Sinclair sighed. “I wish I could remember that. But why would he mention me in a message with such an ominous phrase written upon its envelope?”
The tailor’s eyes grew serious. “As I said, I do not wish to mistranslate it, so allow me to offer further explanation tomorrow, once I’ve consulted with the duke.”
“Very well, but what about the letter that he wrote to Beth’s mother? It is not in code. I cannot believe no one else has found it until tonight. Why did he not mail it?”
“Perhaps, Connor thought better of it after penning it.”
“I doubt it, Martin. Read it.”
The tailor’s silvery brows pinched together as he scanned through the distressing missive. “So, he did plan to divorce her,” he muttered.
“You knew about this?” Sinclair asked, dumbfounded.
“I suspected it. It is the date of this letter that most concerns me, Charles. It is the day that Connor was attacked by the wolf.”
Sinclair’s eyes widened, and his face paled. “I might need another drink.”
In another part of the castle, Elizabeth also found herself unable to rest. The dreams she and Charles had shared were shadows of a real liaison, memories of an actual event. She had given herself to him, and by doing so, offered a once in a lifetime gift she had always thought would be Paul’s.
She wondered if the earl now slept, if his shoulder gave him pain, and she considered knocking on his door, but she could not bring herself to go to him, not yet. Instead, getting out of bed, she slipped a long robe of royal blue satin over top her silk and lace night dress, and then took a candle to light her path down the grand staircase to the main level. She was after a book to read, perhaps a Jules Verne.
As she entered the upstairs hallway, she could hear a woman speaking to Lord Aubrey. It was Lorena MacKey, who stood near the earl’s door, asking if he needed something to help him sleep. Hearing Paul’s reply, that he had already consumed all of the wine mixture, MacKey spoke something else—whispered and inaudible, something that sounded almost like chanting—then turned to find Elizabeth looking at her.
“Oh! Your Grace, I hope I didn’t wake you,” Lorena said, briskly walking toward the duchess. She spoke in hushed tones, as if joining in a conspiracy. “I had worried that the earl’s medicine would have worn off, so I asked if he needed an additional dose. Are you all right? Does your foot pain you? I have a mild soporific in my bag.”
“No, it is much improved. Thank you for your concern. I am simply restless. I thought to find a book in my grandfather’s library.”
“Oh, a book is such a good idea! Do you mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth replied, glad to have the chance to sound out the woman privately. “The stairs are not the most even. It’s often so with these old castles, so watch your feet. The guest library is in the west wing, so we’ve a bit of a walk.”
“How exciting,” Lorena whispered, holding her own candle high as they walked down the long flights to the flagstone floor of the foyer. “Now where? I’m completely lost.”
“Follow me. We shall go to the right here, and then through the grand gallery.”
“Oh yes, I think Paul—I mean the earl—took me through there last night. It’s the very long room filled with lots of chairs and beautiful old paintings, correct?”
“Yes. Those ancestral faces used to stare down at me whenever I came here as a little girl, and I was convinced their eyes watched my every move.”
MacKey had borrowed a nightgown from Elizabeth, since she had arrived with no baggage, and as the doctor stood six inches taller than the duchess, the fit was sufficient but not precise. “Thank you for allowing me to wear your beautiful things. This nightgown is finer than anything I could ever afford, though it is a trifle short, but then I have dreadfully long legs. When I was little, my friends called me ‘stork legs’. Not very flattering, but as I’ve grown and rounded a bit, I find men appreciate them, so it’s not so bad.”
Elizabeth had spent little time with female friends in her life. As the only child of two high-ranking peers, but especially a child in the constant protection of the inner circle, her life had seldom taken her to homes outside her own family.
“Do women say such things when alone?” she asked, hoping to engage MacKey in open conversation, which may reveal a hidden motive for her sudden appearance in Glasgow the previous morning and subsequent arrival at the castle later on.
