Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “You needn’t worry about me, Princess,” he said, taking her hand. “I’ve been short on sleep, but then when am I not?”

  “Are you unable to sleep or unwilling?”

  “How well you know me,” he said, kissing her hand. “Did Charles talk to you about our plans?”

  “No, should he have? I assume it has something to so with Cordelia. Grandfather’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him about all this. He, Martin, and Henry are still talking downstairs. I overheard Kay mention a train to Canterbury in the morning. Is it because of this missing student? Lionel Wentworth? Paul, do you think he murdered Mr. Patterson and Colonel Collinwood?”

  “We’ve no way to know, darling, but it’s possible. It’s all a bit of a mess, isn’t it? Poor Drina must wish she’d stayed in London.”

  Beth smiled as she snuggled in close. “Actually, she says it’s the most interesting trip yet, and that she looks forward to tomorrow’s events. I rather hoped for peace and quiet, but so long as everyone’s safe and well. You are well, aren’t you?”

  “Perfectly well, now that you’re here. I’m glad you came to see me. You and I used to talk into the wee hours, didn’t we, Princess?”

  She laid her head against his shoulder. “We’ve made hundreds of memories in this house. Not all pleasant, but most of them are. I remember one Christmas when you took me on your lap and told me that story of when you were a boy.”

  “Which story is that?”

  “You remember. The one about the boy who’d run and leap across the fells, but his mother made him stop to come wait for a baby.”

  He laughed, gripping her hand tightly. “Ah, yes! I remember. Shall I tell it to you again?”

  “I’d like that. Shall I pretend to be six?” she asked him.

  “I prefer you this age,” he admitted. “Let me see if I can recall how it goes. Oh yes.”

  He cleared his throat and she shut her eyes, listening to the earl’s lilting voice.

  “Once upon a time in Scotland, there lived a rambunctious youth who spent all his days climbing rocks and swimming in brooks. He rarely looked at books, but wasted hour upon hour, rushing towards disaster as if only adventure could satisfy. The youth’s mother worried that he’d spend his entire life in such a careless manner, and one day, she called him into her sitting room and told him of a new responsibility. The boy’s cousin was about to become a father, you see, and so the boy must travel to his uncle’s castle, to be there when the baby was born.”

  Beth laughed, opening her eyes slightly to glance up at his face. “I imagine this boy went to Drummond Castle?”

  “He did indeed, my lady. How did you know?” he teased as she pulled close against his chest. “Well, the boy thought his mother’s command all very annoying, of course, for the weather had grown warm in preparation for spring, and he had dozens of swift brooks to swim and a hundred cliffs to climb. Still, he loved his mother very much and couldn’t disappoint her.”

  “He was a sweet boy, I think,” she whispered. “And rather handsome as well.”

  “You mustn’t interrupt a storyteller,” he told her. “And he may have been somewhat handsome, in a Scottish sort of way. Now, the trip was a very long one, especially for so impatient a youth. After leaving the castle in his father’s fancy coach, the boy then boarded a train, and then another train, and finally another coach. In all, he spent over twelve hours contemplating the brooks and hills as they passed by his window, wishing he could escape and run free. At long last, just as the sun was setting, he arrived at his uncle’s castle. The boy lived in a castle of his own, of course, but his was very old and very drafty. His uncle’s castle was much newer and very nice. Only two centuries old, instead of six.”

  “And no trees growing in the towers,” Beth interrupted.

  “Nary a one. His uncle’s castle sat farther south, and the springtime flower buds had begun to open, and foxes raced upon the heathered moors. There was a small lake nearby and steep fells that needed a boy to climb them. However, when the boy arrived, the uncle’s son, who was also the boy’s first cousin, announced that this new baby—the centre of all the attention—was about to be born.”

  “A new baby who would grow to love and adore the boy, I shouldn’t wonder,” she said as he placed an arm round her shoulders.

  “Yes. Though the lonely boy didn’t know this new baby would offer him so much love.”

  “Was he lonely?” she asked, touching his hair.

