Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Who’s in there? Birds?” he asked. “No, no, I don’t mean birds. Who is in my wife’s room?”

  “Dr. Gehlen, sir,” Reston answered as they set him upon the bed’s edge. The table they’d used earlier had been removed, and the room returned to its normal state. “Here now, sir, lie down and let the spell pass. I was told you suffered a serious head injury last Sunday. It’s a wonder you haven’t collapsed before this. There now, close your eyes, and I’ll fetch a doctor.”

  Charles felt intensely tired, and though he had no wish to sleep, his eyelids refused to remain open and within minutes, he lost all consciousness.

  Next door, unaware of her husband’s condition, Elizabeth Sinclair lay pale and weary upon her bed, being examined by Anthony Gehlen. With Treves already gone home for the night, it was Gehlen who answered the emergency call. Reston had found the thirty-eight-year-old obstetrician reading a book in the porter’s lounge, and he’d rushed to the duchess’s room as soon as the nurse showed him the pitcher of dark water.

  “Did I hear Charles?” Beth asked Reston as she returned.

  “The marquess is back, yes, but he’s speaking with his constables just now,” the woman lied, not wishing to upset her patient. “Shall I stay, sir?”

  “Where were those constables?” Gehlen asked. “They’ve been there constantly since the first day, and now they’re not. I hope the marquess gives both a good dressing down!”

  Reston pulled him aside and whispered, telling him about Sinclair’s collapse and the mystery of the constables. “I see,” he muttered. “Very well. Let me finish here first. Duchess, how much of your medicine did you drink?”

  “Only a sip. It tasted awful. Must I continue to take it? I’d rather try sleeping without it. Once Charles is finished, he’ll stay with me.”

  Reston offered clarification. “I do not believe the duchess retained any of the liquid, Doctor.”

  “Let’s pray she did not,” he answered darkly. “Speak to the porter, Mrs. Reston. Ask if they noticed anyone in the hospital that doesn’t belong.”

  The nurse left to carry out the orders but did not close the door. “Duchess, tell me how your feel,” Gehlen said gently. “Are you experiencing any abdominal discomfort? Any cramping?”

  “No,” she answered wearily.

  He moved his hands along her stomach, noting its surprising roundness. “You’re how far along, my lady?”

  “Eight weeks today.”

  “That’s very precise. Not even I can be so certain of a conception date.”

  “Yet, I can,” she told him plainly. “Why? Are you worried? Have I done something wrong?”

  He replaced the quilt across her shoulders and sat, taking her right hand. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Your Grace. Did you notice anyone in your room this evening? A visitor, perhaps? Not a nurse or physician. This person would have stood close to your bed and picked up the water pitcher.”

  “A nurse was here, but I remember no visitors.”

  “Sister Reston?”

  “No, another nurse. Just before Mrs. Reston arrived. Tall, dark haired. She never spoke, but she did pick up the pitcher. There was an odd smell. Like a strong, disagreeable mint.”

  “And how much of the water did you drink?”

  “Not very much. It made me quite sick, but then I’ve felt nauseous the past few days. Now that the coughing has ceased, it’s replaced by a noncompliant stomach.”

  He checked her pulse, grateful for its steady beat. “You may find the nausea grows worse, my lady, but it will eventually subside. Eight weeks,” he said thoughtfully. “The morning sickness started early?”

  She nodded. “I’d not call it morning sickness. It lasts all day sometimes.”

  “Dizzy spells?”

  Beth nodded again. “For several weeks, yes. I’m quite unsteady at times. Is there something wrong? Why do you look so worried?”

  “It’s my job to worry about my patients, Your Grace. There is nothing wrong that cannot be cured with rest. I prefer not to administer a sleeping aid. Are you able to fall asleep without one?”

  “Yes, if Charles is with me. When he’s finished talking to the constables, would you ask him to come in, please?”

  He stood and bowed politely. “Of course, my lady.”

  Gehlen exited and turned left, then left again, entering the hospital room where Sinclair lay. He found Reston sitting with the marquess, her grey eyes watching for signs of illness or injury.

