Elizabeth’s eyes had begun to tear again, and she wiped her face. “Yes, it is,” she said, her voice breaking. “Well, gentlemen, perhaps you two will wander through the garden once again, for I have overstayed my time in this chair, and I grow weary. Mr. Treves will scold us all, if I do not lie down. Mr. Merrick, you are the dearest man I’ve known in many years, my husband excluded, of course. Thank you very much for the music box, but also for your friendship.”
“You are most welcome to both, Elizabeth. I hope to see you again before you go home tomorrow, but perhaps also at Christmas?”
“Yes, I do hope you will come. Charles, could you help me into bed?”
Merrick rose, leaning heavily upon his cane, and slowly made his way back towards the doorway, but turned before leaving. “Charles, I cannot convey all that is in my heart, but seeing the two of you together—well, it brings me indescribable joy!”
Sinclair shook Joseph’s deformed, right hand, clutching it with his. “My dear friend. May you know that same joy every day of your life. God certainly has given it to me. I’ll stop in to visit you later, if that’s all right.”
“I shall look forward to it. And perhaps a game of chess? With Mr. Blinkmire and Count Riga’s departure, I lack for challenging partners.”
“Very well, but only if you do not cheat,” Sinclair said with a wink.
“I promise nothing,” Merrick responded with a similar wink. He turned away and followed the tiled floor to his own apartment, and Charles shut Beth’s door.
“I’d no idea how you two met,” she said as he lifted her into the bed. “Had you really been thinking about coming to Paris in ’86?”
“Yes,” he confessed. “Elizabeth, I don’t know how all of this works, but I suspect that God has established an eternal connexion ‘twixt you and me that no assault can ever break. Some might call that fate, but I call it design. You and I were designed for one another, little one. He always intended us to be together, but the timing had to be his. Joseph is the one who convinced me to wait. He was the answer to my prayer that night. Merrick assured me that God would make it happen at the right time and in a manner that would allow your grandfather to accept me as your husband. And so the Lord has.”
“Indeed, he has. Do you think Treves will let me to go home tomorrow?”
“I’ll go and ask him, and then after I must lose a game or two to Mr. Merrick.”
“I hope you don’t lose intentionally, Charles. He is a bright man, capable of playing against a champion, I should think.”
Charles laughed. “I’d say he can! I won the Cambridge chess tournament my last two years, and still Merrick beats me. I shall be happy to achieve a draw.”
“Then, we shall plan a tournament for Christmas. Do be careful, Charles.”
“At chess? Darling, it’s hardly dangerous.”
“No, I mean… Well, in general. It’s been too quiet these past few days. I’ve a very strong premonition of darkness on the horizon. I try not to think of it, but will you promise to watch for all the enemy’s gambits?”
He stroked her hair and smiled. “I promise. Now, you must fulfil your promise and rest for an hour at least. I’ve a few last errands, and then I’ll return. I love you, little one,” he whispered, kissing her lips.
“And I you, Captain. Would you bring me the music box before you go?”
He took the silver box from the table and placed it into her hands. “Here you are, darling. Now, I really must go. I’ll speak to Treves.”
He kissed her once more and then shut the door as he left. Beth lifted the lid on the music box, the simple melody bringing memories that tugged at something long ago locked behind a dark door inside her mind.
Why did she think of a wolf, when recalling her father’s face?
Elizabeth closed her eyes. As the music played, she slipped into a fitful dream, where bird-like Shadows with yellow eyes and curved beaks, overflew London in dense flocks, destroying buildings and slaying thousands by pecking out their eyes. One of these rode upon a monstrous beast that breathed fire. The rider looked like a man with raven’s wings, and he whispered to her in hellish speech, offering a warning.
Beware the looking glass. She is poison.
7:15 pm
Sinclair played three games of chess with Merrick, losing two but winning one, and then crossed the gravel park to the medical college, where he knocked on Frederick Treves’s office door. The handsome surgeon smiled at seeing the detective and rose to shake his hand. “Please, Superintendent, do come in. I was just marking last week’s exam books. May I offer you some water?”
