Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Digitus medius. Your tallest finger. The one in the middle. There is a thickening at its tip—there, on the thumb side. Such a callus arises from constantly gripping a pen or pencil, probably a consequence of taking so many notes as a reporter, but other occupations also exhibit such a telltale callus. A man who works with numbers, for instance. I wonder, have you ever worked as an accountant?”

  O’Brien feigned laughter, but it rang in a hollow tone. “An accountant? Perhaps, your injury affected more than just your arm, my lord. It seems your mind wanders adrift.”

  “It often does,” Aubrey replied, opening the knife again with his right hand. “However, I would say that numbers are more than a hobby with you. Tell me, O’Brien, how is it that you have several investment accounts with Barings?”

  This switch in topic caused the reporter’s long face to pale into a mask of ash, and his crossed leg began to shake. “What has that to do with anything?”

  Charles held the file, given to him by the earl, and he smiled as he looked up from its pages. “My, my. It appears as if my ambidextrous cousin is correct, Mr. O’Brien. Let’s see if I can make sense of these entries. Shares in silver mines in the Argentine, rail stocks in America and Mexico, a ten percent stake in a diamond venture in South Africa, and a strange investment in a chemical concern calling itself Sanguis, Ltd. All of which, according to this report, adds up to a current market value of over fifteen thousand pounds. That is a rather spectacular portfolio for a man who, only five years ago, didn’t have a brass farthing.”

  O’Brien spoke rapidly, as if trying to spin a convincing tale before his adversaries could cut the slender thread. “It’s not an uncommon situation for a man in the right place at the right time. A report came across my desk five years ago regarding an opportunity that required little initial investment, but which drew handsome dividends. Those profits led to other investments, and henceforth to others. I do not profess to any special talent for choosing which investments will so perform, but rather to having the knack for reading the news, sirs. That is all. Is high intelligence now a crime?”

  Charles smiled again, and the bright flash of white teeth did more to weaken the reporter’s will than any blow from a fist. “It is, in fact, a criminal offence to accept bribes, even those received in the form of stocks, Mr. O’Brien. Particularly, if those bribes lead to the cover-up of a much more serious offence.”

  He’d begun to shake all over, but the reporter tried to disguise it by by scratching at his face with the manacled left hand. “And what offence might that be, sir?”

  “Accessory to murder.”

  The prisoner’s face blanched to alabaster, and his mouth dropped open, all wind gone from his sails. “M—murder?”

  “I think that will do for now,” Charles said as he handed the box file to Edmund Reid. The marquess left the cell, heading towards the door, but before exiting, he turned one last time. “Mr. Reid, will you read the formal charges out to the prisoner? And then see that he’s removed to a more permanent, but very private cell in Her Majesty’s prison whilst he awaits arraignment. I’d prefer to keep him safe from the public. When they learn we’ve arrested the man who’s kept the identity of Ripper secret, then...”

  “Ripper!” O’Brien shouted, rushing after the retreating pair of cousins, his constrained hands wrapping ‘round the iron bars. “Please, Mr. Sinclair—Lord Haimsbury, I beg you! Lord Aubrey! I know nothing about any link ‘twixt Trent and Jack. Only that...”

  “Tell it to Judge Merton,” Sinclair said without even turning.

  “Wait, please! I can give you a name! One that might prove my innocence! Ask Harry Dam, if you think me bluffing. There is a doctor. One who’s been involved with numerous crimes, right under the noses of your police. Please, sir!”

  Sinclair paused, turning. “This doctor’s name?”

  “He works with Sanguis, Ltd. as consultant, but he employs an alias—or so I’ve been told. I only know that name. Favor. Dr. Crispin Favor. Ask Dam. He has pictures of the man—pictures that include Trent and one other, a high-ranking foreigner, whose name I don’t know. He showed them to me the week before Abberline brought me here for questioning. Dam thought he could milk them both for money, but he’s a fool. Trent would never pay, not with money, anyway.”

  Charles offered that disarmingly bright smile once more. “You have earned an extra night’s stay in our Leman Street hotel, Mr. O’Brien, whilst we investigate your claim. Give every detail to Reid and Constable Brickman, but if this Favor is nothing more than phantom, then you may look forward to interviewing the lice and rats inside Newgate, whilst you await arraignment at the Old Bailey.”

