Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  A smile lightened the elder man’s face. “It would be my very great honour, my lord.”

  Standing, the formidable butler bowed his head. “Gentlemen, let us pray,” he said, his sonorous voice low. “Our Gracious and wonderful Saviour and King, we humbly come to your throne, many of us weighed down with the troubles of the day already; some with health issues, some with financial woes, others with concerns about family and friends, some carrying fear and doubt that darken the soul and devour the mind. But no matter what our worries, no matter what our concerns or anxieties, no matter the dross or decay of the world that rises to the top and surrounds, they all vanish and are vanquished in the light of your holy face!

  “It is unusual for me to speak before such an honourable gathering of fellow soldiers. I say this not because most of these men bear noble titles, but because they bear noble scars. Physical as well as spiritual. I have watched the members of this circle rush into battle wearing naught but your promises upon their mortal frames, wielding nary an ax, but flashing the sword of the Spirit in the eyes of the enemy. A double-edged blade likened unto the Word of God that proceeds out of them with a fiery vengeance! But as brave as these deeds are—as valiant as their exploits in armour might be—this circle’s greatest achievements are accomplished not on the battlefield but within the quietness of the prayer closet. Before these warriors take to their feet, they spend time on their knees; each and every one of them, and it is my honour to be called their fellow.

  “I know not what plans the enemy now devises, my Lord, but you do. Help us, then, to unmask their faces and uncover their secrets. Let us rise to the fight until our arms grow numb, and our breath be gone. Let us crawl when our legs will no longer run, whisper when our voices fail, feel our way forward when our eyes become blind. Bind upon our hearts an affection for one another that knows no language other than love and no title other than brother or sister. Help us to serve you with all our strength, soul, and mind until the end of our days. And when those days are done, my Lord, let us continue to intercede for our beloved fellows whilst we kneel before your throne. As St. Paul wrote, ‘Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us, Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God.’

  “Saviour and King, I shall consider it a privilege to be counted amongst that cloud of witnesses one day, standing alongside men like Paul and Peter and James, cheering on this group of servant-soldiers who continue to battle upon the field. May that day come for us all when our Saviour returns. In the meantime, we consider it all the greatest joy to partake of only a small share of that which you endured on our behalf. Bless our conversation and our fellowship this day, my Lord. In the name of our King, we ask it. Even Christ Jesus. Amen.”

  As the men lifted their heads, every eye glistened with tears, every cheek was stained with salt. Charles Sinclair drew the butler close and embraced him like a brother.

  “Cornelius, I have never felt so humbled in a man’s presence. You, my dear friend, are an example to us all. And if it is true that we wear scars in honour of Christ, then it is only because your constancy and humility have taught us to do so.”

  Baxter wiped his eyes and pressed the young duke’s shoulder, his ageing face filled with youthful amazement. “Sir, I’ve known you and Lord Aubrey since you were born, and I can think of no finer men upon this earth. If the Lord had given me sons, I should be pleased to have it be the two of you.”

  He returned to his seat, still wiping tears from his round cheeks. Sinclair sniffed, fighting a flood of pleasant emotion.

  “My friends,” said the duke, “the enemy seeks to divide us, but the Holy Spirit will never allow that to happen. Where two or more are gathered in the Lord’s name, he tells us that HE is there in the midst, and I can testify to that truth today. Now, we have little time, so I must move forward to business. Inspectors Reid and France have a great deal to tell us about the dockside fire. Please, help yourselves to Mrs. Paget’s delicious dishes and enjoy your meals in casual fashion, but pay close attention to all we say. I’ve a very strong feeling the enemy is moving its battalions into position, and we must be ready when the onslaught begins. Edmund?”

  “Mind if I remain seated whilst speaking?”

  “Not at all. It makes it easier to balance a plate,” Sinclair replied, smiling.

  Edmund cleared his throat and then began. “As you’re all aware, an historic conflagration overran St. Katherine’s Docks yesterday. The fire commenced at approximately eight in the morning. Witnesses describe a man in bright clothing, standing upon the stern of a Russian trading vessel. France, what’s the name again?”

