Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Paul, I don’t like the idea of a shadow creature hovering over Elizabeth. And it clearly frightens her, based on her recollection of this Shadow Man at her window.”

  “Shadow Man?” a voice asked as Lady Cordelia Simpson emerged from Box Four. “Is it part of the play?”

  Aubrey and Haimsbury stared at the intruder, both grown suddenly mute.

  “Oh! Do forgive me,” she whispered, stepping through the curtains and into the narrow corridor. “It’s just that I heard you talking back here, and I wondered if everything was all right. Lord Haimsbury, you look—well, rather startled.”

  Charles blinked, for in truth her sudden appearance had completely surprised him, but Cordelia Simpson’s insistence upon continuing to flirt with him had an even more profound effect.

  “Startled? Well, yes, I suppose so,” he admitted, glancing at his cousin. “You’ve guessed it. The earl and I were speaking of a special effect planned for the play, but it’s a secret, so say nothing. Irving’s pulled out all the stops, as they say. Paul, you remember Lady Cordelia Simpson. Our uncle mentioned that you’d already met. Her parents are hosting a party in her honour next spring, and we’re all invited.”

  “It’s Delia,” she insisted, inching closer to Sinclair. “I’ll be eighteen next month. The day after Christmas.”

  Aubrey offered a bright smile, moving ‘twixt his cousin and the brash young woman. “Really? So next spring’s gala will be your coming out ball then? Surely, not already, Delia.”

  “Oh but it is!” she argued coquettishly, as she bounced excitedly on the balls of her small feet. The energetic movement caused her elaborately coifed, wheat-coloured curls to shift to one side, as if threatening to come unpinned. “I’ve finished all the necessary classes, traveled to Paris—twice—and you should hear me sing,” she bragged. “In fact, I shall be singing next Sunday at the duke’s church services. He was kind enough to ask me just now, as it seems the regular singer is unavailable.”

  “I look forward to hearing you,” the earl said with a slight bow. “And I’m sure Charles does, as well. Don’t you, Charles?”

  Haimsbury had gone completely mute. “What? Oh, yes. Lady Delia, do forgive us, won’t you? My cousin and I must return to our guests. It’s been a distinct pleasure,” he added. “We’ll see you on Sunday, then.”

  Lord Cartringham emerged from the box at this point, his thin nose and flat cheeks giving him the appearance of a rather strange bird. “I say, Aubrey, what are we all doing? Delia, you shouldn’t be out here without a chaperone. Besides, I’m sure these gentlemen have more to occupy their time than conversing with you. Do forgive my wife’s cousin, Lord Haimsbury. Margaret told me she met you earlier,” he said, offering his hand in fellowship. “I’m Basil Bellville.”

  “Lord Cartringham, correct?” the detective asked. “It’s a pleasure, sir. I’m trying to make all the names and titles line up in my mind.”

  Bellville laughed, his close-set eyes blinking. “Ah, yes. Well it can be a bit of a struggle, especially as the queen seems hell-bent on knighting so many upstarts each April. As I say, we’ll not keep you. Oh, and thank you for the invitation to your wedding. We’re all looking forward to it. It’s why we’ve come back to London, you know. Otherwise, we’d be back in Yorkshire, shooting pheasant.”

  Haimsbury smiled. “A preferable pastime to chasing down criminals.”

  “Oh, righto! I’d say so!” the earl gushed comically, his thin nose emitted a whistling sound as he laughed. “Perhaps, we can all enjoy a glass of bubbly during the interval. My treat.”

  “Yes, we’d enjoy that,” Aubrey said. “Charles, we should return to our guests.”

  “Some prince or other, isn’t it?” Cartringham asked, nosily. “The wife overheard them being introduced, and of course the city’s rife with Russians these days. Right, Aubrey?”

  “So I hear,” the earl replied.

  Finally, taking the hint, the meddlesome Yorkshire earl cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, well, I’ll see you both in an hour or so, I imagine. Enjoy the play. Remember, at the interval. Shakespeare Salon. My treat, and I shan’t take no for an answer.”

