“And my grandfather?” asked Beth, leaning in to listen. “The two of you were close friends?”
“Intimately close, and we still are. Sir John never liked the Stuarts. Although, my mother had a fondness for Robert.”
“Who’s Sir John?” asked Della.
“Sir John Conroy,” explained Drina. “He was my late father’s equerry. Of course, the idea of being ‘master of the horse’ has altered in our modern times. You might say he was a private secretary. Somewhat like a chamberlain, I suppose. He ran the household, but he also ran my mother. I detested the man, if you want the truth,” she added as the count entered the room, carrying a cello. “Good evening, Count Riga,” the queen said politely.
“May I help you with that?” asked Adele, rising from her chair.
“Oh, no, I’m accustomed to its weight, Lady Della. Am I the only gentleman to join so delightful a group of ladies? Clearly, this is my lucky day! Serendipitous, you might say.”
Beth laughed at the choice of descriptor. “Is that your dictionary word for today, Count?”
He set the instrument against the curve of the piano. “Indeed, it is. Language is a luxury, and I intend to luxuriate to the full whilst here. I understand the hall has several well-stocked libraries, Duchess. I wonder, might I peruse their shelves during our visit?”
“You may examine them all, dear Count, and borrow whatever you like. Please, sit, won’t you? We’re listening to Lady Stuart’s reminiscences.”
Riga bowed slightly before taking a seat opposite the queen. He knew the woman’s true identity, of course, for Charles had informed the Castle Company several days earlier. All had promised to keep the secret.
“Lady Stuart must have many exciting tales, I should think,” he observed with an endearing smile. “Do go on.”
Drina reached for a tray of chocolate dipped bonbons and took one, gobbling it up in two bites. She wiped her hands on a lace handkerchief. “Oh, these confections are delicious! I shall gain even more weight whilst here; I know it! Now, what was I saying?”
“You were talking about the Branham ball,” Della said to the queen. “And my handsome father. You said he was a fine figure of a man, and that he looked like Cousin Charles.”
“Yes, so I did. Well, it’s true, you know. Rob’s sister was Charles’s grandmother. Black hair and striking blue eyes. It was always exciting when the Stuarts came down from Scotland. Except for that fête in ’75, of course. Far too much excitement, I think. Don’t you agree, Elizabeth?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” replied the duchess. “Riga, have you any idea what’s keeping my husband and the others?”
“Mr. Merrick is regaling them with a story about the recent fire near the docks. I’ve no wish to hear about fires, but Blinkmire seemed to find it interesting. He and Merrick have become fast friends. What happened in ’75, if I may ask, Duchess?”
Beth reached for her dog Bella, pulling the animal close as though suddenly fearful. “I’d really rather not talk about that year,” she whispered, stroking Bella’s ears.
“Why not?” asked Adele. “In May of ‘75, you’d have been seven, right? Surely, that was a lovely age. Did you dress as an Egyptian princess?”
Elizabeth’s eyes took on a faraway look as she stared into the fire. “No, but Paul was a Roman soldier,” she whispered.
“My brother was here, too?” asked the girl.
“He and all the Stuarts,” replied the disguised queen.
The duchess had begun to shiver, and the dog drew closer, whimpering. “I can’t remember,” she whispered to herself. “Why can’t I remember?”
The queen called to Dumpling, who’d been nosing the sleeping puppy. Immediately the dog leapt onto the sofa, snuggling twixt her mistress and the duchess. She placed a paw on Beth’s forearm, as if trying to offer comfort.
“It began so very nicely,” Beth told the listeners. “Tents covered the grounds, and we had camels brought in from the London zoo. But then a tent appeared that shouldn’t have been there, and I think... I think I went in, and then something happened. Something I cannot remember.”
Chapter Forty-Four
The main library
“We mustn’t linger here too much longer, my lord,” Cornelius Baxter told Duke Charles. “If I know the little duchess, she’ll start to suspect us of having a meeting during Christmas celebrations—which, of course, we are. Best not pique her curiosity, my lord.”
