Suddenly the tingling at Sinclair’s neck began to scream. “Who?”
“Baron Wychwright, sir.”
Charles shut his eyes tightly. This would be a very long night.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Royal Exchange opened for business on the 23rd of January in 1571. The most recent version of that revered institution stood opposite the Bank of England on the south side of Threadneedle Street. Two previous buildings had succumbed to fire, and this third, designed by William Tite, followed the original, rectangular layout with a large, central courtyard. Architectural elements included pediment statuary, an eight-columned portico, spired bell tower, and multiple entrances. The building housed several restaurants, Lloyd’s Insurance, Reuters News Agency, and played host to a babel of multilingual traders from across the metropolis and Europe.
As the four detectives entered the hushed corridors, voices could be heard from the south side of the courtyard. By day, this area would teem with businessmen, reporters, bankers, traders, Parliamentarians, and government workers. A few might stop to purchase a fine clock or watch from one of the Exchange jewellers; whilst others shopped for shares in new or old companies, sold imported goods, or exchanged their inheritances for the modern-day equivalent of a handful of magic beans.
City Police Commissioner Sir James Fraser emerged from a vacant office, his face pale as he approached Sinclair. “Lord Haimsbury, I appreciate the prompt answer to my call. This one’s not for the weak of stomach, I can tell you that.”
“Sir James, we’ve been told the victim is the Lake District Minister Baron Wychwright. Is that true?”
“I’m afraid so. Wychwright’s a constant fixture at the Exchange, and he kept offices here until last year.”
“Kept offices? Past tense. He no longer does so?” Sinclair asked.
“So I understand. You’d need to verify that with the Exchange’s chief clerk. A fellow named Calloway.”
“I’ll do that. Wychwright was a family friend, and I know his daughter rather well.”
“She’s in hospital, I understand,” Fraser said. “This will go down very hard.”
“Yes, it will,” Charles remarked. “Let me tell her, will you? My men and I will do all we can to aid your investigation, but this is your jurisdiction, Sir James,” the marquess added as Fraser led them into the crime scene.
The room was unfurnished, save for a large, freestanding closet. The office’s dimensions were close to twenty by thirty, and two windows provided a view of the courtyard, the daylight augmented by a gaslit ceiling fixture and wall sconces. The victim wasn’t exactly like Hemsfield, for he’d been stuffed into the cramped closet following what appeared to be a hanging. The MP’s short neck showed three rings of gashed impressions, far deeper than a rope might cause, but also multiple stab wounds to the chest and buttocks. Both wrists were slashed longitudinally, and blood had collected inside the closet’s interior and onto the floor.
“He bled out,” Sinclair observed as he knelt beside the body. “Is this what alerted the cleaner? The blood on the carpet?”
“So we’re told. Her name’s Alice Marshall. Forty-three, married with two children; both adults. She’s worked for the Exchange for twelve years with a spotless employment record. By all accounts, a decent woman. As you might guess, this mess caused her to faint.”
“As it might most men,” Reid noted. “You say the baron no longer kept an office here? So then, who uses this one?”
“No one presently,” Fraser answered. “I’ve sent Inspector Graham to find the night steward. Apparently, he’d gone to the pub for a quick one when all this happened.”
“What time did the maid discover the body?” asked Sinclair.
“Six or so, she thought. It’s a puzzle, because Mrs. Marshall had to unlock the office to clean it. Meaning, our killer must have a key.”
“Paul’s not going to like this at all,” Charles muttered.
Reid looked at his friend. “Are you saying this is connected to Hemsfield? Wychwright’s not on the list.”
“No, but this murder’s certainly connected to other matters that concern us, Ed. Sir James, may I examine his pockets?”
“Yes, of course.”
Sinclair carefully searched through the dead man’s coat and trousers. The interior coat pocket held a scrap of paper, and Charles held it up to the light to read the pencil marks. “I may have to recuse myself from this one, Edmund.’”
“Why?”
“Because, the message says, ‘Meet me at five. – A.W.’”