  The terraced house at 12 Columbia Road looked like a cracker box to Sinclair’s eyes now. He’d lived in this home for nearly twelve years, but never realised just how small it was until today. The sedate brickwork, sparse garden, and humble porch looked somewhat sad as he and his cousin approached the weathered, blue door, but as soon as Mary Wilsham appeared, everything changed.

  “Mr. Sinclair!” the plump housekeeper exclaimed as she ushered the cousins inside. She wore a flower print apron tied around her thick waist and carried a half-peeled potato in her left hand. “Do come in, sirs. I’m just makin’ a shepherd’s pie.”

  Aubrey followed his cousin through the door and into the narrow foyer. “Hello, Mrs. Wilsham. It’s been a long time since I was last here. Looks like you’ve redecorated. Wasn’t there ivy wallpaper and a large oval mirror, just here by the hat rack?”

  Wilsham set the potato onto the hall table and wiped her hands on the apron. “You’ve a right good memory, sir. It’s all changed ‘round now. My friend Alice Truebridge and me soaked off the old paper and painted it all fresh last year after the roof leaked—on account o’ all that rain on Easter Monday. It were a right mess. Good ta see you again, Lord Aubrey. I reckon you two is cousins, is that ‘ow it goes? I always thought you sort o’ favoured each other.”

  “Do we?” Charles asked, glancing at his cousin. “People keep saying that, but I’m not sure I see it. Mary, shepherd’s pie sounds delicious, but I fear we’ve no time to eat. Inspector Reid said you wanted me to stop by. Is everything all right?”

  Her smile disappeared. “Tha’s right, sir. I did ask you ta come by, on account as we was broke into Sunday mornin’, whilst I were at church services. Nothin’ were thieved, bu’ the back door got all busted up. Mr. France repaired it, bu’ I thought I ought ta tell ya.”

  “A housebreak? Mary, I don’t like this at all, but I’m very glad you weren’t here at the time. You are all right, then?” he asked.

  “Right as rain, I reckon, and I’m real sorry, sir. I do lock up when I ain’t here, bu’ somebody must o’ thought we ‘ad valuables—mayhap ‘cause o’ your fancy, new title. The papers keep runnin’ stories ‘bout you, so it’s likely folks figure you got money stashed ‘ere ‘bouts.”

  “That makes sense,” Aubrey replied, casting a concerned look at the marquess. “Charles, should Mrs. Wilsham remain here? If thieves believe this house holds items worth stealing, then she might be in danger.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it myself. Look here, Mary,” the detective said, turning to Wilsham. “I’d planned to speak to you about this after the wedding, but now is better, I think. I’d like you to come live with me at the new house. No work. No more cleaning, or cooking, or stoking fires. Just a lovely retirement in a beautiful apartment.”

  Her seamed face lengthened with surprise. “Live with you, sir? As—as some kind o’ guest?”

  “As family. Mary, you’re as dear to me as any mother, and I would be a poor son, if I left you here to live out your remaining days whilst I enjoyed luxury. Besides, the little duchess insists upon it. She will be very cross, if I fail in such a simple task.”

  Wilsham broke into a wide grin. “Then, I reckon I’d best get packin’, for we can
no’ ‘ave yer duchess becomin’ cross, now, can we, sir?”

  Sinclair put his arms ‘round her and kissed her rosy cheek. “You make me very happy, Mary. Now, the earl and I have errands to run in Hackney, but if you could be ready in, say, two hours, we’ll collect you on our way back through. Will that do?”

  “That ain’t much time, but if I could come back an’ fetch anythin’ I might forget, then that’ll be just fine, sir.”

  “Good, but you must stop calling me, sir, Mary. If I’m to be a sort of adopted son, then I insist you call me Charles.”

  “I don’ reckon that’d be right, sir,” she worried, her hands twisting the apron strings tied about her waist.

  “It would make me very happy,” he said, offering her a handsome smile.

  “Then, I reckon I can give it a try, sir—I mean Charles. That seems real strange, sir. I’ll practise it, though. I promise.”

