Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Doctor,” Charles said, nodding his head respectfully. “I look forward to visiting Carlisle. My family home is near there.”

  “Rose House, correct? Overlooking Eden Valley. I’ve never been inside, but my uncle told stories of remarkable parties held there when he was newly arrived in the area.”

  “I’m afraid I can neither deny nor confirm, Dr. Gehlen. I’ve only scant memories of my childhood, but you’ll want to speak with the Baroness Wychwright. Her husband’s family has property in Windermere, and it’s quite likely he knew your uncle. The baron is MP for the Lake District.”

  Gehlen’s dark eyes glinted. “Wychwrights. I’ve heard that name. Thank you. It’s most gratifying to be with my fellow countrymen once again. When, I arrived back in England, I found myself nostalgic for London and its thriving medical community. I’ve known Treves, here, for years, so I sent him a letter, explaining my desire to teach obstetrics to his students. I’m happy to say that he answered almost immediately.”

  Treves nodded. “Anthony’s been named a visiting professor at both the Women’s School and here, Charles, but as his duties do not commence until January, I asked if he would consult with the duchess.”

  “Then I praise God for his provision,” Sinclair told both men. “Dr. Gehlen, have you an opinion on wife’s health?”

  “A preliminary one,” he replied. “The duchess is doing well, considering. I’ve been told of the ordeal she suffered recently, but despite physical trauma, shock, and probable pneumonia, the duchess recovers quickly. She must be a woman of considerable energy when healthy.”

  “You might say that,” Paul answered glibly. “Considerable drive and stubbornness, certainly. Charles, I’m going to speak with the other residents of the castle, unless Treves objects.”

  “I’ve no objection at all,” the shorter physician answered. “But do be careful around Mr. Blinkmire. He’s dealing with a great deal of pain. A brave man, that. I very much doubt the duchess would have survived without his protection. Miss Ross told me of their flight from the fire. Blinkmire’s quick thinking saved the duchess from suffering similar burns.”

  “We have much to be grateful for,” Charles said as he turned to his cousin. “Let me look in on Beth, and then I’ll come with you, Paul.

  As he entered the room, a strange chill shuddered along Sinclair’s entire frame, as though a sharp draft blew throughout the space. Expecting the window to be open, he crossed to it and drew the drapes aside, but found the window shut and locked. Still, the peculiar chill hung in the air as though alive.

  “Captain?” she called.

  As Sinclair turned about, that same freezing fear clutched at his heart. For the briefest of seconds, he saw her dead. The eyes open but staring, the mouth slack, bloodstains covering the bed and sheets as though she’d just given birth—or miscarried. A blur of motion crossed his vision, like something only half visible had rushed past him. Charles reached out, and he could actually feel the thing, the sensation turning his fingers to ice.

  Then she spoke again.

  “Charles, are you all right?”

  It had all been mere thought, a vision perhaps—or a glimpse into the future. The hospital door opened, causing Charles to jump, his nerves raw.

  “Sorry, Haimsbury,” Henry MacAlpin said cheerfully. “I knocked, but no one answered. I’d thought the duchess might be alone, you see, and... I say, are you all right?” he asked Sinclair, who’d gone completely white.

  “Yes, I think so,” the marquess muttered unconvincingly.

  “Sit down now!” the Scotsman ordered the detective. “Duchess, I wonder, can you reach that water glass to your left?”

  Beth found the glass and handed it to Salperton, who had both hands busy keeping Sinclair from toppling over.

  “Steady on. Stay right here, Charles. Do not move from this chair.”

  Henry drained the water carafe, filling the glass almost to the top. “Drink this. Half first, and then the rest.” He lifted Sinclair’s wrist and checked the pulse. “I assume you’re generally in fine condition, but your heart is working far too hard at the moment. I fear your head injury isn’t yet healed.”

  “Is he all right, Henry?” Beth asked.

  “He will be, but he must rest. Charles—forgive me, may I call you Charles?”

  Sinclair nodded.

  “Thank you. Charles, you have accomplished your task. The duchess is with you, and she is recovering. Those lovely eyes now look upon you, wondering at your health.”

