Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Gehlen had several thoughts at once. “Did Mr. Treves speak to you of our suspicion?”

  “Briefly. Have you had a chance to examine my wife?”

  “I have, but I’d like to make a more thorough, objective assessment when the duchess is no longer under duress. My cursory exam leads me to believe she carries more than one child. I’ve yet to be wrong with an early diagnosis of twins. Although, I said a singleton once, and the lady gave birth to twin boys. One was much smaller, which may have caused the confusion.”

  “Twins,” Sinclair whispered. “How can you know?”

  “At this point, I operate on my own experience with other mothers of twins. The extreme symptoms which manifested so early are sure signs, but also her abdominal distension is greater than it should be for eight weeks. It is eight weeks, correct?” he asked. “Not fourteen or even sixteen?”

  “No, it is exactly eight weeks today.”

  “That’s what the duchess told me. Her very words, in fact. How can you be so certain? I do not imply impropriety, so forgive me if it sounds as though I do, but very few parents know the precise date of conception.”

  “Our situation is unusual,” he answered. “The one and only time I ever lay with the duchess was the eighth of October, and she was a maiden. Because our wedding ended with an abduction and chaos, we’ve not been intimate as husband and wife.”

  “October eighth? A doubling of the number eight, and it may be a doubling of the fruit of that night. Strange, particularly as this year is a trebling of the same number. 1888.”

  “I’d not thought of that. Strange, indeed. Doctor, because of what happened here tonight, I prefer to take my wife home tomorrow. Emerson may be away for many weeks yet. I wonder if I might impose upon you to visit my home, should we need your advice?”

  “Of course, but isn’t Lord Salperton the lady’s physician?”

  “Yes, he has been, but his specialty is the mind. Beth may wish to keep him, despite that. However, if he seeks a consult from a specialist, may we call upon you?”

  “Anytime. Also, I’d suggest hiring a nurse. One who understands the specific needs of women carrying more than one child.”

  “Might Nurse Reston be available?” Sinclair asked.

  “That is up to Sister and Mr. Treves.”

  “I’ll speak to both tomorrow. Thank you. Thank you for all you’ve done for Beth—and for our children, no matter the number,” the marquess said, smiling at last.

  “It is my honour. Now, I’ll leave you. You’ve the look of a man who needs to sleep.”

  Once Gehlen left, Charles sat on the edge of the bed, feeling Elizabeth’s forehead. Cool and moist. As every other night, he set his coat, waistcoat, holster, shoes, and socks inside the closet. Then, he opened the blankets and climbed into the bed, pulling her into his arms. Weariness tugged at his eyelids, but he had no wish to fall asleep. He wanted to enjoy the warmth of her, the comforting nearness of her for a little while first. To keep awake, he mentally walked through all the steps that had led to where they now stood.

  Trent had taken Elizabeth with the aid of a magic mirror. Someone had killed Trent and then hurled him out of the window, certainly a superhuman of some kind, or more likely a spiritual being. Beth had then escaped with the help of Prince Anatole, who took her to his castle. For reasons yet to be made clear, the mysterious Russian hired Salperton to look after the duchess, but insisted she remained in danger, refusing to allow Henry to tell anyone of her presence.

  With Trent dead, who would want to harm the duchess? Di Specchio? Why would she try to cause Beth to lose their babies? Is it possible she knows about the twins? If she knows, then Redwing knows.

  And what about Hemsfield and Wychwright? Hemsfield’s killer showed tremendous strength, and Wychwright’s demonstrated daring as well as cunning. Both victims were found by servants inside locked rooms. Sir Albert Wendaway’s build was slight, and Charles very much doubted him capable of suspending the dead weight of a two-hundred-pound man from a high ceiling. If the baronet participated in the late earl’s murder, then he had help. However, Wendaway’s alleged attack on the baron’s daughter spoke to motive. Had Wychwright learned of the assault and delivered an ultimatum to Albert? Had he threatened to report him to the authorities?

  Then again, Reid’s notations on Ida Ross’s list indicated other murders as well. Anatole had warned of war.

