Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “I’m very sorry, Dr. Holloway, but Mr. Patterson is dead,” he told the patient. “As for Wentworth, we believe he’s fled England. Our French operatives are following the trail there. Can you tell me how Patterson died?”

  Complete shock ran through the twenty-nine-year-old’s features. He tried to sit, and his hands fidgeted with the thick red hair. “Dead? How can he be dead? Good heavens, how! It was only the three of us in there. No, wait. Shadows... I saw... Something. Someone.” His eyes rounded, and all colour left his cheeks. “I can see snatches of images in my mind, but nothing tangible. How was I injured again? I don’t remember.”

  Henry took over. “Tell me about these ‘snatches’. Describe them, no matter how trivial it may seem. Perhaps, we can unveil them without hypnosis.”

  “Just dreams, mostly. Last night, I dreamt about Pitt. That’s what we call Patterson. Short for Pitter-Patter. He’s always talking. He’s dead? Good heavens, he was just a boy!”

  “You were fond of him, then?” asked Charles.

  “I suppose so. He reminded me of Ted Treadway.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A cousin of mine. He used to go on the digs with us.”

  “The archaeological digs?” asked Kepelheim.

  “Yes. I grew up on those expeditions. Nearly every year, we’d spend months up to our knees in sand, flies, and mummies. Father’s a linguist, and he trained me to read hieroglyphs and cuneiform, as well as speak the local languages. Mother’s more artistic and taught me to sketch and paint. Treadway joined us when I was about eighteen. He jabbered all the time, just like Patterson. Ted was killed when a tunnel collapsed.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Henry told him.

  “It was quite awful, actually,” Seth explained. “The Bedouins claimed the area was cursed. We ran into some very strange beliefs amongst the locals. Despite all efforts, the Ottomans have failed to destroy the ancient gods. They’ve merely gone underground. You can ask Paul, if you want to know. He joined us on one of the North African digs. I’m sure he could verify that.”

  “I’ll speak to him,” said Sinclair. “Let’s get back to the project. When’s the last time you saw the other men?”

  Holloway felt a sudden chill and reached for the duvet. Kepelheim helped by adding another quilt. “You look feverish, Dr. Holloway. Perhaps, we should leave you to sleep and conduct this experiment tomorrow.”

  “I’ve slept too much already. And I’m used to injuries. As my scars attest. I think the last time I saw Pitt and Worthy was in the new section. Collinwood and the Oxford team found a crypt, which held several urns, niched into the walls. There were statues as well, and I agreed to sketch the main features whilst Worthy and Pitt forged ahead to see if the crypt connected to other rooms. It’s a massive labyrinth down there, and I doubt King Richard’s men designed it. It’s far older, in my opinion.”

  “Your recollections of the crypt are clear?” asked Sinclair.

  “Very. It’s only when I started sketching that raven statue that everything gets cloudy.”

  Charles felt a chill run down his spine. “Raven statue?”

  “Yes. It’s my belief the crypt was intended as a transformational chamber. The entrance is from Lion Hall’s main tunnel and contains a large statue of a man. The opposite door, the exit, is guarded by a large raven. It’s the same size as the man and disquieting in its aspect. As with Egyptian statues, the tunnel builders painted the details, giving the bird a realistic appearance; as though it might come to life at any moment.”

  “Was the human statue the same?” asked Kepelheim.

  “Strange you should ask me that, for he... Well, sir, the man resembled the duke.”

  Charles felt a second chill, only this one included a whisper.

  Hello, boy.

  The duke ignored the taunt and continued the interview. “Describe it.”

  “As I say, eerily similar to you, sir. If Aubrey found me, then surely he passed by it. You can confirm it with him. It stood on an inscribed base, with the total height of ten feet or more. The man’s eyes were azure blue, and the hair black. It struck me as odd, for the style of the carving was more Greek or Roman, but the colouration typical of Egyptian statues.”

  “And the raven’s height?”

  “Also about ten feet.”

  “You called it a transformational chamber,” Kepelheim interrupted. “Do forgive me, Your Grace, but I find the descriptor quite odd. Transforming into what?”

