Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “A pleasant day to you, good lady,” Charles called to the woman, his manner easy.

  “And the same ta you, sir,” she answered, wiping her hands on a towel. “I’m Molly Porter, an’ this ‘ere’s my place. What might I do fer ya? Room fer the night? A meal? I got a chicken simmerin’ what’s about done, but kippers and eggs is easy ta fix as well.”

  The detective shook his head. “Nothing just yet, thank you. Would you have a guest staying here who speaks Russian?”

  “Russian, is it? That’s real strange. Another asked me the same thing, no’ an hour past.”

  “Another? Can you describe him?”

  “Dressed right smart. Short, thin, wore one o’ them tall ‘ats,” she told Sinclair. “Like I told ‘im, my guests speak a variety o’ languages. Some days, it’s like Babel itself hereabouts. Can you describe this Russian gent, sir?” she asked amiably.

  Aubrey replied. “Mrs. Porter, the man we seek knows a great deal about cards. Particularly the old ones. There’s a mysterious figure that I hope to discuss with him. It’s called the ‘hanged man’. Does that sound familiar to you at all?”

  The largest of the three card players cast his eyes towards the peers. He looked like every other man that worked the docks: rough of face and hands, squint-eyed from too much time in the sun, and wearing every item of clothing he owned upon his back. It was clear to Aubrey that the mention of the ‘hanged man’ had caught the fellow by surprise, but the earl had spent enough time as a spy to discern mere interest from suspicious guilt. The large man fell into the latter category. It was beginning to feel like he and Charles had walked into a trap.

  The proprietress paid no heed, and she twisted her red hair with one hand in an effort to stimulate her memory. “An ‘anged man, ya say? Weren’t there such a man up on Commercial, found ‘angin’ from ‘is own ceilin’? Two o’ them men from the Juggernaut come in talkin’ ‘bout it.”

  “Juggernaut? Is that a ship?” Sinclair asked.

  “It is, sir. One o’ them steam trawlers what runs out ta Gravesend an’ back every week. Big beam an’ all fer the nets. Run by a feller name o’ Gantry. Real tall fella. Got a limp an’ hellish black eyes. Like soot they is.”

  Aubrey had a tingle near the back of his head, as though his senses screamed for attention. “Tell me, Mrs. Porter, how is this Gantry dressed?”

  “Like most men, I reckon. Save you gents, o’ course. Never seen such fancy clothes in my place afore. Ain’t that a leather coat, sir?”

  Aubrey allowed her to feel the sleeve. “It’s called a duster, actually. Burnished cowhide. I had it made in America.”

  “America?” she echoed, whistling. “I ain’ never seen nobody wear a coat like that. And made in America an’ all! I reckon you’re bofe rich, then?”

  Charles considered showing the woman his warrant card, but decided to defer—for now. “We’re men of business,” he explained, bending the truth somewhat, for both he and his cousin owned a variety of businesses, most of them inherited. “Does Mr. Gantry ever stay with you?”

  “Now an’ then, he does. I could give ‘im yer card next time ‘e comes ‘round, if ya like.”

  Porter’s two boys rushed in and tugged at their mother’s sleeve, asking for a penny to buy sweets. She sent the children to another room to play, promising they could share a penny after supper. Paul followed them.

  “Oh, sir!” the woman called to Aubrey. “There’s naught back there but me own rooms. I can fetch you an ale, if you’re thirsty.”

  Aubrey turned and smiled disarmingly. The woman smiled in return, for the well-dressed gentleman was certainly handsome.

  “Good lady, I smell a delicious chicken, do I not? I’m a connoisseur of fine cuisine and a bit of a chef—though I hesitate to boast—and I would see your spices, if you’d not think it an imposition. Do I smell oregano and tarragon? Marjoram?”

  The woman blushed beneath her muslin bonnet, completely charmed by her guest. “You do, sir! Oh, now tha’ is a gift most men do no’ share wif you. Tarragon’s one o’ me secrets, and I always adds a pinch of marjoram. Oh, go on, then! I reckon there’s no ‘arm in it, if you’ve a mind to see me spices.”

  She turned back to Charles, who’d been thoroughly enjoying Paul’s remarkable performance. “Care for a pint sir?” she asked him.

