“Damned if I can tell them apart! Raziel, Saraqael, and this one they call Samael. They all look the same to me. One of them did it, and then he put that note from me in Wychwright’s pocket. To keep me chained to them, I suppose. Blackmailers, the whole lot of them! And now, we’re going to release another of their blasphemous kind? Why?”
A shimmering shadow moved in the interior, and Urquhart paused, unsure if the flickering form resulted from the harsh electrics or from something else. It was entirely possible Raziel had set a trap, and that he now listened to their whispers. A chill ran through the builder’s frame, and he visibly shivered. “We should be careful of such slanderous words, Sir Albert.”
“You’ve changed your tune,” the younger man laughed. “You’re the one proposed we create our own Round Table. Have you lost your metal, Urquhart?”
“Perhaps, he’s lost his mind,” a third man said from within the shifting shadow.
Urquhart feared he might lose his entire breakfast along with every ounce of urine in his bladder, but he managed to hold onto both as he replied. “It has been said so, but those who dared never did so again.”
The entity laughed as he stepped from the corner. “What plots are you two hatching? Might I join in the fun?”
Wendaway’s bladder did give way as he stared at the enormous creature. A half-man, half-human anatomy with chilling ice-blue eyes. “Prince Raziel?” he managed to croak. “We plot nothing! We only hoped to keep our secrets from the foreigners.”
“You’re all foreign to me,” the intruder answered as he transformed into a more agreeable configuration of molecules. The hairy arms wove clothing about their sinews, and the thick tail wrapped round the loins to become trousers of fine Merino wool. By the end, the being might have passed for a very tall peer or businessman; except for the glacial eyes. The handsome mouth curved into a smile. “Ah, now that is better. I’ve been eating, you know, which requires a different sort of teeth. Do go change your clothing, Sir Albert. No, wait. Allow me.”
With a wave of his hand, Saraqael magically transmuted the soiled breeches, making it seem as if nothing had gone awry. “Much better,” the Watcher said as he walked close to the terrified baronet and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re a dear little fellow. Rather pretty, too. I shouldn’t wish to frighten you. Not yet, anyway. Now, Clive, do tell! What are you men plotting?”
“Nothing, my lord Saraqael. Nothing at all. We merely wished to allow your brother privacy during his negotiations.”
“Yes, that,” Sara muttered as he sat into a leather club chair. “Raza plans to rule the world, doesn’t he? Such a mundane plan, but it may prove useful to me. The question is this: which side will you choose?”
“Side, my lord? We choose only the side of power. Redwing and all it stands for,” replied Urquhart, suspiciously.
“Then, you will side with me. Do you know the history of Cupid?”
“The god of love?” asked Wendaway. “Oh, sure, I’ve read about that at college, you know. A chubby fellow with arrows.”
“Your dons must have fawned upon your great intellect,” answered Saraqael as he poured himself a glass of claret and then transformed it into blood. “The real Cupid is anything but chubby. In fact, he’d quite likely eat your liver for breakfast for making so slanderous a statement. He is not of my class, but powerful nonetheless. He’s currently imprisoned, but if my plans unfold as I think they will, then that will soon be remedied.”
“What the devil are you saying?” asked Wendaway.
After taking a sip of the transmuted wine, the devious Watcher winked at the baronet. “There is a generation, whose teeth are as swords, and their fangs as knives, to devour the poor from off the earth, and the needy from among men. That is quote, by the way, Sir Albert. From the King James Bible. The king was a sensitive fellow, whom I knew quite well—intimately, in fact. It is from Proverbs. Thirtieth chapter, fourteenth verse. I ask you: are your teeth swords or are they chalk? Will they devour or crumble into dust?”
“Do your kind always speak in such pretentious riddles?”
The Watcher licked the baronet’s face, his hand on the man’s slender chest. “Careful, pretty one. My teeth are adamantine swords. Want to see them?”
“No,” Wendaway squeaked. “Thank you, no.”
