“A missing body. Well, it’s yet one more mystery to add to our ever-lengthening list of conundrums. My closet is another.”
The duke’s left brow rose into a question mark. “What about your closet?”
“Aside from the fact that my fashion currently lags behind yours by a season, it was broken into last evening.”
All humour left Sinclair’s face. “Broken into? By whom?”
“That remains a mystery. Every item was removed from its hangar, box, or shelf and scattered about the closet floor. Bailey ran a detailed inventory. Strangely, nothing is missing. The Aubrey jewels were in there, my guns, even a box of gold sovereigns! It makes no sense.”
“We’ll need to get someone on this right away,” Charles said in a business-like tone. “I could put Matthew Laurence on it. He’s just returned from Ireland.”
“No, I’ve assigned Tom Galton to look into it.”
“Was the closet locked?”
“Of course, because of the valuables and weapons, it remains locked, and only Bailey and I have keys. Mine is with me at all times, and Bailey keeps all master apartment keys on a ring inside his livery pocket. Do you remember the ceremonial sword I wore at your investiture ceremony?” Charles nodded. “It’s been in my family for three centuries and is stored in a locked cabinet. That cabinet was opened, without leaving a single mark upon the metal, and the sword removed from its sheath.”
Charles felt a chill run down his spine. “How? Paul, if not a thief, then who would do this? And why?”
“I’ve no idea,” Paul answered, “but it all took place in the blink of an eye. Bailey says he’d locked everything up tightly after setting out my suit and shoes last night, but when he returned five minutes later, the closet had been thoroughly trashed.”
“I’m very sorry, Paul.”
The earl shut the book, his blue eyes serious. “Charles, I really don’t know how you manage it. You and Beth deal with phantoms all the time, but I prefer my enemies be made of flesh and blood. I’ve no fear of human threats, but something imperceptible has decided to make me its target. Something able to enter a locked closet and stir it up like a whirlwind!”
“Have you any idea which whirlwind targeted you?” asked his cousin.
“Not yet, but he left a calling card. There’s a large, locked steel box where I keep Father’s medals, family photographs, a collection of Beth’s letters and several drawings she made for me as a girl. Also, Adele’s French birth records, her Scottish adoption papers, and a lock of her mother’s hair. I thought she might like such a keepsake one day. This photograph of Cozette was inside a small envelope, sealed with wax.” He reached into his inner coat pocket and removed a hand-coloured cabinet photograph of a beautiful, fair-haired woman with soft blue eyes. He handed it to Charles.
“She’s lovely,” Charles remarked.
“She was like a little sunflower. All smiles, no matter what the day brought. Della reminds me so much of Cozette. She has the same bright smile, and as she gets older, her eyes take on her mother’s colour—it’s similar to your own, an azure sort of blue. Turn the photo over, Charles. There’s writing on the back.”
The duke did so, and read the inscription: Pour mon David – Avec tout mon amour, Cozette. Scribbled in large letters by a different hand, just over the sweet dedication, he read this: Meurtrier. The French word for ‘Murderer’.
“Is someone accusing you of Cozette’s death?”
The earl appeared shaken, and he gazed out the window as he answered. “I think so, but I had no idea she was pregnant when I left Paris, Charles. If I’d known, then...”
Sinclair touched his cousin’s forearm. “You needn’t explain, Paul. I understand.”
“I wish I did,” he sighed. “Charles, do you remember the embezzler Fermin, who sponsored Cozette at the maison close?”
“The man found dead in the Seine; and may I add, deservedly so?”
Paul nodded. “He had this photograph made, but she convinced the photographer to supply one, hand-coloured print for me. Charles, this picture was stored inside that locked box of mementos. Yet, this morning, Callie Wychwright found it at the back of that picture book. How did it get there? And what is this impossible thief’s purpose?”
“The picture book is Della’s. Clearly, your thief hoped to force you into telling her the truth—or he wants to embarrass, even discredit you. He wanted Della to find it. Paul, why not just tell her the truth?”