  “He’s in a light sleep,” she told Gehlen. “I believe he’d awaken if you wish to speak to him, Doctor.”

  Anthony drew a chair close to the narrow bed and sat into it. “Lord Haimsbury?”

  The detective stirred, his eyelids slowly opening. “Yes? Who are you?”

  “Anthony Gehlen, sir. We spoke earlier today.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said, sitting up and wiping his eyes. “Did I fall asleep?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I’m told you suffered a blow to the head a fortnight ago. Have you a headache now?”

  “A slight one.”

  “Do you suffer headaches often?”

  “More often than I’d like,” Charles answered honestly. “What time is it?”

  “Half past eleven. Dizziness?”

  “No, not that I recall. Why am I in bed?”

  “You had a slight spell earlier, sir. May I?” Gehlen asked as he felt the back of Sinclair’s head. “You still have some swelling here. Does this hurt?” he asked, pressing lightly against the healing wound. Charles responded with an unintentional gasp, for the pressure—though gently done—felt like an ice pick.

  “As I thought, you’ve left your sickbed far too soon. From what little I know of you, Lord Haimsbury, that doesn’t surprise me. Michael Emerson is your physician?”

  “Yes. He’s looked after me since the fire on the eighteenth, but he’s in Edinburgh.”

  “He did a fine job stitching up the wound, but he should never have permitted you to return to work this early. I’ll write up my observations and leave it for him to read when he returns to London. Treves mentioned that his brother has taken ill, and that Emerson may be away for some weeks.”

  Charles lowered his feet to the floor. “Yes, but don’t blame Emerson. He tried to keep me in bed. I’m stubborn. Sister Reston said you were in with my wife. Is she all right? Is there something I should know?”

  Gehlen weighed the cost of telling Sinclair versus not telling him about the constables’ dereliction, but decided to allow the detective to regain strength first. “The duchess is tired and asks if you would stay with her again tonight. With your permission, I should like to spend a little time with her tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” Charles said, standing. “Is Lady Cordelia still in hospital?”

  “So I’m told. As I mentioned to you this afternoon, Treves is her primary physician, along with a growing roster of influential city men. Why?”

  “Because I must speak with her right away.”

  “I’m sure the lady is sleeping, Lord Haimsbury,” Sister Reston argued as she took his elbow.

  “Nevertheless, I must speak with her. It cannot wait.”

  He took the steps slowly, but over the course of several minutes, Charles regained his balance. “Thank you, Sister. When I’m finished speaking with Lady Cordelia, someone will need to remain with her, for I’ve very distressing news to deliver. Her father, Baron Wychwright, is dead. Murdered in the city.”

  Olivia Reston gasped in shock. “Murdered? Oh, that poor girl! Yes, of course, I’ll have a nurse sit with her.”

  As they entered the corridor, Sinclair noticed Beth’s door stood ajar with no men near it. Turning back towards Gehlen and the nurse, his voice took on a harsh tone. “Where are the constables who are supposed to keep watch on my wife?”

  “We’re
not sure, sir,” Reston admitted. “The porter mentioned they had moved to the east entrance.”

  Sinclair’s struggled to keep his temper. “Who told them to move?” he shouted.

  “Sir, I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  “Not one that will satisfy me!” he answered sharply. “Find them and send them to the porter’s office. Tell them to wait. I’ll deal with them presently.” He took a breath. “I am sorry, Mrs. Reston. It isn’t your fault.”

  “I understand, sir. What else may I do to help?”

  “Nothing yet, but I’ll need to use your telegraph when I’m finished with Lady Cordelia.”

  Inside Wychwright’s room, Charles found the girl awake within the darkened space. The drapes stood partially open, with a one-foot gap that allowed the rounding moon to cast a beam of silver across the floor.

  “Is it morning already?” she asked. “Oh, Lord Haimsbury. Excuse my dullness. I was having the oddest dream about birds.”

  He crossed to the bed and sat. “Birds?”