  Seth’s face grew serious, his blue eyes fixed on the men. “Into something new. The spell is this: You enter as a man, but leave as something else. In this case, you are either shepherded by this raven to your goal, or else you become the raven. He might serve as a gatekeeper. It may be the man becomes the gatekeeper.”

  Charles had to fight to remain calm, for the Dragon’s grinding whispers roared inside his head.

  Boy, you’re not listening to me!

  “Gatekeeper?” he managed to ask.

  Martin stared at the duke warily. “Charles, are you all right?”

  “Fine,” he answered simply. “Dr. Holloway, what doorway might this gatekeeper guard?”

  “Without translating the writing on the statues, it’s difficult to say. I presume it’s a passage to the underworld. Why else would these tunnels proceed downwards, ever deeper into the earth?”

  “You found writing?” asked Kepelheim, suddenly all ears. “Did you by any chance copy it?”

  “Yes, of course,” the earl’s son answered wearily. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but this is more talking than I’ve done in two days. Might we rest a little?”

  Salperton took the injured man’s pulse. “Quick but relatively strong,” he murmured to himself. “Seth, I promise we’ll let you sleep soon, but first I’d like to try this new method. It may help you recall those lost memories, and afterward, you’ll sleep very deeply.”

  “Shall I turn down the lights?” asked the tailor. “To prepare the room.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be most helpful, Martin. Thank you,” replied the physician. “Now, Seth, I want you to shut your eyes and concentrate only on my voice.”

  Charles pulled his chair away from the bed, closer to the fire to allow Salperton room to work. He wanted to believe Holloway’s tale because of Elizabeth, but he had to treat him as he would any other suspect. Despite his boyish charm, Seth Holloway might be a murderer.

  Henry sat next to the bed. The soft-eyed alienist motioned to Kepelheim. “I wonder, Martin, if you’d be kind enough to keep watch on our patient’s pulse for me? If it ever rises significantly or grows erratic, let me know. Some of this may cause physiological responses, and I shouldn’t wish to overtax his heart.”

  Seth opened his eyes. “Overtax my heart? Will this hurt?”

  “No more than your wounds already do, my friend,” Salperton answered gently. “However, you’re about to re-live whatever happened to you. For good or ill, the truth will come out. If you share any responsibility for what happened, that, too, will come out. Do I still have your permission to proceed?”

  “Yes, of course. I want to know as much as anyone,” Holloway insisted. “No matter the truth, I need to know.”

  “Very well, then. Now, before I begin, I’d like to do something my colleagues in the profession might find unusual. Since we are delving into your inner thoughts, I’d like to seek the Lord’s guidance. Martin, would you pray for us?”

  Kepelheim stood. “I’d be pleased to do so. Let us bow our heads, gentlemen.”

  Holloway did so as well, and it felt strange, but right. His parents had raised him as an atheist: to trust in science for answers. Though members of the Church of England, George and Imogen Holloway practised a social sort of religion, attending primarily to be seen, rather than worship. Indeed, if the 7th Earl of Salter believed in anything, it was knowledge, for he p
ursued it with a vengeance.

  Though Seth had accepted Christ and sought deliverance during his brief but hellish journey through the Stone Realms, he had no memory of it now; only an underlying fear of dreams. Now, as Martin Kepelheim lifted his voice to the throne of God, the young man at the centre of this experiment felt a wonderful calm wash over his spirit. And though his eyes were shut, a warm white light permeated his lids, as if the sun stood over his bed.

  “And may your mighty hand protect Dr. Holloway, my Lord,” the tailor was saying, somewhere beyond the beautiful light. “We seek guidance, and especially ask that you would provide him your answers. May the truth be revealed, dear Lord. Most of all, I ask that your redemptive truth be sown within Dr. Holloway’s heart, and that he will grow ever nearer to you. Thank you for keeping your great and tender hand upon us, my King. In the name of your only begotten Son, I ask it. Even the name of Christ Jesus. Amen.”