“I suppose we do,” Lorena answered as they entered the grand gallery. “This place is rather spooky at night with just a small candle for illumination. I see what you mean about the eyes!”
“That is my great-great-grandfather,” she said, indicating a full-length portrait of a boy in satin breeches standing next to a large chestnut horse. “He was, oh seven I think, when that was painted. James Paul Ian Stuart, the 8th Duke of Drummond. The family uses the same names a lot. I suppose that’s often the case in old families. You grew up in Glencoe, did you not?”
“My parents did,” Lorena replied, slowing her pace a bit. “Is that Paul?” she asked, pausing before a full-length portrait showing the earl at twenty-one in full kilt and kit, standing next to a large stone fireplace.
“Yes,” Beth answered, smiling as she recalled the painting’s ceremonial hanging. “The duke had this commissioned when he named Paul his heir.”
The doctor looked at the painting as if willing it to life. “He is to be the next duke?” she asked. “Won’t you inherit?”
“I could, but my grandfather preferred to offer it to Paul after my father died. I saw no point in having two ducal titles.”
The doctor considered this for a moment, her eyes on the portrait. “Paul is a very handsome man, and he’s changed very little in twelve years. But what if he leaves no heir? Then, to whom would it pass, if not to you?”
Beth had no desire to even imagine Paul’s death, but she assumed the doctor must have asked for some surreptitious reason, so the duchess put aside her natural tendency toward introspection and answered openly. “Well, I imagine the title would then pass to Lord Haimsbury, since he is also the duke’s nephew. You know, it occurs to me that Scottish law might actually consider him the first heir, before Paul, as Charles is older by a few months.”
“Really? But, how does all this work? Can the duke dictate succession, or does the queen decide? I know very little about peerage laws, Your Grace.”
They stood before the portrait, and Elizabeth found herself nearly overwhelmed by guilt as she gazed at Paul’s trusting face. She took a moment to reply, and MacKey seemed to sense her prey’s troubled heart.
“Are you all right, Duchess?” she asked, though she felt certain that the little mouse’s sudden silence had much to do with the night in the cottage. “You grow pale. Perhaps, you should sit down. I’m told you suffered from a migraine last evening.”
Beth shook her head and gathered her courage, moving away from the portrait and continuing through the gallery. “I’m all right, thank you, Doctor. You said your family was from Glencoe?”
MacKey had to work to keep from laughing, for she knew the prince was pleased with her success, but she remained moderately composed, though a smile played at her lips. “Actually, my parents left before I was born, but we visited several times when I was a girl.”
They left the gallery and passed into a wide corridor that branched toward the right, leading into the suite of parlours where Beth, Charles, and Paul had slept the first two nights. Rather than follow this hallway, Elizabeth turned left toward a large anteroom that ended in a pair of gleaming white doors, one of them standing open.
“Through here is the guest library,” the duchess said as they entered a large, cherry-paneled room containing hundreds of books in dozens of genres. “I enjoy reading these marvelous old history books. Do you like history? Those are on the right there, beneath the diction
aries and other reference books. If fiction is more to your taste, my grandfather has a quite nice selection of recent works. Wilkie Collins’s Moonstone is there near the top. Dr. Doyle’s wonderful new novel A Study in Scarlet is already a favourite of mine. Allan Quartermain is a nice adventure, and of course there are first editions of Mr. Dickens’s books, Miss Austen, the Brontë Sisters, some Thomas Hardy—I believe the duke finds those intriguing. But if you prefer dark tales, then Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is here as well as Mr. Stephenson’s newest, I see, though I’ve not read that one yet. I did see the play in Paris though—it is terrifying! What is your preference, Doctor?”
Lorena wandered around the room, touching nearly every shelf that her long arms could reach, her green eyes scanning each spine’s title. “Is this the only library?” she asked.
“Well, it’s the one I always use. I believe my grandfather also has a private collection, but it’s kept locked, and only he and the butler have keys.”
“A shame. I’ve been looking for a rare volume that my mother used to have, but I’ve not been able to find it. It’s a history about old Scottish families.”
