Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Paul laughed, shaking his head. “No, Tory. That break happened when I was four years old. Besides, my nose isn’t all that different from Charles’s. It’s straight, despite the break. I think he looks a bit like my father, though, don’t you?”

  “Quite a bit, actually, which is to be expected. Your father was Charles’s great uncle, after all,” she said. “James tells me that you and Charles have become fast friends. I’m very glad to hear it. You were as close as brothers, when you were children, so it’s a return to what’s natural, isn’t it?” Victoria took a puff from the slender cigarette and blew a perfect ring of smoke that floated towards the ceiling. “Paul, why is this wedding rushed? May we not wait until spring, at least, after the London season begins? Most of our friends are in their country homes by now.”

  The earl shook his head, the movement causing a lock of chestnut hair to fall forward, and he absentmindedly tucked it behind his ear with his right hand. “I think that would be a grave mistake, Tory. Redwing has risked open war to force their intent upon us, so our family must appear to fall into their trap, or so James believes, and I agree. The sooner we comply, the safer Elizabeth and Charles remain.”

  She crushed the cigarette and wiped her hands before returning the silver case to the velvet handbag. “I hope it is not we who are trapped, my dear. Elizabeth seems somewhat tired, don’t you think?”

  “She had a nightmare last night, and didn’t sleep well because of it,” Aubrey answered, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I’m not sure when the dark dreams returned, but she enjoyed a lovely respite from them after we came down from Glasgow. That reprieve is now ended, it seems, so we must double our guardianship. It’s why Charles and I have been keeping watch outside her door each night. We’ll not risk another encounter with that wolf creature.”

  “Is it possible she’s seeing things as well, Paul? Beth never really suffered much whilst with me in Paris, but she did have some quite awful visions as a girl. Have those returned?”

  He sipped the black coffee, thoughtfully. “I don’t know if she’s seeing things again, Tory, but yes, it’s possible. You know Elizabeth. She fears sounding mad if she tells us, but primarily, she worries that telling these dreams and visions might cause them to come true.”

  “Yes, I know, but some of her dreams have come true, Paul. Can you imagine what that must be like? As far back as her earliest years, Elizabeth seemed to foresee future events.”

  “Including Connor’s death,” the earl told his aunt.

  “Surely not!” she gasped.

  “It’s true. Beth told Charles about it. She really trusts him, Tory. She always has. From the moment Beth met Charles, she’s looked to him for comfort and strength. I only pray it’s enough to counter Redwing’s terrors.”

  “As do we all,” his aunt replied, smoothing the skirts of her dress. “James tells me that Redwing has clamoured for this marriage for many years, so let us pray their harassment finally ends, when she takes Charles as husband.”

  Victoria Stuart kept an eye on the earl’s face, but Paul maintained neutrality with considerable effort. She noticed a tiny flinch, but chose not to mention it. “So, to the theatre this evening?” she said, standing. The earl stood as well and took her arm.

  “James thinks it a good idea,” he said as they walked into the foyer.

  Victoria paused her steps when the terrier rushed in from outdoors, his brown leather lead trailing behind loosely, as if he’d escaped his walker.

  “Samson!” the spinster called, bending to grasp the dog’s lead. “Naughty boy!” she scolded. “Oh, Lester,” she continued, as the harried footman ran through the front door, his ginger hair windblown into a collection of auburn spikes.

  “My lady?” he asked, catching his breath.

  “I do apologise for my dog,” she told him. “Samson is fiercely independent, you see, Lester. He runs about anywhere he likes, whenever we’re at home, so he must think himself privileged to do so here as well.”

  William Lester smoothed his hair with gloved hands and then straightened the sleeves of his black, livery coat. “That’s most generous of you, Lady Victoria, but he did get away from me. Just started barking at a strange collection of shadows near the reflecting pool, and then ran back inside. He was quite good until then. Nary a bark, nor any misdeeds.”