  “Then we won’t give one,” Aubrey replied cryptically. Cartringham returned to the other side of the curtain, and both cousins heaved sighs of relief. “Russian nobles in London,” Paul Stuart whispered. “Basil’s right. They’re all over Whitehall, some working with our government, others openly plotting against it. This Anatole may be a political imposter or even a clandestine diplomat. Regardless of his intent, his manner towards Elizabeth worries me.”

  “And me,” Sinclair admitted. “The man’s brash actions trouble her as well, I think.”

  “Did Elizabeth say something to you?” the earl whispered.

  “Not directly, but she seems frightened, though she tries to conceal it. Have you not noticed?”

  “Perhaps,” the earl replied with a sigh. “She does appear quieter than usual. What was wrong with her this morning?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At first, I’d thought her still upset by that dream I mentioned to you earlier, but I suspect it was more. I assumed you talked with her about it.”

  Charles could hear the audience applaud the soprano, and he checked his pocket watch. “I think the play’s about to begin. I’m not quite sure what upset her so badly, Paul. She told me she saw a strange creature in the gardens, and the description sounded—well, improbable.”

  The earl grew serious. “How improbable? The way a shadow at her window is improbable?”

  “Yes. Truly, I cannot tell you much more than that, for she wasn’t very precise, but I prefer she never go into the gardens unaccompanied from now on.”

  “A wise precaution,” the earl said. “You’re right. I think the play is about to begin.” Paul started to turn towards the curtain, but paused. “Charles, there is one thing more. I may have to leave soon.”

  “Leave the theatre, you mean?”

  “No, leave England. We can discuss it later tonight. Nothing to do with Beth or the circle—at least not directly. Having to do with the treaty signed in Constantinople last week. It seems France already regrets the Suez agreement and plots to broker a separate accord with Egypt. Salisbury sees the hidden hand of Redwing’s North African branch behind it, therefore he’s asked me to go.”

  “Will you have to travel before Christmas?” the detective probed.

  “I hope not. I’ve asked Salisbury to send another, but he insists only I can handle the problem, and since I’m not part of the negotiating team, I assume he refers to my other talents. We’ll see how it all plays out. If I must go, will you look after Della for me?”

  “Of course. She can stay with us, if you like. Beth adores her, and I’ve come to love her as well.”

  Aubrey smiled. “I know. Good. I shan’t worry about it now. Truthfully, it’s these travels for the realm that have so often provided opportunity to spy upon Redwing’s operatives abroad, but they’ve also alienated me from Elizabeth. I used to think that only I understood my beautiful cousin, but in truth, I think you are much more attuned to Beth’s needs than I, and I say it to my own shame.”

  Sinclair put a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “She loves you, Paul. Beth’s eyes always take on a special light whenever she speaks of you. Do you not see it? That deep affection will never alter. But this prince worries me. Not just his brash manner towards Beth, but his overall demeanor. There’s something distinctly unnatural about him.”

  The earl agreed. “So there is, but we’ll have to wait and learn more about this prince later at the duke’s soirée.”

  “The contessa and the prince will be joining us at Drummond House?” Sinclair asked. “I’m not sure I like that, but perhaps it will allow us to observe the two of them in more controlled surroundings.”

  “James invited them for that
very purpose,” Paul said with a wink. “Our uncle is a clever old man.”

  “Apparently, it runs in the family. Victoria would put many in Scotland Yard to shame.”

  Paul laughed, and the two joined the others just as the Lyceum’s owner and lead actor, Irish-born Henry Irving, stepped onto the stage to introduce Stoker’s new play.

  Chapter Nine

  Fifty-year-old Henry Irving was an impressive looking man. Tall, thin, and classically handsome with a long face and aquiline profile. His resonant baritone boomed throughout the theatre as he spoke.