“You’re right. My wife is generally quite patient, but even that lovely aspect of her personality has its limits,” replied Haimsbury with a smile. “I’ve sent Riga ahead to keep our ladies occupied. Now, I want to offer a brief welcome to Elbert Stanley and David Anderson. Both lived at the Walham Green Castle when my wife recuperated there, and I consider them dear friends. Welcome to the inner circle, gentlemen.”
Anderson looked to Stanley, who stood. “Thank you, Your Grace. I know I speak for us both when I say how surprised we are at life’s turns. Had you asked me ten years ago about my future, I’d have said I hoped to retire as a detective inspector. Police work’s all I knew back then. Now, I realise just how wide the world truly is. As for my good friend, Mr. Anderson, well, David’s story is slowly emerging. He’d lost most of his memories whilst imprisoned at the Institute—that’s Castor, for those who don’t know it, sirs—but as his body heals, the mind follows. Another piece to that puzzle emerged only two nights ago. It has to do with you, Your Grace.”
“With me?” asked Charles. “How so, Mr. Anderson?”
David resisted standing, but did so at his friend’s encouragement. His eyes seldom looked upwards, and his hands trembled a little from nervous anticipation.
“I’ve no right to be here,” he said bashfully. “I’m no one in the scheme of things, but you make me feel important, Your Grace. What Mr. Stanley said is right. I’ve recovered many of my old memories, and one of the clearest is of a grand estate sitting upon a hill of yellow flowers. Below it lies a valley divided by a sparkling river of blue. I speak of Rose House, my lord. I once served there as footman.”
“You’re very young to have served there, Mr. Anderson,” Drummond observed. “Might you have been a page? You look no older than my nephews.”
“I am, to the best of my knowledge, fifty-six or seven, sir. I once asked Prince Anatole about my youthful appearance, and he said it is the lingering effect of the cruel blood treatment I received at Castor. That which made me a beast, that is. Prince Anatole believes I shall begin to age again, but slowly.”
Stanley stood once more. “Tis the same with me, my lords. I’m nearly sixty, yet look to be in my mid-thirties. One might call it an accidental fountain of youth, but one with poisonous insinuations, for the Castor serum caused us both to change into hideous monsters. Both David and I would eagerly trade older bodies for a life without such memories.”
Both Stanley and Anderson returned to their chairs, and Sinclair walked round to place his hands on their shoulders.
“We are honoured to have you at our table and in our home, gentlemen. Whilst we cannot undo the insults to your bodies and minds, we hope to offer you a chance to live for God. Martin tells me that he and Dr. MacPherson spoke to you about Christ, and that you’ve placed your faith in him alone. Is that true?”
Both men nodded, and Stanley responded. “We trust in Christ’s blood, sir. Prince Anatole often spoke to us of a being he calls the One, and of Christ’s mercies. The prince is a good man, sir—though, man is not perhaps accurate. Neither David nor I will speak ill of him. The prince saved our lives and preserved our souls. Now, we want only to make each moment count for others.”
Still standing beside Stanley and Anderson, Haimsbury looked to the faces round the table: Duke James, Kepelheim, Baxter, Joseph Merrick, Stephen Blinkmire, Malcolm Risling, Sir Thomas Galton, and his beloved cousin, Paul Stuart.
�
��My friends, we join hands at a time of year when men and women of the earth celebrate the incarnation of God himself. How can anyone who speaks the word ‘Christmas’ not believe in miracles? I consider it a miracle that I am here at all. As a child, I had all my family and even my memories stripped from me; yet here I stand, restored with greater blessings yet. It’s my belief that Mr. Stanley and Mr. Anderson are miracles as well, and that God is restoring to them far more than they’ve lost. But it is not my opinion alone that sets the course of this table—but the opinions of all. What say you regarding admission of these fine men into our fellowship?”
Rather than raise hands or voice their votes, the entire table began to spontaneously applaud and rise to their feet. The overwhelming response caused the new members to weep, and poor David Anderson bowed his head.
