Realms of Fire

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Realms of Fire Page 18

by Sharon K Gilbert


  “He doesn’t see me,” the woman told Collins. “But you do. Have you been naughty, Alexander? Must we discipline you again?”

  The patient’s entire body began to spasm now, as though suffering a grand mal seizure. Gehlen instinctively searched the adjacent cabinet for a tongue depressor, which he then placed in the victim’s mouth, forcing it ‘twixt the top and bottom teeth. Every private room and ward had a locked cabinet containing prepared tinctures, amalgams, tablets, powders, and elixirs; ready for emergencies. Gehlen used his key to obtain a vial of a high-potassium solution, which he measured into a small glass. He then threw open the door and shouted into the corridor for help. A porter and a young trainee nurse came running.

  “Hold him down,” he ordered the porter. “Your name, Miss?”

  “Augusta Hill, sir,” the pretty girl answered. “He’s Mr. Samuels.”

  “Samuels, keep a tight hold on the man whilst I prise his teeth apart. Miss Hill, when I say so, you’re to slowly pour this liquid down his throat. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I think so.”

  Both did as ordered, and the anticonvulsant slowly trickled down Collins’s esophagus and into his stomach. It would take several minutes to take effect, but Anthony didn’t dare risk an injection. If the man had undiagnosed cardiovascular problems, the intense rush of potassium could kill him.

  Ten minutes passed, and the medicine slowly helped the muscles to relax. Hill had never seen an epileptic seizure before, and she found it terrifying. Martin Samuels had seen nearly every condition known to man, and he did his job efficiently without comment.

  “Thank you, both,” Gehlen said once Collins had calmed. “Samuels, I’d like you to stay, but Miss Hill, you may leave us. I’m sure there are other patients who require you.”

  The slightly built girl left, and Anthony fell into a chair, exhausted. The porter remained standing. “What can you tell me of Dr. Collins’s recent activities, Mr. Samuels?”

  “Well, sir, he don’t make much sense most o’ the time. Always mutterin’ like he’s talkin’ with someone. I never see nobody else about, though. He weren’t like this when he first come. Just since the past few days, somethin’s changed. Like he’s gone round the bend. Some of the nurses, they don’t like comin’ in here. They’re afraid o’ what he might do. One even claimed she seen a ghost.”

  Gehlen’s head began to pound, and an odd ringing sensation overtook his ears. I’m just tired and hungry, he told himself. “A ghost?”

  “Some woman in a black night dress. Claimed this here woman was bendin’ over Collins like as she were kissin’ him on the throat.”

  The invisible wraith in black boldly leaned down and whispered erotic suggestions into the doctor’s ear, and then ran her tongue along Gehlen’s cheek, causing him to jump. Something in his mind summoned up the image of a voluptuous female with dark eyes and blood red lips. He shook off the idea, and Serena di Specchio laughed hoarsely.

  “Do you not yearn for my caresses, sweet Anthony?” she whispered to him from the shadows.

  Collins may not be the only one who’s going mad, the troubled physician thought.

  The patient had fallen into a light sleep, and Gehlen remained for several minutes, watching for warning signs of stroke. Satisfied that the crisis was over, he rose to his feet, his balance growing slightly wobbly for a moment.

  “You all right, Doc?” asked Samuels.

  “Yes, just tired. If anyone asks, I’m going back to my room at the residence hall across the park. Remain here as long as possible, Samuels. If you must leave for any reason, ask one of the nurses to assign another to replace you.”

  Wearily, the confused Gehlen left the hospital room, in complete ignorance of the merciless Shade that followed behind.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Wychwright rites ended at half past twelve, and by two that afternoon, nearly one hundred and fifty peers, publishers, and parliamentarians gathered at the Earl of Cartringham’s stylish mansion on Grosvenor Crescent in Belgravia to enjoy a light meal, console the grieving family, and make endless small talk. A few dared to discuss the hideous details of the late baron’s murder, but these hushed conversations took place within quiet corners, out of sight and hearing of the widow and her children.

