“Yes, he did, but it made no sense.”
“Perhaps, the fever causes him to rave, or perhaps not. Do you recall the words?” the tailor asked.
“I do. He cried out for someone named Albert, but he also said something else. He spoke of wolves, sir. And violin music.”
“Wolves? That is disturbing, but it may refer to the wolf pack you and your men took down. And a violin, you say?” The tailor asked, recalling the apparition he and Sinclair had pursued in the east wing at Branham. “Strange. It may all be due to his fever, but I begin to think this illness is spiritual rather than physical. Now that you’ve completed the bed change, perhaps, you would ask the duke to call a meeting. A prayer meeting, and all members of the household who can should attend. Our Aubrey will have to keep this witch doctor occupied whilst we seek the Lord’s guidance and mercies.”
“Very good, sir. I shall go to the duke at once.”
As the door closed, Kepelheim sat into the armchair left vacant by the duchess, taking Sinclair’s pulse. “Where are you, Charles?” he asked. “I fear you stand betwixt worlds now, but if so, then we must pray that our Saviour will keep you safe. Why do you call for your dead son, my friend? I doubt the duchess knows about that sad period of your life, and I shan’t explain it. That is for you to do, Charles. Come back to us, my dear friend. Come back.”
Charles Sinclair had wandered into a distant, spiritual realm, and there found himself face to face with a dark entity who claimed to know him. The being was very tall and remained shadowed as he spoke, referring to days long lost to Sinclair’s waking memory.
“You are still mine,” the being told him. “It was I who saved you, who took you from your sick mother—for she had abandoned you—and you lived with me for two years. Do you recall it, Charles?”
Sinclair’s mind boiled in the oppressive heat of the place, but he shivered, unable to fetch up the past. “My mother would not have abandoned me. She loved me.”
“How do you know that, Charles, if you cannot recall your childhood?” the being asked, his voice deep and resonant but with a strange discordant buzz beneath, as if a million flies lived within him.
“My family is a loving one, so I know my mother would have never left me. She died to protect me.”
“Really? If that is what you’ve been told, then your family lies.”
“You are the liar!” he shouted, though his throat was dry as parchment and his tongue thick. “You hide in shadow. Why do you not step into the light?”
“Do you really wish to see me in all my glory, Charles? With earthly eyes? Those eyes would burn in their sockets to behold such beauty. You are little more than a lump of clay, whilst I? I am starlight! Yet, I find you interesting—perhaps, even special. I have chosen you, Charles, from all the men of the earth, to usher in a great, new age. I have whispered to you many times. Did you hear my voice when I spoke to you at Branham? Did you see the visions?”
Charles lowered his eyes, refusing to look at the shadow, keeping his mind focused on one thought: Beth. Her welfare. Her future. Her safety.
The hideous shadow began to laugh. “Ah, you think of her, do you? Shall I reveal your future? I showed you that vision when you were but a boy, Charles. Do you recall it?”
“Leave me alone!” he cried out, weeping.
“I have put much effort into your blood, Charles. Many thousands of years of manipulation and marital design. An affair here, a liaison there. A secret prince, a hidden heir, preserved for a future reign. You hold the key to the world, Charles, within your body. You shall remember it all one day. Never fear. And you will help me to establish my kingdom on this earth.”
A small boy appeared, standing just outside the bars of Sinclair’s cage now, his blue eyes fixed upon the prisoner. “Father,” he whispered.
Sinclair’s heart nearly stopped, for he recognised the child, an older version of his own dead son, Albert. The boy’s skin was charred and black, and his mouth yawned into a gaping oval of accusation. “You murdered me!” he screamed.
“No! Albert! No, I... Son, I tried to keep you safe,” the detective wept, reaching out to touch the apparition but failing.
The Shadow began to laugh, and the buzzing became the rush of many winds, as if the million flies had taken flight, and their hellish wings beat together in unison. “Albert had to die, you know. Blood is too precious to waste on an heir who is not suitable. Smallpox came to London for one reason and one alone. To kill your son.”
