And then, all light would vanish, and the world would fall to eternal Darkness.
When the king of the dead arose.
Chapter Five
Early morning, St. Marylebone Parish
Since 1835, the four hundred and ten acres of Regent’s Park in London served as a restful haven for London’s weary of heart, mind, and body. The grand expanse of manicured lawns and cheerful lanes was dotted with cricket pitches, bandstands, and graceful white pavilions. In an effort to blend entertainment with educational opportunities, the royal park also hosted a zoological exhibit featuring Indian elephants, African lions, slithering pythons, and fierce Bengal tigers. At the south end, the Royal Botany Society’s magnificent gardens offered colour and scent, and visitors could wander the spectacular beds or enjoy a boat ride upon the sapphire waters of the park’s majestic lake. During posted hours, those wishing to discover how ‘the other half’ lived could explore the elegant state rooms of nine private villas, including Grove House, St. Dunstan’s, and Holford House. And during the summer, refreshment stands offered fresh lemonade, sweet tea, fruited scones, and jam-filled sponge cakes to slake the thirst and fill the bellies of each and every delighted park visitor, regardless of age.
Interspersed amongst this bustle of food and frivolity, a circuit of riding paths allowed upper class equestrians a chance to exercise horses whilst chatting about politics, the theatre, and personal lives. Bordering the lake, ran mile upon mile of gaily flowered walkways, lined with wide wooden benches that offered respite to the foot-weary and a viewing point for artists.
Even in winter, the park seldom stood empty. School children, governesses, lonely widows, courting couples, and secret lovers meeting for a tryst: all found the park a place of wonder and consolation. No matter the weather, no matter the time, Regent’s Park was there.
That crisp December morning in 1888, as sunrise painted the elm trees of the high street with a rosy radiance, two men from widely disparate social classes arrived at St. Marylebone Church. The tower’s clockwork bells had just sounded quarter to eight, when the first man, a proud Welshman named Ifan Davies, passed beneath the lychgate’s peaked roof to prepare the grounds for burial of an important parishioner.
The second man arrived in a five-window coach drawn by a pair of high-stepping, dappled greys. A liveried coachman parked the crested conveyance on the east side of the street, beneath the bare branches of a regal chestnut. Overhead, within the broad canopy, a quartet of crows squatted on leafless limbs, their black eyes glistening with greedy curiosity as they watched the well-dressed passenger emerge from the coach. The birds whispered to one another in a secret language.
Is it he? they asked the largest of the group. Whom does he serve? Shall we protect him or kill him?
Davies took his job seriously and maintained the church and the attached cemetery park in beautiful condition. The conscientious sexton paid no attention to the elaborate carriage or to the chattering birds. Instead, Davies kept his sharp eyes on the leaf-strewn ground, diligently searching for bits of stray newspaper or other refuse which would mar the orderly forest of the dead. The lonely statuary and weathered crypts had an otherworldly look in the grey morning mist. The wrought-iron fencing and stately benches offered a comforting impression of human control, but the stern faces of marble angels, granite cherubs, and even the odd gargoyle hinted of an unquiet, pagan threat lurking amongst the Christian symbols; warning signs of unrepentant dead, of primordial chaos and retribution; an army of restless warrior spirits who waited beside a complacent land of lemonade, tea, and jam-filled sponge cakes.
The sexton shuddered. An inexplicable chill ran up his spine, as though a bony hand had reached into his soul to measure its weight. Something brushed against his fleshy cheek, and Davies swiped at it; certain a phantom’s cold lips had kissed him there.
His path that morning led past a marble statue of St. Michael fighting the Dragon. The iconic tableau anchored a plot of ground owned by the Earls of Heeverswick; a line that ended in 1733 when the last earl fell ill and died mysteriously—some said of fright—leaving no heir to assume the family name. Davies always found the face of the fierce archangel disquieting, but this morning, the chiseled features seemed positively malevolent.