  Arthur checked his notes. “The Podzhigatel. It isn’t registered with any of the usual sources.”

  Aubrey’s face showed surprise. “Are you sure about the name, Arthur?”

  “I double-checked it with one of the sailors, sir. The Jewish doctor tending the man’s burns told me how to spell it. Dr. Kholodenko also asked if the name were true. Why?”

  “Because Podzhigatel is Russian for ‘firebug’ or ‘firestarter’. It’s as though the enemy is toying with us! A ship that isn’t registered tries to dock illegally in Whitechapel, and its name means firebug? Charles, I fear you’re right when you say something dark is on the horizon. Edmund, yesterday evening you told us that over four hundred people were now in hospital at the London, with many others treated at the Eastern Dispensary and by local doctors in their surgeries. Thirty dead? Is that number still accurate?”

  “Thirty-nine as of this morning,” Reid replied soberly. “Most died from the caustic, black smoke that inundated the area. Captain Shaw and his fire brigade inspectors believe a chemical agent served as ignition. As you can imagine, most of the Podzhigatel is destroyed, but when we searched the hold, we found the remains of several barrels of a black, oily material as well as broken bottles of chemicals. As to the man seen tossing the lantern into that hold, we’ve found a possible lead. This morning, a local landlady named Porter came forward. You may know her, Charles. She carried one of your calling cards.”

  “Do you mean Molly Porter? Paul and I visited her in connexion with Beth’s abduction case. Porter told us a Russian sailor sometimes stayed in her inn. Does she believe this firestarter is the same one?”

  “She does,” Reid answered between bites of bacon. “We also spoke with her two sons. They offered a very good description of the man. Apparently, he took them for a walk into a dangerous rookery off Gowers Walk a few days ago. What they saw there terrified them both, and since then, Porter’s evicted the tenant.”

  “The Russian took them to a brothel?” asked Aubrey angrily. “Those two boys aren’t yet ten years old! What sort of man would do that?”

  “One hoping to sell them, I should think,” Reid answered darkly. “The man calls himself Chernyy Paukov Veron. It’s a tongue-twister. I have the exact spelling, courtesy of Dr. Kholdenko, if you need it.”

  Paul took the paper from Reid to examine the name. “Again, the enemy plays games. This is a riddle, Charles. Aimed straight at you. The name means ‘Black Crow, son of the Spider’.” The earl poured himself a cup of coffee, worry furrowing his brow. “Ed, did the boys or their mother offer any further information? Did this Russian always wear these bright colours? Might he have kept a journal of some kind?”

  This surprised the Leman Street detective. “Yes, they did say that, but how do you know? Both the boys and one of the injured sailors mentioned seeing this Russian with a leather book, and that he was frequently seen writing in it. And here’s another oddity. One of the witnesses, a Spitalfields Jew from Kiev, claimed he’d seen the man vanish into thin air after marking an
odd symbol on a door near his place of business. I checked the address, Charles. It’s 29 Hanbury Street.”

  Sinclair paled. “He’s sure about the address?”

  Reid nodded.

  “What’s that mean to you, sir?” asked the American newcomer. “I ain’t so sure ‘bout street names yet. I only been in these parts since January.”

  “It’s very well-known to Whitechapel police, Captain Crenshaw,” answered the duke. “29 Hanbury is where Ripper murdered Annie Chapman.”

  All the members grew silent, and it seemed that a dread fell upon them. A loud door knock startled everyone, breaking the tension, and Baxter rose to answer. After speaking briefly to the footman, he turned to his employer.

  “Sir, I’m told Dr. Gehlen is here to speak with the duchess. Has he an appointment with Her Grace?”

  Henry stood immediately, setting his plate aside. “Charles, I know it’s your place, but I’d like to speak with Gehlen first. I promise to explain once I return.”

  “Certainly,” replied Haimsbury without hesitation. “I doubt he has an appointment. Elizabeth’s gone to the dower house to speak with Count Riga and Mr. Blinkmire regarding the rail journey to Branham. She’d not have left, if she expected Gehlen to call. Yes, do go on. Let me know if you want me to join you.”

