“But I’ve only just started reading the story to him,” she pleaded. “Cousin Charles told me that he wanted to read about Sherlock Holmes, but didn’t have the time. May I come back after I eat? I promise to do nothing more than read.”
“Yes, of course, you may. I’m sure he hears every word you read to him, Della. There are few voices in this world that mean so much to Charles as yours. Go on, now. He might even be awake by the time you return.”
She kissed the marquess’s shadowed cheek and quietly left the room. Once the door had shut firmly, the earl began unbuttoning the yellow silk shirt, talking to his cousin as Emerson had instructed the family to do.
“You’ve missed all sorts of excitement whilst enjoying your dreams,” he told his sleeping cousin. “You have an entire city praying for you, Charles. The queen sends a messenger to the house twice daily, asking about you, and Salisbury has stopped by as well. Most in the circle have paid their respects, of course. Kepelheim has moved into one of your guest suites, and he’s diligently working on your father’s coded journal; that is, when he’s not sharing tea and biscuits with Baxter and Mary Wilsham in the kitchens. Mary’s been a source of great comfort to all of us, and she’s become like a mother to Della.”
Aubrey paused, trying to find news that wouldn’t alarm his cousin. He decided to avoid any mention of Elizabeth, just in case Charles could hear.
“Let’s see, what else?” he continued. “Bob Morehouse’s widow sent a letter, which I’ve put on your desk along with all the others. Sir Charles Warren called yesterday afternoon. He and his wife sent a basket of flowers. In fact, the foyer of your house begins to look rather like a flower stall. Scotland Yard detectives and uniformed men from all across the city ask after you, and there are hundreds of telegrams from all over the world, Charles. All are praying for your recovery.”
The door opened, and Cornelius Baxter entered. “Allow me to do that, sir,” the butler insisted.
Aubrey handed him the damp shirt. “Has there been any news?”
“No, sir. However, Inspector Reid sent a wire. He said nothing about my lady, but asks if you could join him at Leman Street at quarter till eleven. He’s arranged to speak with the fire brigade captain regarding the marquess’s East End house. I’m sure that the duchess escaped, sir, and before long my lady will be back here with us.”
“Yes, of course, she will. And when she does return, we must make certain her husband is awake and ready to put his arms ‘round her.”
The earl stepped to the northeast window and pulled the blue silk draperies to one side. Instantly, the shadowy bedchamber cheered, each wall painted with bright shafts of sunlight.
“Charles spared no expense when he remodeled his house, and this room is a showpiece! It’s everything Beth ever wanted. Even this bed. When she was a girl, our little duchess told me that when married, she wanted a golden tester bed, just like the one in the queen’s chamber at Versailles. Apparently, she told Charles as well. This is a perfect reproduction, only Charles had carved doves added to each of the corners. He did it all to make Elizabeth happy.”
“It is the equal to any in France by my reckoning, sir,” Baxter agreed. “Not even Her Majesty has such a magnificent bed, I’ll wager!”
Paul sat on the bed’s edge, moving the blue and yellow chintz coverlet to one side. “He will wake up, won’t he, Baxter?”
“Of course, he will, my lord. Perhaps, even today. Now, why don’t you join the others for breakfast, sir? I can remain with his lordship until Dr. Emerson arrives at ten. You’re worn through from lack of sleep and worry.”
“How can I sleep, when I’ve failed them both so miserably, Baxter?” the earl whispered, his eyes on his cousin’s pale face. “I was supposed to protect them, but instead I allowed my attention to wander, and look what happened!”
“You did not fail them, sir. Not at all. Now, you must cease this melancholy. Twill do not one jot of good to either of your cousins,” the butler said, placing a supportive hand on the earl’s shoulder. “You work far too hard, if I may say so. Enjoy some time with your aunt and sister. Allow me to look after his lordship. I’ll send word should anything change.”
“Very well,” he answered, grudgingly leaving the bedchamber.
The aging butler found a clean pair of blue silk pyjamas in the wardrobe next door and began to dress the sleeper with tender care. Once he’d made Sinclair comfortable, Cornelius Baxter sat into the upholstered armchair left empty by Lady Adele. He dearly loved Charles Sinclair, and his heart felt heavier than it had in many years.
“Where are you, sir?” he whispered. “Do you hear us when we speak to you?”
Sighing, Cornelius Baxter picked up the copy of Beeton’s from which Adele Stuart had been reading.
“Shall I continue where Lady Adele left off? Let’s see, if I can find the page she has marked. Ah, yes. Page eleven.” Baxter cleared his throat and settled back into the chair, reading aloud, “As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his aims in life, gradually deepened and increased. His very person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision.”
The marquess never so much as twitched the entire time, but though the butler had no way of knowing it, Sinclair did hear some of what was said. However, to his dreaming mind, it played as a sort of background noise to a very peculiar conversation...
Chapter Three
“What did you say your name was?” Charles asked the birdman.