“Leave me alone!” Sinclair shouted, but no sound left his throat, for the heat had closed it, and all he could taste now was blood and bile.
Both the child and the Shadow began to laugh, and Charles looked up to speak, and though his eyes burnt and ached, he perceived a great divide, a monstrous pit of eternal fire. The entity who spoke did so from beyond the pit, as if he dared not cross the yawning chasm.
“Father, help me,” the detective whispered. “Help me, please,” he prayed, his eyes downcast, the words barely making a sound.
Suddenly, beside the great divide appeared a man, arrayed all in white. Sinclair recognised this beautiful being as the gardener who had awakened him beside the yew trees at Branham. The man turned toward Charles and smiled, and straightaway a gentle, cool breeze fluttered across the prisoner’s brow.
“My Lord,” the marquess whispered, his eyes fixed on the beautiful protector. “Are you a dream?”
“I am real,” the man told him. “And your child is with me. Albert lives, and you will see him again one day. And though you cannot yet recall your own childhood, I promise that you will remember all, Charles. In my time. The enemy did not steal your memories. I allowed them to be stored inside your mind for a future time. Do not fear those who walk in darkness. Their judgement is coming, and they know it. Their time grows short.”
The shadow cowered behind the brilliant light that emitted from the man in white, and Charles began to strengthen. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil,” he quoted, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” Then as the being’s brightness rose upward within the endless cavern, Sinclair felt a rush of strength within him that overcame all his fears. Turning back toward the Shadow, he proclaimed, “You lie, Demon! You have no power over me! No control! Christ the Saviour alone has that power, for His blood covers me!”
“Oh but I do have power over you, Charles. I made you!” it screamed, losing all calm for a moment, and then growing kinder—or trying to sound so, it added. “No, Charles, you will remember me one day, and you will come to appreciate all that I have done for you. And for her.”
“Not Beth! Not her! You will not touch her! Not ever—not whilst I have breath!” he shouted, realising that his arms could not move, and that he was in fact chained.
“But your human body is so fragile, Charles. I could snuff it out now with but a thought, if I chose to do so.”
“Then do it, Shadow! But leave her alone!” Charles gasped, for the searing heat of the place tore at his eyes and lungs, setting them on fire. “Good Father,” he prayed once more, his hands clasped together. “I trust in you. Even if I must stay here as a prisoner, even though I would remain forever chained, I could bear it, if you would keep Beth safe.”
“You call me Father?” the thing asked with a smile. “That is good.”
“No, foul devil! I call for the true Father—in heaven! God Almighty who gave His only begotten Son, Jesus Christ, so that…”
“SILENCE!” it screamed, the piercing wail nearly shattering Charles’s eardrums. “NO MORE OF THAT NAME!”
“Christ Jesus, Saviour to all who believe,” Charles continued, filled now with an authority not of his own making, standing up, his chains falling away. “It is to the only true King, Lord Jesus, that I go for comfort, for aid, for healing! And every knee shall bow to Him—e
ven yours, foul creature!”
The thing began to howl like a massive, wounded beast, and Charles felt himself rising, the terrible prison disappearing beneath him, and the sweet air rushing past his face brought coolness and relief.
Sinclair opened his eyes, and he found himself sitting in a garden, more colourful, more real, more dazzlingly bright than any on Earth. Before him stood the beautiful, white-haired man, garbed in a gardener’s clothing. Charles gazed at the stranger. “It was you,” he whispered. “At Branham. In the garden near the maze. You woke me from my dream and... You spoke to me.”
The man’s hand touched Sinclair’s brow, and he heard the kindest voice ever to speak in his ears, as from a Shepherd to a wandering lamb. “Well done, Charles. Trust only in Me. The enemy sought permission to test you, but you have passed that test. Do not fear the infernal realm’s plans. I am allowing them to proceed for my purposes. Trust in me, Charles. Trust in my love for you and for your beloved duchess. And for your children.”
Sinclair fell to his knees, weeping. “I am not worthy to be here—not worthy to even be in your presence, my Lord,” he choked, but again the hand touched his brow.