“No, thank you, Frederick. I’m sure you know my question already.”
“Yes, I can imagine it,” he said with a smile. Both men sat, and the busy surgeon withdrew a file from a cabinet, glancing through the many notes contained within. “It’s remarkable how much the duchess has improved since arriving. Her lungs have cleared considerably, but I’d like to keep her another day at least. Now, I see the disappointment on your face, and I understand, but I’ve a few concerns, which I should like to settle in my mind before sending her home.”
“What concerns you?” the marquess asked. “Is she still in danger?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “Forgive me for being obscure; it isn’t my intent. Anthony Gehlen and I have spoken often of the duchess’s case, and her condition presents irregularities.”
“That is not more clear,” Sinclair replied, worry creasing his brow.
“No, I suppose it is not. How can I put this?” he mused, rising to shut the door. Once seated again, Treves folded his hands and leaned towards the detective. “I wish Gehlen were here, for this is his area of expertise, not mine.”
“Is he in the building?”
“No, Anthony has already left for the day. We could meet tomorrow morning, if you have the time.”
“Fred, tell me!”
“Yes, of course. Let me see if I can explain this clearly,” Treves said, clearly uncomfortable. “Charles, can you tell me the precise date when the duchess conceived? Honestly, I would never ask a man this, but your wife insists it is the eighth of October.”
“It is,” Sinclair replied. “That is not for public knowledge, you understand. The press is already jumping to a lifetime’s worth of conclusions with this whole royalty business. They would have a field day with this information!”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. You needn’t explain, but if you are absolutely certain that no other date is possible, then…”
“None other is possible, Fred. It is that date, and only that date.”
“Very well. Then, I should like to ask Gehlen to conduct a full examination. I realise you and Elizabeth know practically nothing about him, but I’ve known him for many years. He’s discreet and thorough, and I’ve come to trust his skills and his opinions.”
Charles took a breath and counted to ten, for this conversation disturbed rather than comforted. “Just tell me what you suspect.”
Treves thought for a moment, looking again at the file. “Ordinarily, I’d not even mention these suspicions, but because of your position and the duchess’s trauma, I feel I must. Charles, I think it possible that your wife carries more than one child.”
Charles said nothing, for after meeting Georgie and hearing Beth talk of Robby in their strange, shared dream, the news already felt familiar. If he hadn’t hallucinated the conversation with the queen, then he’d soon be made a duke, just as his future daughter had told him would happen. The entire stone realm experience was real, meaning his children were real and would be born in June of ’89.
“Did you hear me, Charles?” Treves asked, trying to pierce the other man’s reverie.
“Yes, of course, I did. Sorry, Fred. Are you saying she is carrying two babies? Definitely?”
“I’m not saying it is a fact. I may be com
pletely wrong, but I would keep her here for another day or two, if you’d permit it, so that Gehlen has time to conduct his examination.”
Charles sat back in the chair. Believing in the possibility of twins, based on a shared dream was one thing; hearing a well-respected surgeon state it, was quite another. “I don’t suppose you have something stronger than water?”
Treves laughed. “No, I’m afraid not. Twins are a double blessing, but they can also bring added risk to a pregnancy. It’s imperative that your wife follow all my instructions.”
“I’ll see that she does,” Sinclair promised. “And you may keep her as long as you find it necessary. In truth, she’s less likely to make rash choices in your care. Thank you, Frederick. Oh, I’m to ask you if Joseph Merrick might visit us over Christmastide, either here or at Branham.”
“I’m sure he’d enjoy that. I’ll speak to Joseph about it, and we’ll make arrangements regarding transportation at a later date. Thank you for asking him. He’s grown quite fond of your wife, and, of course, the two of you have been friends for a long time.”
Sinclair rose to leave. “If there’s anything I can do to help with the arrangements, let me know. My cousin owns two trains, and we’d hire any medical personnel you deem necessary.”