The iconic pose was supposed to depict the prophecy in St. John’s Book of Revelation, when St. Michael would bind the Dragon in adamantine chains for a thousand years. Conventionally, the archangel’s long sword pointed downwards, piercing the scales of mankind’s greatest foe. However, the artist that created this version had defiantly pointed the sword upwards, towards the throne of heaven, as though Michael had joined forces with Satan in rebellion against the Almighty.
“Good morning,” a deep voice called through the thick mist.
The sexton let out a small cry, startled at the unforeseen intrusion. “Sir, you like ta scared me half ta death! If you’re here for the Wychwright services, you’re early, sir. They don’ start ‘til eleven. Seatin’ begins at half ten.”
The visitor stood well over six feet tall and wore gleaming black boots, a grey Chesterfield coat, and carried a silk top hat in a kid-gloved right hand. “I’m aware of that,” he answered kindly. “I’ve come to pay my respects to someone else, if that’s all right.”
Davies removed his soft-brimmed brown hat respectfully. “Might that be a friend or a relative, sir? If you’ve need o’ directions, I know every marker in this here park. I’d be pleased ta point the way fer ya.”
“That’s very generous of you, but I know exactly where the grave lies,” the gentleman answered. “It’s Mr. Davies, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, sir,” the sexton answered in surprise. Then a smile slowly lifted his plump cheeks, for Davies recognised the visitor at last. “Well, bless me sideways, if it isn’t Superintendent St. Clair!” he declared happily. “Come ta see your boy, I reckon?”
“That’s right. I’m afraid I missed visiting on the actual anniversary,” Sinclair explained as he shook the sexton’s hand. “It’s been ten years since Albert left us, Mr. Davies, though that hardly seems possible. And my surname’s changed a little since we spoke last December; as has my title.”
“I should o’ ‘membered that, my lord,” Davies replied politely with a slight bow. “My wife and me was talkin’ ‘bout it only this mornin’, in fact; over a cup o’ tea. We seen that photograph o’ you an’ the queen in the newspaper, where she give you that new title. Who’d o’ thought you’d be a duke one day, sir? Reckon I oughta be callin’ you Yer Grace, or summat, eh?”
Sinclair laughed, and his azure eyes crinkled at the corners. “Well, it all sounds very strange to my ears, Mr. Davies. I’d only just grown accustomed to being a marquess, but I prefer to keep it simple. Just call me Commissioner.”
“Commissioner? I thought Mr. Monro replaced that other fella—Warren, were it?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Sir Charles Warren retired for personal reasons, and James Monro has taken over as Metropolitan Police Commissioner. Actually, I’m heading up a related department called the Intelligence Branch.”
“Never ‘eard of it, my lord, but I reckon you’ll make a fine commissioner fer it, sure enough. You always was a first-rate copper.”
“Thank you, Mr. Davies. It’s kind of you to say so. I wonder, have the Winstones called this year?” he asked as they walked together.
“I seen ‘em a few times, sir. This summer, when they visited their daughter’s grave, o’ course. An’ they come ta call at little Albert’s restin’ place—on the day, ya know.”
“The sixth, yes. I’d not forgotten,” Sinclair explained. “I doubt I shall ever forget that fateful day. However, other matters made it impossible for me to visit on the sixth. But as I had to be in Marylebone for the Wychwright funeral, I thought to spend a little time with him, though it is somewhat late.”
“I’m sure it’ll mean just as mu
ch, sir, no matter the day. And I keep it nice, just like you asked me. Oh, and there’s two new rose bushes been added as well. A lady sent a man to plant them last week.”
Charles walked alongside the stout fellow, his sea-blue eyes fixed upon a peaceful location near the northern edge of the burial ground, where a small, cross-shaped headstone sat beneath a graceful willow tree. Flanking the marker, he noticed a pair of rose bushes, each about a foot in height.
“White roses,” the duke observed.
“So they are, sir,” the sexton replied, still holding his hat. “I hope it were all right that I allowed it.”
“You say the benefactor provided the flowers as well as someone to plant them?” Sinclair asked, bending to examine the fading petals of the vigorous, young bushes. “I recognise these, Mr. Davies. They’re Queen Anne Whites. They’re double-petaled, and the creamy colour takes on a pink tinge, just at the centre.”