Laughing, Saraqael downed the last of the unpleasant beverage and set the empty glass aside. He rubbed his hands together in delight. “Now, to the plot! Cupid was a great one for strategy, and he used his arrows to alter the thoughts of others, which led to this ridiculous belief in him as some sort of love broker. Some of his arrows killed, whilst others defeated enemies with more silken traps. Let us then play the role of Cupid and lure my brother in with the object of his greatest desire: power, vengeance, blood and fire. And then, when that pleasant point is securely fixed within his crooked breast, I shall let fly my second dart, which will prick him to the deep and trap him in my web for all eternity.”
Chapter Twelve
10:27 am - The Tilsbury Tea Room, Bryanston Square
“You say Wychwright’s body is missing?” gasped Henry MacAlpin. The Scottish viscount sat opposite Charles Sinclair at a round, cloth-covered table near the east window of the elegant restaurant. To his right, a hand-painted trolley held a three-tiered, silver cake plate; stacked high with warm scones, fruit, and buttery confections. On the table, a gold-edged china teapot, decorated with blue and white pansies, offered hot Darjeeling; silvery mists of steam rising from its delicate spout. Piano music filled the scented air with pleasant chords of controlled gentility, yet the theme of their discussion had taken an early turn into the macabre.
“Someone stole the body, Henry. I’m sure I can imagine who,” answered the duke.
MacAlpin cut a scone in half and spread it with strawberry jam. “I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s Redwing?”
“Who else would have done it? Henry, the driver spoke of shooing a bird from the interior of the waggon just before he discovered the body had vanished. A bird, Henry. A raven, in fact. Does that sound familiar?”
“You’re referring to the creature you and Elizabeth met inside that other world? What is it you call him? The Nameless Gatekeeper?”
“Not entirely nameless,” Charles admitted. “One is Uriens, according to Romanov. The Gatekeeper is a maddening demon, and I suspect he’s able to cross into our world at will. Of course, he claimed he was trapped there, but how can that be? Beth and I escaped. Why can’t he? And what does this Uriens want with Baron Wychwright’s body?”
The viscount took a bite of the pastry, followed by a sip of tea. “Who’s to say?” he asked after swallowing. “Charles, I think you expect too much of yourself, if you plan to solve all this today. It’s nearly Christmas, and Beth is looking forward to celebrating with you. Can you not allow another investigator to take over whilst you enjoy being a newlywed for a few days?”
Despite having consumed only coffee since rising, Charles had no appetite. Ever since awakening from the odd dream, he’d been nursing a slight headache, and a nagging sensation prickled his skin, as though a light electric charge skimmed along his shoulders and spine. Something was about to happen. Redwing was moving chess pieces into place, preparing for a major assault, and Romanov’s warning to keep a close eye on the duchess caused him to worry all the more. If he could only determine the enemy’s plans before the attack commenced, then maybe, just maybe he could keep Beth safe enough to enjoy the holidays.
“I’d love nothing more than to relax with my wife, Henry,” he said. “But it’s difficult to let one’s guard down, with so much evil in the air.”
“Yes, but evil will always hang round you! We are ever on a battlefield, but even the Lord’s warriors require seasons of rest. Charles, my very dear friend, let me speak as a physician for a moment. Your personality tends towards carrying everyone’s burdens, but though you are str
ong, you are not Atlas. The world does not rest upon your shoulders. That constant weight will crush you, if you’re not careful. Remember, you suffered a sharp blow to the head only a month ago. You’re still healing.”
“I’m recovered well enough to manage,” the duke insisted. “It isn’t the first time I’ve been injured, Henry, nor will it be the last.”
“No, I suppose not, being a policeman, but that doesn’t make you invulnerable. Tell me, have you noticed any lingering effects? Headaches? Dizziness?”
“A headache now and then, but those are common to every man.”
“Charles, I do wish you’d let me examine you properly,” Henry worried.
The duke raised an eyebrow in irritation. “I am fine.”