Beth led her to the reference area, and took down a thick leather-bound book called Peers of Scotland. “Is this it?”
“No, I don’t think so. This book was very old. Published in the 15th century. My father used to say it was the secret history of Scotland.”
Elizabeth replaced the book and sat into one of the armchairs. “Scotland’s history is a bloody one, but then that is probably true of many parts of the world. Change brings the need for expansion, and expansion brings more change—both leading to war.”
“You don’t like change?” Lorena asked, sitting on the settee, her green eyes fixed upon Elizabeth like a cat looking at a small brown mouse.
“I actually do like it. If you visited my London home, you would find it as modern as any government house, but I wonder how far our world will go as we move into this new age. Paul says that Europe is poised for war once again, and that it will certainly erupt within the next thirty years, if not much sooner. Germany and France continue to quarrel, and Russia may pretend to honour her agreements, but Paul insists that both Germany and Russia seek dominion of Europe. He’s seldom wrong when it comes to politics. War, as I see it, is—well, a bit like the eruption of a volcano, which appears without warning, but beneath a seemingly peaceful summit, geological changes have been moving toward that eruption for years, perhaps decades. Civilisation also undergoes silent, creeping shifts. Local crimes, greed, betrayal, lusts, and even lies may lead to larger and larger indiscretions and dark deeds, and soon the world mountain begins to shake with war.”
“You are a philosopher, Duchess.”
“I am not, or I am not aware of being one. I merely see our world progressing further into political darkness.”
“But isn’t progress also good?” the predator asked, finding her mouse tastier by the minute. “I mean, women are making their way into the world of men, and I believe we shall have the vote soon. Think what wonderful amendments we shall make to man’s law! Were women to join the political machine, then war might be avoided.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth answered. “However, progress is not a neutral state. Though we rush toward a modernized society, I am not certain that all scientific discovery is in fact good, though I see your point. My mother took me to Calcutta when I was a little girl to visit my father. He was serving as governor there, and we stayed for several weeks. Have you ever been?”
The doctor shook her head. “No. Isn’t it awfully hot?”
“Yes, it is. India is such a different world from England! I was amazed at how little it took to make people happy—truly happy. Water, a day’s bread, and the love of family are all we ever truly need, and yet we who are civilised strive to accumulate more and more. You will laugh when I say this, but I once told my mother that I wanted to study medicine when I grew up.”
“Really? Why didn’t you?”
Beth struggled inwardly to maintain her composure, for memories of her mother’s broken body still haunted her thoughts and dreams, but she wanted to make a statement—to introduce a lure into the conversation, hoping the doctor would find it tempting and bite. “My mother told me that, though a doctor may heal many people, someone who has the capability and privilege of funding an entire teaching institution has the potential to heal many generations of people whilst providing jobs and education.”
This information apparently surprised MacKey, for her guard dropped for a tiny second. Not long, but long enough, for Elizabeth could see a raw and overwhelming emotion on the woman’s face: Desire. The duchess continued, “That is why I plan to commission a builder to construct such a teaching hospital, one where both men and women with aptitude but little money may learn the art of healing, in Whitechapel.”
“Whitechapel? Well, I must say, that is another surprise, Your Grace. Forgive me, I am never clear on my manners in our situation, should I address you as such, or is it Duchess?”
“However you wish, Dr. MacKey. Debrett’s will say it must be ‘your grace’ if the person speaking is not a peer. A peer would usually call me Duchess. Personally, I care not. Call me Elizabeth, if you like.”
“That’s very kind of you, Duch—I mean, Elizabeth. It’s such a beautiful, queenly name. But Whitechapel? Isn’t that far from your usual zone of comfort?”
“It is where my mother’s body was found when I was a child, and I wish to honour her memory by placing a learning and healing institution where she breathed her last.”