Charles leaned over to whisper. “Stand up, dear friend, and let us show you our gratitude.”
Trembling all over, David rose obediently, placing a hand upon the duke’s forearm for support. It was then that a strange thing occurred. A palpable electric shock ran from the former footman to Sinclair, causing the duke to experience a momentary flash of memory. For the briefest of seconds, his entire childhood crystallised with rare clarity: he remembered the musical sound of his mother’s voice, his father’s after shave, the smell of Rose House kitchens, the sound of the River Eden as it rushed along below their home, the feel of the silk curtains upon his nursery bed, and he remembered the clock. Arthur’s Victory: the animated clock with its growling voice.
Hello, boy. Shall we play?
The final flash of memory was of a black mirror sitting in the corner of a attic, its beguiling surface glittering with fiery eyes.
“Charles?” an anxious voice called from far away. “Charles, are you all right? Martin, fetch a brandy!”
“I think he’s about to faint,” someone else said—perhaps, Tom Galton.
“Go fetch Henry!” his uncle shouted.
“No, wait. I’m fine,” Sinclair assured them as Kepelheim brought the filled snifter. “May I... May I speak?”
The men slowly returned to their chairs. Charles sat into the nearest wingback, beads of sweat causing his face to shine. “Forgive me for frightening you. Paul, do stop hovering.”
The earl drew a chair close to his cousin. “Hovering am I? What happened to you?”
“David Anderson happened, I think. Never before have I experienced so great a rush of complex memory. Even those I recovered with your technique, Martin, cannot compare to this. It was as though every moment of my childhood was served up to me in an instant. Yet, I cannot now discern the individual images. The sense of memory remains, but it’s like looking at the cover of a novel; knowing you’ve just read it, but unable to tell others the plot. Still, even so brief a glimpse gives me hope. David, I believe you have a great role to play in my life and in this circle.”
Anderson’s entire physicality had altered during the curious exchange of energy. It seemed to all that he now moved with purpose and determination as he approached the man he’d once served at Rose House. Bowing deeply, the former footman knelt before the duke.
“If I may, Your Grace, I also felt an impossible surge coursing through my blood. And it has returned me to my old self. It’s as though my identity was bound up inside your mind. And with those memories, comes a great sense of responsibility. May I serve you again, my lord? As once I did?”
“Serve Christ alone,” Charles told him. “But if you wish to be a help to my mission, then I should like to speak with you another time about my childhood and my father.”
“It would be my honour,” the man humbly replied.
Finishing the wine, Sinclair handed the empty glass to Kepelheim. “Now, gentlemen, I shall leave this mystery of my childhood for another meeting. Presently, we’ve other mysteries to solve, including two murders. We’ll discuss the dockside fire another time, when Reid joins us. Galton, you and Risling have been investigating Blackstone. What can you tell us?”
Sir Thomas rose to his feet. “First of all, let me say how much it means to meet at Branham once more. During the duchess’s residency in France, we had few opportunities to gather at the hall, and to be here at Christmastide brings a rush of pleasant memories and emotion. Duke Charles, may I also offer my heartfelt congratulations on your new title. It is a miracle indeed that you returned to your family, but the speed at which the Lord is elevating you in peerage and public hearts is also miraculous. And a matter for the circle to discuss—but not today.
“Now, lest I wax on too long and cause our dear one to worry about her Captain, I shall offer all that Malcolm and I’ve learnt thus far. Blackstone Exploration Society’s literature claims the organisation commenced in 1807, when their founding members met together in Idumea. Five men comprised the original society, and their records indicate a discovery made near Mt. Hor to be of great significance. It is thought—and I must thank Mr. Kepelheim for his assistance here—that these five men found a rock which they believe holds the secret to all life. They call it the Black Stone. Ten years later, a German society was founded called, Die Herren auf dem Swarzenstein; or Lords of the Black Stone. Our intrepid tailor infiltrated this group in 1858, and returned to our circle with all he’d learnt.”