  As he and Elizabeth arrived for the wake, Sinclair was met by A-Division’s Detective Inspector Fraser, who informed the duke of the Whitechapel fire. The news struck Charles hard, for he’d served with nearly all of the policemen who responded—two of whom had now died. He also knew many of the dockworkers and local merchants. He asked Fraser if Reid or France mentioned a need for reinforcements. Did they require anything that the ICI might provide? Manpower, medicine, waggons, blankets, clothing? The inspector had no immediate answer but promised to apprise the duke should he gain further information. Sinclair very nearly asked Granger to take him across town immediately, but decided against it when he recalled Bleeding Jack’s dreadful rhymes which implied danger to his wife; but also Romanov’s warning to keep close to her during the Christmas season.

  He and Fraser also discussed Alexander Collins and the odd case of Bleeding Jack Nobody; though Charles said nothing of the man’s rambling threats. Fraser promised to look into the madman’s true identity. Charles quickly scribbled a telegram to Treves, saying he’d call on him after the wake. He sent the telegram with the inspector to transmit from A-Division’s station house.

  By the time Charles finished, he’d completely lost sight of his wife. Assuming she’d gone inside with Aubrey and Cordelia, the duke entered the bustling foyer and was immediately waylaid by two cabinet members, intent on divining the influential young peer’s opinion on the current state of Irish rebellion and how it might be related to Jack the Ripper, of all things! This led to an unsatisfyingly intense conversation on the topic of Scotland Yard, and most particularly Special Branch, which delayed him for another quarter hour. What did Haimsbury think of Patrick MacAllen’s tenure as branch head? Had he done enough to stem the Fenian tide? Finally, after extricating himself from the annoying parliamentarians, he started to look for Beth in the drawing rooms. As he neared the first, he bumped into his host.

  “Ah, Haimsbury, there you are! We’d wondered what happened to you.”

  “Hello again, Lord Cartringham. Have you seen the duchess?”

  The Earl of Cartringham had a pleasant face with dumpling cheeks and mischievous eyes in nutmeg brown. Despite having considerable influence in Parliament, he seldom frowned, like most ministers did. In fact, he was known far and wide as a man of constant mirth and good cheer.

  “Elizabeth? She’s here somewhere,” the earl answered. “As you can imagine, Charles, the lady is much in demand, with nearly everyone hoping to bend her shell-like ear. Poor thing’s always had to swat them away like flies, you know. Suitors and solicitors alike. You’ll soon discover that being a duke is like wearing catnip round your neck, old bean. And having the queen’s friendship only adds to the allure. Congratulations, by the way. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow!”

  “Thank you, Basil. That’s kind of you. Might Beth be in one of the drawing rooms?”

  “Now, let me think,” mused Cartringham, his dumpling cheeks puffing out as he spoke. “She was talking with my wife, and then she had a few words with the Dowager Baroness—my sister-in-law, you know. Bad business, all that, Charles. I do hope you find the man that murdered poor old David.”

  “We’re following every lead, which to be honest, are scant at best. I cannot say more, you understand.”

  “Yes, of course, but why leave the man like that, Charles? Trussed up and stuffed into a cabinet without a shred of clothing or an ounce of dignity! Seems the sort of thing anarchists might do. Russian influence, I should think.”

  “Why would the Russians do that?” asked the duke.

  “To sow discord, of course. It’s their raison d
’être, isn’t it?”

  “Being with the War Office, I fear you’re more an expert on anarchists and Russians than I, Basil. My wife?”

  “Ah, yes,” the earl continued as a footman passed bearing a tray of minced lamb sandwiches, cut into quarters. Cartringham took two and began munching on one of the crustless triangles.

  “Now, why is it that our cook insists on adding butter to these? Horseradish! That’s what makes lamb sing, isn’t it? Nothing like a dollop of horseradish to liven up a meal. You’ll want to let your cook know about that, Charles. Most women think butter and a limp leaf of cress are all you need to make a sandwich, but it’s horseradish that gives it body. Nothing else to match it, pure and simple!”

  Passersby kept jostling Sinclair’s right elbow, and he decided to avoid taking a drink until the congested space cleared a little. “I’ll be sure to tell them. You thought you might know where the duchess had gone, Basil.”