  “I will,” Salperton told him, exiting the library.

  “I wonder what that’s about?” mused Aubrey.

  Stoker had said very little, for he’d been busy making copious notes of Reid’s report. However, the mention of Gehlen aroused his curiosity.

  “Might that be Anthony Gehlen, sir?” he asked Sinclair.

  “Yes, why do you ask, Mr. Stoker?”

  “Call me Bram, please, my lord. I ask because of his association with our singer. Yesterday evening, near the hour of six, I was backstage, talking with several cast members. As business manager, I find myself wearing many hats, you see, and I overheard Miss Gévaudan in hushed conversation with Dr. Gehlen. I recognised him at once, for he often attends our performances; always watching the actresses from backstage.”

  Charles found this puzzling. “Bram, are you sure we’re talking about the same man? The Anthony Gehlen I’ve come to know is sober, studious, and somewhat insular. It’s hard to imagine him keeping company with a woman like Antoinette!”

  Every eye turned to stare at the duke.

  “Antoinette?” repeated his cousin. “You know her on a first-name basis?”

  Suddenly, Sinclair felt exposed and self-conscious. “I prefer to withhold the explanation for the moment, but yes, I know the woman. She’s a thoroughly untrustworthy, conniving little witch, if you must know. Please, do go on, Bram. What did she say to Gehlen?”

  A cloud of gloom descended into the group, knitting itself into a heavy shroud of anxiety. Everyone felt it, as though Death itself watched them from the wings of a great stage.

  Stoker paused in his story, sensing the mood. “Am I the only one who feels a presence?”

  Charles stood, moving to the concealed panel. He placed his ear to the wall, listening.

  Hello, boy. I’m waiting.

  Kepelheim left his plate and crossed the room to join his friend. “Charles, what is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Paul, would you open the panel, please?”

  The earl felt cold run down his arms and into his hands. A husky voice whispered into his memory, ‘Mon cher! Come to me!’

  “I’ll do it,” offered Baxter, who climbed the library ladder and tilted the Malory book on Arthur. A soft click sounded, and the muralled panel opened.

  “Paul, you stay in here,” ordered the duke. “Martin, come with me.”

  Aubrey objected, crossing towards the open wall. “Not for all the tea in China!” he exclaimed. “Where you go, I go. Charles.”

  Sinclair remembered the Dragon’s threatening message: ‘Defy me again, and I will KILL HIM.’

  “Stay here, Paul. That is an order. I’m not arguing with you.”

  “Fine, because I’ve no intention of arguing, for my mind’s made. Now, let’s go.”

  Kepelheim, Aubrey, and Sinclair entered the dark passageway, stopping just the other side of the opening. “Before we go into that chamber, I want to mention this painting,” the tailor told them. “Do you remember the vision or dream of your father, Your Grace?”

  “Which one? I’ve dreamt of my parents often recently. Do you mean when he showed us this secret passage?”

  “Indeed, yes,” replied the tailor. “He indicated that the mural inside the library is a riddle. And that the answer lay inside the passage.”

  “Yes, I remember. Why?” asked Sinclair, distracted by a series of whispers echoing throughout the chilly space.

  “See here?” continued Kepelheim. “I’ve had opportunity to study the mural on this side of the wall now, and I’ve made a copy of it as well as photographed the entire scene. In the library, we see a painting of your childhood home from sometime in the past, before the house was built. The River Eden, flowing past a robust and relatively new Pendragon Castle—which, as you know, now stands in ruins.”

  “Yes, and there are men standing beside the river,” added the duke. “I’ve dreamt about this, Martin. Just recently. Father was taking me on a tour of this house, and he showed me a cabinet made of lacquered wood in a Chinese finish. The painting on its doors was the same. Men in a circle near the river. And in the centre was...”

  “A dragon?” asked Martin. “Yes, I’ve seen that cabinet, but it’s at Rose House; not here, Charles. Your dreams must conflate the two homes. What else do you remember?”

  “A sword, I think. Lann Lasair? Does that ring a bell?”