  Seth opened his eyes, wondering if the intense light would blind him, but instead he saw the faces of three men who were about to change his life:

  Henry MacAlpin, whom he’d first met five years ago at Torden Hall, his family’s country estate near Faversham. He knew little of the viscount’s personal life, but in the past few days, he’d come to trust in his medical skill.

  Martin Kepelheim, a peculiar little man, whose colourful phrases and eccentric behaviour struck Seth as a mask to hide a complex and incisive mind. Kepelheim had visited him often over the past few days and hinted at dark, ancient origins to the tunnel system.

  Finally, there was Duke Charles Sinclair of Haimsbury. Never in all his travels, had Seth met anyone like the duke. His bearing, mannerisms, and speech defined him as regal, commanding, and formidable; yet, there was a kindness to his eyes that revealed a deeper, intuitive side to the man. If ever Seth wanted to make a friend, it was Sinclair. He couldn’t explain it, but since first meeting the duke, Seth had the strangest sense that they’d met before—though, he felt certain they never had. Still, he felt a connexion so profound that it defied all logic.

  Then, a voice whispered into his right ear: You need Aubrey.

  Though he felt like a fool for asking, Holloway voiced the thought. “I wonder, before we begin, might we ask Paul to join us? I realise he’s probably busy; this being Christmas and him only just married, but of all you men, I know him the best. Might he be a part of this experiment?”

  “Yes, of course, he may,” answered Henry. “I’ll fetch him at once.”

  Whilst Salperton was away, Charles decided to pursue an entirely different sort of interview. “Tell me about your parents.”

  Seth felt energised from the prayer, and he answered easily. “Father’s a hard crust of cheese. His grandfather and father were both antiquarians, and he grew up on expeditions. Therefore, he thought nothing of bringing up his sons in hot tombs and sandy digs.”

  “Sons?” asked the duke. “I understood you were the only son.”

  “I am now. I had a brother, George Abel. George after my father and Abel—well, that was my mother’s idea. Her father’s name was Adam, and she always wanted a boy named Abel. He died of cholera at just six years old. I was born a year later; hence the name Seth. The replacement for Abel. That fact was drummed into me from my earliest years. Father insisted I become tough and resistant to all disease. To accomplish this, he and Mother dragged me all over the Levant and Africa. And I did become tough.”

  Martin smiled. “That’s certainly true. The wound that runs along your chest and stomach would have been the end of most men, yet you’re healing at a remarkable rate. I almost call it miraculous. Tell me, what sort of tasks can a child manage on these digs?”

  For the first time since becoming a patient, Holloway laughed, revealing a far more handsome countenance. Charles took notice, wondering if Elizabeth had found the young man’s laughing eyes pleasant. Had she enjoyed kissing him that summer?

  Listen to me, boy. This one will usurp your rightful place. He will steal what is precious to you.

  “As you can imagine, a child’s muscles are useless in most aspects of a dig,” Seth explained, “but my mother used the time to teach me to read, write, calculate mathematics, and speak a dozen living languages. And I learnt to paint and draw our finds. I’ve kept a detailed journal of all our digs, including watercolour and pastel portraits of the places and people.”

  “I imagine the duchess appreciated your artistic temperament,” Charles heard himself say.

  “We share an interest in art as well as music.”

  “And much more,” Charles answered, instantly regretting the sarcasm.

  The comment caused the patient’s mirth to disappear. “Honestly, Your Grace, I’m pleased for her. Pleased for you both! It’s true that I loved Elizabeth and wanted to marry her, but she would never give me an answer. Not hearing a direct ‘no’, I assumed she only needed time, and I visited as often as my schedule allowed. I went to France to see her many times, but always, whenever we’d talk together for any length of time, Beth’s conversation would inevitably include references to this fellow she called ‘Captain’. I knew she loved you and held out hope you might one day seek her out. She never named you, nor did she explain why you’d remained silent. I was quite jealous of you, to be honest. But it’s clear you’ve made her very happy.”

  Sinclair started to ask if Seth had ever kissed the duchess whilst in France, but Aubrey’s entrance prevented it.