  Sinclair said nothing, but continued to stare.

  “My friend, I really do think you require rest. There is a vacant patient room just the other side of this one. I suggest you take advantage of that bed and sleep for a few hours.”

  “I’ll sleep in here,” he insisted, his eyes focusing at last. “Henry. When did you get here?”

  “A moment ago. Do not stand yet,” he warned Haimsbury, who’d started to rise, but grown dizzy again. Charles complied and returned to the chair.

  Sinclair blinked to clear his thoughts. What just happened to me? “Sorry. Thank you, Henry. You’re right. Forgive me, Beth,” he told his wife, reaching for her hand. “I’ve given you a fright.”

  “That’s all right, Captain. Henry, would you ask a nurse to bring us more water?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  The viscount left, and Elizabeth sat up as straight as she could manage. “Tell me.”

  Charles sipped at the remaining water, blinking defensively. “Tell you what?”

  “Whatever is troubling you, for a start, but also this head injury of yours. It happened last Sunday night, didn’t it?”

  “Beth, really, it’s but a trifle, and I do not wish to speak of it.”

  “Is that a command?” she asked him stubbornly.

  “If it must be, yes.”

  Her eyes grew still and fixed upon his. “Very well,” she said at last. “But you must promise to tell me everything as soon as we return home. Will you do that?”

  He nodded and leaned over to kiss her. “I promise.”

  She ran a finger along the shadowed outline of his cheek. “Your face tells a story, Captain. You’ve cuts and bruises, and you’ve not shaved, probably since the eighteenth. No, I’m content to wait! Only do be careful, darling.”

  “Always,” he told her as Henry returned with the water.

  “Your colour is much improved,” he said, setting the filled carafe on the table. “I rather imagine it’s due to the duchess more than anything I may have done. Charles, Mr. Blinkmire and Count Riga have asked to speak with you. Have you a moment?”

  “Yes,” he answered. He kissed his wife’s cheek and whispered, “Sleep, little one. I shan’t be long.”

  As the two men walked along the corridor towards the private ward, Salperton offered an observation. “Look, Charles, I know you probably don’t fully trust me yet, if at all, but may I speak frankly?”

  Sinclair laughed. “According to my cousin, you do nothing but speak frankly. Paul calls you the most forthright man he’s ever known.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but there is a strange feeling to your wife’s room. It hit me quite hard when I entered and found you collapsing. You felt it, too, didn’t you?”

  The marquess stopped, a dozen thoughts swirling in his head. “Paul tells me that he once asked you to join the inner circle. How familiar are you with our mission?”

  “Only just,” Salperton answered. “I asked my father about it after Paul spoke with me, but he refused to answer. My father is a peculiar and insular man, always has been. I’d hoped he would change as I matured, but he grows evermore distant with each passing year. However, I do know a little about the circle. Thomas Galton told me it’s about an ancient inheritance or something. And Prince Anatole mentioned it.”

 
“Let’s speak more of this after we meet with Riga and Blinkmire. What do you think of them?”

  “I think them extraordinary men. They dearly love your wife, but then all men do. We cannot help it. She emits a delicate light which draws us in and holds us there,” he said wistfully. “Do forgive me! I mean nothing by it.”

  “I understand completely, Henry,” the marquess answered as they reached the ward. “I think your description is perfect, and I also know how very blessed I am to be married to that beautiful light.”

  They entered the six-bed ward. It was the same arrangement as the women’s ward, where Ida and the other ladies now slept, but this room was slightly larger and had a porter’s closet. Riga was resting his twisted back against a plump pillow, his left arm in a sling from a dislocated shoulder. “My dear Salperton! A pleasure to see you again.”

  “And you, Count,” the viscount answered. “Forgive me for not visiting you sooner, but I had some details to work out at Montmore. Have you met Lord Haimsbury?”