“Very well!” Salperton sighed. “Do as you like, but if you’ll not listen to common sense regarding your health, then let’s puzzle through your latest conundrum. You want to label this strange event—the missing body, I mean—with a familiar name, but that bird may have been only that. A bird. A natural, non-threatening raven. London’s full of ravens and blackbirds. This Jarvis might be lying. Have you considered that?”
“Of course, I have, but he seemed reliable.”
“Well, then, have you spoken to anyone else about it? What does Paul say?”
“He doesn’t know about it yet.”
“Ah. What would he say, if you asked him?”
A slight smile crept along Sinclair’s firm jawline. “He’d probably say the bird is just a bird. Henry, I’m not imaginative. Truly, I am not. Ask anyone at Cambridge. I was a dull as dishwater student, who spent nearly every minute with his nose in a book.”
“And now you spend every minute with your nose in a criminal case. Charles, you’re no different now than when you were a student. You’re still driven to succeed, even at the cost of your health.”
The stubborn duke offered no reply. The alienist poured a second cup of tea, his quick eyes assessing the other’s pupils and general appearance. Salperton recognised exhaustion when he saw it, and his friend had a decidedly erratic look to his eyes now and then, as though distracted.
“Charles, I wish you would eat something. If you’ll not enjoy the pastries, then have some fruit, at least. The oranges are quite good, and the pears as well.”
Grudgingly, the duke chose a small satsuma orange and a slice of lemon cake. “Happy now?”
“Immensely,” Henry replied with a bright smile. “Now, if you would actually eat the cake, I should be even happier.”
Haimsbury slowly smiled. “You’re a stubborn fellow, Lord Salperton. Very well, I’ll forget about the case for the moment. Anyway, I’d not intended our conversation to be business. The original idea for our breakfast meeting was far more pleasant, I assure you. It’s a personal invitation. Beth wants you to join us at Branham for Christmastide. We have several other guests who’ll be there as well, including most of your old castle companions: Stanley, Anderson, Count Riga, and Mr. Blinkmire. Miss Kilmeade, the two cooks, and Vasily all declined. They’ve been invited to celebrate with the staffs of Haimsbury and Queen Anne.”
“Katrina and Ida? Are they going?” asked the viscount as he buttered a second scone.
“Katrina Gasparov has left the dower house. I asked Ida the reason, but she chose not to reveal it. I’ve placed a man on her trail, for I suspect she’s joined Anatole’s new household, wherever that is.” Charles paused, staring at the orange, wondering if he should mention his conversation with the elusive prince.
“And Miss Ross? I do hope she’ll come, Charles. Ida is a dear woman and actually quite bright. With a little education, she could make a fine wife for a fellow.”
Sinclair smiled. “Which fellow might that be?”
Henry actually blushed. “Oh, no! I don’t refer to myself! No, hardly that. I’m not meant for marriage. I mean Mr. Stanley, of course. Hadn’t you noticed? The two of them have grown very close.”
“Have they? Well, then we’ll have to look elsewhere for your bride, Henry.”
“There’s no rush, I assure you,” Salperton demurred.
“You’ve met no woman who merits even a moment’s consideration?”
Henry swallowed the bite of scone, wiping at his lips with a linen cloth. “Only one, but she’s in love with another. In fact, she married him. I believe you can deduce who that dear lady is, Charles. However, I’m content to be her friend and physician. And talking of doctors, is she consulting Gehlen now that Emerson is delayed in Edinburgh?”
Charles slowly peeled the orange, wondering why he had no appetite. Generally, he ate large breakfasts, but today nothing appealed. “Gehlen? I’m afraid it’s been somewhat busy of late. I cannot believe I haven’t asked her about him. Henry, what’s wrong with me?”
“You’re overworked. That’s what’s wrong. Allow me to speak to Beth about Gehlen. In the meanwhile, do you trust me with her health?”
Sinclair nodded, and Henry could see relief in his friend’s eyes. “I’ve hated to ask, but would you keep an eye on her? I cannot tell you how many government telegrams and messages I receive each day now. Salisbury and Matthews have saved every unsolved case to place upon my desk.”
“Then delegate some of the responsibility. Have Paul or one of your men see to these unsolved cases. What is it you call your men? Detectives? Inspectors?”