“Which was not that much,” Kepelheim noted as he poured himself a cognac. “These so-called ‘lords’ think themselves superior to most of humanity by nature, claiming hereditary lines which reach back to pre-flood times. It is their belief that their blood is unique and that exposure to this stone awakens and enhances it. Though men of business and power, they perform hedonistic rituals before this rock—even sacrificing children to it.”
“Children? You saw this with your own eyes?” asked Duke James in shock.
“No, I never witnessed it personally, but another member reported it to me in disturbingly graphic detail. It was shortly after this, that I fled Germany and returned to England to offer my report. Blackstone’s men tried to stop my passage, but the Lord had other plans, I’m pleased to say.”
Charles glanced at his cousin, who was scribbling notes in code. Sinclair had observed Aubrey doing this at other meetings. Paul had a basic rule: assume everything you write might fall into enemy hands.
“Is the Blackstone Exploration Society the same as these German miscreants?” asked James. “If so, why are they interested in Branham?”
“We believe the Society is but one branch of the Lords of the Black Stone,” replied Galton. “Redwing has similar branches to its malformed tree.”
“Redwing!” exclaimed Joseph Merrick mournfully. “Such evil in so small a word.”
Everyone’s eyes turned to the misshapen gentleman known to most as The Elephant Man.
“You’re familiar with it, Mr. Merrick?” asked Kepelheim.
“It has a dark reputation in Whitechapel. Some of my Jewish friends have spoken of it. But Blackstone! Now that foul organisation is also known to me, for I’ve personally encountered their kind.”
“Please, go on, Joseph,” his friend Sinclair urged.
Merrick took a small sip of water, using a paper straw, kindly provided by Baxter. “It is a strange tale, but I assure you all it is true. My mother died when I was eleven, a great tragedy as you can imagine. But two years after, my father remarried. My stepmother found it difficult to love someone as deformed as I, and so I left to live with my uncle. Charles Merrick was kind, but even he found my form difficult to love. He remanded my future to the workhouse. It was there I met Sam Torr, who ran a penny gaff show.”
His hands knotted round the head of his cane, and he took a deep, raspy breath, followed by another sip of water. “Some say I encouraged Torr and others to exhibit me, but what else might I do? The workhouse offered me no opportunity for employment; in fact, most there derided and abused me. But I believed with all my heart that God had a plan, thus I began a life on
the road.”
“God always has a plan,” Charles whispered, touching Merrick’s hand gently. “Had you not gone with Torr, you might never have come to London and met Fred Treves. Nor me. Your friendship and encouragement is a shining example of God’s love, Joseph.”
A tear slid down the deformed man’s bumpy face, and he nodded, trying to smile. “So true! But that road to my present circumstances took me through many adventures. After leaving Torr, I joined Tom Norman, and then later Sam Roeper, who took me to Europe. We played in nearly every major city, including Bremen, where we remained for several weeks. One night whilst there, I overheard Mr. Roeper speaking with a man who claimed to represent an enlightened group of individuals who collected rare species. He offered to buy several of the acts, including myself and a young man dubbed Wolf Boy. I remember quite clearly that Sam asked the man if he represented a group called Redwing. Apparently, Sam had some knowledge of them from having lived in Whitechapel. This person answered no. He did, in fact, seem insulted to be so conflated with Redwing!”
“How frightening to overhear such a conversation, dear friend! Did he try to sell you?” asked Blinkmire, his small eyes blinking rapidly with concern.
Joseph shook his oversized head. “Not that night, but I began to fear he might, for this strange gentleman returned again and again. Mr. Roeper and I fell into disagreement after that, and he abandoned me in Brussels. But God still had a plan, and a very compassionate Russian gentleman paid my passage back to London.”
Blinkmire’s eyes widened. “A Russian? Was he a prince?”
“He dressed like one. Exceedingly tall with long, dark hair and pale blue eyes that looked right through a man.”
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