Her fingertips left his, and a part of the earl’s heart began to ache. “You’re angry,” he declared. “Tell me what I’ve done.”
“You’ve done nothing. Nothing at all. It’s obvious that you’ve begun to care for her. I’m only trying to be considerate.”
“I’ve what?” he whispered, stunned.
“Don’t deny it, Paul. I know you very well.”
His blue eyes widened. “Not well enough, apparently. Beth, I am being courteous to a woman who needs as many friends as possible. That is all.”
“If you say so,” she answered, turning to leave.
“Please, stay.”
“I’ll see you later,” she answered. “Please, tell Delia goodbye for me.”
“You are as stubborn as your mother at times!” he exclaimed, his eyes clouding with rising frustration.
The insensitive comment caused her face to lose all colour, and Elizabeth answered softly, her eyes downcast. “Then I beg your forgiveness,” she muttered before rushing from the room.
He followed after, catching her just outside the main entry, but two coaches had pulled into the narrow drive, and an older, well dressed couple, followed by a young man and two children, were climbing the portico steps.
“Lord Aubrey!” the woman called. “Duchess, we’d no idea you’d be visiting. How are my sister and Cordelia doing?”
“Good afternoon, Countess,” Aubrey said politely to Lady Cartringham, his eyes on Beth. “I fear the baroness has taken to her bed, but Cordelia’s receiving. As you can imagine, both are devastated. Is that Ned with you?”
“Yes, and his children. They stayed with us last night, since this house is somewhat small. His wife Brenda remained in Carlisle. Family troubles.” The countess whispered the final two words so the children wouldn’t overhear. “He and I are here to plan the service. Are you leaving?”
“Paul’s staying,” Beth explained. “I’m afraid I have a guest arriving at four.”
“A guest? You look pale yet, Elizabeth,” the countess told her. “It may be too soon to entertain guests.”
“This one is my physician, but also a friend. Paul, I’ll see you later.”
Aubrey caught up with the duchess before she reached the first step. “No stairs, Beth,” he reminded her. “Here, let me.” The earl took her arm and led the duchess to the coach.
Once at the door, he apologised. “Please, forgive me, Beth. I should never have said that about your mother—or you. Today of all days, I’m sure your mind turns to that dark time. The baron’s murder only reminds you of losing your parents to murder.”
“My parents?” she asked. “Mother yes, but Father’s death was an accident.”
“Of course it was,” he answered quickly, trying to cover the blunder. “But a shock nonetheless. Darling, you’re wrong. I am not overly fond of Cordelia. She is just a friend.”
“Yet you shaved for her.”
He smiled, finding the comment odd. “Didn’t I shave for you as well? Your wedding, remember? I’d do so again, anytime you asked. Princess, there is no room in my heart for another woman. Not yet. Perhaps, one day, but it still aches for another.” Tears rimmed her eyes, and he squeezed her hand. “Beth, I will always love you. Until the day I die.”
“I know,” she whispered, entering the carriage.
“Don’t leave yet, Shipman,” the earl told the driver. He hopped into the interior. “I cannot allow you to go until I know everything is as it should be with us. Beth, no one is happier for you than I, but I’m still adjusting.”
“As am I,” she answered. “It’s selfish of me, I know, but...”
“But what, Princess?”
“I’ve always thought of you as mine, Paul. My knight who rides in to rescue me anytime I need him, but I must let you go. You’ll soon ride away and find another to rescue. I think it’s only now hitting me.”
“You’re jealous?”
Her dark eyes blinked as the truth took hold. “I suppose I am.”
Stuart’s smile returned, and he kissed her hand. “No need, Princess. I’ll always be there to ride in, should you require it. Your favour is the only one I seek.”
“Forgive me,” she said, wiping tears. “My emotions are all over the place lately. I’m being cruel to you, and you don’t deserve it.”