  “Yes,” she answered, wiping her eyes. “Love birds. Very pretty. Why are you here?”

  “I’m sure it was a lovely dream. Forgive me for disturbing you, Delia. I’m afraid I bring troubling news. Can you be brave for me?” he asked her, taking her hand in his.

  “I’m generally not very brave. Must I be?” she asked, her high-pitched voice trembling.

  “I’m afraid you must.”

  Charles hated delivering news of a loved one’s death to family. He’d done so hundreds of times in thirteen years with the police, but each time felt as difficult and awkward as the first. What he had learnt in all these terrible moments was that no words sufficed. Preparing the loved one never softened the blow, but only delayed the inevitable pain of it all. Cutting straight to the awful truth allowed the shock to commence without delay, and hence moved all the quicker to eventual acceptance.

  “Delia, I’m afraid your father is dead.”

  He’d expected her to cry out, to shout, scream, to wail in despair, but instead the eighteen-year-old merely sighed. “I see. Was it a heart attack?”

  “No. His death came at the hands of another. Someone took your father’s life, which makes it my job to find the killer and see he pays with his life.”

  “Father was...murdered?” she asked, paling.

  “Yes. I’m going to send a telegraph message to your mother and have a policeman escort her to the hospital.”

  “No, no, please, I’d rather go home. May I go home?”

  “So long as your doctors approve it. I can send an officer with you.”

  “Thank you,” she answered softly. “Mother will likely fall apart, and she’ll not want anyone to see her cry. I’ll send word to my brothers. Two are abroad, and it may take them several days to receive the letter and travel here. We’ll have to delay the funeral.”

  “Think about those things tomorrow, Delia. I am very sorry. If you need anything—anything at all, let me know, and I’ll see to it.”

  Her lower lip began to quiver, and she squeezed his hand. “That’s kind of you, but I think I’ll be all right. It’s time I grow up. Father always wanted me to grow up.”

  Charles recognised the look of shock, and rather than leave her, he drew the grieving girl into his arms. “I think he’d understand, Delia,” he whispered. “You needn’t grow up yet.”

  The tears started in earnest then, and Cordelia Wychwright sobbed like a small child into Sinclair’s shoulder for a very long time. Not once did the detective suggest needing to leave; not once did he complain. Instead, he held her sweetly, whispering strength to her all the while that she wept.

  11:55 pm – Consultants’ Lounge

  The two constables stared sheepishly at their shoes. After Charles sent several telegrams, including one to Commissioner Monro and another to Paul Stuart, he turned his mind towards investigating the matter of the duchess’s door. Dr. Anthony Gehlen had taken the detective to a quiet room used by visiting physicians, where the shamefaced police constables listened to the newly promoted commissioner’s outrage.

  “How can this have happened!” Sinclair shouted. “How does a poisoner enter my wife’s room and contaminate her water pitcher without anyone noticing? Where were you, gentlemen? Why did you abandon your post?”

  “It was the note, Superintendent—I mean Commissioner, sir,” the shorter answered cautiously. “We weren’t shirkin’, sir. The note gave us new orders, and we tried to find you to confirm them, but you’d already gone, and it seemed best to follow rather than disobey. We’d no idea what would happen, Commissioner. Honest!”

  “A note?” Charles repeated, blinking his eyes to clear them, for the mounting headache moved from the back of his head to behind his eyes. “Do you still have this note?”

  Police Constable Bright nodded and fished in the pocket of his dark blue tunic. “Here, sir. It looks just like your signature, sir.”

  Charles sighed. The typewritten note was on Leman Street stationery and read: ‘New Orders. Relocate to East Entrance immediately.’ The fabrication was signed in blue ink, ‘Det. Supt. C. Sinclair’. The penmanship matched the commissioner’s hand perfectly. “Did neither of you notice that it’s signed with my previous rank? What am I now, Constable Bright?”

  “A commissioner, sir. Commissioner of Intelligence.”

  “Yet it says?”

  “Detective Superintendent, sir,” he continued, his voice growing evermore soft with each syllable.