  Riga extended his free hand in fellowship, a smile illuminating his aged face. “A distinct pleasure to meet you, Lord Haimsbury. I’ve been reading about you in this newspaper. We’ve had nothing but library books and year-old broadsheets to read for a very long time. I confess to enjoying my incarceration here, for it offers time to catch up on the news. Tell me, sir, is this report true? Is your blood royal?”

  Charles walked past Blinkmire’s bed, where the giant lay snoring. He reached out to take the newspaper. “May I?”

  “Yes, of course,” Riga said as he handed Sinclair that morning’s edition of The Star. The headline read: THE RELUCTANT PRINCE OF QUEEN ANNE HOUSE, and referenced an unnamed source in the queen’s household who insisted that a well-known peerage family had a stronger claim to the throne than ‘the Germans’ who now occupied it. Though the article did not name Charles specifically, it certainly implied as much, for only two men of ‘marriageable age’, as the article described this mysterious ‘prince’, had ever called Queen Anne House home: Charles and his cousin, Paul Stuart.

  The latter gentleman entered the ward as Charles scanned through the outrageous article, growing angrier with each line. “Why do publishers keep printing this trash?” he asked his cousin.

  Paul reacted in typical fashion. “To sell newspapers, of course. Now that the Ripper murders have subsided, the press looks for new ways to tantalise their readers.”

  “Ah, yes, Ripper!” Riga interjected. “I’ve been reading about him. Most distressing! I pray his crimes have ended.”

  “As do we all,” Sinclair agreed.

  “That young porter, Lord Haimsbury. The tall one. A Mr. Davis, I believe. He was kind enough to bring me the papers, and we discussed this Jack the Ripper person. His description reminds me of the dybbuk creature that haunted Romania when I was a boy.”

  “We’ve heard Ripper called dybbuk by others, Count,” Charles replied. “I wonder, if we might speak of different matters for the moment. Do you mind if I sit?”

  “Please! I understand that you also work for the police, Lord Aubrey.”

  “I do all the work, and Charles gets all the glory,” the earl teased.

  “Remind me to reduce your wages, then,” the detective answered, his brow arched.

  “Ah, the two of you jest with one another,” Riga said, smiling. “Tis a sign of great affection. I suspect you both work very hard.”

  “We do our best,” Sinclair said. “As you may already know, Count, I’m currently a detective with Scotland Yard, though that position may change soon.”

  “As you inherit the throne?” the count joked.

  “No,” Charles smiled, “but because my cousin and I have started our own intelligence organisation. It is under that auspices that we’re investigating the fire at Istseleniye Castle.”

  Riga grew serious. “Ah, so you know its true name, then. Yes, I imagine Miss Ross or Katrina told you. How are Miss Ross and the others?”

  “Mending,” Sinclair told him. “And you?”

  “Healing quickly for an old man. I’ve nothing to complain about. Stephen—Mr. Blinkmire—is the worst of all of us. His eyes were burnt quite badly. He sleeps from powerful medicines. A blessing, I think. And our Mr. Stanley suffered a dreadful cut to his left leg, but it’s healing well, is it not, Mr. Stanley?”

  Elbert Stanley had been reading a book in the bed opposite, and he brandished a wide smile. “Very well, I’m happy to say. Superintendent Sinclair, the count’s quick thinking is to thank for our state of health. Before escaping, he placed the prince’s medical book in his coat pocket. The book contains the chemical recipes for the treatments we’ve been undergoing. I shudder to think what might have happened without our daily medicinals! Poor Mr. Anderson, most of all. He’d only just begun his treatments. It would have gone very badly, otherwise. But you’re all right, aren’t you, Mr. Anderson?”

  The man once called Thirteen had been sleeping off and on, and he waved from his bed. “So long as the drapes remain shut, I’m well enough. You’re Superintendent Sinclair?”

  Charles nodded from Riga’s bedside. “Yes. I take it that all you men took treatments prescribed by Romanov? I recall someone once telling me that the prince has powerful healing abilities. Countess di Specchio, I believe.”

  “She is not to be trusted!” Stanley warned the detective. “I don’t like to speak ill of others, but she’s with them, sir.”

  “With whom, Mr. Stanley?”