  Kepelheim’s mouth opened in shock. “You remember the sword? Good heavens! Charles, what else do you recall?”

  “Fleeting images. Fragments of events. But dragons always appear.” He paused, wondering how much to reveal. “Why?”

  “Because—well, I’ve wondered if I should tell you this, but I had a conversation with that Russian prince once. Shortly after our session. The one where you remembered the Christmas at your home in ’59.”

  “You spoke with Romanov?” asked the duke. “When?”

  “The following day, actually. He dropped by my home. He appeared suddenly without announcement. I’ll admit, it gave me quite a start! I’d been working on a new waistcoat for you, and I pushed the needle into my thumb! It bled and bled, but Romanov touched it, and the wound healed as if it hadn’t happened.”

  “And what did he tell you?” asked Sinclair.

  “That you’d begin to dream of dragons, and that when you mentioned them to me, I should tell you about the clocks.”

  Charles felt dizzy suddenly, and he leaned against the cold wall. “Clocks? Do you mean the Arthur clocks?”

  Paul held his cousin’s arm. “Let’s find you a chair.”

  “No, I’m just tired. Look, before we discuss all this, show me the painting on this side. Explain why it’s important.”

  Martin used a match to light the gas sconce nearest them. “The riddle on the library side asks a question in Gaelic. Do you remember?”

  “A bhios a ‘cumail a’ gheata?” Paul quoted. “Who keeps the gate?”

  “Exactly. And on this side, we see the very same painting, but with a slight variation. Instead of men surrounding a dragon, there are seven dragons surrounding one man. See?”

  They looked at the mural, which portrayed the Eden River Valley at night. A round moon dominated the midnight sky, and the constellations Draco, Ursa Minor, and Boötes stood high overhead—as though the Dragon joined forces with these formations.

  “Draco, I understand. It refers to the Dragon, but why Ursa Minor and Boötes?” asked Charles, who knew astronomy well.

  “Don’t you remember your Sir Walter Scott? In the Lay of the Last Minstrel,
he wrote: ‘Arthur’s slow wain his course doth roll, in utter darkness round the pole.’ But Tennyson’s poem Percivale speaks of the seven stars of the Bear, who form Arthur’s round table. Charles, this painting is all about you. Arcturus, the brightest star in the northern hemisphere. Charles, Arcturus—Arthur—is YOU, and you are the gatekeeper.”

  The revelation made the duke dizzier yet, and he leaned upon his cousin’s arm. “Take me out of here,” he muttered. “It’s too much.”

  They reentered the library, finding the men finishing their brunch. Baxter had remained near the opening, and he instantly took his master into his arms and guided the duke to a comfortable chair.

  “Now, sir, this is enough for one day. You must eat and enjoy a brief respite. I’ll fetch you a plate.”

  “Mr. Stoker,” called the duke from his chair near the fire. “Come tell me about Gehlen. I want to know his relationship with Gévaudan.”

  The writer set down his empty plate and chose a companion chair to the duke’s. “Of course, my lord. I cannot say just why this gentleman spent so many hours at the Lyceum. I take it, this is unwelcome news.”

  “More than you can know,” muttered Sinclair. “Did you overhear their conversation? His and Gévaudan’s?”

  “A little, but he called there many times. Usually with another woman as company. Black hair and eyes, skin as pale a milk with unnaturally red lips.”

  “Di Specchio!” exclaimed the earl as he joined their small group. “Serena in company with Gehlen? You’re sure it was he? Can you describe the man?”

  “Yes. He’s taller than I, but shorter than either of you,” began Stoker. “Around six feet, I’d say. Muscular in the manner of a professional boxer. Broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Dark hair, parted on one side and cut short. The stage wings are generally quite dark, but I believe his eyes are a medium brown. He dresses well, usually in fine evening wear, of course. He wears a signet ring upon his left hand, which is figural, but I was never close enough to discern the exact design. It had white enamel, though. Of that, I’m sure. He often teased the dancers, speaking to them in a very frank manner. I shan’t repeat his words.”