“I would much rather be treated cruelly by you than kindly by anyone else.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“Because I love you. Now, go home and relax before Henry arrives. Margaret is right. You’re overdoing, and it’s straining you emotionally.”
He kissed her cheek, and Elizabeth’s smile finally returned. “Your face is less scratchy without the beard.”
“So you’ve told me many times. Shall I remind Charles that you prefer smooth chins?”
“Go away now,” she laughed.
The earl jumped out of the coach, waving to Elizabeth as the horses trotted away from the house. As he climbed the steps, he pondered his cousin’s words. Was it possible that he did care for Cordelia?
One of the two children dashed past him as Paul entered the house, and the earl had a momentary glimpse of his own future.
A peer’s greatest duty is to produce an heir, his late mother had told him many times. A son to carry on the name and title.
Paul had always assumed Elizabeth would give birth to that son. Despite the ache in his heart at losing her, the handsome Scot realised he had a duty to the eleven earls who’d lived before him: to find a suitable bride, marry, and produce an heir.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Stephen Blinkmire’s favourite aspect of Queen Anne Park was the variety of wildlife. It was late afternoon, and the gentle giant sat upon a stone bench near the far western edge of the north gardens, tossing toast crusts into the rippling water. A pair of Mute Swans swam towards him, curiously looking at their visitor. To the northwest, beyond a wildflower meadow, Blinkmire could see a family of fallow deer, and the bare-limbed Copper Beeches of James’s Woods were alive with squirrels, nuthatches, finches, and jays. Upon the tallest branch of the nearest tree, a white owl watched, its magnificently plumed head cocked to one side.
“Even in the cold, the park is pleasant, is it not?” a deep voice asked from behind Blinkmire’s back. The giant turned about, for he felt certain the voice sounded familiar, though he couldn’t place it.
The voice belonged to a very tall individual with long dark hair that fell loosely upon his broad shoulders. He wore fine clothing from an earlier age, and his appearance had a faint shimmer to it which hurt Blinkmire’s sensitive eyes.
“Prince Anatole?” Stephen asked.
“Hardly. I am his much more interesting, far handsomer brother.”
Standing, the befuddled Blinkmire started towards the stranger, but in a flash the man stood beside him. I don’t remember moving, Stephen thought.
“You didn’t move. I did. Your bravery is considerable.”
“Bravery?”
The intruder’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. “Some call it that, but is it really? I think your courage is overrated.”
He started to reply, but the creature’s eyes altered in a most peculiar way, turning black as night, and its mouth lengthened into a cavernous and impossibly long oval. Stephen felt as though the creature were swallowing his thoughts, and he instinctively thrashed about with his bandaged hands to protect himself. An intense cold overwhelmed his brain, as though a thousand needles of ice plunged deeply into his head, and he felt himself yielding to the trespasser’s probe.
Where is he? the attacker asked angrily. Where is Anatole?
“I don’t know!” the helpless victim whispered in agony. “Please, leave me!”
Tell me where he is!
“I beg you, please, I do not know where His Highness is!”
Hi
ghness? Highness! I sit higher than that insolent traitor! Tell me where he is, and I’ll reward you with a new body. One of beauty, one that women do not deride. One they will admire.
“I want nothing from you!” Stephen cried out, his head ready to explode.
Though the torture seemed to last for many minutes, it actually passed betwixt the tick of one second to the next. Just when Stephen thought he could endure no more, the intense pain ceased, and the invader vanished.
“Stephen?” Count Riga called as he approached. “Are you all right?”
The giant felt as timid as a mouse, and his bandaged hands trembled. “No,” he answered, his voice barely audible.
Riga crossed the gravel as swiftly as his hunched back could manage, and he placed a comforting arm on his friend’s back. “Tell me.”
“You won’t believe me,” the other insisted.
“I should never doubt you, my friend. Tell me. What did you see?”