  “Did I? Ah, yes, so I did! Well, let’s see,” the absent-minded peer pondered, wiping breadcrumbs from his peppery moustache. “Beth. Now where did I see her? Oh, yes! It was Lord Aubrey. He got sidelined by a shabbily dressed fellow; an assistant to Superintendent Dunlap from A-Division, I think. Just between us, I find detectives quite tiresome, don’t you? Well, perhaps, you don’t, but as their offices are just a quick hop from mine, I run into them every day. Suspicious lot! Leery of everyone and utterly useless in my opinion, and don’t get me started on Patrick MacAllen and his Special Branch ruffians! No offence, I hope. Nothing personal, Charles. I never think of you as one of them. You’re a breath of fresh air; far different from most of those Yard fellows, but now—where was I?”

  “My wife?” asked the duke patiently.

  “Yes, yes, I was getting to that. She mentioned feeling a bit tired, didn’t she? Seems like I overheard Aubrey suggest she retreat to a quiet spot. I’d try the white library, if I were you. Second left, just past the music room. You can’t miss it.”

  After thanking his host, Charles turned back towards the main corridor, but found himself face-to-face with a rotund man in a stylishly antiquarian, Regency suit.

  “Well, if it isn’t our new Duke of Haimsbury!” Reginald Parsons proclaimed merrily. “As you can see, I’m rubbing elbows with the elite, as always, Your Grace. I wonder if I might have a quiet word when you’ve a moment to spare?”

  Somehow, the House of Lords clerk’s sudden appearance made an odd kind of sense to the seasoned detective. With the day getting busier by the minute and news of a dockside fire, a visit from Parsons seemed the most natural thing in all the world. “I should have known you’d be here, Parsons. As you’re privy to nearly everything in Westminster, I wonder if you might know where my wife is?”

  “I believe I do,” the apple-cheeked clerk grinned impishly. “I’d be pleased to escort you to that dear lady, and perhaps we might have that word whilst we walk.”

  Still nearby, Cartringham had finished the last crumb of a third sandwich (cress and tuna spread without so much as a hint of horseradish), which he then washed down with an entire glass of port. He set the empty glass on a table and clapped Sinclair on the shoulder amiably. “I see Reggie’s already wormed his way into your confidence, eh, Haimsbury? Well, he always does. If that ‘quiet word’ I overheard him mention has anything to do with the Whitechapel fire, I’d be interested in hearing more.”

  “Inspector Fraser told me about it,” Charles replied. “I understand it may have started on a Russian ship. Reggie, what have you heard?”

  “Probably not much more than you, my lord, but the damage is said to be considerable. Over twenty dead and hundreds in hospital. The London is overstretched, and their governors have asked the Prime Minister for emergency aid. I’d expect a special meeting of the privy council to be called tomorrow, which will include you, sir. Of course, if Captain Shaw determines the cause is arson, then this may all fall into your lap, Lord Cartringham. If a Russian ship deliberately ignited the blaze, the War Office will have to respond.”

  “Russians! Damn those fellows!” grumbled the plump earl with uncharacteristic irritation. “This sort of provocation will not go over well on Downing Street, sir. The War Office desks are overflowing, as you well know. If Captain Shaw thinks the Russians are behind an attack on our port security and commerce, then it will echo throughout the entire government! I only pray it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Tell me, Basil,” Charles asked, “if Shaw does rule this as arson by a foreign power, then how would you go about dealing with Russia? Surely, it isn’t cause for war.”

  “Now, that gets us into very murky waters, Commissioner, and I use your professional title now as it’s likely you’ll be involved, should war be considered. My office confers with a gentleman of considerable influence in St. Petersburg. He’s generally on England’s side in these matters, though inscrutable. I shall introduce you.”

  “Might his name be Prince Anatole Romanov, by any chance?” asked Haimsbury.

  This took both men by surprise, until Reggie Parsons began to laugh. “How could I forget, Your Grace? Apparently, my large head is simply too overstuffed with other information and details that it’s crowded out all else! The prince is a friend to your family, isn’t he, sir? He and the Duke of Edinburgh hosted a costume ball in your honour, in fact.”