“I can’t, Charles. It means she learns that her mother was a harlot, and her father is the cad who abandoned her.”
“Nonsense,” his cousin insisted. “You’d have acted differently if Cozette had told you about her condition, but she didn’t. You must stop dwelling on what might have been and think of what can be! Since losing the man she called Father, Della’s struggling to make sense of her place in the world. Give her that identity, that security! Tell her she’s yours. She’ll only love you the more for it.”
The earl grew quiet, clearly unwilling, or perhaps unable, to speak more of the matter. “How is Kepelheim doing with your puzzle room?” he asked.
“Tell her, Paul.”
“Has he deciphered any of it?”
Haimsbury sighed. “Very well, since you refuse to listen, the answer is yes, he has. But only a little. He’s decoded one word he hopes will form a sort of Rosetta key to the entire code. Martin is certain he’s found the word repeated at least twenty times on the walls, though there may be more.”
“What word is that?”
“Fire.”
The earl’s face grew even more grim. “Given recent events, that is an ominous key word, Charles.”
“It is ominous in many ways,” agreed the duke. “As of this morning, I have reports of thirty-one fires across the metropolis. Most are minor in scope, but troubling for their proliferation. Four in the square mile, St. Katherine’s makes seventeen in the East, and the others are scattered across various manufacturing areas. Whilst fires aren’t symptomatic of supernatural activity on their own, so great a number demands our attention, especially if Martin’s right about the code.”
Paul grew thoughtful, tapping on the window glass with his signet ring. Charles noticed and sat back against the tufted, brown leather seat, watching his cousin’s mind at work.
“My father had a wonderful gift of insight,” Aubrey said after several minutes. “Very few attacks surprised him, and he rarely lost his temper or good humour.”
“I admired your father a great deal, Paul. I look forward to meeting him again one day, in heaven.”
The earl managed a slight smile. “He left very big shoes, Charles. I remember, he once asked me a question regarding fallen angels. Rebel spirits, if you will. He asked, if these powerful beings can affect the material world invisibly, without being observed, then why would they take human form at all, since taking on flesh limits them?”
“Limits them? How so?” asked Charles, finding the idea intriguing.
“We’re approaching one of two, high holy seasons within the Christian calendar. One, of course, is Easter, the day when Christ resurrected. But Christmas represents that pivotal moment when he took on the flesh of a human. Father felt the reason these Watchers and demons assume human form is twofold. First, an imitation of Christ’s incarnation; some twisted reversal of that miracle. But secondly, to deceive us. Rather like a stage magician uses sleight of hand. Christ incarnated to understand us, to live a sinless life, and then offer himself as the perfect sacrifice in our stead. The fallen take on flesh in order to sin carnally and whilst in this form, they sacrifice us.”
The duke nodded soberly. “I think your father was right, Paul. And sleight of hand is accurate. Entering a locked closet is a magic trick to us, but child’s play to these unseen creatures.”
Aubrey continued with the theory. “Let’s assume for a moment that y
ou have no personal faith in God, and one of these angelic pretenders knocks on your door, or appears at your place of business. He’s able to manipulate matter and may even appear as a vagabond or an orphaned child. There are numerous folktales of travellers who seek shelter for the night and then reward their host. What if this grateful stranger offers to reward you with eternal youth, wealth, power, even life without end? Might this charade allow fallen spirits to plant their evil seed—both metaphorical and literal? Is this how they bend the will of mankind towards their foul ends and beget hybrid offspring?”
“It’s certainly a possibility,” Charles answered. “Do you think they see us as weak, then?”
“I believe the fallen see humans as pawns in a high-stakes chess match,” the earl replied bluntly. “And I believe we’re moving into the next phase of that game—a gambit that involves you and your children.”
The coach began to slow, for they’d turned onto Commercial Street. A grey haze and the smell of smoke hung in the air, and fine ash had settled on porches and posts. Even now, hundreds of wounded survivors huddled for warmth near barrel fires, their gaunt faces streaked with blood and soot.