The story was mostly true, though Patricia Stuart had not breathed her last on Commercial Street, for she had died on the road from Branham to London. Beth’s memory had not yet re-discovered all the true facts of that wild journey, and at that moment, most still remained hidden behind a slowly crumbling wall.
“Oh—I, well, I don’t know what to say. That must have been horrible! I am so sorry, Duchess. How old were you?”
“Ten, nearly eleven. It will be ten years next March, in fact. Yes, it was quite, quite horrible.”
MacKey thought for a moment, and her emerald eyes suddenly rounded. “Of course! That must be how you met your fiancé!”
Beth stared, completely perplexed. “My fiancé? I am sorry, Doctor, but I do not follow.”
“It’s all right, I won’t tell if it is still a secret. I can tell when two people are in love, and the ring on your hand is clearly an engagement ring. Paul told me that Lord Haimsbury only recently learnt he was the heir and that he is in truth a marquess. That must have been quite a shock for a Whitechapel detective! But then, perhaps that is where the two of you met. If you are building a hospital there, then it makes perfect sense.”
Elizabeth had no intention of revealing her first meeting with Charles all those years before, but she felt she must clear up the idea of an engagement. “You have drawn an understandable inference, Doctor, based on our morning activities yesterday, but against all appearances to the contrary, Charles and I are not engaged.”
“But it’s so clear that Charles loves you, Elizabeth. Why else would he sweep you off to a tea room for a quiet conversation? The ring is beautiful. I’d be proud to wear one like it, though I don’t know if I shall ever find the right man.”
“I’m sure you will,” the duchess replied, wishing to leave off talking about Sinclair for the moment.
“Of course, it’s foolish to wish for, but your cousin is certainly dashing, is he not? I regret that it is quite unlikely that I should ever discover myself the heiress to a title, so it is just as unlikely that the earl would ever see beyond my medical bag.”
“You find Lord Aubrey attractive then?”
“I find him to be beautiful, remarkable, and a deliciously sensual man! In fact, I would call him a perfect specimen of manhood.”
Beth found this line of conversation too intimate a
nd familiar, especially when the subject was a man she had planned for most of her life to marry, but soft interrogation requires being willing to accommodate, her grandfather had once told her. “He is indeed a wonderful man. Has he given you any reason to hope, Lorena?”
The doctor’s head tilted, curious that the duchess had suddenly switched to addressing her by her first name. “Perhaps. I cannot tell, since I do not yet know his moods and what is called his means of conveying non-verbal communications, and yet I believe there is a spark there. He is your cousin; do you know if his heart belongs to anyone else?”
“Paul has been my closest friend for all my life. I’m not sure I could make that assessment fairly.”
The predator looked deeply into her prey’s eyes searching for signs of deception, but the duchess appeared to be speaking her heart. Good. Very good. Any woman who loved with all her heart would surely have risen to such bait. Trent and the Prince would be pleased. The belladonna and opium mixture had surely muddled her mind, and it now appeared that it had also erased the earl from the centre of Elizabeth’s heart. Indeed, a new king now ruled there—Charles Sinclair, the one with the blood most perfect for their infernal sovereign’s goal.
“I will continue to hope,” the cat said smoothly. “My father always said I could hope with the best of them.”
“Hope is mankind’s greatest gift, is it not? Our Saviour Jesus Christ and the salvation He offers us; does that not define hope itself?”
Lorena’s face twisted for just a tiny fraction of a second, but her recovery was too late, for Elizabeth now knew that the woman in front of her was a liar and perhaps in league with devils.
CHAPTER TWENTY-Two
11 October, 9:12 a.m. - Golden Lane, Aldgate
Edmund Reid took his seat amongst the witnesses as the inquest into the death of Catherine Eddowes reconvened. The proceedings at the Golden Lane mortuary had begun the week previous, but due to a call for additional evidence collection, City of London Coroner F. H. Langham had adjourned until today. Sitting next to Inspector Fred Abberline, who had also been called to give testimony, Reid thumbed through his notebook to refresh his memory of the murder.
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