  “Shadows? How very odd. Well, as I said, just let him have his way if he insists. He’s quite stubborn. Like a true Stuart, I suppose.” She turned to the earl once more. “James said he’ll call for us at seven, which means Elizabeth and I must accomplish a great deal in a very short time, assuming she’s well enough. She still wears great weariness upon her face, my dear,” she told Aubrey. “As happy as she is to be marrying Charles, she is still very much afraid, though she would probably not admit it. Keep careful watch on her.”

  “Always, Victoria. Always.”

  A series of gentle chimes sounded, and the butler emerged into the foyer, near the eastern staircase. “Forgive the interruption, Lady Victoria, Lord Aubrey. Breakfast is laid. However, it seems the duchess has left the house again. My lady has gone to the north gardens. Shall I send a footman to collect her, or do you prefer to begin without the duchess?”

  “Where is Lord Haimsbury?” the earl asked, as the dog ran past his leg and back towards the morning room.

  The butler followed and cast a wary eye on the animal. Ignoring the human, the dog jumped onto one of the upholstered sofas, his eyes on the window. “The marquess begs to be excused,” Miles replied, fetching the dog before turning back towards the earl.

  The animal wriggled to be set free. Tory scowled at the dog. “Naughty boy!” she scolded, taking the animal from the relieved butler.

  “Thank you, my lady. Lord Aubrey, a telegram arrived a short while ago from Scotland Yard, and I’m to say his lordship has taken one of the Haimsbury coaches to Leman Street. He asked if you might join him there as soon as possible, sir.”

  “Well, that sounds ominous. Did my cousin mention what the telegram said?” the earl asked.

  “He said only to keep all newspapers away from the duchess. Two had arrived already, and I’d just finished pressing them. As I thought you might ask, I’ve brought them with me, sir.”

  Paul took the two newspapers, tucking one beneath his elbow. He began with the morning edition of The Star. “I see,” he said upon reading the front page headline. “Thank you, Miles. Burn all the papers as soon as they arrive. Beth’s not to see any of them. Tory, I must leave you, I’m afraid. If you do take Beth shopping, under no circumstances allow her to see any newspapers. Can you accomplish that?”

  “Certainly, but why?” she asked, her face pinched.

  “Because two young women were found dead in the east end last night, and a third lies near death at a hospital in Hackney Wick. They’d been torn apart, and the sole survivor is claiming that it was a monster attacked them. A flying creature that was part wolf and part man.”

  Chapter Three

  10:16 am - Leman Street Police Station, Whitechapel

  Detective Superintendent Charles Sinclair had not entered the the five storey brick building at 76 Leman Street since early October, so as he passed through the blue painted doors, the entire station house erupted into a mixture of loud cheers and applause.

  Shouts of “Welcome back, sir!” and “Hail, the new Scottish laird!” rose up amidst hushed queries like “What do we call him now?” and “Is it still Superintendent, or is it ‘my lord’?” The good humour and comradery washed over him like a comforting sea of male fellowship, and Charles responded to each comment as several dozen hands slapped him playfully on the back.

  “I fear we don’t have any footmen to take your hat, Superintendent Sinclair,” teased H-Division’s burly desk sergeant, Alfred Williams. “But you can hand it to me as always. I’ll look after it. Welcome back, sir.”

  “T
hank you, Sergeant Williams. It’s very good to be back. I cannot believe how much I’ve missed this rabble!” he said, beaming proudly at his fellow policemen. “Brickman, is that a moustache I see trying to emerge from your upper lip? And I don’t recall Applebaum with sergeant’s stripes. When did all this happen?”

  Kevin Applebaum’s bushy, red brows rose into a prideful arch. “Since a week past, Superintendent. And Brickman’s trying to impress his new bride, sir. Becky Brown is now Mrs. Brickman, poor girl.”

  “Is that so? Well, congratulations to you both. I’ve much to catch up on, it seems,” Sinclair replied happily. Then, noticing the curious faces on the dozens of constables, sergeants, and detectives who stood nearby, the superintendent rapped on the wooden booking desk.