“You have been bought with a great price, my son,” the man said gently. “You are worthy of that price. The Shadow did say one thing that is true. You have been chosen, but not for Redwing’s devices. I chose you because I love you. I have put you where you are, for my reasons. That false god did not create you. I did. And though the future will bring more tests, if you trust always in me, I promise you that the enemy’s designs will fail.”
Charles looked up and saw two hands that bore scars in each palm, and he fell upon his face, praising the Saviour. “My God and my King!” he proclaimed, his eyes filled with tears, and a comfort beyond comprehension filled his heart, strengthening it. Charles felt himself pulled as if snapping back to the material world, but the Master’s voice echoed in his ears: “Trust in me, Charles. Trust only in me.”
It was then, that he opened his eyes to a candle-lit room and found Elizabeth sleeping in a chair nearby. As his reason returned, he knew that he had confronted a demon of the pit, and that Christ’s power alone had defeated it.
He said nothing, fearing he might wake her, enjoying the soothing quiet of the darkened room and the beauty of her sweet face. As he watched her sleep, he thought of how he had kept watch over her in the cottage. How he had sworn to guard her safety for the rest of his life. He knew now that it was for this cause that he had been born—that he had survived. The demon had lied. It was not that thing who had saved him as a boy, but Christ alone, for His purposes not the enemy’s. No longer would he fear the night; for if he and Beth trusted only in Christ Jesus, their risen Saviour would always bring them to the dawn. And one day, to heaven.
“Beth,” he called softly, reaching out for her hand.
She moved, sitting up slowly, her dark eyes opening. “Charles?” she called. “Darling, are you back with us?”
“I am, dear one. I have found the strength to fight—in our Saviour’s healing touch—and in yours. You look tired. You must go sleep. Tomorrow, I intend to speak to your grandfather, and we may need rest for what is to come.”
She kissed his forehead, tears spilling from her eyes as she stroked his dark hair. “I love you, Charles. So very much. Goodnight, my wonderful Captain. Tonight, I shall sleep at last, for you have lain upon this bed for three nights and four long days. It is now nearing midnight, and I am weary, yet much stronger for seeing you smile once more. Tomorrow, we shall speak.”
“Goodnight, dear heart,” he said as she shut the door. He closed his eyes then and slept the sleep of babes until nearly ten o’clock the following day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-Four
19, October, Leman Street, Whitechapel
Fred Abberline stood inside Reid’s dead room, staring at the woman who’d become their latest guest, five days previously; now identified as Katherine Lamont, a woman of nineteen years, six months, three days. Lamont had been born in Manchester and recently arrived in London, where, her mother claimed, she had found employment with a rich builder who lived in a west end mansion. Lamont had now been officially classified as a murder victim, but not as Ripper. Billingham had also been cleared of all charges, for the present. After going through the publican’s lodgings with a fine-toothed comb, it was decided to release him but also to follow him day and night in hopes of discovering if they’d missed anything.
Fred was exhausted. Since the Nichols murder in late August, he’d spent weeks without rest, sifting through sketchy evidence and mountains of bloody clothes, and photographs by the hundreds; all that work, with nothing to show for his efforts. Abberline’s longsuffering wife, Emma, rarely went amongst her friends now, no longer happy to spend a pleasant evening playing cards or taking in the theatre, for her companions now hounded her for clues and information and ghoulish details, so that the prim housewife had all but become a shut-in. Fred hated this aspect of the Ripper business. Seven times, he’d chased reporters from his own door, threatening to box the ears of two of The Star’s nosy hacks, and earning a dressing down from Police Commissioner Sir Charles Warren for his efforts.
“Mr. Abberline, sir,” Inspector France called as he ran up the stairs at Leman Street. “We have a lead, sir! At that gambling establishment. A man with a ring matching the landlord’s description has been seen!”
Fred threw open the office door, grabbed his hat and coat, and rushed toward France. “Then let us be off, Inspector France. Perhaps, we shall at last meet this disappearing man with the cane.”