  Sinclair offered a bow, smiling. “That would be most welcome, Mrs. Porter. I’ll have an ale, and so will my friend.”

  “Two ales, it is, then. Oh, Mr. Gantry did stay wiv me las’ week, but he’s not been back since. Paid for a fortnight, ‘e did, but stole away on Sunday evenin’, just afore them wolves come out.”

  “Wolves?” Charles asked.

  “Oh, yes! I seen ‘em. Looked like ‘airy men wiv a wolf’s face! Like ta scared a year’s life righ’ outa me, they did. My boys seen ‘em, too, no matter wha’ the police say. Oh, them ales! I’ll go an’ fetch ‘em.”

  Charles looked towards the three men, wondering if one might have have sent the curious note. “It’s certainly a cold day. Mind if I join you gentlemen beside that most gratifying fire?”

  He left no time for them to answer, but crossed to the fireplace and began warming his hands. “It looks like snow again. Early for winter, but it is nearly Christmas. I wonder, did either of you happen to be staying here last week?”

  One of the three turned, his face shadowed by a week’s growth of honey-coloured stubble. “I were ‘ere. Why?”

  “Only that I had a business contact who often stays at this inn when he works in London. A Russian fellow. Quite tall.”

  “I don’ know no Russians, an’ I ain’ never been ta Russia neever. I reckon a toff like you travels all over the world, eh?”

  Charles had never been called a ‘toff’ before in his entire life, and he actually smiled. “Well, sir, in truth, I’ve not visited Russia either, but my friend has been there many times. You’re a fisherman, I take it?”

  “I were. Used ta fish the estuary. Now I works the docks ‘eavin’ cargo when I can get on the rolls. Pete ‘ere’s been ta Russia, ain’ cha, Pete?”

  A second man, smaller than the first, glanced up from his cards. “Yeah, I been. It’s all right, I reckon. Cold as a witch’s wand, iffin ya gets me drift, sir. What’s two fancy gents like you doin’ ‘ere, eh? You lookin’ for sumfing special? I knows a few places where Bobby Blue don’ go, iffin you’ve a mind fer exotic entertainments o’ the female variety.”

  Charles considered the absurdity of the moment, wondering what the card-playing dockworker would think if he knew he’d promised to take a Scotland Yard superintendent on a tour of the bawdier locales of Whitechapel.

  “That sounds quite interesting,” he said as Paul emerged from the kitchen and signalled. “I fear it will have to wait until another time. If you’ll excuse me. My friend wants a word.”

  Sinclair left the fire and joined his cousin at the table.

  “The boys had much to say,” Aubrey whispered. “Give it a minute, and then follow me.”

  Aubrey took an ale from Mrs. Porter and drank deeply, wiping his mouth. “Send her up when she gets here,” he told her and then climbed the steep stairs to the upper floor.

  Charles lifted his own glass, drank two swigs, and then followed his cousin. The three men looked one to the other, and then to the woman.

  “What’s them toffs up to, Molly?” the largest man asked roughly.

  “They got a fella what procures fer ‘em, and she’s ta be delivered—so they says. They’s paid well enough, an’ I ain’ one to pry. Bite o’ chicken, gents?”

  Upstairs, Paul left the door to the second room open so Charles could find him.

  “In here,” he said as Charles arrived. “The boys said a man who spoke fluent Russian slept in here until Sunday night. Tall with a limp and bright clothes. I thought we might see if our mysterious, limping R
ussian left anything of interest.”

  “You’re a devious sort, Lord Aubrey. Do you often resort to such intemperate subterfuge?”

  “All the time,” he answered as he searched through the closet. “There’s mud on the floor and prints that look as though a man with large feet dried a pair of boots here. You can see the pattern of the toe. It’s square like those worn in Russia. Based on the size, I’d say this man is well over six feet tall.”

  “I never cease to learn from your experience, Cousin.”

  The earl laughed. “I’m happy to help.”

  He opened every drawer in a tall chest, stopping at the third. “Charles, look here. A deck of Lubek Tarot cards.”

  “Just what are Tarot cards, Paul?”