“That’s right, sir. You know your roses, I reckon. The lady’s gardener said she removed the plants from her very own garden just to plant them here beside your little Albert. I reckon you must know the lady, sir. Else why would she do such a thing?”
“Why else, indeed?” Charles replied, smiling as he sat upon a ragstone bench near the grave. “I don’t recall this being here last year, Mr. Davies. Did the church install it?”
“No, sir. It were that same lady, the one what sent the rose bushes. She had the bench delivered as well. There’s a Bible verse on the back, if you’d care to look.”
Sinclair stood to examine an attached brass plaque. “But I trust I shall shortly see thee, and we shall speak face to face. Second John, Chapter one, verse twelve,” he said, his eyes glistening with bright tears. “I can guess who sent these gifts, Mr. Davies. My very thoughtful wife, the Duchess of Branham.”
The sexton nodded. “Aye, sir. That be the lady’s name, all right. I’d forgot you remarried. Did the duchess come with you this morning, Commissioner?”
“No, but she’ll attend the funeral later. Perhaps, you’ll have a chance to meet her then. You say the Winstones visited on the sixth?”
“Aye, sir, they did. Left a wreath here and also at your late wife’s grave across the way. Both them wreaths got soaked in the rains two days ago, and I had to remove ‘em ta the compost heap.”
“I’m sure they’ll understand. Might I have a few moments alone?” Sinclair asked the sexton.
“Oh, ‘course, sir. If you need anything, just ring the bell. You know where it is.”
The sexton departed with another bow, and Charles sat once more to gaze upon Albert’s small headstone. Davies and his team kept the burial ground beautifully ordered, and the simple marker looked as though it had recently been brushed, allowing the chiseled engraving to stand out:
ALBERT EDWARD ST. CLAIR
10 DECEMBER, 1877 - 6 DECEMBER, 1878
“And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
“Sorry I missed visiting you on the sixth, Albert, but it’s been quite hectic lately,” he whispered. “That’s no excuse, of course, but you’re always in my heart, son. That ache never leaves me.” He wiped a tear and continued, his eyes on the roses. “You probably don’t feel the passing of time, but for me it’s been ten years. Ten long, difficult years; most of them quite lonely, to be honest. So often, have I recalled Shakespeare’s plaintive lines, for no other words convey my emotions better. For I have grieved for you, Albert, so much that once I clung to that grief as if it were my only friend.
“Grief fills the room up of my absent child,” he quoted from Act III of King John. “It lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, reminds me of all his gracious parts, stuffs out his vacant garments with his form. Then have I reason to be fond of grief.”
After wiping another tear, the duke whispered a silent prayer before speaking again to his dead son. “Yet, life has at last taken a happy turn, my dear son. Grief no longer consumes my heart. Rather, joy fills it. Do you remember that I used to tell you about a young woman named Elizabeth Stuart, a duchess whom I assumed could never be more than a friend to me? Believe it or not, she and I wed a month ago, and though she’s never met you, Elizabeth loves you as if you were her own.”
The tower bells chimed eight o’clock, interrupting his thoughts, and the merchants of St. Marylebone hastened to prepare for Tuesday’s trade. Already, Charles could hear the familiar sounds of horse hooves and carriage wheels upon the high street’s well-worn, limestone setts. Amongst this clattering chorus, he noticed soft thunder in the distance. Darkening clouds rolled overhead from the east, obscuring the newborn sun, and the air grew thick and heavy as though charged with electricity.
He glanced up into a tangle of willow branches, and an eerie chill coursed along his spine. The birds had moved from the chestnut to flock above his head. Their black bodies shifted upon the limbs, causing the slender branches to wave as though the tree moved of its own accord.
Ghosts keep watch, Charles thought as he listened to the ravens whisper. Unwelcome phantoms walk within these stone forests, waiting to snatch away life. The ancient Dragon that lurks beneath a glittering surface—black mirror of eternal doom.