Proudly fluffing up the feathers trimming his cloak, the creature stared at the visitor, blinking rapidly. “Name? Another stupid question. Names mean nothing, unless, of course, you know their true significance, which I very much doubt you would. It is clear to me that you require a tutor. That shining watch will do for payment. If your instructor agrees to work for nothing, then I shall return it to you. If not, then he and I shall share it.”
“I will not bargain away the only connexion I have to my wife!” the confused human declared angrily. “As to names, I presume you have none, since you are loath to offer it. I’ll find my own way, thank you!”
Sinclair turned a hundred and eighty degrees, hoping to escape the creature’s taunts by returning the way he’d come, but to his dismay the movement offered no such thing. He still faced the same direction with the birdman standing in front of him, just as before.
“I do have a name, though you would never comprehend its meaning without instruction. I might offer several lessons, on credit,” the bird creature suggested slyly. “When you’ve learnt enough to find your way home, then...”
“Home? Are you saying there is a way out of this horrid place, back to my own world? Back to my wife?”
“Yes, but what if she is dead?” it asked. “You seemed to think her dead not that long ago. All that senseless weeping over a woman! What will you do next, I wonder? Sing?”
“She cannot be dead,” he whispered. “She must not be.”
The bird thing’s yellow eyes grew round and glassy. “Is she pretty?” it asked, stepping closer. “She must be, otherwise, why would you care about so dull a thing as a wife?”
“She is anything but dull. Elizabeth is the most beautiful woman in all of creation.”
“Prettier than Eve?” it asked, the lips twisting oddly. “It has been a very long time ago, but as I recall Eve was quite lovely, though somewhat naive. Such soft skin and hair.”
“Who are you?” the marquess insisted, his eyes narrowing. “You do nothing but spout nonsense! How do I know that I can believe anything you tell me? Perhaps, you have her! What have you done with Elizabeth? Where is my
wife?”
“Done? Done!” the birdman screeched in irritation. Its peculiar head bobbed up and down like a child’s might when trying for an apple on All Hallows Eve, and it hopped from one foot to another as though stamping out a fire. “I have done nothing with your wife, human! If you must know, the traitor took her. She lies in a fever, calling out the name of some fellow named Captain. Since your name is Charles, then I must presume this Captain is her lover. Typical behaviour for a woman! They have no loyalty. Why would you wish for a wife who is unfaithful, human? Can you not get yourself another? You’re not all that ugly.”
Charles’s heart leapt. “Beth is alive? No, wait a moment. What do you mean the traitor took her? Took her where? How can I get there? I must find her!”
“I have no idea where he took her,” the gatekeeper said, growing bored with the game. “There is a cottage not far from here. Perhaps, you will find your answer there, providing you can reach it.”
“Which direction?”
“Now that is the right question at last! It lies behind one of Seven Gates,” the gatekeeper explained. “However, without instruction one is likely to choose poorly and end up in a most disagreeable place. How confident are you of your ability to navigate a complicated maze?”
“If this maze leads to my wife, then I’ll do it, though I might die trying. Tell me, Creature, where do I begin?”
“The best place to begin any quest is with knowledge. Since you refuse to accept instruction, fool of a human, your task is made all the harder.”
The birdman snapped his fingers, and the thick mist parted, revealing a curving stone wall. It rose high into the night air, soaring to seventy feet or more. Its stones were of every shape and size. The smooth surfaces glittered in the peculiar moon’s pale light as though encrusted with diamonds, but as the human looked more closely, these winking diamonds revealed themselves to be thousands of tiny eyes.
The contours of the stones followed irregular shapes, yet each had been placed against its neighbour with such precision that no mortar could be seen. A narrow opening stood just to Sinclair’s right, and within its black portal, the hideous eyes of hundreds of ravenous birds blinked as though waiting for the marquess to enter so their feast might commence.
“What is this?” Sinclair asked, approaching the massive structure.
“This is the first of the seven preliminary gates,” the gatekeeper spoke, his voice drenched in deceit.
“Preliminary?”
“Do you never listen, human?” it complained. “This is a maze! Navigating it requires skill and tutelage; endless lessons in the deeper mysteries of truth and near truth. Failure to make even one correct turn will lead you into a morass of spiralling doom and despair. Are you certain you wouldn’t barter that shiny watch in exchange for a hint? Such information could greatly increase your chance of reaching the cottage at the centre. Your chance of traversing the entire maze without an error is approximately one in eight hundred twenty-three thousand, five hundred and forty-three.”
Sinclair stood before the mysterious gate, his eyes on the sighted stones that formed it. “Your calculation is incorrect, Creature. If there are seven gates, then I have a one in seven chance.”
The birdman flashed a mischievous grin. “You would, if there weren’t seven gates beyond each of these, and seven more beyond those, totalling seven walls with seven gates apiece. But your chances are based upon the hypothesis that the gates remain fixed, which they do not—hence the approximation of your chances. I’ve told you many times now, human: it is a maze of living stones. Do you wish to try or not? Make up your mind, for I have other matters to attend. I am a very busy gatekeeper, after all.”