“I’m not sure. I thought it was Prince Anatole, but he was hardly that! He used some form of magic to get inside my head—in my mind—oh, he is a very dark person with a capacity for infinite cruelty, Viktor. I have never in my life been so frightened! Not since the boys teased me back in Ireland.”
“Let us speak no more of it for the moment,” Riga said gently. “Perhaps, the events of this week have been too much, my friend.”
“Yes, perhaps.”
They returned to the dower house together, saying nothing. Riga’s eyes kept careful watch on the shadows beneath the bare fruit trees and evergreens. Red berries ripened on long stands of holly, and blue ones on junipers. It seemed to the count that these looked more like blinking eyes than fruit, but he said nothing to his friend.
In a moment, they passed through the west entrance to the graceful home, and as one of the cooks shut the door, a pair of birds—one black, one white—overflew their heads, unnoticed.
The two birds landed on the slate roof of a field stone dovecote near the northern edge of the vegetable garden. The black bird shimmered as its form altered, becoming the creature who’d so frightened poor Blinkmire.
The other, a white-feathered owl reshaped itself into a fiery bird of prey, its massive claws rending the intruder’s humanoid body with stripes of crimson.
The two enemies performed this hideous ballet again and again. Several times, the black-winged creature managed to inflict slight injury to the white defender, but never enough to force it into breaking off the attack. To those with ‘eyes to see’ into the mirror realm of sen-sen, the match was heavily weighted towards the white champion.
“Enough!” the interloper shouted. “I yield! I yield!”
The white bird refused to break off the attack, and its blazing claws tore into the foe’s cold eyes again and again. No humans saw the supernatural battle, and in the end, the black-winged hellion returned to the Stony Realms to lick its wounds.
The victor rose up high into the air, bound for the roofline of Haimsbury House, where it re-emerged into the human realm and transformed once more into the snowy white, guardian.
4:01 pm - Castor Institute
Alexander Collins returned to his office, still stinging from Raziel’s reproof. He’d only just settled into the desk chair, when a uniformed nurse knocked on the door. “You’ve guests, sir.”
“I’ve no time for visitors, Mrs. Cadbury. Unless they are on fire or bring barrels of money, I am far too busy!”
Winifred Cadbury did not move. “Neither applies, sir, but...”
“But what?” he shouted.
“One possesses a warrant card.”
Collins gulped, wondering what fresh hell had come his way. “The police?”
“Commissioner Sinclair, sir. The warrant card says Intelligence Branch, Home Office.”
The alienist stood, smoothed his dark hair, and pasted on the sort of smile he would wear for a visitor bringing barrels of money. “Send him in.”
Charles entered along with a second man, whom the physician recognised at once. “Henry MacAlpin, isn’t it? From Montmore House. And I presume this is Commissioner Sinclair. Do come in, gentlemen.”
The detective took a seat, joined by Salperton, and the two men offered disarming smiles of their own. “Dr. Collins, I paid a visit here a few weeks ago regarding the Victoria Park murders, but I spoke with Dr. Kepler. I was told you were engaged elsewhere that day.”
“Yes, that’s right. Kepler mentioned it,” Collins answered, feigning ease. “Is that the reason for your visit today, Commissioner? I’m afraid we know nothing about those crimes.”
Charles waited five seconds before responding, using those seconds to assess the physician’s appearance: tight pupils, beads of sweat along the upper lip, and a slight tick to the left eye.
“That is strange,” he replied in the sixth second, “for your institute and even your name keep coming up in my investigations. For instance, I’m told a man escaped from here, yet you failed to report the incident to the police. Why is that, Dr. Collins?”
“An escape? No, Commissioner, I’m sure you’re mistaken. Our patient count is checked daily. No one has left our wards without a release from one our physicians.”
Henry entered the conversation. “That is very odd, Dr. Collins, for you see, I’ve been treating a man who insists he was a patient here for many months. I should love to see your records. I’m sure his name is listed, as you must have issued a release.”
“His name?”