  Aubrey leaned in and kissed the housekeeper’s plump cheek, his blue eyes merry. “If you’re my cousin’s surrogate mother, then may I call you Aunt Mary?”

  “Go on, now, sir! Enough of this foolishness! You go run yer errands. I’ll be waitin’ when ya get back. Aunt Mary, indeed!”

  “Two hours, perhaps three, but no longer,” Charles promised, kissing her cheek.

  She waved goodbye as the pair entered the beautiful, crested Haimsbury coach, her mind considering just how her life was about to change as she shut the door.

  Once inside the carriage, Aubrey voiced concern. “Charles, if someone broke into your house, it is not a coincidence.”

  “I know,” the detective replied darkly. “There has to be a reason why Redwing wanted access to my old home. We just have to determine what they stole, and why.”

  Chapter Six

  The French Hospital was founded in 1718 to provide medical care and succor for indigent French Protestants, who were fleeing the harsh political climate in their home country, following the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. As an early place of refuge for the physically ill, the hospital also served as one of the first establishments to offer sympathetic, modern care for those suffering from mental afflictions. The architect, Robert Lewis Roumieu, had so felt the need for a place of historic significance for Huguenots, that he waived his customary drafting fee for the project and eventually took a position as treasurer and historian. A century and a half later, in 1865, the hospital moved from its original location in St. Giles parish of Finsbury Borough, to a newly designed, modern facility near Victoria Park in Hackney Wick.

  The route the Haimsbury driver had chosen that morning took the two cousins down Birdcage Walk to Hackney Road, turning north on Cambridge, over Regent’s Canal Bridge, and finally east onto Victoria Park Road. The scenery consisted of a diverse patchwork of industry, storefronts, churches, schools, pubs, and housing units; stitched together by a ragged skein of poverty, debauchery, and multilingual fear—accented here and there by rare islands of merchant class wealth. Costermonger carts and beer wagons formed winding labyrinths along some of the more narrow, connecting roads, but Haimish Granger, chief of the Haimsbury Mews, expertly guided the matched pair of chestnut Trakehners, and the cousins arrived at the hospital in less than half an hour’s time.

  Walking into the receiving area, the detective found a bright, beautifully finished refuge from east end drudgery. A tall porter walked towards them, smartly attired in a starched, white shirt and dark woolen trousers, topped by a matching coat trimmed in white braiding at the collar and cuffs. He looked youthful and strong.

  “How may I help you, sirs?” he asked politely.

  Charles showed his CID warrant card. “I’m here to speak with the doctor caring for Miss Moira Murdoch. Is he in?”

  “She is in, sir,” the porter replied with a smile. “Dr. Rachel Kennedy. If you’d like to follow me, Superintendent, I’ll escort you to the doctor’s office.”

  The porter led them along a broad, well-ordered corridor, where they caught a glimpse of the women’s wards, populated by many dozens of dozing patients, lying or lounging in the bright sunshine that now followed the brief, late morning rainfall. A turn to the right took the cousins through the mental patient wing, where they met two male attendants, flanking a somewhat troublesome patient, who snarled at the men as they passed, his eyes wide, teeth bared.

  “That’s just Mr. Bertrand, sir,” their escort explained. “Thinks he’s a cat. Pay him no mind. In here, gentlemen.” The porter opened the door to a lovely room: thirty by thirty, two large windows, four chairs, a leather sofa, and a broad oak, partner desk. “If you’ll just take a seat, sirs. Dr. Kennedy won’t be long. She’s just finishing morning rounds. Would you care for tea or coffee whilst waiting?”

  “No, thank you,” the detective replied. The earl shook his head, and the man shut the door as he departed.

  Aubrey walked towards the far-right window but then paused near the desk, casually examining the collection of papers upon it. “A woman doctor. I wonder if she studied with our Lorena MacKey.”

  “It’s worth asking,” Sinclair replied. “Have you been able to track down our errant physician yet?”

  “I have some leads, but nothing really promising. As you know, I made three trips to London from Kent during the past fortnight, but she leads me on a merry chase. Each time I think I’ve located her, she slips the net, often just hours before my arrival. I had an appointment with an acquaintance yesterday who was to bring further news, but I was stood up. Imagine that.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Now, why would that matter?”