Charles gazed down at his wedding ring. “One chance in over eight hundred thousand of succeeding. Beth would do it for me, I know it. What guarantee have I that you speak the truth, Nameless Creature?”
The birdman crossed its long arms; the beaked nose in the air. “Despite your insults, what reason have I to lie?”
“Because there is the slenderest hope that I might choose correctly. In which case, I would escape your hellish prison.”
The birdman arched its feathery brows, and a chilling smile crept across its unnatural face. “You might. Many have thought to do so, and nearly all have failed. There is always an exception to the rule; or so I’ve read. A person who cheats the system, so to speak—who escapes defeat. You must choose, human. Which of the first seven will you enter to begin this quest?”
Sinclair considered the forbidding structure. “Not this one,” he announced as he turned towards the right. “I very much doubt that you would lead me to the correct portal.”
The marquess prayed silently as he followed the curving wall, which stretched to greater and greater length as he proceeded. The birdman bounced alongside the human, saying nothing helpful, merely grunting (or laughing in bird-like fashion) each time Sinclair seemed ready to make a decision. Finally, after a dreadfully long time, the marquess stopped in front of the seventh opening. A pair of etched black pillars formed the gateway, and Charles could see himself reflected in their glassy surfaces.
Obsidian, he realised. Just like the mirrors Susanna Morgan told Paul about. The ones used to imprison Watchers. Might this be their origin?
The creature appeared pleased. “This is a fine looking gate, and I believe it is the correct one at last. Do you choose to enter, human, or are you afraid?”
A collection of ravens and other strange birds flocked to the gate as though assembling to consider judgement. A murder of crows, Charles thought dismally.
“Enter and be done with it!” the creature shouted.
Charles prayed as he approached the gate. He could hear whispers all about him, some from above, others coming from within the portal, like voices calling him to his death.
Falling to his knees, the desperate marquess folded his hands, the right fingers touching the cool metal of his wedding ring, as he prayed, “Dear Lord in heaven, help me, please. If I make the wrong choice, then I’ll never see my wife again! Yet, though I have never felt so terrified in all my life, I trust in you, Lord. Whatever happens next, I trust you and ever shall.”
Charles paused for a moment, for he could sense something next to him. A presence unlike any other. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and he could hear a sweet voice whispering into his right ear. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he repeated the voice’s words:
“Whither shall I go from thy spirit or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. If I say, surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.”
“Must you quote from that annoying book?” the birdman complained. “Why would you place your faith in so lax a Saviour? He cares nothing for you.”
“Beware of idle words, Creature. Even you are subject to the Almighty!”
“Am I?” it dared ask, stepping close. “If you think the One has sent his Spirit to rescue you, then you are more pitiable than any other who has passed these gates! Deluded and without hope! If God loved you, then why did he send you here? The One has abandoned you, foolish human!”
Charles refused to listen, and he continued the prayer.
“Father of all, I know not where I am, but whither you have taken me, I shall trust in you. If in hell, then you are with me. If in a dream, then you will open my eyes. It makes no difference, for I trust in you to guide me. Help me now to choose, and no matter where this journey ends, I trust you to be there with me and with my beloved duchess.”
Charles then lifted his right foot and took
the first step into darkness.
Chapter Four
11:03 a.m. – 21st November
The house at No. 12 Columbia Road looked like a charred husk of its former self. Curious neighbours watched as Edmund Reid stood with Paul Stuart amongst the melting snow and ashes, including a young woman in a green cloth coat just inside the entrance to the Empress Hotel.
Near the edge of the front yard, an iron post, as well as the surrounding grass and paving stones, still showed traces of Sinclair’s blood. The earl knelt beside the post, running a gloved hand up the side. “Charles struck this with very great force, Edmund. He should be dead. In fact, I thought he was dead, when I saw him. God help us, what an awful night that was!”
“God did help us, Paul, because Charles is alive,” the shorter man observed, pulling his coat collar up against the cold. “Here comes our fireman. It looks as though he’s brought his superior.”
Two men approached from the opposite side of Columbia. The taller cut a fine figure in a double-breasted coat of dark wool over matching trousers. He wore no hat, and an unkempt mane of silver curled behind a pair of large ears. A scraggly moustache drooped below the corners of his mouth and continued into an equally scraggly chin beard, but the man’s bearing reflected military service. The second wore a similar coat and trousers, and a soft felt hat protected his balding pate from the dank cold. He stood a head shorter than the other, with a belly almost as soft as the hat.
“Good morning, Captain Shaw,” Reid called to the military-looking fellow. “Lord Aubrey, allow me to introduce Captain Eyre Shaw, Superintendent of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade.”
“Captain Shaw and I are old friends, Ed,” the earl said as he extended his hand in fellowship. “Thank you for meeting us.”
“Happy to help, Lord Aubrey. This gentleman is C-District’s Officer-in-Charge Bertie Lintel. His men doused the fire here on Sunday night, and a few of them engaged some of those curious wild animals,” he added, casting a strange look at his district officer. “That fellow at The Star’s making hay of all that, as you surely know.”
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