“I fear the fellow must have been a vagrant or perhaps a victim of memory loss, for he was only given a number whilst here. Number Thirteen.”
The unexpected shock precipitated by those two words caused the skin on Collins’s face to lose all colour. The left eye’s tick rate increased, the nose twitched like a rabbit’s might, and his upper lip commenced a strange sort of curling motion. Charles quietly observed the curious display, and he noticed other telltale signs. Profuse sweating along the hairline, shallow breathing, and the soft thud of a tapping foot upon the floor carpet.
Salperton pushed onward whilst Sinclair watched the alienist squirm.
“Yes, this fellow, Number Thirteen, told me some fantastic tales, Alex. Claimed he’d been held captive in your lower levels and given harsh chemicals that altered his very humanity. Of course, you and I understand how mental patients can be, isn’t that right? Imaginative is a kind way to put it. It’s easily disproved. Just let the commissioner see your records, and then escort us through these lower wards of yours.”
“Lower wards?”
“Oh, yes. They’re famous amongst our profession! I remember seeing plans for this building when I studied at Edinburgh. Designed by Abraham Compton, correct? Castor Institute’s considered a shining example of a modern facility. I’m sure you’re quite proud of it. Whilst Sinclair looks through your books, I’d love a tour.”
Collins had not one idea in his head. Not one thought that could extricate him from the Gordian knot before him, except the solution his namesake, Alexander the Great, had employed.
Cut through it.
Without further delay, Alexander Collins collapsed onto the floor and started jerking his arms and legs, and even going so far as to bite the inside of his cheek to draw enough blood that it could escape his pale lips.
Charles watched the performance with very little reaction.
“I see you’re busy,” he said, standing. “Henry, if you’ll make sure of the doctor’s vitals, I’ll call for a porter.”
“Porter?” the viscount asked as he knelt beside the pretender.
“To carry Dr. Collins to my coach. I’m sure my old friend Fred Treves will be happy to admit a fellow doctor, but as we wouldn’t want to risk anyone barging into his hospital room, I’ll place a pair of constables on the door.”
Before the clock struck five, Alexander Collins had been carri
ed to the clever marquess’s coach, conveyed to London Hospital, and placed into a narrow bed, safeguarded by Constables Antram and Bright.
“He’s to have no visitors,” Sinclair ordered. “Not even policemen. If I discover either of you has left this door before your relief shift arrives at midnight, you’ll find yourselves cleaning latrines for Edmund Reid for the next year. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, sir,” they answered.
Catching Frederick Treves’s eye as he and Salperton left, Charles explained the reason for the admission. “I cannot take the chance that Collins is genuinely ill, Fred. If you’d perform a full examination, I’d appreciate it.”
“You believe he’s malingering?”
“I do. I believe Dr. Collins is hiding something. Do the full workup. Top to toes, and if you can keep him restrained, all the better.”
“Restrained? Wrist ties?”
“Either that, or I cuff him to the bedframe. I’ll stop in first thing tomorrow.”
Sinclair and MacAlpin then departed the hospital, and headed for Westminster.
Moments later, Anthony Gehlen tapped his colleague on the shoulder. “What was that all about?”
“A favour for our new Intelligence Commissioner. Apparently, he suspects Alex Collins of deception. We’re to perform a complete examination of all systems, particularly anything that might cause an epileptic seizure.”
Gehlen laughed, his eyes glinting oddly. “Ah, well, not my area then. I’ll leave it to you and your anatomists. See you for supper later?”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
Treves entered the new patient’s room and shut the door.
As he stood there, watching, Anthony Gehlen’s human mind slept whilst the clever thief wandered about his memories looking for ways to make use of his new ‘human suit’. Alexander Collins’s name had no entry here, but Saraqael recognised the alienist from the meeting at the Empress. If he could find a way to enter Collins’s head, then he might retrieve memories of other meetings. He might even discover information about Raziel.
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