  “Very, though he didn’t yet know it. Only when his life found completion, did he realise how empty it had been before.” He kissed her forehead. “But that realisation wasn’t to happen quite yet. The special baby’s imminent arrival had sent everyone in the castle into a whir of activity. There were nurses and midwives and lots and lots of doctors crowding the upper floors of the castle, each of them arguing how best to care for the expectant mother, and whether or not this method or that method was most useful. None of it interested the Scottish boy. He just wanted to get it all over, so he could run in the meadows and chase after sunbeams. So the poor boy lay upon his bed, night after night, waiting for the sound of a baby’s cry, but four days passed and then five, without even one hint of the newborn’s arrival. The mother, as it turned out, had gone into something the quibbling doctors and midwives called false labour. This was in late March, and a week passed, and then a second, and the boy began to doubt the expectant mother had any plans at all to bring this new baby into the world. He wondered if everyone had gotten it wrong.”

  “And did this boy decide to give up and go home?” she asked. “He can be rather impatient at times.”

  Paul laughed, kissing her fingertips. “The somewhat impatient boy considered it, but his father and mother had arrived by then, and they assured him such a wait wasn’t all that unusual. The boy pondered this revelation, wondering how it would be, when he became a father. How his wife might make him wait and wait and wait some more. He even began to worry about it, you see. He feared the new baby might be having trouble getting out.”

  “Perhaps, she was shy,” Elizabeth suggested with a soft smile.

  “She was hardly shy!” he laughed. “No, this baby was remarkably garrulous and highly intelligent—and very beautiful, I might add. This child knew the perfect day was coming, but she’d decided to make the boy wait.”

  “The poor boy! Of course, he was very kind and sweet and exceedingly handsome. Why would she make such a lovely boy wait?”

  “I cannot answer that,” he said seriously. “Perhaps, God had chosen the precisely correct moment, and the boy was simply too thick to realise it.”

  “The boy isn’t thick at all,” she told him. “I think he’s brilliant.”

  “I’m very glad you think so,” he answered. “But seriously, Beth, when you were at long last born, and I saw your sweet face, I thought my heart had stopped beating. Honestly, it felt as though my chest grew completely empty. And then, when Father placed you into my arms, it began to beat again.”

  Suddenly, Beth noticed how very quiet the room was, with only the soft ticking of a grandfather clock to remind them of reality. She sensed how important this moment was to them both, as though they had reached a crossroads in their lives. Despite her great love for Charles, it would be difficult to release Paul to another woman; yet she must. The boy who waited deserved all the happiness God had in store, and she had no right to prevent it.

  “Do you love her?” she asked at last.

  “Love whom?” he whispered, his arm still cradling her shoulders.

  “Cordelia.”

  He removed the arm, looking intently into her eyes. “Honestly? I don’t know. Perhaps. Beth, that day in Scotland, I vowed to protect you; to love and adore you for all the days of my life. The very idea of loving another is foreign to my heart.”

  “Darling Paul, I’ve watched you with her; seen the tenderness a
nd gentleness in your manner. You are not breaking a vow by loving her. Trust in God to hold our hearts together in friendship, and he will! No matter what, I will love you for all my life, darling Cousin. All my life.”

  “Even if I marry another?”

  “Even then,” she whispered, kissing his hand. “It’s been on your mind, hasn’t it? These past few days.”

  All the tension in his muscles, all the worry in his heart and mind—in his very bones—fell away, and he began to weep. She held him close, stroking his long hair soothingly.

  “Today marks a new start for us. Tell me how I can help, and I’ll do it.”

  “Just love me,” he whispered.

  “That, my darling friend, is easy.”

  “I do love you, Beth,” he whispered. “Ever and always.”

  “I know my darling knight; I know. And I love you, Lord Aubrey. Ever and always.”

  She began to hum softly: an old Scottish air that sang of meadows and fens and ancient castles. By half past one, he’d fallen asleep in her arms. She eased him onto the sofa, spread a quilt across his body, and quietly left.