For a brief second, Charles saw a vision of things to come: poisonous air, a darkened sun, eternal night, nocturnal creatures consuming the flesh of all those who refused to take the mark.
Hell on earth.
When the Dragon ruled.
He could see the devastation of cities, burning buildings, charred bodies of the dead, and the terror in children’s eyes. He could smell burning flesh and hear the wind of a thousand wings; Watchers making sure every human obeyed. Sinclair shuddered with dread at the horrifying vision, for it was as real as the coach—as real as his cousin—as though he’d already lived it.
Anatole said he would begin to have waking dreams. Was this one a warning? A threat? A prophecy?
“Charles? Are you with me? Your eyes glazed over for a moment.”
“Yes. It’s just this strange feeling,” he told his cousin as the horses stopped. “For days now, it’s hung about me like a shroud. As though something terrible is coming. Invisible eyes watching me, waiting for me to make a false move. To get it wrong. My children and my wife are at risk, but with all you’ve told me, I now believe the entire family are targets, including you and Della.”
A hideous hissing voice called from the well of the duke’s fractured memory. Sharp teeth, shining skin, an ancient scaly face emerging from a black mirror.
The vagabond traveller with the dragon’s eye.
Hello, boy. I’m waiting. Let’s play.
Chapter Twenty
7:45 pm – The Lyceum Theatre
With Christmas nearing, most of the city’s popular theatrical venues were mounting productions of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, Hoffman’s The Nutcracker and the Mouse King, or a traditional English pantomime filled with broadly drawn caricatures and bawdy jokes. However, that Tuesday night, as the Lyceum’s grand drapes drew aside, the theatre’s manager stepped forward to announce a change in their program.
“Good evening and welcome to the Lyceum. I am Abraham Stoker.”
Most of the wealthy patrons applauded at this point, recognising the business manager as the author of several successful plays and a collection of short stories published in London periodicals. Stoker bowed gracefully to accept the accolades.
“Thank you all. You’re too kind. Mr. Irving has asked me to stand in his place whilst he dresses for the first act. I pray you’ll forgive us, dear friends and patrons, but the leading actress in our scheduled Ibsen play has taken ill. The doctors are confident of her recovery, but the malady makes it impossible for her to perform. You might assume that her understudy would take the stage, but alas, just yesterday morning, that dear lady left England to play Ophelia in New York City. Consequently, we cannot mount our announced production. Now, this conundrum might produce despair within many a theatre owner’s heart, but Mr. Irving has devised a brilliant substitution. You, my friends, will be the first in all the kingdom to preview a marvellous new staging of an old favourite.”
A murmur passed through the well-dressed crowd as everyone wondered what play he might mean.
“You are all connoisseurs of the dramatic arts,” he continued. “Meaning most of you are familiar with the masterworks of E. T. A. Hoffman. I am therefore pleased to announce an entirely new adaptation of his popular novel, The Devil’s Elixir. I humbly pray you’ll enjoy it, for I have aided Mr. Irving—but a little—with added dialogue and set design. This is a Jekyll-and-Hyde tale of disguises and devilish intrigue, where the cover-up of a murder leads to the creation of a mischievous doppelgänger. Our players include Mr. Henry Irving as Medardus, Miss Ellen Terry as the Princess Aurelie, and Max Bruner as the Count. We must dress the stage for the first act; therefore, I ask you all to relax with a glass of wine whilst you enjoy a brilliant, French mezzo-soprano. She is the toast of the Paris opera, and we’ve engaged her for just one night. Performing arias from the title role of Georges Bizet’s Carmen, I give you the incomparable Mademoiselle Antoinette Gévaudan!”
Stoker exited to the left, and from stage right, a tall woman with dark hair and smoky eyes strode with great purpose to the centre of the curved proscenium. She wore a flounced skirt of crimson red that narrowed towards her knees, and then followed the curve upwards, skimming tightly along a pair of round hips. An intentional side-slit permitted a tantalising view of her left ankle and very shapely calf. The neckline of the tight bodice plunged so low, that it revealed the decorative lace of her corset with round flesh pillowing over top. Most shocking of all, the woman wore no bustle at all. The ladies in the audience gasped in disapproval, but their husbands and escorts smiled in frank appreciation.
