visited you.”
Blood Lies Page 41