  “Gentlemen, I am remiss. Most of you have probably read all about my engagement and very surprising inheritance since my departure here last month, and I’m sure you have many questions. Now is your time to ask them. Speak freely, and I shall reply in kind. So, who wishes to go first?”

  A hand arose towards the back of the gathering. A rail thin constable with curling blond hair and a caterpillar moustache spoke up. “Sir, there’s a rumour goin’ ‘round that you’re leavin’ the force and takin’ a position with government—maybe even Parliament. Is that true, sir?” the young man asked shyly.

  “Well, Constable Antram, I have spent thirteen years serving Her Majesty by fighting crime, and in that time I’ve made many friends and even more enemies. Most of the latter group now moulder beneath the burial grounds at Newgate, or else twiddle their thumbs behind locked doors, courtesy of Her Majesty’s prison system. The former group is one I cherish, and I would eternally miss your fellowship, should I leave. As to Parliament, I cannot imagine myself wearing House of Lords finery, can you?” Everyone laughed, and Sinclair continued. “For now, Antram, I promise you this: until Ripper is caught and prosecuted, I shall remain with the force in some capacity. Beyond that, I’ll allow the Lord Almighty to direct my path.”

  A middle-aged detective inspector with muttonchop sideburns and dressed in a smart suit of brightly checked, worsted wool raised his hand next. “Sir, it seems a right silly question, but my men keep askin’. We know from what Inspector Reid’s told us that your name’s really Sinclair, and that you’re a marquess and all, sir, but do we still call you Superintendent?”

  “You do, Inspector Wingham. You do. In these halls, I am merely an officer of the law, and you are my friends and fellow servants. I’m proud to be numbered amongst such a fine collection of men, I must say.”

  Everyone seemed quite satisfied by this, and most nodded and whispered their approval. Brickman raised his hand. “Sir, will you still be spendin’ time here? I mean, as your new home is in Westminster, we’ve all been wonderin’ if you plan to keep to the Yard now, or even work from your own house.”

  “Nonsense!” Sinclair answered. “Offices have no appeal for me. Crimes are not solved from a desk, but rather by the wearing out of shoe leather and the employment of scientific principles and sound reason. I may now live in Westminster, but my beat is still here in the east, so expect to see me often.”

  The lobby erupted once again into a round of congratulatory applause and shouts of ‘hear, hear!’, but as the celebration died back, another hand went up, only not from a policeman. It was Star reporter Michael O’Brien, who sat inside a corner cell, opposite the constables’ lounge.

  “I have a question, Superintendent,” the inmate called boldly.

  Charles turned and cast the reporter a dark look. “You may call me Lord Haimsbury, O’Brien, and I have many answers for you—none that you will like, I imagine.”

  O’Brien swiped at his thin, brown moustache. “Now, is that gentlemanly, sir? I merely wish to know if my informants are correct. That your romance with the Duchess of Branham is an old one, for that is what now passes for truth in the newspapers of London. Inspectors Abberline and Reid have been most obstructive regarding my investigation, even going so far as to remand me to this cell for my trouble, though I’ve committed no crime. I ask you, is there no freedom of the press in this country?”

  Sinclair stepped towards the bars, careful to maintain his temper. “My understanding of your arrest is that you refused to assist police in a murder investigation, which is punishable by the courts. You may complain to Her Majesty regarding your current accommodations, Mr. O’Brien, but if you prefer, I can remove you to delightfully private quarters at Newgate. I’m sure the rats there would be happy to offer debate on constitutional privilege.”

  “How very noble,” the reporter parried back, his beady eyes fixed on Sinclair’s. “May I quote you, sir?”

  “You may quote whatever you like,” the detective replied, turning dismissively.

  “And may I quote the duchess, as well?” the reporter pressed, causing Sinclair to halt his steps. “I should never wish to sully that lady’s sterling reputation, as regards her perceived history with you, sir. I seek only the truth. When your relationship began, how it developed. Might it be connected in some way to a previous investigation? One, say, within the last decade? If you cannot offer the answers, my lord, I could write to the duchess.”