  “They’re used for divination by gypsies and palmists. Most use the Marseilles cards, but these are in the Lubek style. Lubek is a type of Russian illustration, often used to teach a lesson or tell a story. Lubek decks are popular with gypsies from the Carpathians and have more cards—a total of seventy-eight in most cases.” He began shuffling through the deck, and stopped part way through. One card had been turned at the corner to make it stand out. “What are we to make of this? The seven of cups?” the earl asked his cousin.

  “Let me,” Sinclair said, reaching for the card. The image showed seven ravens, each bearing a gift. One carried a tower, another a snake, the others presented gold, a laurel wreath, a crown, a glowing figure, and a dragon. “What does all this mean?”

  Paul shook his head. “As with most Tarot cards, the interpretation varies. Some say the card represents the seven deadly sins; others that it indicates future achievements or even temptations.”

  The image grew warm in his hand, and Sinclair had a strong sense of dread. “Leave the deck here. I want no part of it.”

  “But it’s evidence,” the earl argued. “And this card was left here for us to find.”

  “It is evil,” the marquess declared. “Leave it. Leave the whole deck.”

  “Tell me what you’re sensing, Charles, for to me they’re just bits of paper.”

  “Can’t you feel it? Hear it? The birds, Paul. They’re talking.”

  Paul took the card from his cousin and returned it to the deck. “We’re leaving and heading straight back to the London. Your head injury needs tending.”

  “No, it isn’t that. It cannot be coincidence. See the raven that bears the crown? It looks exactly like the gatekeeper in its bird form. It even has yellow eyes!”

  The earl placed the deck back inside the drawer and shut it. “I believe you, but you’re pale and in need of rest. Come, Cousin. Let me take you back to the London. We’ll hire a cab, and...”

  “No, I’m fine. Let me sit a moment. You keep looking.”

  He took a seat on the bed whilst the earl continued to search the room. The only other evidence Paul found were two brass buttons from a seaman’s coat and strands of black hair. He crossed to the window to see if anyone might be watching from below. The street seemed normal for mid-morning. A bird seller, a girl offering bundles of violets for a penny, a fishmonger, a ragged man who claimed to sharpen knives better than any other, a baked potato and pies wagon, and a myriad of other cart men.

  “We should go,” he told Sinclair. “I want to learn more about this ship, the Juggernaut. Charles, I don’t know if you’ve have much time to review recent crimes along the docks, but a pair of sailors were found dead on North Quay last Sunday night.”

  “Is that relevant?” his cousin asked.

  “I’m not sure. It might be nothing more than roughs picking a fight, but it’s worth investigation. Did you speak to the three men below?”

  “I did. Typical sort. Called us ‘toffs’. I guess we are, though I’d never thought to hear myself called such. I hinted at Russia, but achieved little, I’m afraid.”

  “Did you see their hands, Charles? Two of them showed fresh cuts on the knuckles. Not atypical for workmen, but it’s possible they engage in activities that might offer a police detective a bit of leverage.”

  “Activities like illegal boxing? There’s a bare knuckle ring not far from here. It’s run by a man who calls himself Angus Swiss in the old Ludlow Shipping warehouse. I asked Reid to shut the operation down, but the Home Secretary countermanded my decision. Apparently, despite being illegal since ‘67, these bouts provide an outlet for a great many West End gentlemen of influence, including several MPs.”

  “Charles, if you accept the position of Commissioner of Intelligence, then you won’t be under anyone’s authority. Not even the prime minister would interfere with an operation that’s funded with off-book funds.”

  “Off-book?”

  “As with my own position, intelligence operations seldom show up on a government ledger. The fewer eyes on these activities, the better, which is probably why Salisbury wants you on the cabinet. He’s a wily fellow, our prime minister. And subsequent PMs will relish having access to intelligence that bypasses Parliament. It’s a catbird seat, if ever there was one.”

  “I want to ask Beth first, but it does sound intriguing. For the present, what say you to a short round of question and answer with these three card players?”

  Paul smiled. “Happy to oblige. It’s a pleasure working with you, Lord Haimsbury.”

  “And a pleasure working with you, Lord Aubrey.”

  The two cousins returned to the main level only to find the men had vanished. Molly Porter was just wiping down their table.

  “The three who sat there, Mrs. Porter. Where did they go?” Paul asked.