  “Good evening, my very dear friends. I’m delighted to see the brisk turnout on such short notice. As you all must surely know, tonight’s play is an echo of darkness. A supernatural shadow, rooted in uncomfortable truth. It is not an easy task to produce a play on crime, particularly one so fresh, one so gruesome, one that has already become seared like a hot brand upon the minds of both the populace and the police.”

  Irving paused, allowing his intense gaze to fall upon wealthy patrons along the orchestra stalls, and several well-heeled women appeared to shrink at his boldness. One particular woman, a somewhat generously built patroness who sat near the stage right end of row two, actually jumped to her feet as if trying to escape. Irving put out his hand, holding it level, playing the role of marionette master, seemingly controlling her from his position onstage. Obediently, the woman stopped and slowly regained her seat, a trifle embarrassed.

  “My dear Mrs. Forsham, do remain, won’t you? I do not think our play will splash that much blood upon the first two rows.”

  A nearby woman actually fainted at this statement, and several men laughed nervously. A brash youth in the rear balcony’s cheaper seats shouted, “That’s ok, dearie! Ole’ Jack won’ getcha ‘ere! No’ wif no many bluebottles in the audience!”

  Many shared in the joke, and laughter rang throughout the entire theatre. A few had to ask just what a ‘bluebottle’ was, including Prince Anatole, who smiled broadly at Sinclair when the detective informed the Russian that it was coster slang for a policeman.

  Satisfied that his opening speech had already begun to stimulate fevered tension amongst his audience, Irving continued.

  “Dear friends, for a number of years, you have permitted me to interpret a variety of characters for your entertainment. Many of those fascinating individuals arose from the pages of Shakespeare’s masterful works, and most were complex and troubled, but tonight… Well, tonight, I play a creature who is neither fictional nor classic, though history may one day paint him as both. This perpetually haunted man shares much in common with the protagonist of our recent play by Mr. Robert Louis Stephenson, an horrific tale that left many in our audience shocked and weakened. Because that account arose from the fictive realm, rather than the harsh realities of our own city, each of us could then return to our homes and refresh ourselves, content that it was all but a dream.”

  He paused once again, taking a deep, controlled breath and allowing his enthralled congregation to begin constructing the Ripper’s unspeakable horrors upon the stages of their own, fertile imaginations.

  “Tonight’s excursion into the macabre is more nightmare than dream, for what is a nightmare, I ask you, but a visitation from the ancient maere, the demonic entity who rides its shadowy steed into the deepest regions of our minds, whilst we lie helpless upon our beds, and then seizes our thoughts, even as it seeks to steal our immortal souls.”

  Elizabeth shuddered, leaning against Sinclair, and he put an arm around her shoulders to warm her, for her bare arms felt like ice. “Shall I fetch your cloak, darling?” he whispered, but she shook her head, shivering so much that he could feel her entire body tremble.

  “As playwright for tonight’s diabolical adventure,” Irving continued, “I have commissioned my good and very talented friend, Mr. Abraham Stoker, and I confess that he has penned something quite shocking! In fact, I warn all you dear ladies to have your smelling salts handy, for even the hearts of strong men will find our theme and truths not only appalling, but indeed as terrifying as the grave.”

  The woman in row two now turned to her husband, her face white as milk, double chin quivering. Irving cast her an understanding smile, and then continued his introduction.

  “To show that we extend our research and theories to our brave men in blue, we have invited all members of both the City and Metropolitan Police Forces to attend, and several have been kind enough to join us tonight. In fact, I am told that none other than Scotland Yard’s celebrated hero, Detective Superintendent Charles Sinclair, Lord Haimsbury, sits in the Aubrey Box.”

  Every eye turned towards Box Two, which overlooked stage left, and the entire audience broke into loud applause, most standing in honour of the faithful men who served their city, but many doing so to get a better look at the marquess. The Earl and Countess Cartringham, along with their exuberant young cousin, applauded loudly, and Lady Cordelia called out Sinclair’s name as if he were her personal hero, returning from battle, shouting, “Bravo, Charles! Bravo!”