“A.W?” Abberline repeated. “Who in God’s green earth is A.W.?”
Charles pushed himself up and handed the note to Reid. “As my cousin is fond of saying, he’s a worm in a silk suit. You’ll want to issue an arrest warrant for Sir Albert Wendaway.”
Beth had been sleeping for over an hour when the woman entered her room. The tall figure stole through the doorway without making a sound. She crept to the side table where the water pitcher sat beside a small, clean glass. Withdrawing a vial from her apron pocket, the woman poured a small amount into the glass, swirled it to coat the clear sides, and then emptied the remainder of both the glass and the vial into the pitcher.
Putting the stopper back into the vial, she hid it within her pocket once more, and then started for the door. “Who’s that?” the duchess asked.
“Just a nurse,” the intruder whispered. “Hush now. Go back to sleep.”
She turned to leave, but a genuine nurse knocked just as the woman touched the handle. For a brief moment, the unwelcome visitor considered assaulting the unwary woman, but fearing the resulting commotion might ruin her surprise, the disguised woman performed an impossible feat: she vanished.
“Your Grace?” the matron softly called as she entered. Beth had fallen asleep again. The nurse stepped softly to the bedside and gently shook her shoulder. “My lady?”
The duchess opened her eyes at the nurse’s touch. “Who was that?” she asked, sleepily. “Oh, Mrs. Reston. Is it time for my sleeping powder already?”
“I’m sorry to wake you, my lady, but I must perform my duties.”
“Yes, I know. Go ahead.”
The sister checked her patient’s pulse, respiration, and temperature, and then jotted the results into a notebook. “Your Grace, did you eat all of your supper?”
Beth nodded. “Most of it. Not the lamb. It didn’t smell appetising. I ate half of the peas, though. I’m sorry I’m not better about eating. It isn’t because the cooks aren’t talented. Please, tell them that for me. I simply cannot eat.”
“I will, my lady. And your tea? Did you drink it? The milk also?”
“Yes, I drank both,” Elizabeth answered wearily. “I hope that will please Mr. Treves. I so want to go home.”
“He’ll take it into account, I’m sure. Did your husband stop by earlier?”
“He did,” she replied, more awake now. “He brought those roses. They probably had more vigour before he left them in a carriage for an hour.”
Reston laughed. “At least he thought to buy them. Here now, I’ve brought your last medicine for the night. I know you’re not fond of taking it, but the powder is meant to improve the quality of your sleep. I must say, ma’am, your colour is much better than when you first arrived.”
“My husband’s visits have a positive effect. That same powder again? I’ll drink it, but it tastes awful.”
“Medicine seldom tastes otherwise, my lady,” she said, adding a dose of white powder to the glass and stirring in six ounces of water. “Now, you must drink all. We’ll pray it stays down.”
Beth grimaced as she sipped the bitter liquid, coughing at the taste—far worse than usual. She pushed away the glass, and wiped her mouth. “Oh, that is dreadful! Have you changed to a new powder? I’m very sorry, Mrs. Reston, but I simply cannot drink it!”
<
br /> “No, we’ve not changed the powder. It’s the same as always.” Reston smelled the water, and her auburn brows pinched together. “This doesn’t smell right. Here, now, I’ll take this with me and change out your water whilst I’m about it.” She looked into the pitcher. The liquid appeared dark in colour. “Not to worry,” she said, although the nurse felt rising alarm. “I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t forget, now. Your handbell is right here, should you need anything.” She started to leave, but then paused, turning back. “Duchess, the two constables who keep watch on your door. Did your husband dismiss them?”
“I—I’m not sure,” she said, the small amount she’d swallowed already roiling in her delicate stomach. “That is…” she started, but she could say nothing more, for suddenly Elizabeth leaned over the side of the bed and vomited up the entire contents of her stomach.
The nurse set down the pitcher and glass and rinsed a cloth in a basin of cool water, using it to wipe the duchess’s mouth and face. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. Your nausea has returned, it seems. Do you think your stomach wishes to rebel again? Shall I stay?”