  “I hear we’re about to conduct an experiment,” said the earl as he reached the bedside.

  “Forgive me for taking you away from your new bride, Paul, but I thought it might help to have you a part of this experiment, as you call it,” answered Holloway.

  “My wife’s enjoying the music, and she’d just struck up a conversation with Mr. Blinkmire, when Henry arrived. Blinkmire’s become quite protective of both Cordelia and Adele. They’re in safe hands. Henry tells me he’s using Breuer’s method. I’m familiar with how it works. During one of my many assignments, I had to study theories on hypnosis. Charcot, Bernheim, Bramwell. There’s a rousing debate regarding its efficacy, but I’ve seen it work. I do, however, advocate praying for the Lord’s protection.”

  “We’ve already done that,” Henry told the earl. “I hadn’t realised how well versed you are in medical matters, Paul, though I should have known. In the course of your work for the Crown, you’ve pretended to be just about everything!”

  “Very nearly,” laughed Aubrey, “but don’t ask Galton about the circus. That’s all I ask.” Taking a chair beside the duke, Aubrey became a spectator.

  Henry resumed his previous chair. “Now, Seth, you must close your eyes. As with the earl, I’ve read through the various schools of thought, and it seems to me the secret is total relaxation. Most of us experience times when we struggle to access memories. The brain is an undiscovered country, but beyond the physical frontier lies the metaphysical. Our souls and minds intermingle with our physical forms in a way that defies measure, yet we do so with ease. However, sometimes, a blockage appears; a tangling of the neural links, you might say. It’s my hope now to remove that impediment.”

  “Just tell me what to do,” answered the patient.

  Henry held a small clock in his hands. “I want you to take this. Hold it firmly. Its sound will act as a means to connect you to this room, but also provide a soothing rhythm. By holding it, you’ll also feel the gears move. Now, close your eyes and concentrate on my voice. Let the ticking and the sensation of the gears become part of you whilst you listen.”

  Downstairs, in the music room, Elizabeth had agreed to play. She’d hoped Charles might return before now, but as Adele had run through her entire retinue of songs, and Count Riga’s cello had broken a string, Beth agreed to play whilst the Romanian restrung the instrument. Not having practised anything in particular, the duchess did something quite daring.

  “Lady S
tuart, I wonder if you would choose a song from our box of music? Whatever you pick, I’ll play; though I make no promises for my technique.”

  Baxter took the box of sheet music and books to the disguised queen, holding it close so she might look through them. Alexandrina Victoria laughed. “Oh, my! I suppose I shall be to blame if it all goes wrong, is that it? Very well. Let me see. Mr. Baxter—oh, wait. I’m mistaken, aren’t I? You’re now Inspector Baxter.”

  “I am, as they say, off duty today, my lady,” he told her drily. “Mister is quite correct.”

  A mischievous look sparkled in the sovereign’s eyes. “Mister? Ah, well, who knows what the future holds? Ah! How about this one?”

  The butler turned detective gazed at the selection, his magnificent eyebrows pinching together as though concerned. “This might be better played by someone else, my lady.”

  “Nonsense! It isn’t difficult, or at least the first movement is not. And I’ve always loved it,” argued the queen. “Beth plays it beautifully.”

  Waiting at the piano, Elizabeth reached out, her delicate fingers grasping the air. “Let me see it, Baxter. Please.”

  The great man reluctantly crossed to the duchess and placed the music into her hand. She gazed down at the title, and it seemed that the room grew abnormally still. The audience waited, motionless.

  “It is Beethoven,” the petite pianist announced. “His Mondscheinsonate, or in English Moonlight Sonata.” She paused before speaking again, and those who knew her well wanted to rip the music from her hands, but she remained regally calm. After whispering a silent prayer, the duchess smiled at their guest. “This is also one of my favourites, Lady Stuart. I’ll happily play all the movements for you. This is...” Her voice caught in her throat, as tears brightened her eyes.

  Joseph Merrick leaned forward, worry shadowing his misshapen face. “No, dear lady, you mustn’t! Not if the memories are too painful.”