“Excellent. Now, I’ve an evening lecture to give to my first year students on diagnosing tumours. It’s actually more exciting than it sounds.”
Charles shook the surgeon’s hand once more and left by way of the north entrance, where he hailed a hansom for Leman Street. When he’d spoken with Reid earlier, Charles had asked the inspector to arrange a supper meeting with Fred Abberline for 8:00. As the Yard’s new Commissioner for Intelligence, Charles wanted to know every detail of the current murder investigations.
No sooner had the marquess’s cab turned onto Whitechapel Road, than a dark-haired woman emerged from a second hansom near the main hospital entry. She paid the driver, asking him to wait, and then entered—bound for the ground floor’s private rooms.
Passing by a porter engaged in conversation with a student nurse, the disguised woman approached the constables who kept watch upon the duchess’s door. She passed a slip of paper to the shorter one. After whispering together, the pair reluctantly left their post and moved to the east entrance at the far end of the hallway.
Now, with no one observing her movement, the woman entered the shadowy room, where Elizabeth Stuart Sinclair lay dreaming.
8:02 pm
Press coverage of the Ripper crimes had finally begun to wane, thanks to the front page stories of the ‘duchess kidnapping’ and her sudden reappearance and subsequent hospitalization. But also, tucked ‘twixt these major stories, the rumblings of royal rumours had taken hold in eager readers’ fertile imaginations. Consequently, as Charles Sinclair entered the station house, several officers near the booking desk saluted, and one actually bowed.
“The next man to do that buys drinks,” Sinclair warned the trio. “Despite what Fred Best might imply, I am not, nor ever will be a man to whom you men bow. Is that understood? Even if I were King of England, I’d consider you my comrades. Got that?”
“Yes, sir,” the men answered in unison.
“Is Abberline here yet?” he asked, returning to business.
“In with Mr. Reid, sir,” Williams told him. “They’ve ordered supper from the Bear. Sandwiches and ale. Hope that’s all right, Superintendent.”
“It’s Commissioner Sinclair now,” Edmund Reid called from the stairwell. “We’re up here, Charles.”
Sinclair turned to the sergeant. “Sandwiches and ale sound perfect, Alfred. Thanks.”
He dashed up the familiar steps and landed in Edmund’s office in ten seconds flat. Stepping through the door, he took a seat on the sofa, sighing happily. “I have two hours. Is that enough?”
“Enough for what? Solving crimes or eating a leg o’ lamb?” Abberline asked, grinning. “Good ta see you with both eyes open, Charles. How’s our duchess?”
“Sleeping, but that’s a state that can change without warning. I’d like to be back at the London by ten, if possible.”
“I think we can manage that, Commissioner. Or has the new position started yet? Our memo didn’t specify.”
“Home Secretary Matthews swore me in at nine this morning. It was a lovely ceremony, actually. And I have a brand new warrant card to prove it.”
Reid laughed. “Commissioner Sinclair! It has a nice ring to it, but then so does Your Majesty.”
“No more of that,” the new commissioner chided his friend. “It’s bad enough to get it from the lads downstairs. Catch me up on your current investigations. When I meet with Salisbury tomorrow afternoon, I may as well know what I’m talking about.”
Abberline handed his superior a thick folder. “We’ve compiled it all in here, and you can keep it for your fancy new office,” the gruff inspector said, his mutton-chop whiskers twitching. “Are we to believe this Trent person was Ripper?”
“I’d thought him the likeliest suspect,” Reid admitted, looking at Sinclair. “As did you, Charles.”
The detective glanced through the collection of evidence on his lap: photographs of victims, clothing, witness interviews, drawings of wound patterns, and every note taken since the string of hideous murders had commenced the previous December, beginning with a woman, known locally as ‘Fairy Fay’.
“We can’t prove Trent’s involvement unless we can draw a clear line from him to at least one of the victims,” he said, glancing at Reid. “As yet, that line does not exist.”