Since Sinclair and Stuart still worked in Whitechapel, and Adele had stayed over at Maisie Churchill’s home, the Aubrey theatre box held only four occupants that auspicious evening. Elizabeth Sinclair sat next to Henry MacAlpin, and beside the viscount were Victoria Stuart and Duke James. Drummond had very little interest in seeing a play, but the singer’s gaudy apparel managed to elicit a more stirring response.
“That French singer’s certainly proud of her, uh, talents.”
Tory flicked her brother’s wrist with her fan. “The woman’s a harlot, James. Gévaudan’s well known in Paris, but not as a singer. Most of her performances are more private, if you know my meaning. I’m surprised Irving engaged her.”
“Shall I order champagne, then? We can toast to the coming year whilst ignoring the stage. How’s that, Sister?”
The duke pressed a buzzer near the back draping, and within seconds, a uniformed usher appeared. “How may I serve Your Grace?”
“A bottle of your finest champagne, young man. A ‘58 Krug, if you have any. Beth, will you join us?”
She shook her head. “We’ll have spirits aplenty at the party later, Grandfather.”
“Make it four glasses, just in case,” he told the youth. The duke yawned and stretched, weary from the long day. “Tory how long is this soirée of yours going to last? I’ve business at the palace come morning. Privy council meeting.”
Victoria cast her brother a disapproving glare. “It will last until it is over, James, and no longer. Do stop being so very tiresome. I’m aware that you’d rather be on the moors shooting pheasant or some other manly pursuit, but I’ve spent very little time in London of late and will likely return to France after the new year. Allow me to enjoy decent theatre whilst I may.”
The spinster had been anticipating the party for weeks, and she’d invited Dr. Reggie Whitmore to join their theatre group. The widower was typically late, and she felt nervous that he might not come at all. The attractive Scotswoman had worn her best dress, a sky-blue satin gown with capped sleeves edged in white fringe. Her salt-and-pepper hair was arranged in loose curls on her head, and she’d added her late mother’s sapphires for sparkl
e.
The duke smiled at his sister. “You look lovely,” he whispered. “I’d forgotten how much your eyes look like Beth’s. You know, this reminds me of our younger days. Remember all the plays and parties we used to attend? All the many balls! I can still picture you in those grand hooped skirts, your agile feet polishing the dance floor. You’ve always made be proud, Vic. Really proud.”
She finally smiled and tapped her brother’s hand. “You were actually quite dashing, James. It’s no wonder the queen was set on marrying you—against her mother’s will, I might add.”
Drummond dismissed the comment with a jovial laugh. “Drina was better off with Albert. It’s a pity Charles couldn’t make it,” he said, turning to his granddaughter. “I’m sure both he and Paul will be at the party later.”
“If he makes it, then I shall be glad, but I married a policeman, Grandpa. I must allow him to do his job without adding to his worries, now, mustn’t I?” The duchess’s tone was surprisingly calm, but Drummond knew her well enough to detect a hint of strain.
“Tory, did I see Stoker’s name on your guest list?” he asked.
Victoria’s attention had fallen on the occupants of Box Seven, across the way, and she muttered a halfhearted reply. “Yes, I suppose so. I must say, that is a very great surprise.”
Salperton had been relatively quiet, but now followed the direction of her gaze, squinting a little due to a slight myopia in his right eye. “Why is it a surprise? Wait, isn’t that Lord Ashdown?”
“Yes, it is,” she answered in an odd tone.
“But then, who’s the young woman sitting next to him? I know the Ashdowns quite well,” the viscount continued, “and they’ve no daughters, not even a niece.”
Tory cleared her throat in obvious irritation. “No, they have only the two sons. I’ve seen that young woman before; only with someone else. It is very disappointing, for I appreciate most of what Ashdown does for our government. He can be a force for good, when he chooses the right side, but it’s a shame that men are so annoyingly consistent when it comes to character flaws.”
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