Beth leaned back against the pillows, her face pale. “No. I don’t think so. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Reston. I’d thought myself past all this nausea. Do forgive me for keeping you.”
“You are the gentlest lady I’ve ever met, Your Grace. Now, you lie still, and I shall see to it that Mr. Treves is notified.” She rang the handbell, and in a moment a second nurse answered. “Keep watch over the duchess, Mrs. Kemper. I shan’t be long. And where are those two constables? I’ve a question for them.”
“They were asked to move, Mrs. Reston. A message from Leman Street, I think. They keep watch near the east entrance now.”
“What sort of nonsense is that? Very well. Stay here, and I shall see to it. No one enters this room unless it’s myself, Lord Haimsbury, or Mr. Treves. Is that clear?”
Reston left and walked quickly towards Treves’s hospital office, praying the hard-working surgeon hadn’t yet left for home.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The city and Metropolitan police had worked the crime scene at the Exchange for three hours before Charles called it a night. He charged Arthur France to continue the investigation along with Reid, and Fraser’s team. Fred Abberline went home to his wife, happy to get a decent night’s sleep for a change.
The bone-weary marquess hired a hansom and used the time to make notes to himself. He penciled a list of questions to ask the earl along with various instructions for their ICI agents as the mare clip-clopped along the cold cobbles.
“You must find all this quite discouraging,” a raspy voice whispered from the air beside him.
A pair of yellow eyes materialised within the vibrating space, and surrounding the peculiar orbs, emerged a long face framed in coal-black hair.
“I don’t recall inviting anyone to ride along,” Sinclair said, praying his voice betrayed none of the shock he felt.
“Most humans would scream at so sudden and mysterious a visit. You are certainly different, Charles Sinclair.”
“Which one are you?” he asked the intruder.
The strange creature laughed, and the air escaping his mouth emitted a squawking sort of sound. “How soon humans forget. I’ve come to see why you wanted to return to this pale world. It is so very dirty, don’t you think? Filled with dust and excrement. And the trees and stones have no life at all! What a dismal place this London is!”
Sinclair wondered briefly if he’d fallen asleep. His limited experience with spirit creatures was mixed. Once on the road to Branham, he’d encountered three in quick succession, all apparently whilst in a waking dream.
“Have you remembered your name yet, Creature?” he asked as he recognised the irritating gatekeeper.
The birdman had fully formed now, and its humanoid body bounced upon the seat as the coach passed over a set of rough, iron tracks west of the rail goods depot. “Does this place always move like this? I do not like it!”
“You are travelling inside a horse-drawn carriage. What do you want with me, Nameless Spirit?”
“Nameless! You are a very rude man, Charles Sinclair, and I shan’t tell you!”
“Fine, then. Get out.”
“I shall leave in a moment, but first I shall offer a hint. What will you trade for it?” the gatekeeper asked greedily.
“Nothing. Get out.”
“You are as discourteous here as in Sebet Babi, human! Very well, I offer this hint for free, but if you want to know more, you will have to provide a small payment. Agreed?” it tempted.
“I agree to nothing. Get out of my coach.”
“You bluster, but I see curiosity upon your face. Do not deny it! You want to know why I’ve appeared, don’t you?”
“Not really.”
The creature’s head tilted in the same way it had so often inside the stone maze. “Tis a pity about those men.”
“Men?”
“The dead ones. They cry for vengeance, but it will never come. Not until their murderer is caught.”
Charles suspected the gatekeeper of a plot to lure him into conversation. “Go away.”
“Yes, yes, I shall. These poor fellows wish only for you to discover the name of the one who slew them, and then left them in such dreadful poses! How very embarrassing, don’t you think? If this madman is not caught, he may continue. Would you sleep well then?”
“I sleep just fine, thank you.”
“Such lies! You hardly sleep at all, Charles Sinclair. Hemsfield had a dream only last week of death. He wrote about it in a book. I think it’s called a journal or a germal, or something like that. Probably all lies, for no one writes truth in a journal, am I right?”