It took nearly half an hour to reach the laneway that ran behind Church Street and the shadowy establishment known as ‘Greasy Johnny’s’. Though nearly everyone of the club’s patrons recognised Abberline at once, both policemen displayed their warrant cards to the hostess who greeted them with a smile and escorted them into the smoke-filled, upscale interior. The gaming tables and curtain-draped side rooms were populated with well-dressed men and scantily clad women, and a sultry blonde songstress with a single octave range and an aversion to singing on pitch murdered a selection of music hall tunes.
Inspector Arthur France recognised many of the men from the political pages of the Times and Star, and to his amusement, he also noticed Michael O’Brien in a darkened corner of the main parlour. “Inspector Abberline, sir,” he said, pointing toward O’Brien. “Perhaps, we might spend a moment with that gent?”
Fred sighed at seeing the reporter, one of the many he’d chased from his home. “Gent is a rather speculative term when it comes to this one. Allow me, Inspector France. You take names of all the men here, and find out who wears a silver ring with white enameling on it.”
Abberline drew up a chair and sat into it, his grey eyes boring into O’Brien’s. “Well, well, Michael. Does T. P. O’Conner know that you spend your nights jollying about with Whitehall’s finest?”
O’Brien was a slight man with sandy hair and a waxed moustache, and he grinned in response to the inspector’s insinuations. “I cover the political beat, do I not, Inspector Abberline? What brings Leman Street’s boss to a haven for parliament’s entertainment seekers?”
“A little bird,” Abberline replied neatly, looking up as a buxom woman brought two drinks. “Nothing for me, girl. And nothing more for our reporter, here. He’s returning to Leman Street with me in a few moments.”
O’Brien started to object, but Abberline interrupted. “Tell me, Michael, how is it that a roll of confiscated film still managed to be developed—and how did the images on that miraculous roll come to be published in newspapers across London?”
O’Brien smiled, sipping at his drink. “What a surprise, Inspector. You read the London press?”
Fred’s brows rose into an arch of accusation and frustration. “I’ve chewed up men like you for lunch, Michael. Don’t test my patience. Sinclair...”
“A
h, yes, the new Scottish marquess, you mean? And how would you even know about our titled detective’s bounty save for my words and Harry’s remarkable photographs, eh? Readers may want information, but photographs are proof, Inspector. I’m sure even Lord Haimsbury is relieved that my colleague had already switched film rolls by the time the camera was...shall we say, borrowed?”
“You are a menace,” Abberline bit back. “And do not think that Lord Haimsbury will show you any gratitude when he returns to London. And now, I imagine, he’ll find himself much more influential with certain publishers. I’d keep careful watch on my pay packet, if I were you, Michael. It may contain a redundancy slip soon.”
A strawberry-haired woman in a low cut dress sidled over and began to stroke O’Brien’s hair just as Arthur France joined them, whispering into his superior’s ear. Abberline rose, grasping the reporter by the collar. “It appears we’re leaving now, Mr. O’Brien. Say your goodbyes to the lady.”
Michael snatched at his hat and smiled at the girl. “Sorry, Sally. Perhaps next time.”
France laughed as the energetic Abberline escorted the hack through the doors, past the hostess, and down the narrow staircase. Once outside, the inspector shoved O’Brien into a hansom, and in a moment, the trio were on their way to Leman Street.
As the horse and cab pulled away from the doorway, a tall man emerged from the house, his face lit temporarily by the flash of a match. “Looks like they’ve uncovered our meeting place, eh?” a second, shorter man remarked. “I heard the younger one asking our proprietor about your ring, my friend. Perhaps, you stand out too much, eh?”
“I stand out only when I wish to do so, Clive. Now, we surely have the remainder of the evening before Mr. O’Brien gives up our secrets, so let us enjoy the tender fruits that await us upstairs. And whilst we do so, we can decide where our next meeting house will be.”
The tall man turned and climbed the staircase, his gleaming black boots clicking on the painted wood with each step. Urquhart shrugged and closed the street door, turning back toward the interior stairs. “It’s a shame,” he muttered as he climbed. “Such a delightfully debauched place to hide. Now ruined.”
Blood Lies Page 46