  The reporter’s attempt to probe the detective’s armour succeeded, striking squarely at his Achilles heel: Elizabeth. “You would do well to avoid threats against my fiancée, O’Brien. The cells in Newgate are not the only oubliettes where a man of your background might forever be forgotten!” he shouted.

  “Such a temper for a peer, but then the Stuarts have a long history of bloodshed, do they not?”

  Charles nearly bit back a response, but Edmund Reid appeared at his elbow. “You’re wasting your breath on this one, Superintendent. Shall we?”

  Charles cast one last, angry look at O’Brien, and then followed his junior officer up the ironwork steps, through the first floor detectives’ lounge, and into the inspector’s cramped office.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, Charles,” Reid said as he shut the door. “We’ll get to O’Brien later, but for now, these park murders take precedence. The Star’s already trumpeting the lurid details across the city in their morning edition. The two bodies were taken to George Steed’s shop, as they were recovered in his jurisdiction, but the survivor is in hospital.”

  “Survivor? Your telegram said only that two women had been slain by a wolf. Can you explain that?”

  “No, not yet, but I can tell you what the men who reported the crimes have said. The slain women were found last night, around midnight, by two railway porters on their way home from Victoria Park Station. K-Division was called, and Superintendent Steed dispatched a team to secure the area and interview the porters. Each told Steed’s men that he saw a wolf or rather a ‘wolf-like’ creature just before the pair stumbled upon the bodies of the women. They claimed this animal walked on hind legs, as a man walks, and that it bore great wings like that of a bat.”

  Sinclair blinked as he took a seat on Reid’s sofa. “Say that last part again, Edmund.”

  Reid dropped into the chair behind his desk. “Wings. That’s what both men said in separate interviews. This creature flew, Charles.”

  “Did these men actually see it fly?”

  “One said he did, but the other claimed only to have seen the wings. Honestly, I’ve no idea how to document any of this. No one at the Yard will believe me aside from you, of course, but it’s important for the circle to be aware of it. Fred Abberline’s convinced the witnesses are either exaggerating or lying outright. Both porters now sit in Steed’s cells, for George agrees with Fred and considers them suspects. The women’s injuries line up with those expected from a vicious animal attack, so for now, Steed’s calling it the work of a pack of fighting dogs, most likely owned and trained by these two railway men.”

  Reid passed several disturbing photographs to his superior, who studied each carefully. The image
s had been taken inside K-Division’s police morgue, and the pitiful corpses brought the sting of tears to Sinclair’s eyes. The victims were scrawny and appeared to be very young, probably sixteen or less. Both had been mutilated almost beyond recognition, their thin limbs ripped into ragged ribbons, exposing muscle and bone. The sensitive superintendent fought back tears, wishing the images were but dreams, and that he could open his eyes and find them gone, but he forced himself to think objectively—as a police detective must.

  “Sometimes, I truly hate this work, Edmund,” he whispered tightly. “Might Steed be right? Could a pack of dogs have done this?”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” Reid said. “Since your departure with Aubrey and the duchess last month, Thomas Sunders, has come aboard as our permanent surgeon. As these murders might be Ripper’s work, I dispatched him to K at four o’clock this morning, so he could personally examine both bodies. I expect him back here this afternoon to give report in person, but I received a brief summary from Sunders shortly before you arrived. Here, let me see if I can find it.”

  Edmund Reid’s desk was piled high with dozens of files, and he sifted through them, settling at last on a slender folder labeled Victoria Park / Double Murder / 051188. “Ah, yes, here it is,” he said, as he placed a pair of reading glasses upon his wide nose. “Quote: ‘Bite marks are canine in presentation, but much larger than one would expect from a fighting dog. Based on a formula created by a colleague of mine, the depth of laceration, arch height, and intercanine distance indicate a powerful jaw, consistent with a wolf or very large, long-snouted dog, such as an Alsatian. However, bruise patterning to the upper arms, throat, and inner thighs indicate a human attacker with human fingers.’”