  Is one of the Watchers behind it all? And where is Romanov?

  He longed to ask Lorena MacKey, but the physician had fled Queen Anne House, leaving no clue to her new location.

  The first thing we do is find MacKey.

  As he puzzled through these thoughts, his eyes perceived movement in the far corner of the room, next to the closet. A shadow lengthened along the wall, and a pair of black wings spread across the ceiling like ink pooling upon parchment. Charles discerned a scratching sort of laughter; the voices of a million crows.

  Beware the looking glass. She lies, the creature had told him. Di Specchio. Her name means ‘looking glass’. Is that the solution to the riddle?

  He drew Beth into his arms and held her close as he shut his eyes and began to pray.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  9:02 pm - Tuesday, 4th December

  At Charles’s insistence, Elizabeth was moved to Haimsbury House the following afternoon. Her overall health was judged no worse than before the attempted poisoning, and Treves agreed to Sinclair’s request for his wife’s dismissal. Elizabeth’s lungs had healed well whilst in hospital, she’d gained three pounds, and despite the near miss with the Pennyroyal, her eyes were bright for the first time in many days.

  To celebrate her delayed arrival in their new home, Sinclair arranged a family gathering, and the happy group enjoyed a casual supper served in the Cumbria drawing room, followed by an hour of games.

  “I’ll say goodnight,” Drummond told his nephew. “You two newlyweds deserve some time alone. I’ll see you tomorrow, son.”

  “You’re welcome to stay,” Sinclair urged the older man. “Della’s promised to read a new poem.”

  “That sounds lovely, but she can read it to me tomorrow as well as tonight. I’m taking my sister with me. Tory and I have some plans to make regarding the reception for your investiture ceremony.”

  “I still can’t imagine myself a duke, sir.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Drummond laughed, slapping his nephew on the back.

  Charles walked his uncle to the main doors of the grand home. “Thank you, James. This has been a long time in coming, but it’s worth the wait. And we may have a surprise to announce soon.”

  “Another new title?” Drummond asked, rubbing his hands together happily.

  “In a way,” he said, thinking of himself as ‘the father of twins’.

  “Can you give me no hints?”

  “No, sir. No hints.”

  “Aye, well, I’ll let you keep your secret—for now.”

  Baxter helped the duke with his overcoat and hat, motioning to a footman to call Drummond’s coach forward in the gravel park.

  “Goodnight, Princess!” Drummond called into the large drawing room.

  There was a moment’s silence, followed Della’s small feet upon the tiles. She raced to the door and threw open her arms. “Goodnight, Uncle! Beth says to tell you she also says goodnight. Cousin Charles has ordered her not to leave the sofa.”

  “And Elizabeth complied? Your Cousin Charles is a remarkable man to have tamed so fierce a woman so very quickly, Della. Give us a kiss.”

  She giggled as the six-foot-tall duke bent down. “Your moustache tickles,” she told him.

  “You’d best get used to it. Apparently, your cousin is growing one to compete with mine, and with a beard as well! I may grow mine again,” he mused, rubbing his jawline. “It’s been a decade since I had a beard. I wonder if m
y chin has any dark hair left in it.”

  Charles shook his uncle’s hand. “Goodnight, sir. You are always welcome here. No need for an invitation.”

  “I’ll let you enjoy your privacy for a few days before making a nuisance of myself. Baxter, come play a game o’ chess with me soon. Booth’s never been a fan o’ chess, and Tory cheats.”

  “I should be honoured, Your Grace.”

  The duke left, and Sinclair reached for Adele’s hand. “With your brother elsewhere tonight, you and I must provide entertainment. Shall I sing?”

  She laughed. “I’ve heard you sing, Cousin Charles. Perhaps, it’s best if I read my poetry.”

  “Well said,” he replied as they returned to the drawing room.

  “What poem have you chosen for us?” Elizabeth asked.

  “One from my new book,” the eleven-year-old answered. “Let me know when I may begin. Poetry sets a mood, and I’ll not want it interrupted with kissing.”