  “A man might prefer to avoid an encounter with you, Cousin, but a woman? Now, a woman would only miss the meeting, if she had no choice in the matter. Dare I ask this female’s name?”

  Aubrey laughed, reading one of the pages on the desk, and then carefully returning it to its proper place. “Susanna Morgan, if you must know. She’s Sir Clive Urquhart’s mistress. American. I think she enjoys playing the brainless statue to Sir Clive’s Pygmalion, but she’s much brighter than he could ever imagine. Urquhart’s a miserable man, and I owe him a visit.”

  “Careful, Paul. I understand your anger, but remember that the law frowns upon murder.”

  “Does it?” he asked, only half teasing. “Yes, I suppose it does. Strange, though, how that legal line blurs whenever the Foreign Office requires remediation of an unsolvable problem overseas.”

  “You’ve been asked to kill men? Really? By Salisbury?”

  “No, not by Robert, but Iddesleigh and Rosebery both did. That’s the real reason why Robert so hastily replaced Rosebery as Foreign Secretary in ‘86. And it may have contributed to Iddesleigh’s sudden death in January of that year. I’ve no proof, but Lord Iddesleigh’s temperament never seemed a match for that office. It’s not easy ordering an operative to end a man’s life. Nor is it easy to obey such an order.”

  “So, did you obey it?” Sinclair asked.

  The earl took a moment to reply, his eyes on his cousin, and then he left the desk and turned about, gazing out the window, his face hidden. “I’ve killed many men, Charles. Forty or more. I’m not proud of that tally, but despite my orders, nearly all the men I’ve killed left me with no other option. Every time but one was self-defence.”

  “And the once?” Sinclair asked.

  “A Frenchman. One who deserved to die, but even now, I sometimes have nightmares about it. He was a miserable scoundrel, and if I’d not taken his life, his compatriots would have done. He served as treasurer to Paris’s Redwing chapter, and he’d embezzled nearly fifty million francs over twenty-six years.”

  Sinclair whistled, marvelling at the enormous sum. “And this went unnoticed all that time?”

  “Most likely the same men who ejected him from their midst received a portion of the bounty, complaining only when closer inspection of his accounting practices revealed that their ill
-gotten slice of that lucrative pie was meagre. Redwing loyalties are invariably based upon mutual backscratching.”

  “Wait. Is this the man that so bedeviled Adele’s mother?” the marquess asked.

  Paul clearly did not wish to discuss it, but he nodded as he sat into a chair opposite the desk. “Yes. Michel Fermin. A gutless worm in a silk suit, as if he’d spun his own cocoon in an attempt to transform. Fermin never found his wings, though. I ask the Lord each night to forgive me for that murder.”

  “Paul, from what you’ve told me about the man, he would have killed you without one single afterthought. And he’d probably have taken Adele, once Cozette died. Can you picture that delightful child at the mercy of such a devious man? Honestly, I’d have behaved no differently in your place. What’s done is done. I’m sure the Lord forgave you long ago.”

  “I hope so,” he said softly. “And you’re right, if I had it to do over, I’d probably not alter my actions. Della is my heart and soul, Charles. I would do anything to keep her safe.”

  “She’s blessed to have you as father. Will you ever tell her the truth?”

  “Perhaps. One day,” he answered with a sigh.

  Seeing his cousin had no wish to speak further of Fermin, the marquess moved to a different topic. “Paul, you mentioned earlier that Beth told you about a dark dream,” Sinclair said after a moment’s silence. “What did she tell you that I’m not to know?”

  Paul leaned forward, his eyes fixed on his cousin’s face. “You must promise to say nothing to her, Charles. If Beth ever discovers that I’ve betrayed her trust, she will never tell either of us a secret again. If you wish to discuss this dream with her, then you’ll have to wait until she tells you on her own. If you can agree to that, then I’ll tell you what she said.”

  Sinclair considered this for a moment, but then shook his head. “No, I cannot make that promise, so I think it’s best you keep her secret for now. She’s already confessed to having nightmares again, so I’ll pursue further revelations with her later today. Besides, Paul, I’m glad Elizabeth confides in you. She has always looked up to you, and she needs your friendship and trust. I’ll not take that away from her.”