  “Out to find work, or so they said. Seemed nonsense ta me, my lords, for them three’s been content ta lounge by that fire fer more ‘n a week! When they sees there’s no work ta be ‘ad, they’ll be back. I could fetch a full English whilst you wait, sirs.”

  Paul shook his head. “No, dear Molly, I fear that we must take our leave of you, but it’s been a distinct pleasure. I shall ever remember your fair cheeks and the blue of your bright eyes.”

  She laughed, blushing to a crimson hue that matched the stray hairs that peeked from beneath her bonnet. “Oh, sir! Ya tease, but I thanks yer anyways!” she giggled.

  Aubrey offered his best smile, dimples deepening beneath the unshaved cheek. “You’re a bonny lass, Molly, but my friend and I hope to find those three men. One looked familiar to me. Thomas Bright, I believe. A barber. The small one with the scar on his cheek.”

  “Oh, no, sir, that’s Eddy Macon. Works up ta the sugar mill when ‘e can get on the rolls. Them other two’s ‘is brothers. Pete and Joey Macon, bofe seafarin’ men. They kept company wiv a man name o’ Michael Kennery, but he were killed down near the quay last Sunday night. I fear tha’ I can say naught good abou’ tha’ man, and he’ll no’ be missed by me!”

  “My mistake then,” Aubrey said, kissing her hand. “Thank you, sweet Molly. I’ll be back to examine your kitchens one day soon. Tell your boys goodbye for me. They’re handsome young men.”

  Paul tapped Charles on the shoulder, but the marquess turned back a moment before leaving. “Mrs. Porter, I’m this gentleman’s cousin, and I tell you that he is honest and true, and I agree with his estimation both of your charms and of your character. Please, accept this in return for your hospitality and the ales.” He handed her two ten-pound notes, and she squealed in delight.

  “Oh, sir! Tha’ is right gen’rous! Thank you. And I do hope you’ll come back soon. Bofe of you!”

  Charles and Paul left, and the earl hailed a hansom. “Do you think this Kennery is one of the two men listed by The Star?”

  “Very likely,” the earl answered as a driver pulled up near them. “Where to?” he asked, his cousin.

  “Leman Street police station,” Sinclair told the driver as he stepped into the cab. “Before we return to the London, I want to see if we can find anything on these men from Porter’s.�
�

  Paul tapped on the roof, and the cabman headed south towards Commercial. “Charles, if we’ve time, I’d like to speak with Sunders regarding Hemsfield’s autopsy. Is he finished?”

  “Probably,” Sinclair answered as the bells of Christ Church sounded the hour of ten. “Once we’re at Leman Street, I’ll wire Baxter with news of Beth’s condition. I’m sure he’s worried. Should I send a telegram to the queen as well?”

  Paul laughed. “It says a great deal about you, Charles, that your first concern is for your butler rather than Her Majesty.”

  “And why not? To me, his blood is as blue as any royal. I intend to ask him if he’ll stay with us in London permanently, and Mrs. Alcorn as well. I’ve a position in mind that will allow Mrs. Partridge to continue as housekeeper.”

  Paul laughed as they walked towards Leman Street. “Let me guess. Nursery duty?”

  Sinclair smiled, his sea blue eyes twinkling. “You read my mind. Do you think Esther would enjoy that?”

  “I think she would leap at the opportunity, Charles. It’s a wonderful idea, and with Baxter as your butler, I can keep Laurence as an agent. He’s quite good, you know. I might assign him to look into these three men from Porter’s.”

  “You don’t plan to do it yourself?” the detective teased his cousin. “Porter is a bonny lass, after all, and she certainly took a shine to you.”

  “Yes, well, I only spoke the truth. Porter is a lovely woman, though she has the careworn look of a scorned wife left to fend for herself. I’ve seen far too many with such a look. Adele’s mother was one.”

  “Paul, you did Cozette du Barroux much honour in her final days. Did you love her?”

  The earl took a moment to respond, his eyes on the scenery. “I’m not sure. In my own way, I did. I’ve never been particularly open with my heart, as you can guess. I waited too late to share it with Beth. If love ever comes my way again, I hope I’m better able to recognise it.”

  “It will come. Just keep your eyes open. Will you ever tell Adele the truth about her mother?”