  Charles laughed. “Shall I kiss my wife many times to get it all out of my system, then?”

  “Yes, I think you should.”

  The marquess kissed Elizabeth sweetly, thrice, and then drew her into his arms. “There, all done for now.”

  He and Elizabeth sat quietly, the fire’s yellow light flickering across their happy faces as they listened.

  “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary; over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

  As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door—Only this and nothing more,” Adele began. “This is rather strange, Cousin Beth.”

  “I’d call it atmospheric,” the duchess answered. “Continue reading, darling. Don’t break the mood.”

  “Very well. Ah, distinctly, I remember, it was in the bleak December.” The youngster stopped, her hand upon the illustrated page of the book. “Isn’t that odd, Cousin Charles? It’s December as I read this, and it’s been very bleak. I like that word. Bleak. It rhymes with beak.”

  “Perhaps, you should write poetry, Della,” he suggested. “I’ve never read this poem. You say it’s by Poe?”

  “Yes,” she said, closing the book slightly to examine the brown leather cover. “The Raven and Other Poems by Edgar Allen Poe,” she read out. “Why was Mr. Poe such a depressive man?”

  “Did you say raven, Della?” Charles asked, the simple word sending a chill though his frame.

  “Yes, that’s the title of the book and the poem. Why?”

  “No reason,” he said quickly, but the improbable coincidence felt deliberate and contrived; not by Adele, but by something less friendly. “Do read some more.”

  “Let’s see, I’ll start where I left off. Ah, distinctly, I remember. It was in the bleak December; and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly, I wished the morrow—vainly, I had sought to borrow from my books, surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore. What does surcease mean, Cousin Beth? I’ve never heard of that word.”

  “It’s an Americanism, I think,” she told her young cousin. “I imagine it means the same as cease. He’s seeking an end to sorrow.”

  “Oh, I see. It’s all quite gloomy, though. No wonder he wants an end to it!”

  “Many poets write sorrowful prose. Poe was a tortured soul, darling,” the duchess explained. “Why did you choose The Raven for our entertainment tonight?”

  Della shrugged. “Honestly, I thought it would be much more stimulating than this. I once read one of his mystery stories all about pirates and gold treasure, and I thought a poem might be exciting, too. This one is hardly that. Why ghosts? His poetry is very different from Mr. Tennyson or Mr. Wordsworth.”

  “Poets choose lots of topics for their verse, Della. Pirates as well as the supernatural,” Beth explained.

  “Why the supernatural?”

  “I suppose writers seek to understand that which cannot be seen, but all too often they insist God be removed, as if he is optional. I really have never understood it.”

  “How can God be optional?” the girl asked.

  “Many a so-called artist considers our creator little more than an invention of man,” Charles told her.

  “And this poem is about the supernatural? Is this raven a demon then?”

  Sinclair had no wish to speak of bird demons, but he also preferred to keep the evening’s conversation light. “I’ve no idea. I am but a thick-headed policeman in the company of two beautiful ladies, therefore, I do not care about foolish poems or birds. I’m content with the life given me.”

  Della closed the book and walked to Sinclair’s chair. “Cousin Charles, you’re very sweet, and your head only appears thick because you have two of them, which means you have twice as much knowledge!” she added, giggling.

  Charles jumped to his feet and picked the girl up, swinging her high into the air. “And for that you must be tossed until you are dizzy!” he teased. “Or perhaps, I shall tickle you until you beg for mercy!”

  Della burst into a shower of laughter and then dashed back towards Mary Wilsham, who sat nearby crocheting a pair of gloves. “Aunt Mary, you must protect me!” she called, hiding behind Wilsham’s chair.

  The former housekeeper, now a permanent part of the Sinclair family, shook her greying head. “Now, now, little Della, I cannot protect you from Mr. Sinclair, and you know it well enough. I’ve no idea how that funny poem goes, would you read it out to me?”

  Adele thought for a moment, but then ran back into Charles’s arms and kissed his bearded cheek. “Yes, I’ll read it to you, Aunt Mary, but I must forgive my cousin first. He is just so very happy to have Beth home that he forgets himself. I’m no longer a child, Cousin Charles. I shall be twelve next summer, and that is when most of my friends have gone away to finishing school.”