  One or two, sitting in the balcony’s cheaper seats, shouted derision, but were quickly hushed by those surrounding them. Charles found himself thoroughly embarrassed, wondering what to do. Elizabeth squeezed his hand and whispered, “They expect you to stand, Captain.”

  Decidedly uncomfortable, the marquess nevertheless stood, bowing slightly towards the theatre’s owner. Quite pleased by the enthusiastic response and with his own command of the audience, Irving smiled and bowed in return.

  “Lord Haimsbury, we are deeply honoured by your presence. Indeed, we can think of no other, who understands our play’s title character better than you, sir. Therefore, I hope you will promise not to arrest us, if our tale runs amiss.”

  The audience laughed heartily at this, and a somewhat self-conscious Charles regained his seat. The orchestra began to softly play the introductory music, and Henry Irving raised his long-fingered hands high into the air. In response, the limelights at the apron of the stage dimmed.

  “And now, my dear friends, I give you The Whitechapel Demon.”

  Beth turned towards Sinclair, her dark eyes wide. “Did you know this was to be our entertainment tonight? A play about Ripper?”

  He touched her hand, which had turned to ice. “I’m afraid most of London theatre and even the music halls are producing Ripper dramas and songs these days, Princess. Your grandfather insisted we come tonight, but I did caution him that the subject matter might be too much for you. Forgive me, darling. I’d assumed you knew. It was thoughtless of me.”

  “How can anyone fictionalise someone this... This cruel?” she whispered. Elizabeth grew quiet, her eyes lowered, tears sliding down her cheeks as she tried to avoid the harsh gaze of the crowd below, for nearly every eye was upon them both. She gulped quietly, swallowing down her fears—struggling to maintain composure befitting a duchess.

  He leaned towards her. “Beth, I am so, so sorry. Of course, you’re thinking of your mother. And of that man’s letter to you. I would never have agreed to come, but your grandfather insisted we meet this prince.”

  She bit her lower lip, squeezing his hand. “No, give me a moment. I can do this, if you are here, but I’m not sure this is appropriate for Adele to watch, Charles.”

  “Quite possibly, but we dared not leave her unprotected at home. Paul prefers to keep her close, and I agree with him. If the play becomes too frightening for her—or for you, darling—then you and I will take her home.”

  She nodded, but he could see she was deeply troubled, though not only by the play’s theme. “Beth, is there anything else on your mind this evening?”

  “No,” she lied, terrified of revealing that morning’s visit from Rasha, for fear of how Charles might respond. Why is he in London? she asked herself, trying her best to present a calm exterior.

  She glanced across the wide theatre auditorium, and her ey
es fell upon Box One, reserved for royals only, but despite the fact that no one from the queen’s family attended that night, the box appeared to have an occupant. Two crimson eyes blinked within a lanky shadow that seemed to flicker in the incandescence of the dim lighting. She fancied she could hear his voice, whispering into her mind.

  “When the hour strikes three, my beautiful duchess, I shall come to you!”

  Prince Anatole reached for Elizabeth’s right hand. “I sense your fears rising, Duchess. Take heart! This Ripper fellow is but a shadow—a mirror of evil and nothing more,” he whispered to her. “In Russia, we have many such murders, over a vast area and in all social classes. I fail to understand why Londoners deem this Ripper so extraordinary. He is still at large, I take it?” he asked, looking past Elizabeth, towards Sinclair.

  “Yes, I’m afraid, he is, Your Highness.”

  “Ah. That is most troubling for your police force, I’m sure. Is it true that two more women have been found in an east end park? And a third near a music hall?”

  Paul gave Charles a sharp look, so the detective weighed his response carefully. “I’m not at liberty to comment. I hope you understand, Your Highness.”

  Elizabeth seemed far away, and Charles thanked the Lord that the prince’s mention of three new deaths had escaped her notice. “Beth?” he asked, his hand on hers. “Shall we go home?”

  “What?” she whispered, her face ashen, eyes riveted upon the shadow in the royal box. “Oh, I’m sorry. Charles, did you say something?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Fine,” she insisted, though a sense of panic had taken root inside her heart.