A deep voice grated inside his head, as though sharp claws dug through his memories.
“I’m waiting for you, boy.”
The duke visibly shuddered to shake off the reverie. A dream. Only a dream, he told himself. He had police work to do and must focus on the present, not the veiled past. The skein of criminal threads before him must be unravelled; each twisted line plucked from its brother and examined thoroughly.
To begin the day’s investigations, Charles had arranged to meet with his old friend, Superintendent George Draper of D-Division, to discuss a recent spate of arson fires, including one which destroyed two floors of a school just four blocks from where he now sat. Afterward, he planned to join Henry MacAlpin for a late breakfast, and then both men would attend the Wychwright service at eleven; followed by the wake and two more meetings: one at Whitehall, the other in Whitechapel.
Standing, Sinclair placed a hand on the tombstone, tears tracing his bearded cheek as he recalled the softness of his dead son’s hair. “Goodbye, Albert. If there’s time after the service today, I’ll bring Beth over, but if not, we’ll come again soon. I know you’re not really here, beneath the sod, but this place provides me solace. Elizabeth and I both love you very, very much.”
Reluctantly, he left the graveside and passed through neatly ordered rows of the dead, ducking his tall head now and again to avoid the overhanging limbs of shaggy yews and berry-laden juniper trees. As he neared the disquieting marble statue of the archangel Michael, an accented voice called his name.
“Good morning, Charles. Perhaps, you should have brought an umbrella.”
The voice was all too familiar, and Sinclair’s initial reactions were irritation, annoyance, and mild anger; but he managed to sound casual as he replied. “I’d wondered when you’d finally show your face. Have you intentionally avoided me, or has another of your kind held you prisoner?”
Anatole Romanov seemed at home in the green and stone-grey palace of the dead. The elegantly attired entity sat upon an iron-trimmed bench on the south side of the marble statue, his long fingers wrapped round the silver handle of a carved walking stick that bore hundreds of symbols along its length.
“I appear when I am needed, Charles. Join me, won’t you?”
“You think I need you?” the duke responded.
“I know you do. Sit.”
Sinclair remained on his feet, asking in bemused frustration, “And why do I need you?”
“It is an interesting portrayal of Michael, no?” asked Romanov, ignoring the human’s question. “I needn’t tell you that he is not pleased with the association.”
“And I needn’t say that you’re changing the
subject, Anatole. Why do I need you?”
“I change it for a reason, Charles. Do pay attention.”
“Very well, I’ll play your game,” sighed the duke. Charles approached the Heeverswick plot’s central anchor, touching the scaled back of the marble dragon. “It reminds me of something I saw only recently.”
“The clock, perhaps?” enquired Romanov without hesitation.
Shocked, Sinclair stared at the elohim. “You know about the clock?”
“Two clocks. One for Rose House, the other for Haimsbury. However, they are not identical. Each was designed by an engineering genius named Franz Meijer. His grandson has a shop on Hatton Garden, next door to Sir Hiram Maxim’s factory. You should pay him a call.”
“He can tell me about the clocks?”
“He can read his father’s notes. They are quite interesting. One is called ‘Arthur’s Victory’; the other ‘Arthur’s Defeat’.”
“And the one here in London? Which is that?”
Romanov’s head tilted to one side as though considering his reply; or perhaps, listening to a voice imperceptible to the human. “I am not permitted to answer that—not yet.”
“Typical,” muttered the duke. “Very well, then. Let’s ignore the clocks for the moment. Tell me about Prince Aleksandr Koshmar, the man who gave them to me.”
The elohim smiled. “Koshmar? One of his many names. He’s not used Koshmar since his release from prison, but I imagine he’ll trot it out soon.”
“Is this a human or angelic prison?”
“A very insightful question, Charles. The latter type, requiring more than a physical key to open.”
The duke considered this for a moment. “Do you refer to Raziel Grigor? That’s impossible. You told me Raziel was bound in the Mt. Hermon stone until 1871. How could he give me a pair of clocks in 1855?”
“He could not. I refer to another of my brothers. One who is far more dangerous.”
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