  “My wife and I are happy to call the prince friend,” Charles answered without explaining further. “If it’s not seen as interfering with the War Office, I can speak with him regarding the fire. Just say the word. Until then, I really must find my wife. Reggie, did you wish to speak to me of anything else?”

  “Oh, yes, but a minor matter only,” Parsons assured him gently. “Come this way, sir.”

  The garrulous clerk guided his captive away from the drawing rooms, passing through gossiping gaggles of nominal mourners, and towards the northern portion of the home. Their progress was impeded multiple times by jubilant well-wishers (‘Congratulations on the new title, Haimsbury!’) or questions regarding the Wychwright murder investigation (‘Haven’t you arrested anyone yet, Commissioner? I hear it’s Russians behind it all.’)

  A few had heard news of the fire, and these pressed him for information regarding the new Intelligence Branch and its possible responses. The efficient Parsons deflected every question by redirecting the enquirer towards juicier gossip: rumours of tax levies on imports from South America, the current banking crisis, or the Irish Problem, which invariably caused the persistent parliamentarians to devolve into arguments with their nearest neighbours.

  At last, the pair arrived at a small, white-panelled library, and Parsons shut the doors to ensure privacy. “We’ve only a little time, Your Grace, but I have a message for you from a lady known to us both. I shall refer to her from this point forward as ‘Lady Stuart’, as that is the moniker by which she is always known when visiting your family.”

  “Lady Stuart?” asked Haimsbury.

  “In honour of her dearest and oldest friend. I refer, of course, to your good uncle, Duke James. Lady Stuart was unable to attend the funeral services, but asked me to convey this to you.” Parsons withdrew a small white envelope from his coat pocket and passed it to the duke.

  Charles broke the wax seal on the flap and opened the contents, finding a pale blue sheet of paper, overwritten with black ink in a fine hand:

  My Dearest Charles,

  How I wish I could be there today, but I’m seldom allowed at funerals. However, if all is well, then I shall join you at Branham for our little Christmas celebration. I look forward to seeing you again, my dear. Remember, I want no special treatment, for my fondest wish is to spend Christmas as nothing more than your friend and relative.

  Until then, I remain your greatest admirer,

  – Lady Alexandrina Stuart

  PS – May I say again just how dashing a duke you make, my dear ‘cousin’? The new coronet suits yo
u, but perhaps a royal ‘crown’ would be even better?

  - Much love, D.

  Charles smiled at the postscript. “Have you read this?”

  “No, but I’m aware of the content; or most of it, at least. I take it that all is well at Branham?”

  “So far as I know,” replied the duke.

  “Ah, well, that’s a blessing! I’d heard rumours that a sort of antiquarian survey is taking place there. Lady Stuart wouldn’t wish to interfere with any important activities.”

  “How do you know about that?” the duke asked, realising almost at once that the inquisitive man in the ageless suit knew everything that affected his queen. “The duchess approved a survey of Lion Hall, if you must know, but it’s my understanding their activities will end on Saturday. However, I’ve asked our estate heads to make sure everything is secure on the Branham grounds for the lady’s visit. We’ve distributed a list of approved persons to all the men, and only those on the list will be permitted through the gates.”

  Parson’s ample cheeks rounded in delight. “How thorough of you, my lord! I’d told Lady Stuart that you would see to the arrangements for her safety. The lady also asked me to remind you that she hopes to travel there on the twenty-third. Is that possible?”

  “She and I’ve already discussed that, Reggie. I’ll come to London to escort her, personally. We’ll use one of the Aubrey trains, which are secure and very comfortable. And I’ve arranged for her constant protection, both during the journey, and whilst at Branham; armed agents with years of experience. Circle members, if you appreciate that statement.”

  “Oh, yes, I do indeed, my lord,” the clerk grinned. “I most certainly do.”

  “Yes, I thought you might. Tell my good lady ‘cousin’ that she will be as safe with us as in her very own home. Now, if there’s nothing else, you promised to take me to my wife. Sometime this year would be nice.”

 

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