Sinclair thought of his father’s journals and of Beth’s. Why would the bird creature mention journals? “I’ve no idea,” he answered non-committally.
“Yes, you do. You know perfectly well what I mean,” the birdman insisted, his face an inch from Sinclair’s. “Ask her.”
“Ask whom?”
“The foolish girl. The one with the puzzle. Ask her about her father’s real business at the Exchange. Ask about his partners and his new offices. Ask about the note.”
“The note?”
“Exactly. Oh, but there is one thing more. Your faithless wife is in danger. The one in love with that Captain fellow. If you do not hurry, she’ll find her way back to us. Au revoir, Prince Charles.”
The body shimmered and started to fade, but just before the mouth and eyes vanished, the birdlike lips spoke six words: “Beware the looking glass. She lies.”
“What?” Charles shouted as it winked out of sight, leaving the human staring at nothing but air.
He glanced down, intending to pray, but to his shock, found the page of his notebook covered in dozens of strange symbols. Charles had no recollection of writing them, and they were in ink, not pencil. Red ink, at that!
The wound at the back of his head began to throb, and Charles felt that same irritating tingle near the nape of his neck, as though a thousand flies had landed upon his skin simultaneously.
The hansom passed by Leman Street, meaning the hospital was no more than ten minutes away. The bells of Christ Church sounded eleven, and a white bird flew at the right-side window as though hurled. It crashed into the mud-spattered glass with a loud thud. Impossibly, the wounded bird stuck to the dirty surface, and its dying eyes bored into Sinclair’s as if to offer a warning. A red spot formed on its left wing, despoiling the white feathers with an ever-widening circle of death.
Despite the late hour, a dense flock of crows and ravens appeared from nowhere, rushing towards the coach in a cloud of black anger. The open-air design of hansom cabs offers the passenger an unobscured view of the road ahead, but provides no protection against a murderous flock of supernaturally directed birds. Charles put up both arms,
crossing them over his face against the onslaught. He could hear the ravens’ calls and deep-throated shouts; the dysphonic screams of a million battle cries, and he shut his eyes, praying for aid.
The horse could also see the bloodthirsty birds, even though the driver could not. She reared up on her back legs, nearly upturning the two-wheeled coach, and then bolted forwards, thundering through a hail of sharp beaks and flapping wings at breakneck speed. All the while, the bewildered cabman furiously pulled on the leather reins to make her obey.
When the horse finally stopped, it stood two feet from the main entrance to London Hospital. Not one feather could be seen anywhere upon the coach’s windows; not on the doors, lamps, or the coach’s roof. The exhausted mare panted, relieved to have escaped the hellish onslaught. The cabman jumped down, his face florid with sweat and panic, to offer an apology to his white-faced passenger.
“Do forgive me, sir. I dunno what go’ into that animal,” the man blustered, his breath clouding the air. “She ain’ never done tha’ afore. No charge, sir. It’s on the ‘ouse.”
Nevertheless, Charles handed the bewildered driver a sovereign. “Make sure your horse gets double oats, on me. She’s a rare one indeed.”
He rushed into the hospital, staggering slightly as he passed through the doors. The pale marquess made his way towards the duchess’s room, but three feet past the porter’s office, collapsed upon the gleaming floor tiles.
“Fetch a doctor!” the night porter shouted. Sister Reston had just left the duchess’s room at the end of the main corridor, and she ran towards the fallen man.
The porter helped the peer into a sitting position, and the nurse bent to speak with him. “Lord Haimsbury, are you injured?”
“Birds,” Charles whispered, his pupils wide and black. “It was the birds.”
“Help me, Mr. Jellico,” she ordered the middle-aged porter. “We’ll take his lordship to the nearest open room. I believe the one east of the duchess is still empty.”
Charles felt himself lifted and half-carried towards the same room where he’d earlier prayed and talked with Paul and the others, but as they passed the door to Elizabeth’s room, he noticed a flicker of movement—like shadowy wings.
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