  Tomorrow, would be a new day.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Monday, 24th December, 1888 - Charles Sinclair’s Journal

  It is just after seven, and dawn lies upon the horizon. As I sit in Connor Stuart’s former study, I marvel at the turnings my life has taken. This is a magnificent room, sitting just off the duke’s bedchamber (it is still strange to call myself a duke). The arrangement of the master apartment is logical and spacious. At Haimsbury, my study is somewhat small and sits twixt the parlour and my bedchamber, but here, the study is actually the grandest room in the entire apartment. Baxter explained that this was once a drawing room, but Patricia preferred using the smaller parlour, and Connor converted this to a study shortly after he and Patricia wed. We are on the northwest corner of the house, and this room faces west. In the afternoons, it’s bathed in warming sunlight streaming through four, very tall French doors. There is a balcony beyond, which oversits the west wing portico, making it strong enough and large enough to hold a great many people. There are ironwork tables and chairs aplenty, all covered in canvas presently, but come the spring, I shall enjoy coffee out there in the mornings and write in this journal whilst watching a sea of graceful flowers and fruit trees bloom with radiant colour.

  My dearest, sweetest flower is Elizabeth, of course. Most of us talked long into the night, but I had some time with her before retiring. Sometime around two, Beth slipped away for a little while, and when she returned, she thought me asleep, but I’d only just switched off the lamp. She’d been talking with the earl (as I assumed), and I held her as she shared her heart. Paul will always be her dearest love after me; this I know. I try to recall Kepelheim’s wise words whenever my thoughts turn towards doubt: that Elizabeth requires both of us—Paul and me—to serve as protectors. God has given me great peace in this, for no woman could be a better wife. Somehow, this has brought us even closer.

  Despite the short night, that same dear woman has already gone downstairs. ‘It is Christmas Eve!’ she told me as she dressed. ‘And there’s much to do!’

  At the hall, Christmas Eve is traditionally a day of fellowship and food (so I’m told); a constant celebration, ending with church services in the grand gallery, with all the family, guests, and servants attending. Canon Edgar Greves is the vicar of the village church, which is Anglican, but he will be joined by Dr. MacPherson (arriving today), who’ll represent our Scottish Presbyterian faith. A few of the villagers practise the Catholic religion. Beth explained that these worship in either Anjou-on-Sea or at Hampton.

  Now, let me recount the events of the past few days. Beth reminded me this morning that the purpose of this activity is to allow my thoughts to coalesce upon a paper medium. In a way, it’s similar to the way Bob Morehouse (may he rest in peace) taught me to organise evidence and theories about a crime. Then, we used a blackboard to make lists and see how they connect; but now I use pen and paper.

  1. Three men disappeared into the tunnels beneath Lion Hall sometime after 11:30 a.m. on the nineteenth.

  2. One man, Peter Patterson, was found dead near a rail shed. His body showed signs of torture and a complete loss of blood. Price believes he was killed elsewhere.

  3. Later that day, a second man, Dr. Seth Holloway, was rescued from that hellish chamber beneath St. Arilda’s Abbey. Holloway is severely injured and being treated by Henry MacAlpin here at Branham.

  4. The third student, Lionel Wentworth, is still missing, presumed to have boarded a steamer at Dover (per three witnesses).

  5. Colonel Sir Alfred Collinwood, who had promised to reveal important information about Blackstone Exploration Society’s major ‘find’, was found dead in his host’s root cellar. The obsidian covered coffin he intended to show me is missing. I’ve assigned the case to Galton and Risling. We plan to meet later today.

  7. George Price promised to provide detailed autopsy reports on Collinwood and Patterson by Boxing Day.

  8. Though it is probably unrelated to items 1-7, Cordelia Wychwright was assaulted in London, probably by her brother’s friend—and possibly even her brother. Cordelia’s account is disjointed and difficult to follow. I’ve wired Arthur France, offering him the full authority of the Intelligence Branch to investigate the charges but to make no arrests at present.