  Beth’s dark brows shot up. “Oh no, not already, Della! Besides, I imagine your governess will have something to say about that, or have you convinced your Uncle James to reprieve you from Mrs. Chandler’s tutelage?”

  “Mrs. Chandler has returned to Scotland,” Della announced. “Since I am to live with you and Cousin Charles, I no longer require a governess; that is what Uncle James said. May I, please, enroll in finishing school next year?”

  “We’ll discuss it with your brother. Paul is still your legal guardian, but we shall do all we may to persuade him,” Beth promised.

  Adele rushed over and gave her a kiss. “Oh, thank you! Come, Aunt Mary, I’ll play a new song for you,” she said, tugging on the older woman’s hands and leading her from the drawing room.

  Charles sat down next to his bride. “Alone at last,” he whispered, touching her face. “I’m so glad to have you home, Mrs. Sinclair. Shall we stay here and watch the fire or go up?”

  “I am content to do either,” she told him. “So long as you’re with me, I want for nothing, Charles.”

  “Then, as it’s nearly ten, we should probably go to bed. I promised Treves and Gehlen that I’d make sure you got plenty of sleep. Otherwise, your doctors will scold us both.”

  “Must we move? It’s so pleasant here.”

  “I fear we must, darling. Remember, you took a vow to obey me.”

  She laughed. “So I did, but, promise me that if I must retire early, that you will join me.”

  “Do you think Tory would object?” he teased.

  “I think she would encourage it. You know…” she began, looking towards the doorway to make certain no one lingered nearby.

  Charles read her mind. “Shall I close them?”

  “Please.”

  He shut both panelled doors. “There, all alone. What is it you were about to say?”

  She snuggled into his arms once more and gazed into the bright fire. “On our w
edding day, when you and I arrived at Drummond House, do you recall that Tory had me meet her in a side room?”

  Charles nodded, stroking her dark curls. “I do. It required me to fend off an unpleasant encounter with Albert Wendaway. A detestable man who deserves a visit from me.”

  “Because of Cordelia, you mean?”

  “Let’s speak of this tomorrow. It’s far more than what he did to Delia. Wendaway may be involved in multiple crimes, but that’s nothing new with him. May we keep to pleasant topics?”

  “Yes, but if there is an unpleasant topic you’re avoiding, I’d hear it, Charles. You’ve had a tiny cloud following you about all day. I thought it nothing more than concern for my health, but I begin to see it’s more than that.”

  “I promise to tell you everything tomorrow. Finish your story, darling. What did Tory wish to share with you?”

  “Advice.”

  “Advice?” he asked, laughing. “I cannot imagine what a spinster might say to a woman who has just married!”

  Beth tweaked his wrist.

  “Ouch!” he cried, feigning injury. “That hurt!”

  She kissed it. “I doubt that, but you mustn’t assume you know all about a person, even if you are a fine detective. I’d always thought of Tory as a prudish spinster, too, but I know better now. That day, she admonished me to cherish you always, not because you’re her nephew, though she is very glad to have you back in the family, but because you love me so well. You see, Tory once loved a man with all her heart, but they never married, and she regrets it to this day. It’s why she’s remained unmarried.”

  “I apologise, Beth. I had no idea. When was this?”

  “She was very young, when it happened; as young as thirteen. I know that she was only fourteen, when she left Grandfather’s castle to live with his widowed sister, Charlotte Adelin, the Dowager Countess du Loire. Charlotte offered to provide finishing lessons and introduce her niece to society, but I never realised the real reason until Tory told me. You see, she’d fallen in love with a servant in Scotland, a groom named John Reynolds, and her father disapproved. I never met my great-grandfather, but I’m told he was very strict. Tory said she loved this young man, desperately loved him, and that they’d planned to elope to Glasgow, but her father found out and dismissed the boy from service. A month later, Victoria learned she’d fallen pregnant, and she was sent away to Paris to have the child.”