  “I suggest you remember that, as it may come up during your next review. Who gave you this note?”

  “A woman, sir. One of the nurses. She said you handed it to her as you left. It made a bit o’ sense, as you’d been in the hospital earlier, and as I said, it does look like your handwriting, sir.”

  “Describe her.”

  “Tall, dark hair. Sort o’ handsome for a nurse. Many hereabouts are plain, but this lady wore rouge and face powder, which surprised me. Most nurses don’t.”

  “Constable, this woman, would you say that she was English?”

  “No, sir. Though I cannot say where she might come from. Her accent sounded foreign. Spain, maybe. Or Italy.”

  “I reckon it’s Italy, sir,” the other constable interrupted. “We got a family of Italians living on the floor below. Me an’ my wife, I mean. The woman looked like them, too. Dark eyes like a gypsy but with real white skin. Those black eyes looked right through me, ya know?”

  “I know all too well, Constable Calhoun,” he told the youth. Why had Serena di Specchio impersonated a nurse? “This is not over, but for the present, you’re to return to your post. I’ll not charge you with dereliction, as you thought yourselves following my command, but in future do not alter your behaviour unless you receive a new order from me, in person. Is that understood? I do not issue orders through notes!”

  “Yes, sir,” both men answered in unison.

  The marquess left the lounge and returned to his wife’s chamber, noticing a familiar voice coming from Cordelia’s room. “Paul?”

  The earl looked up as Charles entered. Wychwright had finished dressing, and the earl was helping her with a warm cloak. “I’m taking her home. I’ll return tomorrow morning after breakfast. It’s already been a long night for you, Cousin. Rest if possible.”

  Aubrey took the girl’s arm and a porter carried the two cases to a waiting coach near the north entrance.

  “Thank you, Lord Haimsbury,” she whispered as she passed by Sinclair.

  “You promised to call me Charles,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, that’s right. Charles. Thank you. You’re both very kind. Far nicer than I deserve.”

  “Have a doctor look after her, Paul,” he told his cousin. “She’s in shock.”

  “I will. Goodnight.”

  The earl left with the grieving woman, a
nd Sinclair entered Beth’s room. Charles found her turned on her side, sleeping peacefully. Gehlen stood nearby, having stopped in to make sure the duchess hadn’t become sick again.

  “May I have a moment? Outside?” he asked the marquess. “The porter’s office, I think.”

  A nurse remained with the sleeping duchess, and the chastised constables took up their former post on either side of the door.

  Once inside the porter’s office, Gehlen spoke directly. “I apologise for the near-miss with your wife, sir. We will, of course, cooperate, in any way, to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Have you examined the water in her pitcher?”

  “I have. The nurse thought it familiar when she smelled it, which is why she brought it to my attention. The odour is instantly recognisable to anyone familiar with the herb. Pennyroyal.”

  Sinclair nearly flew apart. “Pennyroyal! That is an abortion drug used by prostitutes!” he shouted.

  “Please, Lord Haimsbury, I beg you to lower your voice. It’s late, and we have patients in need of rest. Despite the obvious attempt, there is no damage. Your wife’s sensitive stomach caused her to disgorge the entire amount almost immediately. She has vomited several more times since, and I find no indication that the herb affected her adversely.”

  “You know that this was an attempt to induce a miscarriage.”

  Gehlen nodded. “Yes, though I cannot imagine why someone would wish to do so. Your constables were removed from her door by way of a ruse, which allowed the perpetrator to enter without fear of being observed.”

  “She will be visited soon, for I know who she is.”

  “Then your investigative skills are as remarkable I’ve been told. Any person who would try to slay the unborn in this hospital deserves punishment to the fullest extent that English law can exact.”

  “I intend to make sure she receives all that is coming to her,” the detective said, thinking of his unborn daughter. But she was fine, when she helped me find my way through the stone maze. Georgie said she was ten-and-a-half. She seemed healthy and happy. I have to hold onto that! Lord, please, help me to hold onto that! “And this poison will cause no harm?” he asked.