Though the circle members were convinced of the late baronet’s guilt, English law required more than suspicion. With Lorena MacKey and Susanna Morgan missing—the latter woman, possibly dead—the only hard evidence remaining was Ida Ross’s list, which would be tossed out by a judge as inflammatory and possibly even fabricated.
“We may never solve Ripper,” Reid declared. “Charles, if you’re in a rush, let’s discuss the Hemsfield murder. Parliament is up in arms about this one, and the press have discovered some of the more lurid details. I’ve no idea who told them, but Best intimated as much earlier this evening at the Bear. And speaking of The Star, I’ve more bad news. Michael O’Brien has been released.”
“What? Why?” Sinclair asked, setting the file aside in frustration. “Who advocated for him this time ‘round?”
“An Irish solicitor named Burns. He’s got plenty of friends at the Old Bailey, but it’s his city friends that made the difference, I imagine.”
“I cannot believe that man escaped us again,” Sinclair muttered. “Burns, you say? First name?”
“Patrick. I suspect they’re old pals, from the way they conversed on their way out. Shall I assign someone to look into the man?”
“No, I prefer not to use police resources. I’ll have an ICI agent do it. Now that Beth’s returned to us, we have men sitting idle. Matthew Laurence mentioned a desire to visit Ireland. I’ll dispatch him right away.”
“Poor lad,” Abberline quipped. “He’ll soon wish to be back in England. Williams has the solicitor’s business card and contact information.”
“Thanks, Fred. So, Hemsfield?”
Reid nodded. “Yes, Hemsfield. Sunders found no evidence of torture or intoxication, either through alcohol or drugs. However, France noticed an item we all missed.”
“Arthur did? What?” Charles asked.
“A candle.”
Abberline harrumphed loudly to make his opinion known to both colleagues. “This is a load o’ horse manure, if you ask me! Candles at a crime scene? What’s next? Arresting a pub owner for having spirits in his cellar? Every house in London has candles!”
“So they do,” Reid agreed. “However, very few have candles like this. I showed it to Martin earlier today, and he recognised it at once. It’s a variation on the soporific candles some in this borough cl
aim are made from the organs of Ripper’s victims.”
“Poppycock!” Abberline sputtered. “Are we policemen or palmists?”
“We’re open to whatever the killer believes, Fred,” Sinclair chided his junior officer.
“Well, then this killer is a madman.”
“I’ll not argue with that,” the marquess replied. “How is this candle a variant of the other you mentioned, Edmund?”
“Martin called it a Mandragore Candle. We might call it a Mandrake Candle, but old manuscripts refer to it as the Hand of Glory. Typically, so says our tailor, it’s a tallow candle made from the fat of a hanged man, preferably a felon found hanging at a crossroads, and it’s placed within the desiccated left hand of the same man, using the hand as a candlestick. In this case, the candle stood inside a ceramic hand, bearing the inscription ‘The Left Hand Path’ upon it. It’s a phrase used by a popular occultist named Helena Blavatsky. We found two pamphlets and a book by that lady in Hemsfield’s rented house.”
“Pamphlets! What kind of evidence is that? Are we to arrest this Blavatsky woman, then?” Abberline grumbled. “I doubt any woman could hoist a man of over two hundred pounds and hang him from a chandelier pipe that’s eighteen feet off the floor!”
Charles started to answer, but Arthur France knocked on the office door. “Sirs? I’m very sorry to interrupt, but there’s been another one.”
All three faces lost colour. “Another murder?” Reid asked the young inspector.
“Yes, sir. Over at the Exchange.”
“That’s the city’s jurisdiction,” Sinclair argued. “Sir James Fraser’s patch.”
“True, sir, but Commissioner Monro insists we send a team over right away, as the method is the same. Another hanged man.”
“Isn’t the Exchange closed?” Reid asked. “Who found this hanged man?”
“The cleaner, sir. And the victim’s a member of Parliament.”
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