  “The evil ones. The countess used to bring her friends into the castle, late at night, when she thought us all asleep, but my illness makes me sensitive to light, and I often walked about the castle after dark. My condition improves, and it is not dangerous, but...” he paused, his face serious. “Let us say that I can be quite dangerous in that other state.”

  Stanley looked towards Riga, who offered a compassionate nod. “Never fear, Elbert, you are amongst friends. Speak freely.”

  “Thank you, Viktor. Well, sir, one night, not long ago, the prince was away for several days, and during that time, the countess changed my medicine and then left my door unlocked. I reverted to my older ways and caused poor Miss Ross such a fright! The prince returned in the nick of time, and he set us all to rights. A few days afterwards, he banished di Specchio from the castle. We’ve not seen her since, but I know she is at the heart of that attack on us! I do not like saying this, but I find myself hating that woman!”

  Paul Stuart, who’d been standing just inside the door with Salperton, asked an insightful question. “Mr. Stanley, didn’t you used to live at No. 12 Columbia Road?”

  “Yes! Why, yes, I did. Why do you ask, my lord?”

  “If Count Riga will notice last Monday’s edition of those newspapers stacked beside his bed, he’ll see that a house on Columbia caught fire amidst a very strange attack the previous night.”

  Riga quickly answered, whispering, “I’ve said nothing yet, Lord Aubrey. Our Mr. Stanley suffered terribly for over a decade at the hands of these demonic men. I’ve no wish to upset him.”

  “Upset me how?” Stanley asked innocently.

  Blinkmire’s snores grew more staccato as he snorted into wakefulness. His large hands wore thick bandages, and his eyes were bound. “What?” he puffed, thrashing about in panic. “Who’s there? Where is she? Is she safe? My lady!”

  Riga left his bed and crossed the room in his dressing gown to touch his friend’s right arm. “There now, Stephen. All is well. The duchess is safe, thanks to you. Sleep now.”

  The gigantic man with the soft heart sighed and returned to snoring. Riga glanced up, and Sinclair could see tears glistening in his aging eyes.

  “This dear man will probably never see his name in a newspaper, yet his is one of the greatest tales known to me. Do you know that his childless parents visited a gypsy necromancer nearly forty years ago in search of a cure for t
heir curse? The gypsy offered them a potion, which the wife consumed every night for a month, and within three months more, she discovered herself with child, despite her husband’s having died without ever touching her again. She proclaimed to all in her Irish village that she’d conceived without need of a man. Of course, no one believed her, but when Stephen was born with features that looked both human and, well, non-human, let us say, these same villagers began to whisper of sorcery and a legend called the Moss People. As the boy grew, he demonstrated a remarkable ability for numbers and languages. Lord Haimsbury, my selfless friend has memorised whole sections of the Bible and many other books, and he can recite the value of pi to three hundred decimal places! But he’d trade all that mental ability for a normal life. As you can see, he stands close to eight feet tall and weighs nearly four hundred pounds. It is a great improvement over where he would have been, were it not for his rescuer.”

  “The prince?” Charles asked the count.

  “Indeed, and the story is miraculous! You see, at only ten, Stephen had outgrown all the elders of his village. At twelve, he stood seven feet tall, and I’m told at fifteen had reached over eight feet. On his sixteenth birthday, young Stephen had decided to take his own life, for he could no longer bear the taunts and jeers of his fellows. He’d prepared a thick rope and climbed a tall sycamore, but the end did not come as he expected, for that is the day Prince Anatole Romanov appeared and rescued him. He convinced the youth to accompany him and since that day, Blinkmire has been a loyal friend to the prince. In turn, His Highness has continually searched for better ways to counteract the vanishing gypsy’s curse. Without these medicines, Stephen would probably grow to monumental heights! It is my belief that the madmen known to some in England as Redwing—but in my country as the Lords of the Black Stone—were behind my friend’s curse. Di Specchio is one of their kind, sir. A bloodthirsty witch. It would not surprise me at all to learn that she and her coven of vampires are behind all those Ripper murders!”