“Agents,” answered the duke. “And I have delegated. It’s just that...”
“It’s just that you’re unable to release the reins entirely. I understand, but your wife might not always be so agreeable. If Paul’s stories are true, Elizabeth has quite a temper when roused. But do let’s change the topic for a moment. Who else is going with you to Branham?”
“Joseph Merrick will be there for a few nights. James and Victoria, of course. Also, Tory’s friend Reggie Whitmore might join us, though he’s not yet committed.”
“Good heavens! Will there be any room for me?”
“More than enough,” the duke answered. “The hall could host a small army, if required. My wife is adamant, Henry. She’ll not take no for an answer, and as you’re her friend and one of her physicians, you simply cannot decline.”
“I should never disappoint our duchess,” answered the viscount cheerfully. “I usually visit my father over Christmas, but I could go there afterward, I suppose.”
“How is your father?” asked Haimsbury.
“Feisty as ever. He’s eighty-three and growing increasingly fragile. It’s a struggle, you know. Father and I’ve never gotten on well, but I cannot leave him on his own completely. Aside from his servants, he’s no one else.”
“Then, bring him down here. We could see to his comfort and Beth would love to meet him. Besides, he’s family.”
“Honestly, Charles, you and Beth are far too generous, but I’ll write him. I promise nothing. My father is insular in his ways and very unpleasant company. As to matters here, let me see if I can arrange for a colleague to keep watch on my resident patients, and if it can be done, I’ll join you. Will Aubrey be there?”
“As with myself, Paul’s been occupied with far too many tasks the past few days, so I’ve not spoken with him about it. But I’m sure he will be. He never misses a Christmas with Elizabeth; not unless duty calls him away.”
“Let’s pray all such duties take a holiday, then. Now, let me explain why I wired you this morning. I’ve a very odd fellow in my care at present. The Hammersmith police called me to examine him, and I think he’s someone you should meet.”
A pretty server in a charcoal dress and pinafore arrived to ask if they’d like more coffee, to which Charles replied ‘Yes, please.’ As Henry mentioned the Hammersmith man, the pianist, a coatless fellow of slender build and ridiculously long arms changed the selection from Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. The haunting strains of the latter danced upon the air
like tiny black swans. The sensitive duke could almost feel them skitter along the back of his neck.
“Charles? I say, Charles, are you all right?” he heard Henry ask.
“Oh, yes, of course,” the duke replied, though his eyes had a vacant look to them.
“Well, you don’t look all right. Are you experiencing a headache?”
“A small one. Nothing time won’t heal. You said you met an odd man. Why is he odd?”
“Well, perhaps not odd so much as mad. Mad as a hatter, actually,” Salperton explained, mentally filing away his friend’s behaviour for later. “The police at T-Division tried to send him over to Bedlam, but the fellow escaped. They’ve no idea how he managed it, but when they arrived at the hospital, the maria was entirely empty—rather like your missing body, come to think of it. Very strange. They only found him again because a milkman reported seeing someone wandering amongst the tombs in Westminster Cemetery, covered in blood.”
“The cemetery near Anatole’s castle?”
“The very same,” Salperton replied as the server returned with the coffee. “Thank you, Miss. If you’d bring me the bill?”
“It’s on the house, my lord. Mrs. Tilsbury asks only that she might meet the duke before you leave.”
Charles swallowed a bite of orange. “Meet me? Has she some crime to report?”
The girl giggled. “No, Your Grace, she only wishes to hear you speak and shake your hand, if that’s allowed.”
“Really? How very strange. Yes, of course. I’d be happy to meet Mrs. Tilsbury, Miss...?”
“Waxman, Your Grace. Sylvia Waxman. Mrs. Tilsbury is my mother’s dearest friend. We’re all honoured that you’ve chosen to breakfast here this morning, sir, and pray you’ll come again.”
She curtsied deftly and left the coffee pot, giggling once more as she disappeared through a set of velvet drapes on the far side of the restaurant.
Realms of Fire Page 13