  9. I’ve now received three letters from Lorena MacKey. All are brief but heartfelt. She assures me of her welfare, saying Anatole has provided shelter in another city. In this last, she mentioned concern for Margaret Hansen, the keeper of The Empress Hotel. I’ve written to Meg and asked her to contact me.

  10. Supt. Fisher from T-Division wired that a woman has escaped from Montmore Asylum. When I mentioned it to Henry, he sent his own telegram to Dr. Hepplewhite, who replied that the woman is Violet Stuart. I’ve ordered all London ICI agents to begin a city-wide search for her. I pray the Lord looks after all the women on this list, and extend to them His tender mercies.

  Now to ACTIONS that must occur in the next few days:

  Look through all Beth’s correspondence with Blackstone. Paul has given his account of the three meetings he attended in August, and I’ll speak with Seth Holloway regarding his dealings with the group as soon as he’s able.

  Interview the families of the Cambridge men.

  Interview the three Oxford men. It’s possible one of them is the murderer, though Collinwood claimed all three were with him at Castle Anjou until long after nightfall on the nineteenth.

  Speak with Reid when he arrives here later today. And with Abberline after I return Drina to London on Thursday. Not only regarding Blackstone, but also the dockside fire and other open investigations: Victoria Park murders, the Redwing murders (Hemsfield, Andrews, and possibly Wychwright), the so-called ‘vampire’ attacks on women and children, and the Embankment murders. Whilst in Whitechapel, I’ll call on Margaret Hansen. And I will follow-up on this Violet Stuart person. I begin to suspect she has something to do with all of this.

  I plan to confront Raziel Grigor in his new offices on Wormwood. Baxter’s right. We REACT rather than ACT. It’s time we anticipate the movements of these creatures, which requires learning how they think. I shall interview him as I would any human suspect.

  And, of course, I must protect Elizabeth and Adele. Anatole warned me that Christmastide is a time when the fallen realm play tricks upon the world of men; therefore, I’ll try to keep Beth indoors, where it is easier to keep an eye on her. We’ve had nearly ten inches of snow, which should help in that effort. I see it as the Lord’s protective blanket.

  James left for Canterbury this morning. Cordelia turns eighteen today, and he hopes to persuade His Grace, Archbishop Edward Benson to allow Paul to marry her as soon as possible without publishing the required banns. Paul plans to propose to her this morning. I pr
ay this is the right decision for them both.

  I discussed the match with Drina last night. I’m discovering that my ‘aunt’ is wise beyond all imagining, and she bypasses the usual governmental rhetoric and ramblings and slices to the bone of a matter.

  “A Christmas wedding would be marvelous, my dear!” she told me. Then she asked Baxter for pen and paper to compose a letter to the archbishop, asking that he allow the wedding, but also explaining that she planned to attend—incognito. Would he come to Branham to officiate?

  Canterbury is nearby, but surely Christmas Eve is a very busy time for His Grace. Despite that, James is confident of a positive reply and has taken Paul’s ‘Scottish Knight’ train to hand-deliver Drina’s message. Elizabeth has asked Alcorn to prepare the upper gallery to host a family wedding service—just in case.

  May God Almighty protect us all during this season!

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  10:18 am – 24th December

  “If you could slow the tempo a little at the fourth measure, Mr. Stanley, I should be most grateful,” Viktor Riga suggested to the former policeman. “Alas, my arthritic fingers are not what they once were.”

  Elbert Stanley made a pencil notation on the sheet music. “Like this?” he asked, playing through the section in a languid largo tempo. “Or do you prefer it slower still?”

  Riga sat in a hard-backed chair near the piano, his twisted spine braced by a small pillow. He wore a black frock coat and matching trousers accented with a bright red waistcoat; his beloved cello resting twixt his knees. He held a bow in his right hand, with his left upon the instrument’s fingerboard.

  “I’m not sure,” he replied. “Lady Adele, what do you think? Should we slow the passage a little more? We aren’t rushing, are we?”

  Della sat with Blinkmire and Joseph Merrick on a camel-back sofa, enjoying cider and teacakes. The girl swallowed a bite of brandied orange cake before replying.